wandering poetry

39 Awe-Striking Poems About Wandering

Here are my favorite poems about wandering categorized:

• Short poems about wandering
• Famous poems about wandering

So if you want the best poems about wandering, then you’re in the right place.

Let’s get right to it!

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Awe-Striking Poems About Wandering

Embark on a captivating journey through a carefully curated selection of poems about wandering.

From mesmerizing short verses that capture the essence of exploration to renowned masterpieces that have stood the test of time, this collection offers the best of wandering poetry in a single captivating realm.

Lose yourself in the wanderer’s footsteps as you traverse the pages, discovering the profound beauty, introspection, and infinite possibilities that lie within the realm of wandering.

Prepare to be enchanted by the lyrical melodies that evoke a sense of wonder and ignite the longing for adventure that dwells within us all.

Let’s get started!

My #1 Favorite Poem About Wandering

“Wanderlieder” by John Milton Hay

I stand at the break of day In the Champs Elysees. The tremulous shafts of dawning, As they shoot o’er the Tuileries early, Strike Luxor’s cold grey spire, And wild in the light of the morning With their marble manes on fire, Ramp the white Horses of Marly.

But the Place of Concord lies Dead hushed ‘neath the ashy skies. And the Cities sit in council With sleep in their wide stone eyes. I see the mystic plain Where the army of spectres slain In the Emperor’s life-long war March on with unsounding tread To trumpets whose voice is dead. Their spectral chief still leads them, – The ghostly flash of his sword Like a comet through mist shines far, – And the noiseless host is poured, For the gendarme never heeds them, Up the long dim road where thundered The army of Italy onward Through the great pale Arch of the Star!

The spectre army fades Far up the glimmering hill, But, vaguely lingering still, A group of shuddering shades Infects the pallid air, Growing dimmer as day invades The hush of the dusky square. There is one that seems a King, As if the ghost of a Crown Still shadowed his jail-bleached hair; I can hear the guillotine ring, As its regicide note rang there, When he laid his tired life down And grew brave in his last despair. And a woman frail and fair Who weeps at leaving a world Of love and revel and sin In the vast Unknown to be hurled; (For life was wicked and sweet With kings at her small white feet!) And one, every inch a Queen, In life and in death a Queen, Whose blood baptized the place, In the days of madness and fear, – Her shade has never a peer In majesty and grace.

Murdered and murderers swarm; Slayers that slew and were slain, Till the drenched place smoked with the rain That poured in a torrent warm, – Till red as the Riders of Edom Were splashed the white garments of Freedom With the wash of the horrible storm!

And Liberty’s hands were not clean In the day of her pride unchained, Her royal hands were stained With the life of a King and Queen; And darker than that with the blood Of the nameless brave and good Whose blood in witness clings More damning than Queens’ and Kings’.

Has she not paid it dearly? Chained, watching her chosen nation Grinding late and early In the mills of usurpation? Have not her holy tears, Flowing through shameful years, Washed the stains from her tortured hands? We thought so when God’s fresh breeze, Blowing over the sleeping lands, In ‘Forty-Eight waked the world, And the Burgher-King was hurled From that palace behind the trees.

As Freedom with eyes aglow Smiled glad through her childbirth pain, How was the mother to know That her woe and travail were vain? A smirking servant smiled When she gave him her child to keep; Did she know he would strangle the child As it lay in his arms asleep?

Liberty’s cruellest shame! She is stunned and speechless yet, In her grief and bloody sweat Shall we make her trust her blame? The treasure of ‘Forty-Eight A lurking jail-bird stole, She can but watch and wait As the swift sure seasons roll.

And when in God’s good hour Comes the time of the brave and true, Freedom again shall rise With a blaze in her awful eyes That shall wither this robber-power As the sun now dries the dew. This Place shall roar with the voice Of the glad triumphant people, And the heavens be gay with the chimes Ringing with jubilant noise From every clamorous steeple The coming of better times. And the dawn of Freedom waking Shall fling its splendours far Like the day which now is breaking On the great pale Arch of the Star, And back o’er the town shall fly, While the joy-bells wild are ringing, To crown the Glory springing From the Column of July!

Short Poems About Wandering

“The Wanderer” by John Frederick Freeman

Over the pool of sleep The night mists creep, Then faint thin light and then clear day, Noontide, and lingering afternoon; Then that Wanderer, the Moon Wandering her old wild way. How many spirits follow Her in that dark hollow! Like a lost lamb she roams on high Through the cold and soundless sky, And stares down into her deep Reflection in the pool of sleep. How many follow Her in that lone hollow! She sees them not nor would she hear Though both shape and sound were clear, But stares, stares into the pool Of her fear and beauty full. Far in strange gay skies She pales and dies, Forgetting that bright transitory Reflection of astonished glory, Nor heeds the spirits that follow Her into day’s bright hollow.

“The Wanderer” by Eugene Field

Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, I found a shell, And to my listening ear the lonely thing Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing, Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell.

How came the shell upon that mountain height? Ah, who can say Whether there dropped by some too careless hand, Or whether there cast when Ocean swept the Land, Ere the Eternal had ordained the Day?

Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep, One song it sang,– Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide, Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide,– Ever with echoes of the ocean rang.

And as the shell upon the mountain height Sings of the sea, So do I ever, leagues and leagues away,– So do I ever, wandering where I may,– Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee.

“The Wanderer” by Sir Henry John Newbolt

To Youth there comes a whisper out of the west: “O loiterer, hasten where there waits for thee A life to build, a love therein to nest, And a man’s work, serving the age to be.”

Peace, peace awhile! Before his tireless feet Hill beyond hill the road in sunlight goes; He breathes the breath of morning, clear and sweet, And his eyes love the high eternal snows.

“Wanderers” by Walter De La Mare

Wide are the meadows of night, And daisies are shining there, Tossing their lovely dews, Lustrous and fair; And through these sweet fields go, Wanderers amid the stars – Venus, Mercury, Uranus, Neptune, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars.

‘Tired in their silver, they move, And circling, whisper and say, Fair are the blossoming meads of delight Through which we stray.

“A Wanderer’s Song” by John Masefield

A wind’s in the heart of me, a fire’s in my heels, I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels; I hunger for the sea’s edge, the limit of the land, Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.

Oh I’ll be going, leaving the noises of the street, To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet; To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride, Oh I’l be going, going, until I meet the tide.

And first I’ll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls, The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls, The songs at the capstan at the hooker warping out, And then the heart of me’ll know I’m there or thereabout.

Oh I am sick of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick, For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby Dick; And I’ll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels, For a wind’s in the heart of me, a fire’s in my heels.

“The World’s Wanderers” by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light Speed thee in thy fiery flight, In what cavern of the night Will thy pinions close now?

II Tell me, moon, thou pale and grey Pilgrim of heaven’s homeless way, In what depth of night or day Seekest thou repose now?

III Weary wind, who wanderest Like the world’s rejected guest, Hast thou still some secret nest On the tree or billow?

“London” by William Blake

I wander thro’ each charter’d street, Near where the charter’d Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man, In every Infant’s cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry Every blackning Church appalls; And the hapless Soldier’s sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlot’s curse Blasts the new-born Infant’s tear, And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

“A Day for Wandering” by Clinton Scollard

I set apart a day for wandering; I heard the woodlands ring, The hidden white-throat sing, And the harmonic West, Beyond a far hill-crest, Touch its Aeolian string. Remote from all the brawl and bruit of men, The iron tongue of Trade, I followed the clear calling of a wren Deep to the bosom of a sheltered glade, Where interwoven branches spread a shade Of soft cool beryl like the evening seas Unruffled by the breeze. And there—and there— I watched the maiden-hair, The pale blue iris-grass, The water-spider in its pause and pass Upon a pool that like a mirror was. I took for confidant The diligent ant Threading the clover and the sorrel aisles; For me were all the smiles Of the sequestered blossoms there abloom— Chalice and crown and plume; I drank the ripe rich attars blurred and blent, And won—Content!

“Like Clouds or Streams We Wandered on at Will” by Alexander Smith

Like clouds or streams we wandered on at will, Three glorious days, till, near our journey’s end, As down the moorland road we straight did wend, To Wordsworth’s “Inversneyd,” talking to kill The cold and cheerless drizzle in the air, ’Bove me I saw, at pointing of my friend, An old Fort like a ghost upon the hill, Stare in blank misery through the blinding rain, So human-like it seemed in its despair— So stunned with grief—long gazed at it we twain. Weary and damp we reached our poor abode, I, warmly seated in the chimney-nook, Still saw that old Fort o’er the moorland road Stare through the rain with strange woe-wildered look.

“As Some Mysterious Wanderer of the Skies” by Henry Jerome Stockard

As some mysterious wanderer of the skies, Emerging from the deeps of outer dark, Traces for once in human ken the arc Of its stupendous curve, then swiftly flies Out through some orbit veiled in space, which lies Where no imagination may embark,— Some onward-reaching track that God did mark For all eternity beneath his eyes,— So comes the soul forth from Creation’s vast; So clothed with mystery moves through mortal sight; Then sinks away into the Great Unknown. What systems it hath seen in all the past, What worlds shall blaze upon its future flight Thou knowest, eternal God, and thou alone!

“The Happy Wanderer” by Percy Addleshaw

He is the happy wanderer, who goes Singing upon his way, with eyes awake To every scene, with ears alert to take The sweetness of all sounds; who loves and knows The secrets of the highway, and the rose Holds fairer for the wounds the briars make; Who welcomes rain, that he his thirst may slake,— The sun, because it dries his dripping clothes; Treasures experience beyond all store, Careless if pain or pleasure he shall win, So that his knowledge widens more and more Ready each hour to worship or to sin; Until tired, wise, content, he halts before The sign o’ the Grave, a cool and quiet inn.

“A Farewell” by Langston Hughes

With gypsies and sailors, Wanderers of the hills and seas, I go to seek my fortune. With pious folk and fair I must have a parting. But you will not miss me,–– You who live between the hills And have never seen the seas.

“The Wanderer” by Sara Teasdale

I saw the sunset-colored sands, The Nile like flowing fire between, Where Rameses stares forth serene, And Ammon’s heavy temple stands.

I saw the rocks where long ago, Above the sea that cries and breaks, Swift Perseus with Medusa’s snakes Set free the maiden white like snow.

And many skies have covered me, And many winds have blown me forth, And I have loved the green, bright north, And I have loved the cold, sweet sea.

But what to me are north and south, And what the lure of many lands, Since you have leaned to catch my hands And lay a kiss upon my mouth.

“Wanderers” by George Sylvester Viereck

Sweet is the highroad when the skylarks call, When we and Love go rambling through the land. But shall we still walk gayly, hand in hand, At the road’s turning and the twilight’s fall? Then darkness shall divide us like a wall, And uncouth evil nightbirds flap their wings; The solitude of all created things

Will creep upon us shuddering like a pall. This is the knowledge I have wrung from pain: We, yea, all lovers, are not one, but twain, Each by strange wisps to strange abysses drawn; But through the black immensity of night Love’s little lantern, like a glowworm’s, bright, May lead our steps to some stupendous dawn.

“Wanderer in the Evening” by Alfred Lichtenstein

Kuno Kohn sings: Dusty Sunday Lies burned to pieces. Charred coolness Mothers the land. Dissolute longing Gapes once again. Dreams and tears Stream upward.

“As Toilsome I Wander’d Virginia’s Woods” by Walt Whitman

As toilsome I wander’d Virginia’s woods, To the music of rustling leaves kick’d by my feet, (for ’twas autumn,) I mark’d at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier; Mortally wounded he and buried on the retreat, (easily all could understand,) The halt of a mid-day hour, when up! no time to lose–yet this sign left, On a tablet scrawl’d and nail’d on the tree by the grave, Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade. Long, long I muse, then on my way go wandering, Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life, Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt, alone, or in the crowded street, Comes before me the unknown soldier’s grave, comes the inscription rude in Virginia’s woods, Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade.

“Fragment: A Wanderer” by Percy Bysshe Shelley

He wanders, like a day-appearing dream, Through the dim wildernesses of the mind; Through desert woods and tracts, which seem Like ocean, homeless, boundless, unconfined.

