Dear
Blog Readers,
First
I wish our Jewish friends a Hanukkah filled with light and peace, and
I wish a blessed Advent season to our readers who observe it. This is the
time of year when we think about love and light and miracles; a time
when we celebrate families and friendships; a time when the word
“peace” is often spoken. This is a time of year when we travel
inward and outward spiritually. We think history, of others, and
those who are in need. We live in troubled and challenging times, but
the spirit of hope is a constant we can all embrace.
I wish you all the best blessings of this special time of year!
At
this beginning of Hanukah and of Advent, I’m happy to share a
wonderful prompt that my friend and fellow poet Nancy Lubarsky has
written for us.
Nancy has been an educator for over 35 years. A retired school
superintendent, she holds a
Doctorate in English Education from Rutgers University. Nancy has
been published in various journals, including Edison Literary Review,
Lips, Poetry Nook, Poetica, Tiferet, Exit 13, Stillwater Review, Howl
of Sorrow Anthology, Paterson Literary Review, Poetry Nook, Great
Falls/Passaic River Anthology, and US1 Worksheets. Nancy received
honorable mention in the 2014 and 2016 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards,
and Editor’s Choice in 2017. She has also been nominated twice for
the Pushcart prize. She is the author of two books: Tattoos
(Finishing Line Press) and The Only Proof (Kelsay Press, a Division
of Aldrich Books).
Travel
Poems by Nancy
Lubarsky
Summer
is over. Did you get to travel anywhere? Some of us, despite the
pandemic, have managed to squeeze out travel, whether by car, by mass
transit, or by plane. Maybe your reasons were to just get away,
travel for work or to visit someone after far too long. Or perhaps
you’ve been cooped up all these months and you keep reflecting on
places you’ve been years ago, who you were with, and what it all
means to you. (Perhaps your trips have been more utilitarian – to
the grocery store or the doctor, no matter.)
Travel
is such a rich subject for poetry. It’s a unique way to
memorialize where you’ve been. Besides just taking photographs,
you can create word pictures of your travels. Travel poems have been
written from a variety of perspectives: some focus on the journey,
some on the destination, some focus on someone the writer has
encountered along the way, some focus on an object, a place or a
souvenir that triggers great meaning or memory.
What
follows are some excerpts from travel poems (in loose categories with
lots of overlap) from some well-known and lesser-known poets
(including a few I’ve written) with a brief introduction, just to
give you some ideas and or inspiration. Except where noted, if there
is an ellipsis, the complete poems are contained in the links at the
end of this blog.
Getting
There
Sometimes
getting there is as interesting than being there. Rita Dove is
at the airport observing people as she waits to board. Bob Hickok
describes his experience on a Greyhound bus. My poem is about a car
trip where my family passed right by our destination!
Vacation
Rita
Dove
I love the hour before takeoff,
that
stretch of no time, no home
but
the gray vinyl seats linked like
unfolding
paper dolls. Soon we shall
be
summoned to the gate, soon enough
there’ll
be the clumsy procedure of row numbers
and
perforated stubs—but for now
I
can look at these ragtag nuclear families
with
their cooing and bickering
or
the heeled bachelorette trying
to
ignore a baby’s wail and the baby’s
exhausted
mother waiting to be called up early
while
the athlete, one monstrous hand
asleep
on his duffel bag, listens,
perched
like a seal trained for the plunge…
Go
Greyhound
Bob
Hiok
A
few hours after Des Moines
the
toilet overflowed.
This
wasn't the adventure it sounds.
I
sat with a man whose tattoos
weighed
more than I did.
He
played Hendrix on mouth guitar.
His
Electric Ladyland lips
weren't
fast enough
and
if pitch and melody
are
the rudiments of music,
this
was just
memory,
a body nostalgic
for
the touch of adored sound.
Hope's
a smaller thing on a bus…
You
Just Passed the Red Apple Rest
Nancy
Lubarsky
The
Red Apple Rest finally rested in
2007.
The New York Thruway killed it.
People
stopped going to the Catskills.
Every
summer, when I was little, we
visited
my aunt’s Monticello bungalow
but,
truthfully, it’s a blur. The Red Apple
Rest
is all I remember. Each roadside
billboard,
strategically placed with a
prominent
apple and decreasing numbers,
led us there on our journey along Route
17.
We didn’t have to annoy my parents
with,
Are
we there yet?
25 miles to the Red
Apple
Rest, 22 miles, and then 15, 5, 1 mile,
500
feet … Inside the car, our family had a
clear
focus, a midway point, a distraction from
the
long ride. The Red Apple was the perfect
place
to stop, but we never did…
Who’s
Along for the Ride
The
people you meet along the way can impact the way you experience a
place. In Major Jackson’s poem he describes his meeting with the
poet Mark Strand at a café in Italy. In my poem, I focus on my
experience at a synagogue in Cuba where I encountered a different man
named Fidel.
Spain
Major
Jackson
for
Mark Strand
Beneath
canopies of green, unionists marched doggedly
outside The
Embassy. Their din was no match
for
light lancing through leaves of madrone trees
lining the Paseo
then flashing off glossy black Maybachs
skidding
round a plaza like a monarch fleeing the paparazzi.
Your voice
skipped and paused like a pencil.
Layers of morning pastries
flaked gingerly
then fell, soft as vowels, on a china plate. One
learns
to cherish the wizened reserve of old world manners,
two
blotched hands making wings of a daily paper
beside us between
sips of café con leche, a demeanor
in short gentle as grand
edifices along this boulevard…
This Fidel
Nancy Lubarsky
The turquoise convertible, with the 1950’s
flair, drops us at a broken sidewalk in front
of El Patronato. Through locked metal gates
we see the paneled doors carved with the
twelve tribes of Israel. Years before, fifteen
thousand Cuban Jews caught whiff of a new
dictator, another upheaval. Most paddled or
flew to seek asylum. Those who remained
stayed silent. Left with nothing but their
birthright, they whispered it to their
children.
