“Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth,” or so begins John Gillespie Magee’s 1941 poem, “High Flight.” The sentiment is fairly straightforward if one knows the poem was written from the perspective of an aircraft in the upper atmosphere. At a deeper level, the sonnet is an exclamation point to a teenager’s struggle with feelings of entrapment. It is the song of a soul’s escape from the heavy burdens of life to soar the heavens with nothing less than joy.
When in 1939 John Magee was restricted by the US State Department from travel at the onset of Great Britain’s war against Germany he was devastated. He had gone to America at the request of his father to reacquaint himself with the paternal half of his heritage, having been raised mostly in England. Even when travel reopened, his passport was canceled. Just seventeen at the time, he was compelled to complete his high school education in Connecticut.
John resented both America and the school he attended, which he felt was intellectually behind his school in England. His parents had to have been happy that circumstances held him in the US out of harm’s way, but they became the recipients of a series of letters bemoaning his fate. Paraphrasing from several letters written in 1939-1940, John wrote (1):
“I have been under a sort of emotional stress ever since the war began…. I am so longing to get back to help out. Don’t you believe a man should live by his convictions? I am convinced my place is in England, and if ever I see the opportunity, I’m coming.”
“…Something in me is dying, irrevocably, irretrievably; I am beginning simply to exist whereas before, at any rate at moments, I lived. …I realize, deep down, that I have had my fill of it, yet there is a sort of futility in trying to escape from the demands of its existence. To get away from it all, to walk again on the beach at Kingsdown, and feel the freshening wind on one’s face, and wonder, perhaps, if there are any chocolate biscuits left for tea! There was an ecstasy there, and I was damned (in every sense of the word) into overlooking it in all my blindness.”
In September, 1940, he was positioned to enter Yale on scholarship, but he instead enlisted in the Royal Canadian Air Force as a means of returning to England. Because of the backlog of recruits, it would still be a grueling four months before he would start basic training, and then he would undergo a further five months of flight and aerial combat training. Once he received his wings and commission as a pilot officer, he embarked upon a month-long naval convoy across the Atlantic with a two-week layover in Iceland.
John’s yearning to reunite with England does not mean that he was the proverbial Sad Sack. When he learned to fly, he did so with abandon. On his second solo flight, he put his Fleet Flinch into a spin to experience the thrill of imminent death and recovery. In doing so he triggered an inverted spin and lost consciousness before reawakening and finally pulling out of it. His instructor watched the whole event from the ground and treated him to a couple more spins to allay any phobias he might develop. John engaged fellow students in fake dogfights and even chased after aircraft from other air bases. Prone to mishaps, he cartwheeled a Harvard trainer on the runway after misjudging his proximity to the ground in the dark. Instructors always threatened to wash him out, or at the very least write him up so that he wouldn’t become anything more than a sergeant, but he consistently scored near the top of his class on exams. The RCAF was obligated to advance its brightest pilots, and those who took chances were especially needed at the front.
John finally began his training on the Supermarine Spitfire at RAF Llandow in Wales in August of 1941, nearly two years after being marooned in America. The honor of his new commission as an officer did little to deter his daredevil whims. He often buzzed the homes and gathering places of friends and family from Rugby to Devon. He also commandeered aircraft to visit Elinor Lyon, the love of his life.
John had his serious side. While at Llandow, he learned how to handle the Spitfire in formation flying, learned to excel in combat maneuvers, learned to shoot at the enemy on his tail, learned to shoot his camera guns at a moving target while avoiding getting hit. He pushed the limits of the Spitfire’s capabilities as well as his own, staying airborne as long as he had the fuel. He’d been to 20,000 feet where oxygen was needed for dog-fighting practice, but his mind was so focused on the exercises that he couldn’t fully appreciate the heights. In rare moments he managed to escape the group and fly off on his own. “I felt like Icarus about to singe his wings,” he wrote his parents.
On the eighteenth of August, as a mere eleven-day veteran on the Spitfire, he took his aircraft higher than ever before, “even higher than Mount Everest.” In my novel, A Day in Eternity, I describe his experience:
“… Now he was suddenly caught by the way the sun’s rays shattered on his bubble-top canopy, and how the clouds created cathedral-like vaults across the azure sky. … Looping, rolling, diving, and turning within the lower reaches of earth’s stratosphere at speeds of more than 350 miles per hour made his heart pump adrenalin throughout his body. The pulling of G-forces caused his mind to dislocate, and he felt his own consciousness project outside of himself. At once he sensed a protected closeness to what he could only describe as a benevolent power. The sensation stunned him, and he marveled at the wonder of his expanded universe. He was Icarus who escaped the Labyrinth prison on make-shift wings and flew precariously close to the sun. He knew with certainty that he’d been given the gift of life so that he could discover this secret.”
