Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.
The words of Walt Whitman. And indeed, of all the great subjects that have inspired poets over the ages, nothing has brought forth more vigor and variety than Travel. On a grand scale just consider Homer’s “Odyssey” and Chaucer’s “The Canterbury Tales” (See video), still one of the most enjoyable trips a poet could take.
* * *
Whitman, Byron and Browning wrote colorfully of their travel experiences, but among English-language writers there are two who have particularly commanded my interest: Robert Louis Stevenson and Rudyard Kipling. Stevenson (1850-1894), who was born in Scotland, traveled widely and wrote numerous books about his journeys. He lived for a time in the Adirondacks of New York and for a longer time in California, where, in a typically American gesture, a golf course was named in his honor (Spyglass Hill from “Treasure Island”). The last years of his life were spent in Samoa, and he is buried there.
In a poem conveniently called “Travel,” Stevenson writes about an exotic land.
I should like to rise and go
Where the golden apples grow;—
Where below another sky
Parrot islands anchored lie,
And, watched by cockatoos and goats,
Lonely Crusoes building boats;—
Where in sunshine reaching out
Eastern cities, miles about,
Are with mosque and minaret
Among sandy gardens set,
And the rich goods from near and far
Hang for sale in the bazaar.
And here from Stevenson is an even more exotic setting:
I think, I hope, I dream no more
The dreams of otherwhere,
The cherished thoughts of yore;
I have been changed from what I was before;
And drunk too deep perchance the lotus of the air,
Beside the Susquehanna and along the Delaware.
Really?
* * *
In the early days of the 20th century, Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936) was England’s most popular poet. He never became Lord Kipling like Alfred, Lord Tennyson, perhaps in part because he wrote a poem about Queen Victoria called “The Widow at Windsor” in which he said she had a hairy gold crown on her head and paid her soldiers like poor beggars. He was born in Bombay, India and wrote frequently about the Far East.
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can’t you ‘ear their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!
Kipling’s poetry was better than his geography. There is no bay between Mandalay and China.
* * *
Before Orville and Wilbur did their thing at Kitty-Hawk, there were two ways to travel: by land and by sea. And of these, poets were most enamored of ships and the ocean. One of the best-known was John Masefield (1878-1967) who for some years was a common sailor, later becoming Poet Laureate. In a previous column, we featured his celebrated poem, the one that begins:
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.
He published a volume called “Salt-Water Ballads” and in “A Child’s Garden of Verses” wrote:
One road leads to London,
One road leads to Wales,
My road leads me seawards
To the white dipping sails.
One road leads to the river,
And it goes singing slow;
My road leads to shipping,
Where the bronzed sailors go.
Leads me, lures me, calls me
To salt green tossing sea;
A road without earth’s road-dust
Is the right road for me.
A wet road heaving, shining,
And wild with seagull’s cries,
A mad salt sea-wind blowing
The salt spray in my eyes.
My road calls me, lures me
West, east, south, and north;
Most roads lead men homewards,
My road leads me forth.
* * *
Then there’s travel by land. As a youngster, I thought the most romantic and exciting thing I could imagine was taking a train trip, especially if it included travel through the night. Even today the Doppler sound of a whistle requires me to stop whatever I’m doing so I can smile and listen. Edna St. Vincent Millay felt the same way.
The railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.
All night there isn’t a train goes by,
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
And hear its engine steaming.
My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I’ll not be knowing,
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
No matter where it’s going.
* * *
The ultimate in travel is the search for high adventure: a safari in Zimbabwe, a dog-sled expedition to the South Pole, an invite from Elon Musk to circle Jupiter (Saturn is extra). But usually these proposed adventures don’t happen or they pass us by, and we are left with a lot of what-ifs.
* * *
My friend Anonymous, who drops by from time to time, laments that he never enjoyed the travels or experienced the adventures he once hoped to . . . what with decades earning a living, fathering a family and now drifting into senior years. He contributed this poem.
When I was one-and-twenty,
As A.E. Housman said,
I dreamt of high adventure,
But settled down instead.
I raised a lovely family,
The years went hurtling by,
And pretty soon my grandkids
Were the apples of my eye.
Now I cheer for the adventurers
Who travel everywhere;
(And it’s easier for cheering
When you’re in your easy chair.)
It’s hail to all the mariners
Who dare to delve the deep.
I’d dearly like to join you,
But I need some extra sleep.
And a toast to all the mountaineers
Who love a lofty ledge.
I’ll lift my morning coffee
Then I’ll read my Sunday EDGE.
* * *
VIDEO. Cynthia Herman offers “Roll Down to Rio” by Rudyard Kipling. Then Henry Fonda and Jill Tanner share a “Lament for Lost Lodgings” by Phyllis McGinley. Cynthia returns to describe a train ride “Night Journey” by Theodore Roethke.
But first, with your indulgence, let’s go back to the “The Canterbury Tales” to hear the opening of this iconic work. When put into modern English, it goes like this:
When in April the sweet showers fall
And pierce the drought of March to the root, and all
The veins are bathed in liquor of such power
As brings about the engendering of the flower,
When also Zephyrus with his sweet breath
Exhales an air in every grove and heath
Upon the tender shoots, and the young sun
His half-course in the sign of the Ram has run,
And the small fowl are making melody
That sleep away the night with open eye
(So nature pricks them and their heart engages)
Then people long to go on pilgrimages.
And here’s how it sounds in the Middle English of the 14th century.
CLICK ON THIS LINK FOR VIDEO: TRAVEL POETRY
