Journey in Progress

The Sleeping Gypsy, by Henri Rousseau. 1897





The objective of traveling can not
Be to lose oneself

Unless it be for a moment —
The sun shining like cartwheel fire
Between Grecian temples

The notes wrapping themselves around
The winged-legs of Flamenco
Dancers at night in Seville

The first taste after dawn
Of farm-cherished nourishment
In Grange, County Waterford

Or the view from that tower
In Paris
With soldiers at the base
Looking for dirty bombs

And Roma


The objective can’t be escape

Absolute severance

It can’t be to transform
One’s ghosts into lost shadows
Or shadows into dust

Rimbaud could never leave himself
Behind in the Africa of the guns

Gauguin always met Gauguin
Even among his Tahitian brides

The goddess Circe could not make
Odysseus forget himself or his



To travel is to spread oneself
Across a kaleidoscopic canvas
Of being in time-place

It is the boomerang dispersal and effect
Of synchronous power assemblage
Weighted toward inward-outward

It is
Quite simply
A circular trail



— by Douglas Pinson



Journey in Progress
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