“He Hears the Cry of the Sedge” by William Butler Yeats

I wander by the edge Of this desolate lake Where wind cries in the sedge: i(Until the axle break That keeps the stars in their round, And hands hurl in the deep The banners of East and West, And the girdle of light is unhound, Your breast will not lie by the breast Of your beloved in sleep.)

“The Discovery” by Thomas Hardy

I wandered to a crude coast Like a ghost; Upon the hills I saw fires – Funeral pyres Seemingly and heard breaking Waves like distant cannonades that set the land shaking.

And so I never once guessed A Love-nest, Bowered and candle-lit, lay In my way, Till I found a hid hollow, Where I burst on her my heart could not but follow.

Famous Poems About Wandering

“Wandered” by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

The wind blows shrill along the hill, — Black is the night and cold– The sky hangs low with its weight of snow, And the drifts are deep on the wold. But what care I for wind or snow? And what care I for the cold? Oh … where is my lamb– My one ewe lamb– That strayed from the fold?

The beasts are safely gathered in, –Black is the night and cold– They are snug and warm, and safe from harm, In stall and byre and fold. And the dogs and I, by the blazing fire, Care nought for the snow and the cold. Oh … where is my lamb– My one ewe lamb– That strayed from the fold?

The barns are bursting with their store Of grain like yellow gold; A full, fat year has brought good cheer, — Black is the night and cold.– But … What care I for teeming barns? And what care I for gold? Oh … where is my lamb– My one ewe lamb– That strayed from the fold?

In the great kitchen, maids and men, — Black is the night and cold– Laugh loud and long, with jest and song, And merry revel hold. Let them laugh and sing, let them have their fling, But for me–I am growing old. Oh … where is my lamb– My one ewe lamb– That strayed from the fold?

The old house moans, and sighs and groans, –Black is the night and cold– We have seen brave times, you and I, old friend, But now–we are growing old. We have stood foursquare to many a storm, But now–we are growing old. Oh … where is my lamb– My one ewe lamb– That strayed from the fold?

Her mother sleeps on the hill out there, –Black is the night and cold,– She is free from care, she is happier there, Beneath the warm brown mould. And I’ve sometimes hoped they may have met, And the end of the tale be told. Ah … where is our lamb– Our one ewe lamb– That strayed from the fold?

Was that a branch that shed its load? –Black is the night and cold,– Or–was it a footstep in the snow– A timid footstep–halting, slow? Ah me! I am getting old! Is that a tapping–soft and low? Can it be … I thought I heard … but no, ‘ Twas only a branch that shed its snow, — God’s truth! I am getting old! For I thought … maybe It was my lamb Come home again to the fold.

Dear Lord! a hand at the frozen pane! –White on the night’s black cold– O my lamb! my lamb! are you come again? My dear lost lamb, are you come again? Are you come again to the fold? It is!… It is!… Now I thank Thee, Lord, For Thy Mercies manifold! She is come again! She is home again! My lamb that strayed from the fold!

“The Wander-Lovers.” by Bliss Carman

Down the world with Marna! That’s the life for me! Wandering with the wandering wind, Vagabond and unconfined! Roving with the roving rain Its unboundaried domain! Kith and kin of wander-kind, Children of the sea!

Petrels of the sea-drift! Swallows of the lea! Arabs of the whole wide girth Of the wind-encircled earth! In all climes we pitch our tents, Cronies of the elements, With the secret lords of birth Intimate and free.

All the seaboard knows us From Fundy to the Keys; Every bend and every creek Of abundant Chesapeake; Ardise hills and Newport coves And the far-off orange groves, Where Floridian oceans break, Tropic tiger seas.

Down the world with Marna, Tarrying there and here! Just as much at home in Spain As in Tangier or Touraine! Shakespeare’s Avon knows us well, And the crags of Neufchâtel; And the ancient Nile is fain Of our coming near.

Down the world with Marna, Daughter of the air! Marna of the subtle grace, And the vision in her face! Moving in the measures trod By the angels before God! With her sky-blue eyes amaze And her sea-blue hair!

Marna with the trees’ life In her veins a-stir! Marna of the aspen heart Where the sudden quivers start! Quick-responsive, subtle, wild! Artless as an artless child, Spite of all her reach of art! Oh, to roam with her!

Marna with the wind’s will, Daughter of the sea! Marna of the quick disdain, Starting at the dream of stain! At a smile with love aglow, At a frown a statued woe, Standing pinnacled in pain Till a kiss sets free!

Down the world with Marna, Daughter of the fire! Marna of the deathless hope, Still alert to win new scope Where the wings of life may spread For a flight unhazarded! Dreaming of the speech to cope With the heart’s desire!

Marna of the far quest After the divine! Striving ever for some goal Past the blunder-god’s control! Dreaming of potential years When no day shall dawn in fears! That’s the Marna of my soul, Wander-bride of mine!

“The Wanderer” by Alfred Lord Tennyson

The gleam of household sunshine ends, And here no longer can I rest; Farewell! – You will not speak, my friends, Unfriendly of your parted guest.

O well for him that finds a friend, Or makes a friend where’er he come, And loves the world from end to end, And wanders on from home to home!

O happy he, and fit to live, On whom a happy home has power To make him trust his life, and give His fealty to the halcyon hour!

I count you kind, I hold you true; But what may follow who can tell? Give me a hand-and you-and you- And deem me grateful, and farewell!

“The Wanderer” by Madison Julius Cawein

Between the death of day and birth of night, By War’s red light, I met with one in trailing sorrows clad, Whose features had The look of Him who died to set men right. Around him many horrors, like great worms, Terrific forms, Crawled, helmed like hippogriff and rosmarine, Gaunt and obscene, Urged on to battle with a thousand arms. Columns of steel, and iron belching flame, Before them came: And cities crumbled; and amid them trod Havoc, their god, With Desolation that no tongue may name. And out of Heaven came a burning breath, And on it Death, Riding: before him, huge and bellowing herds Of beasts, like birds, Bat-winged and demon, nothing conquereth. Hag-lights went by, and Fear that shrieks and dies; And mouths, with cries Of famine; and the madness of Despair; And everywhere Curses, like kings, with ever-burning eyes. And, lo! the shadow shook and cried a name, That grew a flame Above the world, and said, “Give heed! give heed! See how they bleed! My wounds! my wounds! Was it for this I came? “Where is the love for which I shed my blood? And where the good I preached and died for? Lo! ye have denied And crucified Me here again, who swore me brotherhood!” Then overhead the vault of night was rent: The firmament Winged thunder over of aerial craft; And Battle laughed Titanic laughter as its way it went.

“The Wanderer” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

‘Twas in the shadowy gloaming Of a cold and wet March day, That a wanderer came roaming From countries far away.

Scant raiment had he round him, Nor purse, nor worldly gear, Hungry and faint we found him, And bade him welcome here.

His weary frame bent double, His eyes were old and dim, His face was writhed with trouble Which none might share with him.

His speech was strange and broken, And none could understand, Such words as might be spoken In some far distant land.

We guessed not whence he hailed from, Nor knew what far-off quay His roving bark had sailed from Before he came to me.

But there he was, so slender, So helpless and so pale, That my wife’s heart grew tender For one who seemed so frail.

She cried, “But you must bide here! You shall no further roam. Grow stronger by our side here, Within our moorland home!”

She laid her best before him, Homely and simple fare, And to his couch she bore him The raiment he should wear.

To mine he had been welcome, My suit of russet brown, But she had dressed our weary guest In a loose and easy gown.

And long in peace he lay there, Brooding and still and weak, Smiling from day to day there At thoughts he would not speak.

The months flowed on, but ever Our guest would still remain, Nor made the least endeavour To leave our home again.

He heeded not for grammar, Nor did we care to teach, But soon he learned to stammer Some words of English speech.

With these our guest would tell us The things that he liked best, And order and compel us To follow his behest.

He ruled us without malice, But as if he owned us all, A sultan in his palace With his servants at his call.

Those calls came fast and faster, Our service still we gave, Till I who had been master Had grown to be his slave.

He claimed with grasping gestures Each thing of price he saw, Watches and rings and vestures, His will the only law.

In vain had I commanded, In vain I struggled still, Servants and wife were banded To do the stranger’s will.

And then in deep dejection It came to me one day, That my own wife’s affection Had been beguiled away.

Our love had known no danger, So certain had it been! And now to think a stranger Should dare to step between.

I saw him lie and harken To the little songs she sung, And when the shadows darken I could hear his lisping tongue.

They would sit in chambers shady, When the light was growing dim, Ah, my fickle-hearted lady! With your arm embracing him.

So, at last, lest he divide us, I would put them to the test. There was no one there beside us, Save this interloping guest.

So I took my stand before them, Very silent and erect, My accusing glance passed o’er them, Though with no observed effect.

But the lamp light shone upon her, And I saw each tell-tale feature, As I cried, “Now, on your honour, Do or don’t you love the creature?”

But her answer seemed evasive, It was “Ducky-doodle-doo! If his mummy loves um babby, Doesn’t daddums love um too?”

“The Wanderer” by Thomas Hardy

There is nobody on the road But I, And no beseeming abode I can try For shelter, so abroad I must lie.

The stars feel not far up, And to be The lights by which I sup Glimmeringly, Set out in a hollow cup Over me.

They wag as though they were Panting for joy Where they shine, above all care, And annoy, And demons of despair – Life’s alloy.

Sometimes outside the fence Feet swing past, Clock-like, and then go hence, Till at last There is a silence, dense, Deep, and vast.

A wanderer, witch-drawn To and fro, To-morrow, at the dawn, On I go, And where I rest anon Do not know!

Yet it’s meet this bed of hay And roofless plight; For there’s a house of clay, My own, quite, To roof me soon, all day And all night.

“The Wanderer” by Alan Seeger

To see the clouds his spirit yearned toward so Over new mountains piled and unploughed waves, Back of old-storied spires and architraves To watch Arcturus rise or Fomalhaut,

And roused by street-cries in strange tongues when day Flooded with gold some domed metropolis, Between new towers to waken and new bliss Spread on his pillow in a wondrous way:

These were his joys. Oft under bulging crates, Coming to market with his morning load, The peasant found him early on his road To greet the sunrise at the city-gates, –

There where the meadows waken in its rays, Golden with mist, and the great roads commence, And backward, where the chimney-tops are dense, Cathedral-arches glimmer through the haze.

White dunes that breaking show a strip of sea, A plowman and his team against the blue, Swiss pastures musical with cowbells, too, And poplar-lined canals in Picardie,

And coast-towns where the vultures back and forth Sail in the clear depths of the tropic sky, And swallows in the sunset where they fly Over gray Gothic cities in the north,

And the wine-cellar and the chorus there, The dance-hall and a face among the crowd, – Were all delights that made him sing aloud For joy to sojourn in a world so fair.

Back of his footsteps as he journeyed fell Range after range; ahead blue hills emerged. Before him tireless to applaud it surged The sweet interminable spectacle.

And like the west behind a sundown sea Shone the past joys his memory retraced, And bright as the blue east he always faced Beckoned the loves and joys that were to be.

From every branch a blossom for his brow He gathered, singing down Life’s flower-lined road, And youth impelled his spirit as he strode Like winged Victory on the galley’s prow.

That Loveliness whose being sun and star, Green Earth and dawn and amber evening robe, That lamp whereof the opalescent globe The season’s emulative splendors are,

That veiled divinity whose beams transpire From every pore of universal space, As the fair soul illumes the lovely face – That was his guest, his passion, his desire.

His heart the love of Beauty held as hides One gem most pure a casket of pure gold. It was too rich a lesser thing to hold; It was not large enough for aught besides.

“Wanderers” by James Hebblethwaite

As I rode in the early dawn, While stars were fading white, I saw upon a grassy slope A camp-fire burning bright; With tent behind and blaze before, Three loggers in a row Sang all together joyously Pull up the stakes and go!

As I rode on by Eagle Hawk, The wide blue deep of air, The wind through the glittering leaves, The flowers so sweet and fair, The thunder of the rude salt waves, The creek’s soft overflow, All joined in chorus to the words Pull up the stakes and go!

Now by the tent on forest skirt, By odour of the earth, By sight and scent of morning smoke, By evening camp-fire’s mirth, By deep-sea call and foaming green, By new stars’ gleam and glow, By summer trails in antique lands Pull up the stakes and go!

