180 Travel poems

After the dread tales and red yarns of the Line Anything might have come to us; but the divine

It came to pass that I boarded a plane and as I edged past the man in the aisle seat he said My name is Dov. I knew you would come.

Down milk-bright colonnades the leper’s bell recedes. Shades lowered against the gleaming waste of ice, I sit back, bathe in lukewarm acquiescence. Dutiful, prompt, strapped, doped, a little drunk, squinting at international afternoon I’ll soon pass GO again. And if these colored pencils, nose drops, passport should plummet with the rest of the huge oval, giant time capsule soft for the shark’s maw, will a notebook ambered back to front with words rescue me from oblivion? Syrup of skittish travelers, fame. I yawn.

Cairo’s taxi drivers speak to me in English. I answer, and they say your Arabic is good. How long have you been with us? All my life I tell them, but I’m never believed. They speak to me in Farsi, speak to me in Greek, and I answer with mountains of gold and silver, ghost ships sailing the weed-choked seas. And when they speak to me in Spanish, I say Moriscos and Alhambra. I say Jews rescued by Ottoman boats. And when the speak to me in Portuguese, all my life I tell them, coffee, cocoa, Indians and poisoned spears. I say Afonsso king of Bikongo writing Manuel to free his enslaved sons. And Cairo’s taxi drivers tell me your Arabic is surprisingly good. Then they speak to me in Italian, and I tell them how I lay swaddled a month’s walk from here. I tell them camps in the desert, barbed wire, wives and daughters dying, camels frothing disease, the sand stretching an endless pool. And they say so good so good. How long have you been with us? All my life, but I’m never believed. Then they speak to me in French, and I answer Jamila, Leopold, Stanley, baskets of severed hands and feet. I say the horror, battles of Algiers. And they speak to me in English and I say Lucknow, Arbenz. I say indigo, Hiroshima, continents soaked in tea. I play the drum beat of stamps. I invoke Mrs. Cummings, U.S. consul in Athens, I say Ishi, Custer, Wounded Knee. And Cairo's taxi drivers tell me your Arabic is unbelievably good. Tell the truth now, tell the truth, how long have you been with us? I say my first name is little lion, my last name is broken branch. I sing "Happiness uncontainable" and "field greening in March" until I'm sad and tired of truth, and as usual I'm never believed. Then they lead me through congestion, gritty air, narrow streets crowded with Pepsi and Daewoo and the sunken faces of the poor. And when we arrive, Cairo's taxi drivers and I speak all the languages of the world, and we argue and argue about corruption, disillusionment, the missed chances, the wicked binds, the cataclysmic fares.

scene, the desert. time, mid-day. In silent horror o’er the desert-waste The driver Hassan with his camels past. One cruse of water on his back he bore, And his light scrip contained a scanty store: A fan of painted feathers in his hand, To guard his shaded face from scorching sand. The sultry sun had gained the middle sky, And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh. The beasts, with pain, their dusty way pursue, Shrill roared the winds, and dreary was the view! With desperate sorrow wild, th’ affrighted man Thrice sighted, thrice struck his breast, and thus began: Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Schiraz’ walls I bent my way.

Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old— This knight so bold— And o’er his heart a shadow— Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow— ‘Shadow,’ said he, ‘Where can it be— This land of Eldorado?’ ‘Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride,’ The shade replied,— ‘If you seek for Eldorado!’

Parc Georges-Brassens, Paris Most afternoons, I’d run laps through Parc Brassens where grows the second smallest vineyard I have ever seen, and where those silver, pruned-back stalks looked blunt, strung-out on wires, and mostly dead all winter. That was how I saw them. That’s all I expected. Even in the cold, I’d see a guy my age there, once a week, playing his guitar. He’d sit next to the bench where I’d be stretching. He rarely spoke— just to ask if I’d like a song— until the week before I left for good. I was sitting at the top of a hill about a hundred feet away from where if you stand tiptoe you can see the Eiffel Tower. He sat too close to me. We spoke of many things. Then he suggested we go at it right there, on the ground, under the sun. This is how one lives who knows that she will die: rolling in the arms of anyone when she can— rolling in the arms of a musician—aware that no one cares much what we do in little knolls behind reedy forsythia, in the middle of a Tuesday, in the middle of living. And I would know now how he felt, and the ground against me, and whether he was rough or sweet. And what is possible would widen every hour. Oh, but me, I thought I was immortal.

