The Joy of Getting Lost

Aug 19 2011

I came without maps.

I would not ask

directions.

And with all attachments

agreeably severed,

I had no end

in mind.

This is the joy of getting lost.

When you’re free

to re-invent yourself.

When you’ll  make the best of it,

because where you are

is as good as anywhere else.

When you will be found

by strangers,

may even find yourself.

Time will serve you,

not the other way around.

When first light, and sunset

are all that really count.

And stop, when your body-clock says,

time-out

for food and rest.

You will walk softly

down back roads, and garden paths.

You will keep to the shade

won’t fight the rain

can never be late.

You will learn something new

every day

you are out.

I made the mistake

of trying to escape

from myself.

Because this is the one constant

geography cannot solve.

You may seek out the wildly exotic

pack as light as possible,

but still will bear the baggage

that was weighing you down.

How odd

that travelling alone

the conversation never stops.

So try not

to talk to yourself

so much.

Listen more

than you’re accustomed;

puncture the bubble
get out of the rut.

Find someone

who will keep the journey fun.

Who also is not rushed

or quick to judge

afraid of touch.

Desire comes
in unfamiliar places.
So give in
to the wanderlust
that pulls you under.
Make love

in a foreign tongue.


I was quickly flipping through the Travel section of the weekend paper (quickly flipping, because -- contrary to the earnest poetic imprecation -- I'm a very reluctant traveller!) and noticed this headline:  The Joy of Getting Lost. Which immediately suggested all kinds of possibilities:  of lost and found; of finding oneself; of  freedom; of receptiveness to new experience. 

There is something very exhilarating about setting out with no itinerary; of being out of touch (especially in this age of constant contact); of relinquishing control.

I guess I'm lucky. I manage to travel a bit like that, but in my head:  fine adventures, with all the comforts of home!

The voice in this poem changes back and forth a couple of times:  between 1st and 2nd person. So when I address the hypothetical "you", I get to be rather axiomatic and inspirational  -- like an Opraesque poem of earnest self-improvement. And when I revert back to "me", the tone becomes more thoughtful, self-critical, unsure. And, as it usually does, the first person voice more powerfully confers emotional authenticity and authority. Even though my writing is not auto-biographical, I almost always write in the first person; which I think makes a far more compelling read.  

I'm quite pleased with the cheeky ending. Hope it works as well as I wanted it to ... . Although I will admit that I cheated a bit. Shortly after the original version of this poem went up, I heard an interview with Elisabeth Eaves, the author of a new book called Wanderlust:  A Love Affair with Five Continents. She was the one who first noticed (or at least before I did) the delicious double entendre in "wanderlust."  The unrevised version was without the 2nd last stanza; the poem jumped right to the "make love" ending. Which I always felt was a bit abrupt:  a "trick" ending, rather than something with the satisfying feeling of inevitability and resolution. So "wanderlust" made a perfect bridge. "Unfamiliar places" and "under" also contain a kind of double entendre:  the 1st between geography and anatomy; and the 2nd in the sense of what is forbidden, hidden, denied. Anyway, I much prefer this new version. But I didn't want to let it stand without acknowledging my debt to Ms Eaves.