For Those Who Can Still Ride in Airplanes for the First Time

“I am looking for God, Quentin.”
“While this world says “fuck you” for trying.
For this world hates your eyes, Quentin.
For they are simple and pure.
And this world hates your fingers, Quentin, little like the stems of flowers.
For not being able to pick up the things you have left behind, because you are still learning to do so.


I always hated poetry in school. Grade seven poetry was hell as far as I am aware. I once heard a woman speak at Soul in spoken word. I can still remember mocking her elegant lack of tone and emphasis on strange syllables. Yet I am now somehow convinced that the purest form of art comes from poetry. Surpassing the art of music perhaps, but who am I to say.

This poem captures the innocence of children in one respect, yet opens up many other conversations as well.