The world is wide, and we are young, And sounding marches beat, And passion pipes her sweetest call In lane and field and street; So rouse the chorus, brothers all, We’ll something have to show When Death comes round and strikes our tent Pull up the stakes and go!

“The Wandering Bard” by Thomas Moore

What life like that of the bard can be– The wandering bard, who roams as free As the mountain lark that o’er him sings, And, like that lark, a music brings Within him, where’er he comes or goes,– A fount that for ever flows! The world’s to him like some playground, Where fairies dance their moonlight round;– If dimmed the turf where late they trod, The elves but seek some greener sod; So, when less bright his scene of glee, To another away flies he!

Oh, what would have been young Beauty’s doom, Without a bard to fix her bloom? They tell us, in the moon’s bright round, Things lost in this dark world are found; So charms, on earth long past and gone, In the poet’s lay live on.– Would ye have smiles that ne’er grow dim? You’ve only to give them all to him. Who, with but a touch of Fancy’s wand, Can lend them life, this life beyond, And fix them high, in Poesy’s sky,– Young stars that never die!

Then, welcome the bard where’er he comes,– For, tho’ he hath countless airy homes, To which his wing excursive roves, Yet still, from time to time, he loves To light upon earth and find such cheer As brightens our banquet here. No matter how far, how fleet he flies, You’ve only to light up kind young eyes, Such signal-fires as here are given,– And down he’ll drop from Fancy’s heaven, The minute such call to love or mirth Proclaims he’s wanting on earth!

“The Wanderlust” by Robert William Service

The Wanderlust has lured me to the seven lonely seas, Has dumped me on the tailing-piles of dearth; The Wanderlust has haled me from the morris chairs of ease, Has hurled me to the ends of all the earth. How bitterly I’ve cursed it, oh, the Painted Desert knows, The wraithlike heights that hug the pallid plain, The all-but-fluid silence, – yet the longing grows and grows, And I’ve got to glut the Wanderlust again.

Soldier, sailor, in what a plight I’ve been! Tinker, tailor, oh what a sight I’ve seen! And I’m hitting the trail in the morning, boys, And you won’t see my heels for dust; For it’s “all day” with you When you answer the cue Of the Wan-der-lust.

The Wanderlust has got me . . . by the belly-aching fire, By the fever and the freezing and the pain; By the darkness that just drowns you, by the wail of home desire, I’ve tried to break the spell of it – in vain. Life might have been a feast for me, now there are only crumbs; In rags and tatters, beggar-wise I sit; Yet there’s no rest or peace for me, imperious it drums, The Wanderlust, and I must follow it.

Highway, by-way, many a mile I’ve done; Rare way, fair way, many a height I’ve won; But I’m pulling my freight in the morning, boys, And it’s over the hills or bust; For there’s never a cure When you list to the lure Of the Wan-der-lust.

The Wanderlust has taught me . . . it has whispered to my heart Things all you stay-at-homes will never know. The white man and the savage are but three short days apart, Three days of cursing, crawling, doubt and woe. Then it’s down to chewing muclucs, to the water you can EAT, To fish you bolt with nose held in your hand. When you get right down to cases, it’s King’s Grub that rules the races, And the Wanderlust will help you understand.

Haunting, taunting, that is the spell of it; Mocking, baulking, that is the hell of it; But I’ll shoulder my pack in the morning, boys, And I’m going because I must; For it’s so-long to all When you answer the call Of the Wan-der-lust.

The Wanderlust has blest me . . . in a ragged blanket curled, I’ve watched the gulf of Heaven foam with stars; I’ve walked with eyes wide open to the wonder of the world, I’ve seen God’s flood of glory burst its bars. I’ve seen the gold a-blinding in the riffles of the sky, Till I fancied me a bloated plutocrat; But I’m freedom’s happy bond-slave, and I will be till I die, And I’ve got to thank the Wanderlust for that.

Wild heart, child heart, all of the world your home. Glad heart, mad heart, what can you do but roam? Oh, I’ll beat it once more in the morning, boys, With a pinch of tea and a crust; For you cannot deny When you hark to the cry Of the Wan-der-lust.

The Wanderlust will claim me at the finish for its own. I’ll turn my back on men and face the Pole. Beyond the Arctic outposts I will venture all alone; Some Never-never Land will be my goal. Thank God! there’s none will miss me, for I’ve been a bird of flight; And in my moccasins I’ll take my call; For the Wanderlust has ruled me, And the Wanderlust has schooled me, And I’m ready for the darkest trail of all.

Grim land, dim land, oh, how the vastness calls! Far land, star land, oh, how the stillness falls! For you never can tell if it’s heaven or hell, And I’m taking the trail on trust; But I haven’t a doubt That my soul will leap out On its Wan-der-lust.

“The Wanderer” by Ameen Rihani

I wander among the hills of alien lands Where Nature her prerogative resigns To Man; where Comfort in her shack reclines And all the arts and sciences commands. But in my soul The eastern billows roll— I hear the voices of my native strands.

My lingering eyes, a lonely hemlock fills With grace and splendor rising manifold; Beneath her boughs the maples spread their gold And at her feet, the silver of rills. But in my heart A peasant void of art Echoes the voices of my native hills.

On every height a studied art confines All human joy in social pulchritude; The boxwood frowns where beckoning birches stood, And where the thrushes caroled Fashion dines. But through the spreading cheer The shepherd’s reed I hear Beneath my Lebanon terebinths and pines.

And though no voices here are heard of toil, Nor accents least of sorrow, nor the din Of multitudes, nor even at the Inn The City is permitted aught to spoil, Yet in my breast, A shack at best, Laments the mother of my native soil.

Even where the sumptuous solitudes deny A shelter to a bird or butterfly, As in the humblest dwelling of the dale A gracious welcome’s shown the passer-by; But evermore clear Allwhere I hear The calling of my native hut and sky.

Land of my birth! a handful of thy sod Resuscitates the flower of my faith; For whatsoever the seer of science sayth, Thou art the cradle and the tomb of God; And forever I behold A vision old Of Beauty weeping where He once hath trod.

“Wanderlust” by Paul Cameron Brown

Who administers to my needs?

Is it the dandelion, so ant-encrusted, that yellow pollen dangles from a shiny abdomen suggestive of some actor’s smeared and garish make-up?

Or the cicada’s song, difficult to describe, laundering thick summer heat?

Perhaps, then, the Red Admiral butterfly especially active at the close of day and drawn to wooden lawn-furniture or the exposed human limb?

If none of these breathes vigour or tonic through my nostrils, what of tubs of fresh water?

Take pea-pods for crude, rudimentary boats and children as make-shift sailors, then they both shall spy the secrets of seas. Bold harbours will be their cues, astrolabes their hatchets in which to chart many a perilous adventure.

A volume of Tom Swift and his Motorboat tames the haggard breast, soothes the savage beast.

A trip to the fruit-cellar beaded with moisture and clammy with imaginary threat, chastens the cobweb from the dusty ledge and sees a privet-hedge hawk-moth trapped against the window-pane (a dark spot pressed much like a pirate’s patch against both time & space).

If meandering and nearing journey’s end, think twice. Better red than dead. Brooding MacIntosh apples stain a slippery floor but the door to the orchard is always ajar.

By night, an “I And The Village” Chagall painting draws a lad (and landscape) to stare and stare. Thickets of wild-grape, strawberry tendrils, two hares boxing in the meadow, a Winterspoon or Whip-Poor-Will towering above groves of walnut, lilac. Night air is fragrant (and lush) through a peep-hole and gate-way to the stars.

Barns with ricks contain pitchforks like a mis-shapen mask protruding ever so faintly sinister in silhouette through a visionary sky.

Remnants of ferret skin, lie interrupted, upon entering the chicken-coop.

The soldier drinks, his tea and egg-cup abandoned.

I don’t have to go anywhere. Dark and moody, there is an arsenal of thought with stout marshal batons in my knapsack.

The power to be led (and lead) stiff memory in rum kegs and wine casks. The brooding entrance to another world, if not in the palm of my hand, then very nearly a shout and stone’s throw away.

“Song of Oktahutche” by Alexander Posey

Far, far, far are my silver waters drawn; The hills embrace me loth to let me go; The maidens think me fair to look upon, And trees lean over glad to hear me flow. Thro’ field and valley, green because of me, I wander, wander to the distant sea.

Thro’ lonely places and thro’ crowded ways; Thro’ noise of strife and thro’ the solitude, And on thro’ cloudy days and sunny days, I journey till I meet, in sisterhood, The broad Canadian, red with the sunset, Now calm, now raging in a mighty fret!

On either hand, in a grand colonnade, The cottonwoods rise in the azure sky, And purple mountains cast a purple shade As I, now grave, now laughing, pass them by; And birds of air dip bright wings in my tide, In sunny reaches where I noiseless glide.

O’er shoals of mossy rocks and mussel shells, Blue over spacious beds of amber sand, By cliffs and coves and glens where Echo dwells— Elusive spirit of the shadow-land— Forever blest and blessing, do I go, A wid’ning in the morning’s roseate glow.

Though I sing my song in a minor key, Broad lands and fair attest the good I do; Though I carry no white sails to the sea, Towns nestle in the vales I wander thro’; And quails are whistling in the waving grain, And herds are scattered o’er the verdant plain.

“The Wanderers” by Robert Browning

Over the sea our galleys went, With cleaving prows in order brave To a speeding wind and a bounding wave— A gallant armament: Each bark built out of a forest-tree Left leafy and rough as first it grew, And nail’d all over the gaping sides, Within and without, with black bull-hides, Seethed in fat and suppled in flame, To bear the playful billows’ game; So, each good ship was rude to see, Rude and bare to the outward view, But each upbore a stately tent Where cedar pales in scented row Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, And an awning droop’d the mast below, In fold on fold of the purple fine, That neither noontide nor star-shine Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, Might pierce the regal tenement. When the sun dawn’d, O, gay and glad We set the sail and plied the oar; But when the night-wind blew like breath, For joy of one day’s voyage more, We sang together on the wide sea, Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, Each helm made sure by the twilight star, And in a sleep as calm as death, We, the voyagers from afar, Lay stretch’d along, each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent Whence gleam’d soft light and curl’d rich scent, And with light and perfume, music too: So the stars wheel’d round, and the darkness pass’d, And at morn we started beside the mast, And still each ship was sailing fast!

Now, one morn, land appear’d—a speck Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky— ‘Avoid it,’ cried our pilot, ‘check The shout, restrain the eager eye!’ But the heaving sea was black behind For many a night and many a day, And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; So we broke the cedar pales away, Let the purple awning flap in the wind, And a statue bright was on every deck! We shouted, every man of us, And steer’d right into the harbour thus, With pomp and pæan glorious.

A hundred shapes of lucid stone! All day we built its shrine for each, A shrine of rock for every one, Nor paused till in the westering sun We sat together on the beach To sing because our task was done; When lo! what shouts and merry songs! What laughter all the distance stirs! A loaded raft with happy throngs Of gentle islanders! ‘Our isles are just at hand,’ they cried, ‘ Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping; Our temple-gates are open’d wide, Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping For these majestic forms’—they cried. O, then we awoke with sudden start From our deep dream, and knew, too late, How bare the rock, how desolate, Which had received our precious freight: Yet we call’d out—‘Depart! Our gifts, once given, must here abide: Our work is done; we have no heart To mar our work,’—we cried.

“I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a Cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden Daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:— A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company; I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the Daffodils.

“Forgotten Among the Lilies” by Augusta Theodosia Drane

Through the dark night I wander on alone, And, as one blinded, grope my weary way, Without a lamp to shed its guiding ray; I wander on unseen, and seeing none, And caring to behold but only One

I see not, yet my heart will give me light, And safer than the noonday sun will guide To where the Bridegroom waiteth for the Bride; So walking on in faith and not by sight, I cannot fear but He will guide me right.…

Forgotten ’mid the lilies; for I feel Their gentle blossoms wave above my head; I breathe the magic perfume which they shed, As though my bleeding wounds they fain would heal, And from my heart its aching sorrow steal.

