ORIGINAL POETRY: Richard - Krakow, 2013 (a poem for a lost traveler)

I love traveling alone, but I always feel a sort of tension when I do. There's nothing quite like the weightlessness of waking up in a city far from home, with nothing in particular to do and no one to report to; but, as with any Good Thing, too much of it leaves me feeling flat.

I think that's why I was driven to write this after my first solo holiday. Richard* seemed to have crossed over into a lonelier place: to me, he felt more lost than liberated. I always find there are a couple of people like him in any hostel bar.

*not his real name, of course

Richard – Krakow, 2013

In the strip lit quick fix bar
full with foreign voices,
behind whisped trails of cigarette tails,
bug-eyes blearing
body bloating
Richard sits -
he's holding court:
self-made king
of our nomad circle.

“Korrreeea?!”

he bangs a hand upon our table

“Boy! Do I miss Korea.”

So I let beery bubbles slip
glistening down my throat
and, gleaming deep from the inside,
prepare to take the onslaught that
Paddy, from Melbourne, will not.

He rolls his open handsome eyes
from Richard to the rest
and throws out some benign remark
about how early it gets dark -

a blow delivered unknown

so that Richard lurches
(gut falls first)
to deliver him some cynical whisper
and Paddy's young hand
twitches drink
into the face all full of whiskers
and all worn out from jokes,
and Richard croaks his disapproval -
steps into the Polish rain
to find some other place
where everyone will learn his name.

Richard,
who has lived in houses
taut with paper walls;
who's stalked survival 'cross the globe,
measured life in anecdotes,
flit between kaleidoscopes,
tread water in black oceans;
whose self was forged in flailing,
fleeting visits here and there;
who learned young how to barter
and can handle local licor;

who ate romantic travellers' tales
until they made him sick;
who dances delicate round his self,
never learned to make real friends
and cannot talk,
just yells.

Who left home 30 years ago
and never went back;
won't speak of it either
(but told me once
when he was drunk
why).

I wonder if he hears his voice
echo in his chest,

if he’s comfortable as he appears
with his ceaseless unrest,

if he enjoys his navigations
of this largely empty Earth;

if he knows to long for deeper;

if his parents are alive.

Languishing in simple life -
a cosy room, familiar bed -
is only living lies;
Richard knows he must keep moving.
Glad eyespots belie inherent
frailty in the silken wings,
squatting here,
still among
the pale green leaves and twigs.

Richard,
worldly wisened traveller,
all worn out with no place to go,
steps into the Polish rain
in a huff.

Next day, at breakfast, he pretends to forget.