Sometime in the previous months, John Magee had picked up a book of poetry entitled, Icarus: An Anthology of the Poetry of Flight, compiled by R de la Bere and “three flight cadets of the Royal Air Force College, Cranwell.” In recent years, a few have claimed that lines in John’s poem, “High Flight,” were plagiarized from poetry in the book. The mystical experience must have reminded him of a couple of stanzas from a poem called, “The Blind Man Flies,” by Cubbert Hicks, published in the Icarus anthology. Here is an excerpt from that poem (2):
… I learnt from the air to-day
(On a bird’s wings I flew)
That the earth could never contain
All of the God I knew.
I felt the blue mantle of space,
And kissed the cloud’s white hem,
I heard the stars’ majestic choir,
And sang my praise with them.
Now joy is mine through my long night,
I do not feel the rod,
For I have danced the streets of heaven,
And touched the face of God.
The following paragraphs from A Day in Eternity describe how “High Flight” might have emerged:
John figured that only a few hundred men, if that many, had ever experienced the jubilation of flying alone at such an altitude. Fewer still had experienced the truth that God was not limited to church or temple, he thought. God did not belong to any one religion, God could not even be contained on the planet below him. God was a power that was everywhere! John Magee, via the Supermarine Spitfire, was but a citizen of this celestial city where he could indeed explore and dance the streets of heaven.
He felt indebted to Hicks for having shown him this truth, but the poem didn’t go far enough in describing the ecstasy he had experienced. Upon landing he performed his post-flight duties as quickly as he could, then he rushed back to his bunk and searched for any scrap of paper on which he could fill in the lyrics to the iambic-pentameter rhythm beating like a heart within his most inner being.
He began with his favorite line of the Hicks poem— “touched the face of God.” This would be the crowning jewel of his sonnet, but he needed to show how he had rocketed to the pinnacle of his mind and then transcended it to enter the rarefied strata of divinity. Other poets in the Icarus anthology provided further lines of inspiration: “on laughter-silvered wings,” “the lifting mind,” “the shouting of the air,” and “across the unpierced sanctity of space.” His finished creation would not be entirely original, but he didn’t think that mattered. What mattered was preserving the euphoria he’d experienced tens of thousands of feet above the earth so that he could remember it when he descended to the depths of combat hell.
With the encouragement of instructors and fellow students, he copied the complete sonnet on the third of September, 1941. “I am enclosing a verse I composed the other day,” he wrote in a letter to his family the next morning. “It started at 30,000 feet and was finished soon after I landed. Thought it might interest you.” This was the poem he hastily penned on the back of a sheet of thin, blue stationary:
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds,—and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air …
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor even eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
John Magee was two people. The first persona was that of a sensitive poet and the second a rabble-rousing adrenaline junkie. John Magee self-published a booklet of his poems in 1939 at Avon Old Farms School in Connecticut. The forward to this booklet hints at the way he used poetry to reconcile his dual personalities:
“…the sole reason for the publication of these immature verses is that they may possibly be acceptable to the more indulgent as representing various emotional conflicts occurring in the life of a boy between the ages of thirteen and sixteen, and that they may, perhaps, bring back to the reader, if readers there be, something of his or her own youth, when Wonder was fighting for life in the teeth of Pride, and Love lay shivering under the howling winds of adolescent Cynicism.”
John Magee was to write one more poem, entitled “Per Ardua,” before his death on December 11, 1941, about three months after sending “High Flight” to his parents. He was 19.
- The John Gillespie Magee, Jr.,materials are archived in the John G. Magee Family Papers, Record Group No. 242, Special Collections, Yale Divinity School Library.
- Icarus: An Anthology of the Poetry of Flight by R de la Bere (Macmillan, London, 1938), contains the poem, “The Blind Man Flies,” by Cuthbert Hicks.
A Day in Eternity is currently available in all formats on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple, and most places where ebooks are sold.
Softcover, 5.5×8.5, 280 pages, Print ISBN: 978-0983983828, Digital ISBN: 978-0-9839838-3-5