A sad, sweet lot—I needs must call it sweet; My cares, like withered buds, I cast aside, And reck but little what may next betide; The days and years fly past on pinions fleet, Amid these lilies crushed beneath His feet.

Forgotten and abandoned;—yet withal Leaning my heart upon my only Love: Nay, raise me not, I do not care to move; Soon I shall hear His gentle footstep fall, And lift my eyes, and answer to His call.

Till then among the lilies let me lie; See, I have cast my idle cares away: Howe’er it be, I am content to stay Until once more the Bridegroom passes by, And hither turns His gracious, pitying eye.

Blame not my folly, for I know full well My words can nought but idle babbling seem, The madness of a fond and foolish dream: Bear with my folly, for the thoughts that swell This burning heart, I cannot, dare not tell.

Know only this—I suffer, yet I rest; For all my cares and fears are cast away, And more than this I know not how to say; Forgotten though I be, I own it best And ’mid the lilies lie in perfect rest.

“The Brook-Side” by Richard Monckton

I wander’d by the brook-side, I wander’d by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree; I watch’d the long, long shade, And, as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid; For I listen’d for a footfall, I listen’d for a word, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,—no, he came not— The night came on alone, The little stars sat, one by one, Each on his golden throne; The evening wind pass’d by my cheek, The leaves above were stirr’d, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind; A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer—nearer, We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.

• Famous Poems About Wandering: Exploring the Beauty of the Unknown

Wandering has long been a captivating theme in poetry, evoking a sense of adventure, curiosity, and the desire to explore the unknown. From ancient times to the modern era, poets have used their words to express the allure and beauty of wandering. In this article, we will delve into some famous poems that celebrate the act of wandering and the profound experiences it can bring.

1. "The Wanderer" by Anonymous

2. "i wandered lonely as a cloud" by william wordsworth, 3. "the road not taken" by robert frost, 4. "ulysses" by alfred lord tennyson.

One of the earliest examples of a poem about wandering is the Old English masterpiece, "The Wanderer." Composed in the 10th century, this elegiac poem reflects on the hardships and solitude of a wandering exile. It speaks to the universal human experience of longing for a sense of belonging while grappling with the transient nature of life. The opening lines set the tone:

"Often the solitary one finds grace for himself The mercy of the Lord, though he, sorry-hearted, Must for a long time traverse the waters, The ocean-sea, tread the exile's path; Wanders wide over the world's foundation, Foam-flecked ways, heath-scrubs, and hallways. "

A quintessential poem about wandering, "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" by William Wordsworth, takes us on a journey through the poet's mind as he encounters a field of daffodils. The poem explores the transformative power of nature and the solace it can bring during moments of solitude. These lines beautifully capture the essence of the wandering spirit:

"I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze."

Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" is a beloved poem that explores the idea of choice and its impact on one's life. As the speaker stands at a fork in the road, they reflect on the paths they've taken and the roads left unexplored. This poem reminds us of the unpredictable nature of life's journey and the significance of our decisions. The following lines have become iconic:

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth."

In "Ulysses," Alfred Lord Tennyson brings the legendary figure of Odysseus (Ulysses in Latin) to life, depicting his yearning for new experiences and the call of adventure. The poem captures the restlessness of a seasoned traveler and his unwavering desire to explore the world. These lines exemplify Ulysses' spirit of wanderlust:

"I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea."

Poems about wandering offer a glimpse into the human desire for adventure, self-discovery, and the exploration of the unknown. From ancient to modern times, poets have crafted verses that capture the essence of wandering and the profound experiences it can bring. Whether through reflections on solitude, choices, or the allure of new horizons, these poems remind us of the beauty that lies beyond familiar paths. So, let these verses inspire you to embark on your own journey and embrace the wonders that await.

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Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement: "If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately."

Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. "Help," said the flight agent. "Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be late and she did this."

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly. "Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit- se-wee?" The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the next day. I said, "No, we're fine, you'll get there, just later, who is picking you up? Let's call him."

We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life, patting my knee, answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—from her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.

And then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend— by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradi- tion. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, This is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too.

This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.

Naomi Shihab Nye, "Gate A-4" from Honeybee . Copyright © 2008 by Naomi Shihab Nye. Reprinted with permission.

More by this poet

A man crosses the street in rain, stepping gently, looking two times north and south, because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

No car must splash him. No car drive too near to his shadow.

So Much Happiness

It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness. With sadness there is something to rub against, a wound to tend with lotion and cloth. When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up, something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs or change.

Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be

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Home > Poems > The Song of Wandering Aengus

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By W. B. Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

Poetry Center

Naomi Shihab Nye

Naomi Shihab Nye describes herself as a “wandering poet.” She has spent 40 years traveling the country and the world to lead writing workshops and inspiring students of all ages. Nye was born to a Palestinian father and an American mother and grew up in St. Louis, Jerusalem, and San Antonio. Drawing on her Palestinian-American heritage, the cultural diversity of her home in Texas, and her experiences traveling in Asia, Europe, Canada, Mexico, and the Middle East, Nye uses her writing to attest to our shared humanity.

Naomi Shihab Nye is the author and/or editor of more than 30 volumes. Her books of poetry include  19 Varieties of Gazelle: Poems of the Middle East ,  A Maze Me: Poems for Girls ,  Red Suitcase ,  Words Under the Words ,  Fuel , and  You & Yours  (a best-selling poetry book of 2006). She is also the author of  Mint Snowball ,  Never in a Hurry ,  I’ll Ask You Three Times, Are you Okay? Tales of Driving and Being Driven  (essays);  Habibi  and  Going Going  (novels for young readers);  Baby Radar ,   Sitti's Secrets ,  and   Famous  (picture books) and  There Is No Long Distance Now  (a collection of very short stories). Other works include several prize-winning poetry anthologies for young readers, including  Time You Let Me In ,  This Same Sky ,  The Space Between Our Footsteps: Poems & Paintings from the Middle East ,  What Have You Lost? ,  and  Transfer . Her collection of poems for young adults entitled  Honeybee  won the 2008 Arab American Book Award in the Children’s/Young Adult category. Her novel for children,  The Turtle of Oman , was chosen both a Best Book of 2014 by  The Horn Book  and a 2015 Notable Children's Book by the American Library Association.  The Turtle of Oman  was also awarded the 2015 Middle East Book Award for Youth Literature. Her most recent book is  Voices in the Air: Poems for Listeners . Her next book of poems is entitled  The Tiny Journalist  (BOA Editions Ltd., April 2019).

Naomi Shihab Nye has been a Lannan Fellow, a Guggenheim Fellow, and a Witter Bynner Fellow (Library of Congress). She has received a Lavan Award from the Academy of American Poets, the Isabella Gardner Poetry Award, the Lee Bennett Hopkins Poetry Award, the Paterson Poetry Prize, four Pushcart Prizes, the Robert Creeley Prize, and "The Betty Prize" from Poets House, for service to poetry, and numerous honors for her children’s literature, including two Jane Addams Children’s Book Awards. In 2011 Nye won the Golden Rose Award given by the New England Poetry Club, the oldest poetry reading series in the country. Her collection  19 Varieties of Gazelle  was a finalist for the National Book Award. Her work has been presented on National Public Radio on  A Prairie Home Companion  and  The Writer’s Almanac . She has been featured on two PBS poetry specials including “The Language of Life with Bill Moyers” and also appeared on  NOW with Bill Moyers . She has been affiliated with The Michener Center for writers at the University of Texas at Austin for 20 years and also poetry editor at  The Texas Observer  for 20 years. In January 2010 Nye was elected to the Board of Chancellors of the Academy of American Poets, she is a laureate of the 2013 NSK Neustadt Award for Children’s Literature, and in 2017 the American Library Association presented Naomi Shihab Nye with the 2018 May Hill Arbuthnot Honor Lecture Award. In 2018 the Texas Institute of Letters awarded her the Lon Tinkle Award for Lifetime Achievement. Nye is Professor of Creative Writing - Poetry at Texas State University.

“Wandering Poet” Naomi Shihab Nye Headlines Lowell Memorial Poetry Reading

Naomi Shihab Nye describes herself as a “wandering poet” because she has visited so many countries and US states as a visiting poet during a career that has spanned more than four decades. Photo courtesy of Nye

“Wandering Poet” Naomi Shihab Nye Headlines Lowell Memorial Poetry Reading 

Renowned for celebrating different cultures, she speaks at bu tonight, john o’rourke.

Growing up in Ferguson, Mo., Jerusalem, and Ramallah, Palestine, and later, as a teenager, in San Antonio, Tex., poet Naomi Shihab Nye gained an appreciation for the importance of cultural diversity. The daughter of a Palestinian refugee, Nye says that living in places so different from one another “helped me appreciate rich cultures, mixed histories, being enlarged by people’s stories and traditions and memories and dreams.”

In a career that has spanned more than 40 years and includes nearly a dozen collections of poetry, as well as children’s picture books and songs, young adult and adult novels, and short stories (she’s won four Pushcart Prizes), Nye has earned a reputation for work that celebrates both the differences and the shared experiences among different cultures. 

Tonight, Nye will read from her work at this semester’s Robert Lowell Memorial Poetry Reading at the Alan and Sherry Leventhal Center Auditorium at 7:30 pm. 

“To be able to identify and describe the connections and contrasts between cultures is central to thinking, growing, understanding,” Nye says. “It’s so basic. How do we all hurt? How might we help one another?” 

She has been writing poems almost from the time she could hold a pencil. She was a first-grader when she wrote her first published poem, about her cat, Cricket. 

“I felt close to poetry even before I could read, by listening to it,” she says. “By the time I was in college, I knew it was a central part of my life and experience as a human being. I guess I started feeling like a poet very early.” 

The nature of much of Nye’s work these days is political, a point she takes pride in. An Arab American, she has written frequently about the need for cooperation and mutual respect between Palestinians and Jews. In collections like 19 Varieties of Gazelle: Poems of the Middle East and You and Yours, she offers a compassionate view of the harsh realities that have divided the region for the past 70 years. Following 9/11, she began speaking out on behalf of Arab Americans, calling for racial tolerance. More recently, her work has reflected on the plight of refugees and immigrants, in poems like “Big Bend National Parks Says No to All Walls.” 

She lives in San Antonio, which is 63 percent Mexican American, and has become a vocal critic of what she describes as “the loud voices intent on diminishing immigrants.” 

“It’s as if people have very short memories and only tiny troves of empathy,” she says. “Most of us came from immigrant histories and part of the job of being a human being is to care about other human beings. Otherwise, what’s the point in anything?…. I am thunderstruck that there has seemed to be such a mean streak in many people in recent years.”

In other poems, like “ To Jamyla Boden of Ferguson, Missouri ,” she examines the racial injustices that have roiled communities across the United States. In that poem, Nye compares the idyllic Ferguson of her childhood, when it was all “giant meadows of corn, sweet potatoes, laden blackberry bushes” and children could cool off under a sprinkler, to the Ferguson of today, where a girl can be “shot through a wall.”

But Nye is best known for her poem “Kindness,” which came to her unbidden, she says, while she and her husband were on their honeymoon in Colombia decades ago. While on a bus trip, they and the other passengers were robbed and one man was killed and left by the roadside. They were wandering around the town, trying to get their bearings, when a man approached and kindly asked what had happened to them. After learning of their ordeal, he told them in Spanish how sorry he was for what they had experienced. 

That evening, sitting alone in the town plaza (her husband was trying to get new traveler’s checks), Nye says she heard an invisible woman’s voice, literally “speaking the poem across the air, as if a voice was trying to calm me.” She started to write down the poem, which begins: 

“Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness.”

Since its publication, “Kindness” has been read and taught in classrooms around the world.

“I’m amazed it’s had such a large and long life,” Nye says. Why does she think the poem has resonated across so many cultures? Her answer: “Everyone needs kindness.” 

As a professor of creative writing and poetry at Texas State University and the Poetry Foundation’s current Young People’s Poet Laureate , Nye has spent her life encouraging young people to read and write poetry. And the act of creating poems has never been more important, she says.

“We need it more than ever, because poetry tries to tell the truth, many truths, and tries to look and see deeply. Poetry tries to share the stories and images that give our lives meaning and hope, that honor memory and imagination,” she says. “We are living in a swirl of updates and details, many unsavory lies and greedy dramas, and I keep thinking our country deserves better. Our kids deserve better. We were not born to act this ugly.” 

