Ode on a Deuter Pack

Thou still unfill’d-up sack of emptiness,
Thou cavern of zippers and bungee cords,
Sylvan world traveler, who canst thus possess
The lot I need to cross both field and fjord:

What bright green fabric gussies up thy shape
Of charcoal straps or blue rain-shields, or both,
With adjustable hip and shoulder pads,
What air-conditioning mesh preventing sloth?
What side pockets? What map pocket as well?
What loops and clips here? What wild ecstasy?

Ah, happy, happy hiker! cannot feel
Your weight, nor ever bid your Snacks adieu;
For access pockets unwearièd,
From any angle letting hands search through
More happy pack! more happy, happy pack!
For ever large and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever gaping, and for ever slack;
All breathing human camping you’re employ’d.

O torso shape! fair compression! with brede
of name and brand embroider’d on the front,
Through forest branches, over trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost take of pounds the brunt
As doth gravity: Beautiful Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, for other travelers
Than this, a vault for mess kits and toothpaste.
Beauty is pack, pack beauty,—that is all
ye know on Earth, and all ye need to know.

Refusing Resignation to Jane Eyre-dom

I live in a post-Eat, Pray, Love world. A world in which genuine self-exploration, cultural interest, and philosophical revelations are cheapened to Just Another American Tourism. A world in which wanting to escape the near-meaningless hustle and bustle of my life is met with inquiries into personal relationships with pizza. In which immersing myself in a rustic lifestyle evokes images of floppy hats and flouncy skirts. In which challenging myself to find solace in solitude translates to f seeking m - hot, accent required. What if I do enjoy simplicity? What if I do find peace? What if I do have an affair with some sexy, tan thing? Well where's my money? Where's my book deal? Where's my Julia Roberts figure?

You Can't Always Get What You Want

But I did.

The perfect farm -

not a minute too soon

nor a second too late.

Chickens, chickens everywhere

and plenty an egg to eat.

But Mama cooks the meals

and I'll be too tired

from toiling in the Tuscan heat

and I'll be too overwhelmed

by the panoramas and the hot springs

and a whole new sea to jump into.

PS: you can't just go

making international calls

on your wireless device

because it won't work.

Verizon's loss.

They could have charged me out the ass

for that phone call at 11pm/7am.

Instead, I was forced to sign up

for cut rates on the call at 12pm/8pm.

I hope this is not the last

hidden fee

that prevents me from falling

victim to itself.

What It Is

I have not had a passport

since age 16.

I have never traveled without family

or friends on the other end

to pick me up

and whisk me away.

Italy,

here I come.

~

So here's the premise: Having grown up in Rhode Island and schooled in New Hampshire, I drove to Bellingham, Washington to live with a few friends. One year later, I picked up and moved - alone - to Portland, Oregon where I am almost finished with my Master's degree. Now I'm picking up and running off again - but this time I don't know where to. This summer will be spent WWOOFing somewhere in Italy, followed by a desperate search for last-minute employment pretty much anywhere on this continent with snow.

For now, there seems to be a hilarious element to my complete ignorance when it comes to planning world travel. Writing is something close to my heart, but mine's crap unless it's no longer than microfiction. Poetry is my stronger suit. Enter the plog: poetry (or poetry-sized entries) on the trials and triumphs of all-too-innocent wanderlust.