Viejo San Juan, Puerto Rico, 1998 Here in a bar on the street of the saint en la calle San Sebastián, a dancer in white with a red red scarf en la calle San Sebastián, calls to the gods who were freed by slaves en la calle San Sebastián, and his bronze face is a lantern of sweat en la calle San Sebastián, and hands smack congas like flies in the field en la calle San Sebastián, and remember the beat of packing crates en la calle San Sebastián, from the days when overseers banished the drum en la calle San Sebastián, and trumpets screech like parrots of gold en la calle San Sebastián, trumpets that herald the end of the war en la calle San Sebastián, as soldiers toss rifles on cobblestone en la calle San Sebastián, and the saint himself snaps an arrow in half en la calle San Sebastián, then lost grandfathers and fathers appear en la calle San Sebastián, fingers tugging my steel-wool beard en la calle San Sebastián, whispering your beard is gray en la calle San Sebastián, spilling their rum across the table en la calle San Sebastián, till cousins lead them away to bed en la calle San Sebastián, and the dancer in white with a face of bronze en la calle San Sebastián, shakes rain from his hair like the god of storms en la calle San Sebastián, and sings for the blood that drums in the chest en la calle San Sebastián, and praises the blood that beats in the hands en la calle San Sebastián, en la calle San Sebastián.

1. without baggage To travel without baggage, sleep in the train on a hard wooden bench, forget your native land, emerge from small stations when a gray sky rises and fishing boats head to sea. 2. in belgium It was drizzling in Belgium and the river wound between hills. I thought, I'm so imperfect. The trees sat in the meadows like priests in green cassocks. October was hiding in the weeds. No, ma'am, I said, this is the nontalking compartment. 3. a hawk circles above the highway It will be disappointed if it swoops down on sheet iron, on gas, on a tape of tawdry music, on our narrow hearts. 4. mont blanc It shines from afar, white and cautious, like a lantern for shadows. 5. segesta On the meadow a vast temple— a wild animal open to the sky. 6. summer Summer was gigantic, triumphant— and our little car looked lost on the road going to Verdun. 7. the station in bytom In the underground tunnel cigarette butts grow, not daisies. It stinks of loneliness. 8. retired people on a field trip They're learning to walk on land. 9. gulls Eternity doesn't travel, eternity waits. In a fishing port only the gulls are chatty. 10. the theater in taormina From the theater in Taormina you spot the snow on Etna's peak and the gleaming sea. Which is the better actor? 11. a black cat A black cat comes out to greet us as if to say, look at me and not some old Romanesque church. I'm alive. 12. a romanesque church At the bottom of the valley a Romanesque church at rest: there's wine in this cask. 13. light Light on the walls of old houses, June. Passerby, open your eyes. 14. at dawn The world's materiality at dawn— and the soul's frailty.

They sang Green, Green Grass of Home sailing west from New Orleans. They sang Ne Me Quitte Pas beneath mesquite while digging graves in Matagorda. Pelican soup was a vile, greasy potage. They sang Green, Green Grass of  Home where alligator was a luxury (the meat) down at the Turtle Bayou Turnaround. They sang Ne Me Quitte Pas beneath mesquite. Near the Old and Lost River they surmised Spanish moss strains coffee pretty good. They sang Green, Green Grass of Home. They were whingeing Stuck in Lodi, forty Slavonians in the Big Thicket. They sang Ne Me Quitte Pas beneath mesquite. They cut down the trees, they sawed the blocks, split the blocks into billets, split the billets into boards. They sang Green, Green Grass of Home. They sang Ne Me Quitte Pas beneath mesquite. • Frederick Olmsted was right when he wrote G.T.T. (Gone to Texas) was appended “to every man’s name who had disappeared before the discovery of some rascality.” Brands were a language: Shanghai M, Running W. Frederick Olmsted was right when he wrote, or rode upright, through “a sort of Brobdingnag grass.” Bradded L, Walking R, Swinging   J. Every man’s name who had disappeared singed like needles off a cactus, whiskers off rope (this was a practice). Rocking T, Tumbling K — Frederick Olmsted was right when he wrote in the alphabet we got from the Canaanites. Oxhead A. Camel G. If it doesn’t brand, it bites. To every man’s name who had disappeared, someone added: Sent to heaven to hunt for a harp. Or maybe it was another case of slow. Olmsted slowed so he could write while he rode among men whose names had disappeared.