Gene Genie

a travelogue poem

wanna sit like Descartes

in moonlight, write 

Germanic Goethe

poetry in Parisienne bordellos

dream Li Po in

dried up river beds and

mountain tops

wanna do - but

don't/ sit instead

in puddles of desolation 

without even bag of rice as

companion

drowning my boots  in

 Bordeaux's french mystery,

not even Moroccan style 

not even Celtic

a solitary Scottish accent

held silent

in an unknown tongue

seeking another nights shelter

before the gathering clouds

repent my sins

in washed out luggage

and an ear

full of corn

Reviews

[Eilis]

I was thinking this was like the dream of travel, and then the thud of a current (somewhat oppressive) reality. Your title makes me think that there is some inherent thing within the speaker that makes him feel it is destiny for things to end this way. Like that idea that the traumas of our ancestors can affect our health. The past touches us through our DNA, and we have no way of transforming those parts of ourselves.

But, imagination is this glorious tool we have. In the universe of this poem, I think it reaches out to some things that seem impossible. But, also, there's the sense that if we have the imagination for it, it is not necessarily an impossibility. Maybe temporarily out of reach, but not impossible.

What I love about your travelogue poems is that they don't just glorify one view or the other. Travel, like life in general, is this mixed bag of experiences. The good and the bad can be mixed in a moment, and maybe that mixing is what makes the moment so memorable. The loneliness of this moment where you are in a strange place and unable (yet) to communicate is felt, but there's also a freedom and connection that stretches beyond the human and into creation itself.

That part about the clouds gathering to repent your sins. Thought that was excellent, and also, it's where the connection comes in for me. When all else fails, the earth around us can be this beautiful openness waiting to heal and welcome us in. Maybe it does it by soaking us first, haha, but sometime later, the feel of the rain may be the very thing to bring us back.

There's a lot of great things in this that I could talk about, but you never asked for an essay, so I'll leave it there. Great addition to your travelogue poems, Gram. I love these.

[gram linski]

thanks, so much, Eilis, glad you picked up on the mixed bag of experience the good the bad the mad and the dangerous to know, each have there benefits and downfalls depending on perspective, and yes getting pissed on from above as God laughs that knowing laugh of one who knows too much/not enough, I did like that you picked up on my struggle to articulate in any language , those types of feelings that feel very singular at the time, thanks as always for your great reviews, Eilis, I appreciate everything that you see

[barleygirl]

Your poem brings to mind the way some writers have this burning desire to be big & famous . . . a star! Known the world over, a well-traveled reputation. But sometimes I notice that the big talkers are the ones least committed to actually doing the writing it takes to get better & better -- in their minds, they are already THAT good (a star!) & they believe every poem tumbles out perfectly. I honestly do not know what your poem is about, but at least this one provokes something from the dusty tunnels up there (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[gram linski]

thanks Margie, it's about sitting in the rain wishing I was sitting in the sun

[barleygirl]

Ah ha! Read it again & I see that! Thanks for sharing. Here in our desert clime with 40*C every day, I'm kinda longing for some rain . . .

[gram linski]

where the f**k do you live ? on the Sun, lol,