When I was a young man, I began searching for the meaning of life. Along the way, I wrote a travel journal, a mix of prose and poetry, and labelled it Fool’s Odyssey.
It seemed like the Gatwick Express to London would never arrive. Waves of fever passed over me. My eyes were running. My nose was running. But the train wasn’t. God, make the train run.
The train ran. We passed suburbs–tidy houses and colorless apartment buildings encircling magnificent cathedrals–then open fields, then more suburbs. Flash. Darkness. How did it get to be night? Is it always night in England? Hah, I’m a knight in England.
I was delirious.
Flash–darkness–flash–darkness–
All things are wearisome;
man is not able to tell.
Flash–darkness–flash–darkness–
The eye is not satisfied with seeing,
nor the ear filled with hearing.*
Flash–darkness–flash–darkness–
All things are wearisome.
Flash–darkness–flash—darkness…
Victoria Station.
I walked out into the slick, cobbly, wayward night, hugging my only companion, my shoulder bag. I had no place to stay, so I walked, pad, pad, pad, pad, past stone lions and bookshelf chimneys, pad, pad, pad, pad, and as I walked, I thought,
Oh, it’s grey and it’s cold and the living world
has gone beneath the ground,
or found a little ball of sleep
to chase down the quiet corridor of night.
There, that hostel. Was it friendly? Or was it a hostile hostel? Didn’t matter. I’d call it “Home for the Night” and send all my postcards from there, saying, “Greetings from…”
Chippy-toothed, mustachioed little Mrs. Hussey looked out the window for ten minutes while I tried not to look like I was looking at her looking at me. She finally gave me the key, and I was home, or at least hemi-semi-demi-home. I was sick-weary, the worst sort, and there were nine flights of stairs. So I stopped and slept at every landing: Climb. Sleep. Awaken. Climb. Sleep. Awaken. Finally my floor: Walk. Sleep. Awaken.
There, my door! With its own little, dear little room inside, and its own little, dear little bed. I finally slept legally, prone, but kept awakening…
What?
All things are wearisome…
The eye is not filled with…
What?
All things are wearisome…
The eye is not filled with…
What?
Forever passed, and then suddenly there was a whisper: “Come unto me.”
I finally reached bottom
the place where sleep lived
and was feathered like a sloop upon the ocean’s back
draped upon the limbs of laughing earthy willowed hills
a child of fortune, a fortunate knight
in his emerald sleeves and shining armour
on his velveteen ducky-down steed
Asleep forever
For an hour or two.
*Ecclesiastes 1:8
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Mitch Teemley 
Love it! It is amazing all the things you have done.!
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Well, a restless spirit does lead one to wander. Thank you, Suzanne.
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Lovely. England was not so kind to me, when I was twenty-three. But the problem wasn’t England, the problem was me.
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This is so cool! Like the train rhythm section!
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Thank you, Jamey!
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Good work, Mitch. Made even better for me as The Gatwick-Victoria would mean that you passed through Croydon – which is always a good thing, mainly the passing through! 😉
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;>) I remember Croydon. I eventually ended up staying with a lovely older lady who I came to know as “Auntie Kath.”
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I love poetry Mitch, but whenever I would write, I felt that it needed to rhyme. Perhaps because my mom read Robert Lewis Stevenson’s book A Childs Garden of Verses every night before bedtime…. ‘My Shadow’ was one of my favorites, “I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.” and on it goes.
But your poetry is boundless and unique. I can appreciate that. I was never good at Haiku in school either. Never caught the jist of it, basically because it didn’t make sense and it didn’t rhyme. Well, I’m beginning to ramble, sorry ’bout that.
So at the end you cap it off with Ecclesiastes 1:8, which caused me to read the verse, and realize this is what your poem was about all along…King Solomon was a wise man and Preacher. Ecclesiastes 1:12
Thanks for your thoughts of a Fools Odyssey. ♡
Susan
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So glad you enjoyed it, Susan. And, no, poetry doesn’t always have to rhyme, so let that inner poet of yours out!
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Sound advice. I’ll have to unbed (is that real word) the embedded. 😊
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Great wise fun!
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Some great images conjured up “Cobbly wayward night” also liked the hostile hostel, I’ve also seen a few 🙂 Was the stair climbing a metaphor? The last mile being the hardest mile? Enjoyed it immensely, thanks.
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Thank you. And, no, the stair-climbing was real (though I may not have actually slept on every landing).
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Brilliant. London can be a lonely city even though it’s big and bustling.
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I do love it, though. Although it’s been a long time since I visited.
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It just gets busier and busier. More people jam-packed into the tube. It never ceases to amaze me how many people fight to get on.
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