Nye will be joined at Wednesday’s reading by Katherine Hollander (GRS’06,’15), who earned both an MFA in creative writing and a PhD in history from BU. Now a faculty fellow in the Colby College history department, Hollander will read from her new collection of poems, My German Dictionary (Waywiser Press, 2019), which recently was awarded the Anthony Hecht Poetry Prize. Former US poet laureate Charles Wright says Hollander’s poems serve up “startling, radiant images that ferry the poems to their destinations of discovery and illumination.”

“Both of these poets show in their work poetry’s intimate, human scale and its unlimited range,” says Robert Pinsky , a William Fairfield Warren Distinguished Professor , a College of Arts & Sciences professor of English, and a three-time US poet laureate. “For example, Naomi Shihab Nye’s celebrated poem ‘Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal’ is a song of ordinary human help and consideration, with the implicit background of global, xenophobic rage. In a later generation, Katherine Hollander’s amazing first book, My German Dictionary, undertakes the horrors and redemptions of history, through poems as intimate and penetrating as folk tales.” 

Watch Naomi Shihab Nye read her poem “Kindness” here .

The Robert Lowell Memorial Lecture is tonight, Wednesday, November 6, at 7:30 pm, in the Alan and Sherry Leventhal Center Auditorium, 233 Bay State Rd. The event, cohosted by the Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center and BU’s Creative Writing Program, is free and open to the public. There will be a book signing and reception immediately following the reading next door, at the Dahod Family Alumni Center, 225 Bay State Rd.  The Robert Lowell Memorial Lectures are funded by Nancy Livingston (COM’69) and her husband, Fred M. Levin, through the Shenson Foundation, in memory of Ben and A. Jess Shenson.

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Editor, BU Today

John O’Rourke began his career as a reporter at  The MacNeil/Lehrer NewsHour . He has worked as a producer at  World Monitor , a coproduction of the  Christian Science Monitor  and the Discovery Channel, and NBC News, where he was a producer for several shows, including  Now with Tom Brokaw and Katie Couric ,  NBC Nightly News , and  The Today Show . John has won many awards, including four Emmys, a George Foster Peabody Award, and five Edward R. Murrow Awards. Profile

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Wandering Poets in Ancient Greek Culture: Travel, Locality and Pan-Hellenism

Roosevelt rocha , federal university of paraná, brazil. [email protected].

Table of Contents

In Ancient times, it was very common that poets and performers were great travellers. This is a theme still overlooked, according to Richard Hunter and Ian Rutherford, the editors of the book under review here. It is a collection of papers formerly presented in April 2005, in a colloquium at the University of Cambridge in which the main questions were why poets travelled and how the skills of these outsiders were used by the local communities for their own purposes. In the Introduction, Hunter and Rutherford present the volume, asserting that “travel and wandering are persistent elements in both the reality and imaginaire of Greek poetry, and intellectual and cultural life more generally, from the earliest days” (p. 1). Orpheus was the first wandering poet and even a professional of the word like Empedocles of Acragas is a good example of the truth of this statement. But not only the poet could be a traveller. The public also could make a journey by attending or reading a text. And even more, a poem could travel and spread the fame of both poet and patron. Names like Theognis and Pindar are examples of that. And there’s still another possibility of travel in the act of composing or enacting a poem. This also can be seen as a kind of journey and the Argonautica , by Apollonius Rhodius, must be cited in this context.

It was very common that poets and performers travelled to receive honors like the proxenia but also to get payment, like the epinician composers and the Artists of Dionysus. This kind of activity continued into Hellenistic times and even into the Roman period, as the example of Archias, the poet defended by Cicero, shows. So, there were a munber of motivations that led to poetic mobility. Another one was the desire to receive commissions for celebrating the antiquities ( patria ), buildings and local worthies of particular towns. Thus the most common forms of performance were the encomia of the host city and its traditions.

Travels could lead to different kinds of innovations producing an ‘internationalization’ in the Archaic period. We have many notices of poets working far away from their homeland in those times, like Thaletas of Cretan Gortyna and Alcman (from Sparta or Lydian Sardis?). It could be important for a powerful ruler to draw in skilled poets: Polycrates of Samos attracted Ibycus from Rhegium and Anacreon from Teos; Periander of Corinth brought to his court Arion, from Lesbian Methymna; Peisistratus took Homer’s poetry to Athens and latter Anacreon and Simonides of Ceos spent some time there, before going to courts in Thessaly (the Tean) and in Sicily (the Cean). So, in Ancient times, a poet would take all the chances he had at hand to profit from his art (cf. Theocritus 16.34-47, cited p. 28).

But this phenomenon was not particular to Greece alone. As the editors say (p. 14), “singers and poets travel in many societies, perhaps most”. In Japan, in late medieval Europe, in medieval India, in Western Africa singers travelled to where they could find employment, and the best singers migrated to where they would be paid most. And to consider this comparative evidence can be useful in helping us to understand the ways poetic itinerancy developed in Ancient Greece.

Concluding their Introduction, the editors say (p.17) that poets travel to perform, but this does not exhaust the issue. It’s very import also to say that poets, local and foreign, played a role in celebrating local traditions. “One of the main functions of the shared cultural tradition was to provide an ideological fabric connecting the different Greek cities” (p. 20). So poets, when wandering, were reinforcing local traditions but also making Hellenic identity.

In the second chapter, ‘Hittite and Greek perspectives on travelling poets, texts and festivals’, Mary R. Bacharova starts by asserting that the mechanism by which literature from the Near East reached Greece has not been well studied. She argues that there was contact at an early stage between Pre-Greek and Anatolian poetic traditions. According to her, transmission of cultural practices via Anatolia during the Mycenean period should be given serious consideration. She examines the mechanisms by which second-millenium Anatolian singers and other ‘masters of the word’ made their way from one location to another. The focus is particularly on two related settings: the worship of an imported god and festivals. In analysing the texts, she presents phraseological correspondences that she claims to be “good indirect evidence of the contact between wordsmiths through whom the phrasing crossed langages” (p. 29). In conclusion, Bacharova asserts that festivals from Anatolia and other parts of the Near East shared much in common with Greek festivals of the first millenium.

Peter Wilson is the author of chapter 3, “Thamyris the Tracian: the archetypal wandering poet?”. The author notes that Thamyris may seem, at first glance, the perfect ‘wandering’ archetypal poet, but, in fact, he is a difficult role-model. He is a marginal figure in Greek myth and literature, even though an ancient and persistent presence. He comes from the margins of the Hellenic world. As Wilson argues, Thamyris is a useful model of opposition, a figurehead for a religious tradition that ran against Olympian religion and Homeric epic itself. Perhaps the most interesting contribution of this paper is the analysis made by Wilson of a number of Sophoclean fragments, specially those from the play Thamyras or Mousai . Thamyris was a kind of revolutionary poet who opposed the poetic status quo represented by the Homeric Muses. For this reason, his identification with the poets of the New Music of the second half of the fifth century was a natural development, as Wilson masterfully shows.

“Read on arrival” is the title of chapter 4, by Richard P. Martin. In this paper the author tries to make a diachronic examination of the strategies adopted by wandering poets and performers in order to delineate a typology. In doing that, he wants to explore the poetics of a number of genres related or not to the travelling poets. The strategies of the wandering poets are different from those of the metanastic figures (a term proposed by Martin in 1992) 1 because these had a kind of one-way ticket, while the travelling poets had “the equivalent of a long-term Eurail pass” (p. 81). Based on this, Martin analyses Aristophanes’ Birds 904-57, where a parody is presented of a travelling poet’s arrival that can be viewed as representing the typical behavour of a poet seeking for a patron; Pindar’s Pythian 4, 275-280; Odyssey 17.382-6; Bacchylides’ 5.7-14 and 3.90-8; the Hymn to Apollo 166-75 and some other texts are used to establish the six gambits that form the handbook of strategies and rules for the wandering poet: 1. praise the place and let the people come later; 2. make yourself the voice of tradition; 3. for success, don’t dress; 4. inflate your worth; 5. handle many genres ( polueideia ); and pratice, pratice, pratice. In conclusion, Martin says that “the successful roaming poet will be one who makes the memorized look spontaneous” (p. 103). In this context, the concept of re-performance is very important, because, as Martin argues (p. 103), there must have been a kind of temporary textualization of a repertoire that was ‘read’ in a type of composition-in-performance characteristic of oral tradition.

Ewen Bowie, in chapter 5, entitled “Wandering poets, archaic style”, studies archaic wandering poets’ representation in their poetry of themselves and of their performances. He is interested mainly in monodic lyric poetry down to 500 BC. According to Bowie, travelling poets can be divided in three categories: 1. the poet as a member of a group (Archilochus, Tyrtaeus, Mimnermus and maybe Anacreon; 2. Solitary travellers outside their polis who performed in a symposium and did not travel in order to sing (Semonides, Alcaeus and Solon); 3. Professional poets or ones who travelled in order to sing and to participate in symposia as guests (Ibycus [maybe] and Anacreon [maybe] and Simonides).

In Chapter 6, “Defining local identities in Greek lyric poetry”, Giovan Battista D’Alessio argues that in the formative period of the Greek poleis the construction of a local identity was often voiced by foreign poets. He explores some case studies of public poetic discourse as a means for defining and promoting civic identities in the archaic and classical periods, and of the different strategies by which such a poetic communal self-definition was constructed. D’Alessio studies the cases of Eumelus’ Delian Prosodion for the Messenians, refered to by Pausanias (4.4.1 and 4.33.2; see also PMG 696), and also the Delian Prosodia by Pronomus (for Chalcis; see Paus. 9.12.6) and Amphicles of Rheneia (for the Athenians; see ID 1497). Further on, the author dedicates some pages also to the Nephelokokkygia episode, in Aristophanes Birds (851-8; 863-904; 1318-22) and to the ‘choral’ elegy by Tyrtaeus (the poetic voice as a collective discourse) to understand the relevance and impact of lyric discourse as an important medium for expressing a communal image of the polis. The last case study analysed by D’Alessio is Pindar’s Paeans 2 and 4. In conclusion, the author says that “public poetic performance (…) was one of the privileged media for Greek cities to give voice to their ‘identities’ from the archaic age onward” (p. 166).

“Wandering poetry, ‘travelling’ music: Timotheus’ muse and some case-studies of shifting cultural identities” is the title of chapter 7, by Lucia Prauscello. The author investigates the ways the poetry of Timotheus of Miletus was exploited and re-interpreted in different moments and in different places of Ancient Greece. She says she is concerned with whether and to what extent re-performances and musical re-settings may have affected the generic definition of the text itself and its reception among the audience. In this context it is important to note that musical performance is a prominent feature in the rhetoric of self-construction of Greek cultural identities, in the poleis but also in broader geographical limits. Prauscello examines how the poetry of Timotheus was re-used and interpreted in Sparta (analysing the ‘forged’ Laconian decree transmitted by Boethius [ De inst. mus. 1.1]); in Arcadia (commenting on passages from Polybius [4.19-21], Plutarch [ Philop. 11] and Pausanias [8.50.3]; and in Crete (taking as points of departure the inscriptions ICret V.viii.11 [Knossos] and xxiv.1 [Priansos]). In conclusion, we could say that the interpretation and value of a text varies with time and withplace . A poem by Timotheus could be seen positively by the Arcadians, but could also be banished by the Spartans for different motives.

Andrej Petrovic is the author of chapter 8, entitled “Epigrammatic contests, poeti vaganti and local history”. He discusses the role of wandering poets as local historians. The focus is on texts dated up to the end of Hellenistic times written by wandering poets for public monuments. Petrovic is concerned with the fact that the composition of public epigrams in a number of cases was a task fulfilled by wandering poets. He is also interested on the procedure through which texts for public monuments were chosen and his response to this question is that the texts were chosen after contests that took place in public festivals and in the framework of public commissions. Petrovic argues also that these public epigrams had a supra-local reception, even though they were composed for local addressees. He sugests in the end that these poems were diffused through epigrammatic collections organized on the principle of interest in local history.

