[Traveler, your footprints]

Credit:  David Fettling

Traveler, your footprints

are the only road, nothing else.

Traveler, there is no road;

you make your own path as you walk.

As you walk, you make your own road,

and when you look back

you see the path

you will never travel again.

Traveler, there is no road;

only a ship's wake on the sea.

 ~ Antonio Machado

(Translated by by Mary G. Berg and Dennis Maloney)

The Travelling Onion

By Lali Masriera from Barcelona, Catalunya (Wikimedia Commons)

“It is believed that the onion originally came from India. In Egypt it was an object of worship —why I haven’t been able to find out. From Egypt the onion entered Greece and on to Italy, thence into all of Europe.” — Better Living Cookbook

When I think how far the onion has traveled

just to enter my stew today, I could kneel and praise

all small forgotten miracles,

crackly paper peeling on the drainboard,

pearly layers in smooth agreement,

the way the knife enters onion

and onion falls apart on the chopping block,

a history revealed.

And I would never scold the onion

for causing tears.

It is right that tears fall

for something small and forgotten.

How at meal, we sit to eat,

commenting on texture of meat or herbal aroma

but never on the translucence of onion,

now limp, now divided,

or its traditionally honorable career:

For the sake of others,

disappear.

~ Naomi Shihab Nye

The Travelling Onion

By Lali Masriera from Barcelona, Catalunya (Wikimedia Commons)

“It is believed that the onion originally came from India. In Egypt it was an object of worship —why I haven’t been able to find out. From Egypt the onion entered Greece and on to Italy, thence into all of Europe.” — Better Living Cookbook

When I think how far the onion has traveled

just to enter my stew today, I could kneel and praise

all small forgotten miracles,

crackly paper peeling on the drainboard,

pearly layers in smooth agreement,

the way the knife enters onion

and onion falls apart on the chopping block,

a history revealed.

And I would never scold the onion

for causing tears.

It is right that tears fall

for something small and forgotten.

How at meal, we sit to eat,

commenting on texture of meat or herbal aroma

but never on the translucence of onion,

now limp, now divided,

or its traditionally honorable career:

For the sake of others,

disappear.

~ Naomi Shihab Nye

Poem: The Unexplorer

Source: Tumblr/Favim

There was a road ran past our house
Too lovely to explore.
I asked my mother once -- she said
That if you followed where it led
It brought you to the milk-man's door.
(That's why I have not travelled more.)

~ Edna St Vincent Millay

Poem: The Unexplorer

Source: Tumblr/Favim

There was a road ran past our house
Too lovely to explore.
I asked my mother once -- she said
That if you followed where it led
It brought you to the milk-man's door.
(That's why I have not travelled more.)

~ Edna St Vincent Millay

Poem: Uphill

Credit: Renée Louise Anderson

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

~ Christina Rossetti

Poem: Uphill

Credit: Renée Louise Anderson

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

~ Christina Rossetti

Travelling Alone

Source: Unknown/Favim

There are the creature comforts, of course:
warmth of an iced miniature of gin,
plastic cups filled with dark traces of tea.
They use up time, inner space. Some of it.

Then daydreams … the feeding on longing, memory.
Only in true sleep can you escape them.
Here, you welcome them, leave the door
half-open so they can pass in and out —
companionable, taxing, preoccupying.

You have put your things on the seat beside you,
stacked its emptiness with clutter.
Your hand comes to rest on a satchel
of poems, books — isolating, radial.

Time. As usual, it's passing. When
will you be there? Where? Numbness now.
All the distance you have travelled
swings on to your back as you prepare to leave.

The relief of earth again, every footfall
a mark on a map; the tension of creating
that map, not knowing. Then you give yourself
one moment: stand calmly, in possession,
on a small piece of time. Yourself alone.

~ Diane Fahey

Travelling Alone

Source: Unknown/Favim

There are the creature comforts, of course:
warmth of an iced miniature of gin,
plastic cups filled with dark traces of tea.
They use up time, inner space. Some of it.

Then daydreams … the feeding on longing, memory.
Only in true sleep can you escape them.
Here, you welcome them, leave the door
half-open so they can pass in and out —
companionable, taxing, preoccupying.

You have put your things on the seat beside you,
stacked its emptiness with clutter.
Your hand comes to rest on a satchel
of poems, books — isolating, radial.

Time. As usual, it's passing. When
will you be there? Where? Numbness now.
All the distance you have travelled
swings on to your back as you prepare to leave.

The relief of earth again, every footfall
a mark on a map; the tension of creating
that map, not knowing. Then you give yourself
one moment: stand calmly, in possession,
on a small piece of time. Yourself alone.

~ Diane Fahey