This Fidel
opens the gate, welcomes us. He is
bald, clean shaven, no army fatigues. Born
and raised in Havana, he maintains this
sanctuary with meager resources, waits for
the
rabbi to circle back every few months…
Souvenirs
Sometimes
your journey is anchored to a special food, an object or an animal.
In these poems Charlie Smith remembers a stuffed pastry (called a
Crostata) in Italy, Laura Tohe stole a blue Impala in Arizona, and
Tom Plante remembers a particular bird in Costa Rica.
Crostatas
(complete
poem)
Charlie
Smith
in
rome I got down among the weeds and tiny perfumed
flowers
like eyeballs dabbed in blood and the big ruins
said do
it my way pal while
starlings
kept
offering show biz solutions and well the vatican
pursued
its interests the palm trees like singular affidavits
the
wind succinct and the mountains painted blue
just
before dawn accelerated at the last point
of
departure before the big illuminated structures
dug
up from the basement got going and I ate crostatas
for
breakfast and on the terrace chatted
with
the clay-faced old man next door and said I was
after
a woman who’d left me years ago and he said lord aren’t we all.
Blue
Impala
(complete poem)
Laura
Tohe
That
time I stole a blue Impala in Flagstaff
the
first year they made those automatic windows, you know?
I
was sixteen and I was cruising down the highway
Hot
on the trail to Albuquerque
I
was hungry
and I was howling, man.
It
was like stealing the best horse in the herd.
For
That (complete poem)
Tom
Plante
Someone
asked the poet
where
his inspiration comes from.
His
hand reached up and he made a fist
as
if he were trying to snatch an annoying gnat.
That
reminded me of being asked
if
I’d written any Costa Rica poems.
I
stayed there for a week, ten degrees north of the equator.
Maybe
I’ll know in a few years, I said.
The
small yellow bird that enjoyed our deck at dawn
inspired
me to write but wouldn’t say its name.
When
I find out what it’s called, I’ll know
more
than I did before. It’s not a swallow,
not
a lark, not a vulture. It woke me at 5 a.m.
and
taught me to love the dawn. For that I’m grateful.
A
Look Back
Your
memories of childhood vacations or trips with family (even day trips)
are rich sources for reflection and writing. Richard Blanco revisits
the Gulf Motel in Florida and it brings back such clear memories. My
poem takes me back to one particular ride at an amusement park.
Looking
for the Gulf Motel
Richard
Blanco
…My
mother should still be in the kitchenette
of
The Gulf Motel, her daisy sandals from Kmart
squeaking
across the linoleum, still gorgeous
in
her teal swimsuit and amber earrings
stirring
a pot of arroz-con-pollo,
adding sprinkles
of
onion powder and dollops of tomato sauce.
My
father should still be in a terrycloth jacket
smoking,
clinking a glass of amber whiskey
in
the sunset at the Gulf Motel, watching us
dive
into the pool, two boys he'll never see
grow
into men who will be proud of him…
Casa
Loco
Nancy
Lubarsky
Our
guide stayed upright as he talked.
He
made it look easy. But people began
to
slip. We held onto the rail. My parents
struggled
to stay balanced. I
can’t
remember
much about Freedomland, an
amusement
park in the Bronx. My parents
weren’t
well off. They had health issues.
We
rarely went anywhere. But we went to
Freedomland
every year for the five years
it
lasted…
Humor
Travel
can be a great source of humor. Read how Bob Rosenbloom compares his
view of the Grand Canyon to a thick deli sandwich. Billy Collins
shares his stories about his travels by telling you why he is so
happy to stay home.
Grand
Canyon
Bob
Rosenbloom
When
I went sight-seeing, I couldn’t
get
over how much the eroded rock
looked
like layers of corned beef
and
pastrami, the redder rock, the meat,
the
paler, in-between, outcroppings,
layers
of fat my mother made a point
of
asking me to ask the guys at the deli counter
to
cut. It should never have been an issue.
Sometimes
they did. Other times, they didn’t.
My
mother would let me know how I did each trip…
Consolation
Billy
Collins
How
agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer,
wandering
her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns.
How much
better to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully
grasping the meaning of every road sign and billboard
and
all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.
There
are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes
and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or
tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand
around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon’s
little bed on Elba,
or view the bones of a saint under glass.
How much
better to command the simple precinct of home
than be
dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in
phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a
hungry, one-eyed camera
eager to eat the world one
monument at a time?...
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Prompts:
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Now
it’s your turn to write your travel poem. See if the following
prompts can help:
What
did you hate about travel? Can you use Billy Collins’s poem as a
model and describe why you won’t ever travel again through the
places you’ve been.
For
those of you who’ve been cooped up for the past few years, think
about when you did final venture out. What was that like? Can you
capture your fear or trepidation, your relief that you were finally
“on the road”? What object, person or experience most captures
that moment?
In
all of your poems, pay attention to the words that these poets use
to describe their travels. In so many of them, they bring us to the
seat right next to them, experiencing what they experienced with
rich description and sensory detail.
Perhaps
you can start out trying to model one of the above poems, or use one
of the themes in these poems as a springboard to write your own.
Poems
in Their Entirety:
https://poets.org/poems-about-travel
http://www.yourdailypoem.com/listpoem.jsp?poem_id=715
________________________
Thank you, Nancy!
_____________________________