Chapter 9 is by Sophia Aneziri, who writes about “World travellers: the associations of Artists of Dionysus”. According to her, poets and musicians, in any time and in any society, have their mobility determined by three factors: first, by the features of the society they are operating in, along with conditions of travel and communication; second, the existence of opportunities for performance that might attract performers, such as festivals and competitions; and third, she asserts that it is important to know if the poets work by themselves or are organized in professional groups and if they stay at home or are continuously travelling. In her paper, she explores these three factors in relation to the Artists of Dionysus operating in the Mediterranean world during the Hellenistic and imperial periods. The volume of travel was very great in these periods because of the explosion in festival culture, but the pattern of movement of the Artists was very different in the two periods. In Hellenistic times artists of many places organized themselves in regional associations, but in the imperial period these regional associations lose their importance and the Association of the Artists of Dionysus achieves the status of an empire-wide network.

Ian Rutherford is the author of chapter 10, “Aristodama and the Aetolians: an itinerant poetess and her agenda”. Born most likely in the third quarter of the third century BCE in Smyrna, the poetess Aristodama is known to us only because around 220 BCE she travelled to central Greece and was honored by two cities due to the skill she demonstrated when presenting her poems there. Rutherford analyses two decrees, one of the city of Lamia (218/217 BCE, IG IX 2, 62 = Guarducci 17), the other from the Lokrian city of Khalaion ( FD 3.2.145 = G17*). He also compares the case of Aristodama with those of other poetesses and performers and examines what the relationship between Aristodama and those cities might be. Rutherford defends the hypothesis that the Aetolians engaged Aristodama to write about Aetolia and to create a sort of pan-Aetolian poetic tradition, forging in this way a political community through song. This is another example of how poetry can work as a mechanism that creates a political and cultural identity.

In the last chapter, “Travelling memories in the Hellenistic world”, Angelos Chaniotis starts his paper by analysing a document in which is narrated the visit of three citizens of the city of Kytenion in Doris to the city of Xanthos. The visitors wanted financial aid to help reconstruct the walls of their city and, in order to get that, they used many strategies to show that there was a kinship between Kytenion and Xanthos. Chaniotis is concerned with the impact cultural mobility had on the shaping of memory in the Hellenistic world. He is more interested in the contribution of orators, historians and envoys than in that of poets.

In conclusion, I want to say that this is a wonderful book. It deals with a matter whose importance is still underestimated. The authors of the different papers enter into a dialogue with each other and write in a way that is certain to inspire new research. The texts are very well edited and I have found only a few insignificant typos. All in all, this is an amazing collection.

1 .Martin, R. ‘Hesiod’s Metanastic Poetics’, Ramus 21: 11-33.

Outlaws, Outrages and Outright Lies

Wandering Soul Blog

Wandering Poems

L. D. Thill

I write sappy poems, some of which rhyme.

[email protected]

I draw inspiration from the High desert. it’s a place where outlaws and Indians once roamed. The vistas can be breathtaking. Here is Carr Peak in Cochise County, Arizona.

Wanderin’ Poems

-River Rat- https://azrockdodger.com/river-rat/

-Cabin Fever- https://azrockdodger.com/2024/02/10/cabin-fever/

-The Lass in the Glass- https://azrockdodger.com/2024/01/16/the-lass-in-the-glass/

-Mule Pass- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/12/11/mule-pass/

-Gene Vincent Show- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/12/09/gene-vincent-show/

-Urban Coyote- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/12/01/urban-coyote/

-Route 1, Box 36- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/10/14/route-1-box-36/

-Coffee and a Kiss- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/10/07/coffee-and-a-kiss/

-Ensenada- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/08/19/ensenada/

-With Jesus, Bud and Blue- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/08/13/with-jesus-bud-and-blue/

-Heatwave- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/07/24/heatwave/

-Wisdom from a Barstool- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/05/13/wisdom-from-a-stool/

-Unclimbed Mountains- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/04/29/unclimbed-mountains/

-Bullhook Blues- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/04/12/bullhook-blues/

-Half A Mile From Lone Pine- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/03/11/half-a-mile-from-lone-pine/

-The World Might End Tomorrow- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/02/25/the-world-might-end-tomorrow/

-Border Run- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/02/03/border-run/

-Magoo- https://azrockdodger.com/2023/01/15/magoo/

-Radio Waves- https://azrockdodger.com/2022/12/31/radio-waves/

-Library Rat- https://azrockdodger.com/2022/12/10/library-rat/

-Riverwalk- https://azrockdodger.com/2022/12/03/riverwalk/

-Sam’s Place- https://azrockdodger.com/2022/11/26/sams-place/

-Headed off to Texas- https://azrockdodger.com/2022/10/16/headed-off-to-texas/

-Pacific- https://azrockdodger.com/2022/09/25/pacific/

-Fly- https://azrockdodger.com/2022/08/19/fly/

-Highway to Lonesome- https://azrockdodger.com/2022/07/30/highway-to-lonesome/

-Sundance- https://azrockdodger.com/2022/07/17/sundance/

-Carr Peak – https://azrockdodger.com/2022/07/16/carr-peak/

-Alberta Clipper- https://azrockdodger.com/2022/05/07/alberta-clipper/

-Little Town Blues- https://azrockdodger.com/2022/04/24/little-town-blues/

-Blessed- https://azrockdodger.com/2022/04/23/blessed/

-Crosses- https://wordpress.com/post/azrockdodger.com/2664

-Teardrops in the Snow- https://azrockdodger.com/2022/02/02/teardrops-in-the-snow/

-A Village Called Kin – a poem- https://azrockdodger.com/2021/12/26/a-village-called-kin/

-Markle Man- https://azrockdodger.com/2021/11/19/markle-man/

-River Trip – https://azrockdodger.com/2021/11/14/river-trip/

-Runaway https://azrockdodger.com/2021/10/17/runaway/

-Boxcar Bill https://azrockdodger.com/2021/10/16/boxcar-bill/

-Hi-Line Highway https://azrockdodger.com/2021/10/02/hi-line-highway/

-Captain John of the Thunderhead: https://azrockdodger.com/2021/09/30/captain-john/

-Monsoon (Poem) https://azrockdodger.com/2021/07/31/monsoon/

-Laguna https://azrockdodger.com/2021/08/22/laguna/

-La Sal Junction

-Milk River

-1962 https://azrockdodger.com/2021/09/24/1962/

-Skeeters https://wordpress.com/post/azrockdodger.com/1991

-The Clickin’ and the Clack https://azrockdodger.com/2021/07/18/the-clickin-and-the-clack/

-Black Coffee

-The Devil’s Road It Was

-Singin’ on a Post

-Across the Great Divide

-Winnemucca

-Burns Junction

-D-Y Junction

-Wrong Side of the Track

-The Comet and the UFO

-With Demons in the Wash

-Baja Arizona

-Mission Lounge Angel (A poem) https://azrockdodger.com/2021/08/18/angel-at-the-mission/

La Sal Junction

Just south of Moab Utah is a junction called La Sal,

Sittin’ ‘neath the red rocks, it’s a beautiful locale.

Sure to take your breath away each time that you pass,

Where sits a lonesome station that used to pump the gas.

Once it was a truck stop, the diesels they rolled in,

Double-clutchin’ up the grade, patience growin’ thin.

A place where every trucker knew he had to stop,

And get some fuel or service in the little shop.

Run by Vic and Irene, had everything you need,

With Dayla in the café, a’  fixin’ up y’er feed.

One time I drove up in a broken-down old car,

Next thing that I knew they had me tendin’ bar.

And Steve’ll fix yer flivver if it should malfunction,

No, you won’t get stranded, this is La Sal Junction.

Runnin’ out of hours, the log book calls for rest,

You can tie up at LaSalle, it is the very best.

A trailer with a shower, a bunk that isn’t bad,

A night away from sleepin’ in that damn old cab.

But if you go in business, pick yer partners well,

They can take yer dream and run it straight to hell.

Just a lonesome junction, somewhere in the past,

I’m gonna’ shed a tear, ‘cause it didn’t last.        

Apr 30, ‘21

I grew up near the Milk River at Glasgow, Montana.

Barefoot boy sittin’ on the bank,

Starin’ at a bobber waitin’ fer a yank.

Beaver makes a splash, slaps his tail,

Gone outta’ sight, he left no trail.

Rope swing hangin’ from a branch,

Only the bravest take that chance.

Bare Butt Beach, no girls allowed,

 First swim across makes you proud.

White-tail deer hidden in the brush,

Take yer time, there ain’t no rush.

In the Summer the cotton flies,

Gets in yer mouth and yer eyes.

Winter freeze, break out the skates,

Beer can hockey, no goal or gates.

Winter ends, comes the thaw,

Ice breaks up, oh such awe!

Place a stake as water’s rise,

Seek higher ground if yer wise.

Skippin’ school to fight the flood,

Settin’ sandbags in the mud.

A river kid is like a wild rose,

All scratched up, bloody nose.

Don’t get much better, boy and a dog,

Milky old river, sittin’ on a log.

LDT April 22, ’21

The Milk is the little river that could. It steals much of its water from the Saint Mary’s Siphon near Glacier National Park. It uses the valley that the Missouri ran through before the last ice age. Fort Peck Lake filters the water of the “Big Muddy”, but the Milk soon befouls it.

Black Coffee

I’m  needin’ some more coffee, better make it black,

Last night I had a bender, but I ain’t lookin’ back.

The bars were all lit up, the cards were playin’ good,

Drawin’ fer an inside straight, I knew I never should.

Now I’m sick and sober, down to my last dime,

I’m thinkin’ that I might have had one hell of a time.

Sippin’ on black coffee, my head I gotta’ clear,

Wonderin’ where the hell I’m gonna’ go from here.

LDT   Apr 20, ‘21

The Devil’s Road it Was

Highway Six Sixty-Six, the Devil’s road it was,

First time that I took it was mostly just because.

Windin’ up from Clifton, Morenci mine you pass,

You can say farewell to cities, towns and gas.

As you crack the throttle, hangin’ on the bars,

Surely to be thankful there ain’t a lot of cars.

Leanin’ in the wind, the twisties never end,

Climbin’ to the top, what’s beyond the bend?

The desert will retreat, the chaparral is neat,

Feel the air get cooler, piney smell so sweet.

The gear you need is second, you ain’t goin’ very fast,

Lean into a turn, you’ll be seein’ what you passed.

Ride up to the heavens, the Devil ain’t in sight,

Knees and elbows shiftin’ , first the left and then the right.

There’s endless blue vistas for as far as you can see,

Could this be the place the Devil sets you free?

Up above the clouds, the grey wolf surely knows,

This is where you go to forget about your woes.

A meadow full of Camas, bloomin’ soft and blue,

Where the elk will bugle for his love so true.

You finally hit the spot where the Aspens quake,

This route is the best that anyone can take.

The tall pines whisper softly waftin’ in the wind,

It’s like you never strayed, like you never sinned.

If the Devil’s road should take you to Heaven’s pearly gate,

Maybe just remember, the One who wipes y’er slate.

LDT Apr 2, ‘21

Singin’ on a Post

He sits atop a post and sings his song of love,

his warble has to be, blessed from up above.

And all the prairie knows the only sign of Spring,

is when you hear the Meadowlark open up to sing.

Days are getting’ longer, grass is turnin’ green,

that little speckled bird is searchin’ for his queen.

And if she ever hears him, she’ll fall in love for sure,

he’ll proudly stand beside her, with a love that’s pure.

So next time when ye’r ridin’ out upon the open range,

A song of love is all it takes, a lonesome heart to change.

LDT Mar ‘21

Across the Great Divide

The old cowpoke he rode on up to the Great Divide,

‘Cuz he always wondered about the other side.

He gazed upon the heavens and the canyon down below,

and suddenly he asked, “Lord, which way should I go?”

At first, he got no answer, as dark clouds rolled above,

had he somehow faltered and lost his Father’s love?

Because it was his habit to drink and cuss and chew,

And never was he spotted a’ sittin’ in a pew.

Then in a bolt of fire the thunder did unfold,

he shivered in his soul and didn’t feel so bold.

“Lord, I took a windin’ path, veerin’ from the right,

pretty sure y’er thinkin’ that I’m an awful sight.

