Who lauds not the accounts of voyagers that are also poets? Immediately come to mind the names of Rimbaud, Burton and Gumilev. All have chartered the various African confines, the Orient and the Atlantis. Melville and Conrad have felt the sea-faring famine, mutiny, cannibalism and the quakes of hollow earth before exposing their marine sagesse to the critique of literary journals. The shadows of Davydov, Aldington and Owen have ricocheted enemy shrapnel. Isaac Babel, the studious eyeglasses, hoisted without a saddle, felt the military savagery in the cavalry unit across the post-revolutionary, oppressive Slavonic panorama. Byron, Apollinaire and Mayakovski lend to coalescence of various nonconformist wise. And Dante Alighieri, my friends, has voyaged through every extent military, political, spiritual and allegorical.
My errant kinsmen! If only I had the audacity to undertake even a tenth of your perils: the nights under the Arabian desert phosphorescent skies, the treks through the corrupt subterranean palaces, the sabotaged caravans of debased metals and textiles, the menacing blade behind the pallid artery, the harems, the odalisques, the presagers, the geomancers, the fortresses of petrified villagers, obelisk rings of unidentified origin, sacrificial rituals and Baphomet worshipping sects.
Questions, comments? Connect.