The sinnin’ that I’ve done was mostly just for fun,

But now I’m thinkin’ I’ve got my demons on the run.

Either way I’ve gotta’ say You gave me a hell of a ride,

So are Ya’ gonna take me across the Great Divide?”

                           Winnemucca

Spent some time in Winnemucca when I was just a lad,

And lately I been thinkin’ ‘bout all the fun I had.

High up in the desert, before the Humboldt sinks,

Stop on by for romance or maybe for some drinks.

It’s where the Wild Bunch robbed’ the First National,

Thirty Thousand Dollars made their job more rational.

Hide out like Claude Dallas, or gamble at the Palace,

Whether you just drove in, hopped a freight or rode the bus.

Joe Mackie owns the town, locked it up for sure,

Build some more casinos, those tourists will he lure.

Somewhere there’s a red light and an ol’ green door,

Guy sneaks up a dim lit alley leadin’ to amour.

Two Pacific Railroads are runnin’ through the town,

And someday that new Interstate will simply go around.

The U.P. is for those haughty folks on the Overland,

The W.P. is just for hoboes, a satchel in their hand.

Dapper stranger looking sharp, at the poker table sits,

Three days later he’s a mess, shaking with the fits.

Waitress name of Rita will bring up one more drink,

“No Sir, I ain’t whatever you might think.”

Comic cracks his jokes, buckaroo will grin,

 Then a drunken miner takes a swipe at him.

The battle it is taken, the tables they will fall,

Lucky that the bouncer is Paiute, proud and tall.

Barmaid runs for Sherriff, her platform seems alright,

Just sleep by day and party completely through the night.

A Basque herder climbs up on a stool, breakin’ forth in song,

The words they sound so pretty, but the language don’t belong.

Open Jeep burnin’ rubber, driver quaffs his beer,

Oh it’s probably illegal, any place but here.

Cars a’ speedin’ into town get slowed down by the cop,

There ain’t no limit on the road, but this is where to stop.

The Sun is slowly risin’, the party it ain’t done,

Come along ans join in, if you want some fun.

LDT Nov. ‘20

Burns Junction

        At a lonesome junction standin’ with my thumb,

        Just let me hitch a ride, I really ain’t no bum.

        Left the Interstate, where it’s hard to catch a ride,

        For in Highway Ninety-Five, a shorter route I spied.

        Standin’ in the dust, just waitin’ for a car

        Still a ways to go, but I’ve lately come so far.

        No, I ain’t no hero, just made the wires talk,

        Now I need a ride, it’s too damn far to walk.

        Just yesterday I passed ‘neath that Golden Gate,

        Gazin’ at the “World”, my fate to contemplate.

        Shoes are lookin’ dusty, my uniform’s a mess,

        I’m a pretty sorry Jarhead, if you even have to guess.

        Girlfriend up and married, maybe shoulda’ wrote.

        A million other G.I.s have been in that same boat.

Shoulda’ stuffed my seabag with the comely Michiko,

Girl in every port, or so the stories go.

The sun is beatin’ down, the cars ain’t comin’ by.

Never knew these parts could be so hot and dry.

I shake my head and wonder, future all a blur,

Is the path I’ve chosen really just a spur?

Orders in my pocket, thirty days to think,

Twenty-one years old, I’ve had a legal drink.

No, I ain’t broke nor runnin’ from the law,

Just headin’ home to see my Mama and my Pa.

Then it’s off to Cali to serve this noble land,

Beach bum at Laguna, sunin’ in the sand.

At a lonesome junction, standin’ with my thumb,

Got the world before me, shouldn’t be this glum.

LDT Nov. ’20

Burns Junction, Oregon is about 130 miles north of Winnemucca, Nevada.

D-Y Junction

There’s a place called D-Y Junction, a hundred miles from home,

Up above the Missouri Breaks, where the bison used to roam.

They say the Corps of Discovery passed along this way,

Draggin’ boats by the cordelle, eight miles in a day.

Trappers, traders settin’ forth, fortunes for to seek,

It wern’t no life for slackers, the timid or the meek.

Miles chasin’ Joseph, the Nez Perce made their run,

Battle of the Bear Paws, they knew that they were done.

Steamboats freightin’ cargo, at Benton they tie up,

The ranchers and the miners, fillin’ up their cup.

Still the land of Gros Ventres, Chippewa and Cree,

Add to that a motley band of people called Métis.

Then they finally found it, the Little Rockies gold,

Came the time of outlaws, their stories to unfold.

One named Harvey Curry, or Logan if you like,

Rode into Landusky and shot a man called “Pike”.

Now a wanted man, Kid Curry hit the trail,

Robbed a bank in Deadwood, ended up in jail.

Ridin’ with the Wild Bunch, he’s gonna’ make a mark,

With men like Butch and Sundance it really ain’t a lark.

Then the train at Wagner, he made his biggest score,

Forty thousand dollars, or maybe it was more.

Hidin’ out in the Breaks, or maybe at Thornhill’s,

Posse never finds him, too bad they’re unsigned bills.

Siringo comes a lookin’, that outlaw he must find,

Six months in the mountains, no trail left behind.

Then Curry’s caught in Knoxville, in an awful fight,

Thornhill gets him lawyers, though it just ain’t right.

Curry gets the max, his sentence for to serve,‘

’til he chokes the jailer, showin’ all his verve.

Hidin’ from the law, he’s mighty good at that,

Slinkin’ back to Harlem, like an old Pole Cat.

Maybe it was Colorado, where he met his fatal end,

Or he’s lurkin’ up ahead, beyond some railroad bend.

When you hit the D-Y, you’re a hundred miles from home,

Don’t you follow Curry, no matter where you roam.

LDT Nov ’20

The D-Y Junction sits at the foot of the Little Rockies Mountains, about 50 miles south of Malta, Montana.

Wrong Side of the Tracks

The Wrong Side of the Track

Grew up in a railroad town, wrong side of the track,

and tho I kinda’ miss it, I ain’t never goin’ back.

West Des Moines or Winnemucca, they’re really all the same,

what side of town you live in, sullies up your name.

My dad he was the Engineer, ‘a runnin’ that ol’ train,

that divided up our little town, ‘a sittin’ on the plain.

And Momma she would sing along, while packin’ his lunch pail,

“Keep your hand upon the throttle, and your eye upon the rail.” *

I watched that train ‘a pullin’ out and wondered where it went,

no ticket to some far off place, my money’s all been spent.

And the tallest thing I ever saw was fillin’ up with grain,

the farmers in their overalls were talkin’ crops and rain.

On a cold and dreary day, I offered up a thumb,

and by the time I got a ride my toes were gettin’ numb.

Then one by one, all my friends were doin’ just the same,

in leavin’ from a railroad town, there really is no shame.

Now nuthin’ in my life since then has ever set me back,

grew up in a railroad town, wrong side of the track.

*”Life is Like a Mountain Railroad,” Charles Tillman (music) and M.E. Abbey (lyrics). 1890.

The Comet and the UFO

One time I bought a Comet, blacker than the night,

And while I’m drivin’ in it, I took my greatest fright.

In the state of Utah, a Junction called La Sal,

Got a call from Chi-town, gotta’ weld the rail.

Got a job a’ waitin’ in that Colorado land,

Workin’ for Mister Muncie and his merry band.

Gotta’ load the Comet somehow stuff my bike,

In the trunk I place it, ‘fore headin’ down the Pike.“

This car is overloaded,” my Uncle shakes his head,

“better you be careful, than windin’ up all dead.”

I head out on the highway, at Cortez I turn north,

My overloaded Comet is swayin’ back and forth.

Darkness falls, the road grows deadly silent,

Six pack sits beside me, blackness out in front.

Not a car in sight as I travel through the night,

I look up at the mirror to see an awful sight.

My eyes get big as saucers, I think I’m turnin’ white.

There’s a flyin’ object in my mirror, givin’ me a fright.

Yellow oval chasin’ me, so shiny and so bright,

Never believed in UFO’s before that fateful night.

I mash that throttle through the Comet’s floor,

Hopin’ that the little Six will finally start to roar.

Alas, I cannot shake it, it’s hangin’ on my tail,

Tiny engine strivin’ hard , but it’s sure to fail.

Carvin’ up a canyon, I slide around a curve,

Lord, I think I lost it, buildin’ up my nerve.

Canyon’s full of twisties, I round another turn,

And there it is behind me, ridin’ on my stern.

The miles they’re tickin’ by, just like a turtle race,

I try to steel my nerve, the demon I must face.

A lonely hour passes, my blood is flowin’ slow,

I’m thinkin’ ‘bout my fate, there’s no place left to go.

I cannot even fathom this thing that’s chasin’ me,

Rollin’ through the night tryin’ hard to flee.

Then I spot a tiny light ‘a shinin’ up ahead,

Maybe it’s a town I say, fightin’ off the dread.

I slide into a station, spewin’ gravel to and fro,

Attendant starin’ at me as he hollers, “Whoa!”

I bolt the door to tell him about the UFO,

Then it finally hits me to my mortal woe.

That object in my mirror isn’t what I thunk,

Reflection of the moon, shinin’ off my trunk!

LDT Nov ’20

We loaded up the Hudson,

When I was just lad.

We three kids in the back,

Up front were Mom and Dad.

On our way to Wolf Point,

Just to watch the show.

Or maybe it was Dodson,

Old Hudson ridin’ low.

The Levis weren’t enough,

We had to wear our boots.

Take our place upon the rail,

Watchin’ cowboys in the chutes.

Billingsley would loop his calf,

In damn near record time.

And Hagen on a bull so bad,

Eight seconds seemed like nine.

But when it came the time for broncs,

Our Dad he would buck out.

He’s ridin’ like the devil

Is chasin’ him about.

Barrel racin’ brings the cowgirls fair,

Big ol’ Stetson upon their hair.

Comes the end, time for clowns,

To go fightin’ with the bull.

El’ Toro pawin’ in the dirt,

‘til it’s flyin’ by the shovel full.

We laugh, the tension broken,

The Matador will play.

And then it’s time to load the Hudson,

‘Cause tonight there’ll be no pay.

Drivin’ ninety miles an hour,

We roll down Highway Two,

And one by one we nod off,

The rodeo is through.

        LDT Oct ‘20

With Demons in the Wash

He lives within the wash, his demons by his side,

no one knows what drove him there, just a place to hide.

He sees an urban coyote skulking for a meal,

and wonders why they share such a lonesome deal.

His days are long and hot, the nights alone and cold.

here he makes his home, his tent he did unfold.

His sign says, “Can you help me? Anything will do”,

with luck he’ll make a buck before the day is through.

And on the busy street, the shiny cars roll by,

do they ever ponder the wherefore or the why?

LDT Feb ’20

Baja Arizona

We call it Baja Arizona, the land beneath the Gila,

Could we be so lucky someday that we’ll see ya’?

Mountains, deserts, our verdant valleys bloom,

No matter where you go, Baja has the room.

Aspens quake above the clouds, golden in the sun,

Take a hike, ride a horse, ya’ gotta have some fun.

Of course, I’m gonna tell ya’ my corner is the best,

But I really cannot fault the desert to the West.

If you want a shootout, Tombstone heeds your call,

You can even stop and visit Trumpy’s stupid Wall.

The Spanish had a Presidio, Apaches drove them out,

Even then they knew what freedom’s all about.

Where Dragoons never found the wily old Cochise,

‘til Jeffords brought in Howard to finally make the peace.

Where Mowry mined for gold and gave the Rebels lead,

While other lonesome miners just ended up quite dead.

The Chiricahua break out, their reservation gone,

Stolen by the Gringo, their vengeance it will spawn.

Where Warren bet his claim, a footrace with a horse,

If you guessed he lost it, yer surely right of course.

Where once they moiled for silver, now copper is their gold,

They dug a pit in Bisbee, it’s earthy treasures to unfold.

Meanwhile from Sonora, Geronimo will raid,

Keeping all of Baja holed up and afraid.

The Earps and the Clantons are feudin’ in the street,

Thirty seconds later, there’ll be blood beneath their feet.

A quarter of the Army is chasin’ hostiles down,

Without Apache scouts, they simply can’t be found.

High in the Sierra Madre, they find the hidden camp,

They parlay with Gatewood, their breakout he will tamp.

Then Miles takes the credit, the Apaches are exiled,

Never will they raid or roam, never more be wild.

Where all you ever need are nachos and tequila.

LDT Jan 1.’21

Return of Kid Curry

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The blog of the University of Cincinnati Libraries

April 10th Poetry Stacked to feature UC poetry students

The  University of Cincinnati Libraries  and the  Elliston Poetry Room  announce the next roster of poets for  Poetry Stacked , a semi-regular poetry reading series held in the 6th floor east stacks of the  Walter C. Langsam Library .

The next event, scheduled for Wednesday, April 10 at 4pm , will be an expanded program in celebration of National Poetry Month. The poetry reading will feature four University of Cincinnati student poets (pictured above clockwise from top):

• Holli Carrell is a writer originally from Utah, now living in Cincinnati, where she is pursuing a Ph.D. in creative writing at the University of Cincinnati with a certificate in women’s, gender, and sexuality studies. Her poems have recently appeared in  32 Poems, The Journal, Salt Hill ,  Bennington Review, Quarterly West, Blackbird, Poetry Northwest, and other places. She currently serves as an assistant editor at The Cincinnati Review .
• Tyler McDonald is a 3 rd  year undergraduate student at the University of Cincinnati studying Creative Writing and Professional Writing. He is a poet whose work deals with survivorship, relationships, and exploring personal identity. His poetry has appeared in Short Vine, Outrageous Fortune, and Mind Swimmer. In 2022, he was the recipient of the Robinson Essay Prize. Outside of writing, he can be found serving coffee, wandering nature, and copyediting the work of other writers.
• Andy Sia is a poet and scholar from Brunei currently residing in Cincinnati. His recent manuscript,  Sleuth , engages with whodunnit tropes and is an exploration of modes of reading and habitation. He is currently researching theories of reading and books as objects.
• Grace Guy is a poet and writer, who currently splits her time between Cincinnati and Toledo. She is an undergraduate student studying English at the University of Cincinnati. Their poetry can be found in Short Vine Literary Journal. She is the recipient of an honorable mention for the 2023 Academy of American Poets Prize (Undergraduate Prize). When in Toledo, they work at a local coffee shop which they absolutely love.

The April 10th Poetry Stacked will also include the official debut of the Poetry Stacked Anthology, Volume 1. Featuring the work of the poets, artists and dancers of the 2022/2023 series, the Anthology was a collaboration between the Elliston Poetry Room, University of Cincinnati Libraries, the Preservation Lab and the University of Cincinnati Press. The Anthology was edited by Grace Guy, Ben Kline and Michael Peterson. The form was designed by Holly Prochaska with Melissa Cox Norris designing the layout and cover art. Jessica Ebert, Catarina Figueirinhas, Hyacinth Tucker and Holly Prochaska assembled the Anthology. A limited run of 50 will be available for purchase.

The mission of Poetry Stacked is to celebrate poetry and raise awareness of the collections of both UC Libraries and the Elliston Poetry Room. Each reading engages audiences via exposure to contemporary poetry and increases appreciation for both the talents of UC and community poets, as well as for poetry itself. Poetry Stacked is free and open to all to attend. Following each reading, guests are invited to tour the Elliston Poetry Room.

The intent of the series is to enrich and engage the UC campus and Cincinnati communities in accordance with the Libraries’  Strategic Framework  and the Next Lives Here Strategic Directions in support of Academic Excellence and Community Engagement. It aligns with the Libraries’ vision as the globally engaged, intellectual commons of the university – positioning ourselves as the hub of collaboration, digital innovation, and scholarly endeavor on campus and beyond.

Can’t make it to Poetry Stacks in person? It will be live streamed via the  Elliston Poetry Room’s Instagram .

Related posts:

• Read Source, the online newsletter, to learn about the news, events, people and happenings in UC Libraries.
• Join us Wednesday, March 6 for an afternoon of poetry…and dance!
• Announcing the 2022-2023 UC Libraries Annual Report

• Share full article

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Student Opinion

What Author Would You Most Like to Meet?

Has a book ever touched you so personally that you felt a deep connection to the writer?

By Jeremy Engle

Has a book ever made such a big impression on you that you felt a deep connection with the author? Perhaps you found it to be extremely moving, or you thought it spoke directly to your experiences in life.

Have you ever wished you could meet that writer and talk about that book and its significance to you?

In “ A Bronx Teacher Asked. Tommy Orange Answered. ,” Elisabeth Egan writes about how a high school English class recently had that wish granted:

Tommy Orange sat at the front of a classroom in the Bronx, listening as a group of high school students discussed his novel “There There.” A boy wearing blue glasses raised his hand. “All the characters have some form of disconnection, even trauma,” Michael Almanzar, 19, said. “That’s the world we live in. That’s all around us. It’s not like it’s in some faraway land. That’s literally your next-door neighbor.” The class broke into a round of finger snaps , as if we were at an old-school poetry slam on the Lower East Side and not in an English class at Millennium Art Academy, on the corner of Lafayette and Pugsley Avenues. Orange took it all in with a mixture of gratitude and humility — the semicircle of earnest, engaged teenagers; the bulletin board decorated with words describing “There There” (“hope,” “struggle,” “mourning,” “discovery”); the shelf of well-thumbed copies wearing dust jackets in various stages of disintegration. His eyebrows shot up when a student wearing a sweatshirt that said “I Am My Ancestors’ Wildest Dreams” compared the book to “ The Road ,” by Cormac McCarthy . When three consecutive students spoke about how they related to Orange’s work because of their own mental health struggles, he was on the verge of tears. “That’s what drew me to reading in the first place,” Orange said, “The feeling of not being as alone as you thought you were.” It’s not often that an author walks into a room full of readers, let alone teenagers, who talk about characters born in his imagination as if they’re living, breathing human beings. And it’s equally rare for students to spend time with an author whose fictional world feels like a refuge. Of all the classroom visits he’s made since “There There” came out in 2018, the one at Millennium Art Academy earlier this month was, Orange said later, “the most intense connection I’ve ever experienced.”

The article recounts how the classroom visit came to be. It was thanks to Rick Ouimet, an energetic, pony-tailed English teacher who took a chance and reached out to the author:

Last month, Ouimet learned that Orange, who lives in Oakland, was going to be in New York promoting his second novel, “ Wandering Stars .” An idea started to percolate. Ouimet had never invited an author to his classroom before; such visits can be pricey and, as he pointed out, Shakespeare and Zora Neale Hurston aren’t available. Ouimet composed a message in his head for over a week, he said, and on Monday, March 4, just after midnight, he fired it off to the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau. “The email felt like a raw rough draft, but I didn’t agonize,” he said. “It was my midlife college essay.” The 827-word missive was written in the go-for-broke style Ouimet encourages in his students’ work, full of personality, texture and detail, without the corporate-speak that infiltrates so much Important Professional Correspondence. Ouimet wrote: “In our 12th-grade English classroom, in our diverse corner of the South Bronx, in an under-resourced but vibrant urban neighborhood not unlike the Fruitvale, you’re our rock star. Our more than rock star. You’re our MF Doom, our Eminem, our Earl Sweatshirt, our Tribe Called Red, our Beethoven, our Bobby Big Medicine, our email to Manny, our ethnically ambiguous woman in the next stall, our camera pointing into a tunnel of darkness.” Orange, he added, was a hero to these kids: “You’ve changed lives.” There was Tahqari Koonce, 17, who drew a parallel between the Oakland Coliseum and the Roman Colosseum; and Natalia Melendez, also 17, who noted that a white gun symbolized oppression of Native tribes. And then there was Dalvyn Urena, 18, who “said he’d never read an entire book until ‘There There,’” and was now comparing it to a Shakespearean sonnet. He ended with: “Well, it was worth a shot. Thanks for taking the time to read this — if it ever finds its way to you. In appreciation (and awe), Rick Ouimet.” “I took a chance,” Ouimet said. And why not? “My students take a chance every time they open a new book. There’s groaning, and they open the page. To see what they gave this book? The love was palpable.”

The article concludes:

Eventually the bell sounded. The students pushed back from their desks and lined up to have their books signed by Orange, who took a moment to chat with each one. Over the din, to anyone who was still listening, Ouimet called: “If you love a book, talk about it! If you love a story, let other people know!”

Students, read the entire article and then tell us:

What author would you most like to meet — and why? What would you say to that person about how his or her writing has moved and affected you? What questions would you ask?

During Tommy Orange’s visit to the Bronx, many students told him that his novel “There There” spoke directly to them. Have you ever read a book that felt as if it was describing your life and the world you live in?

The article says that the author found a way to work a visit to the high school into a packed, 24-city tour for his new book, “Wandering Stars.” Why do you think he made such an effort to visit a high school in the Bronx? What do you think he gained from the experience?

What is your reaction to Rick Ouimet’s passion for teaching and the power of the written word? Have you ever had a teacher who made books and their authors come alive in the classroom? Did anyone ever invite an author to visit your class?

Inspired by the story? It’s your turn to take a chance writing a letter to invite an author to visit your class — in person or via Zoom. (You can reach out to the book publisher for contact information.) Be sure to include your personal connection to that writer’s books and be persuasive as you extend your invitation. Use the Bronx teacher’s passionate letter — “full of personality, texture and detail” — as a model. Good luck!

Students 13 and older in the United States and Britain, and 16 and older elsewhere, are invited to comment. All comments are moderated by the Learning Network staff, but please keep in mind that once your comment is accepted, it will be made public and may appear in print.

Find more Student Opinion questions here . Teachers, check out this guide to learn how you can incorporate these prompts into your classroom.

Jeremy Engle joined The Learning Network as a staff editor in 2018 after spending more than 20 years as a classroom humanities and documentary-making teacher, professional developer and curriculum designer working with students and teachers across the country. More about Jeremy Engle

To revisit this article, visit My Profile, then View saved stories .

Richard Serra, the Sculptor Known as the ‘Poet of Iron’, is Dead at 85. Here Are 5 Places to See His Work

Richard Serra, the artist who reinvented the world’s conception of large-scale sculpture, died from pneumonia at his home in Long Island, New York, on Tuesday. Much has been written about the ways in which Serra, who was 85, transformed the landscape of the art world (and, in many cases, physical landscapes, from Spain to California to Dallas); his site-specific, often steel-hewn creations will live on, and there’s no substitute for seeing one of them in person.

Below, find five places where you can explore Serra’s work, in all its gargantuan splendor.

The Nasher Sculpture Center in Dallas, Texas

My Curves Are Not Mad (2004) is part of the Raymond and Patsy Nasher Collection at the Nasher Sculpture Center. Crafted from Cor-Ten steel plates, the artwork weighs over fifty thousand pounds. In an interview with The Guardian in 2008, Serra noted how the use of curves and slopes had radically changed the way his works were received: “People reacted to the curves in a way they didn’t to the angles and straight lines,” he said. “They hadn’t seen that before. Modernism was a right angle; the whole 20th century was a right angle.”

Dia Beacon in Beacon, New York

Dia Beacon has several of Serra’s smaller works on long-term view across five galleries, with examples such as Scatter Piece (1968) and Elevation Wedge (2001) reliably drawing a crowd.

Downtown St. Louis, Missouri

A side vide of Twain in Serra Sculpture Park in St. Louis.

Serra’s sculpture Twain (1982) , which features slightly curved pieces of steel arranged to form a skewed triangle, is on public view at this St. Louis landmark. But that’s not the only public Serra work in town: About two and a half miles away, in the courtyard of the Pulitzer Foundation for the Arts, sits Joe (2000), a standing spiral of hot rolled steel.

The Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, Spain

Visitors wandering through Serra’s The Matter of Time (1994–2005) at the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao in 2011.

The Guggenheim’s location in northern Spain is a stunning place to view monumental works of Serra’s including The Matter of Time (1994–2005) .

The Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA)

The artist posing with Band as it was being installed at LACMA in December 2007.

By Daniel Rodgers

By Audrey Noble

By Jeanne Ballion

Band (2006) , which many have referred to as Serra’s magnum opus, stands inside the Broad Contemporary Art Museum at LACMA at 12 feet high and more than 70 feet long. It took Serra two and a half years to develop the sculpture.

Vogue Daily

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