The Reluctant Traveler

By RACHEL HADAS

 

It seems I had to come this far to see
a puppy rooting in a pile of garbage,
scarlet blossoms on a poinsettia tree.


Two ladies in red saris climb the hill.
A gaunt, determined black dog follows us
up steep steps to the lodge in Dhulikel.

I had to come this far to see a rooster
perching serenely on a motorcycle;
two monkeys frisking up a temple wall.

Three drunken Brahmins dance in Chisapani.
Prayer flags flutter. Garbage chokes the river.
Sparrows on the roof investigate

Tihar pastries left from yesterday,
cold and oily. Even a bold crow
picks at them dubiously and lets them fall.

We climbed three secret steps to the hotel
in Bhaktapur, inscrutable brown city.
I had to venture this far for the dream

kaleidoscope to activate and turn,
a prayer wheel scooping riches from the deep.
You’re here to help, they urged. Give. No more taking.

Sharing rooms and memories with my son,
it seems I had to come this far to learn
to pay attention to both worlds again.

That night’s first sleep led down to inky water.
But in the morning, snow-capped mountains rimmed
the valley we would travel through together.

 

 

Rachel Hadas is Board of Governors Professor of English at the Newark Campus of Rutgers University.

Click here to purchase Issue 03

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

The Reluctant Traveler

Related Posts

whale sculpture on white background

September 2025 Poetry Feature: Earth Water Fire Poems, a Conversation

LISA ASAGI
"We and the whales, / and everyone else, / sleep and wake in bodies / that have a bit of everything / that has ever lived. Forests, oceans, / horse shoe crabs, horses, / orange trees in countless of glasses of juice, / lichen that once grew / on the cliffsides of our ancestors, / deepseated rhizomes, and stars. // Even stars are made

Hitting a Wall and Making a Door: A Conversation between Phillis Levin and Diane Mehta

DIANE MEHTA and PHILLIS LEVIN
This conversation took place over the course of weeks—over daily phone calls and long emails, meals when they were in the same place, and a weekend in the Connecticut countryside. The poets share what they draw from each other’s work, and the work of others, exploring the pleasures of language, geometric movement, and formal constraint.

Anna Malihot and Olena Jenning's headshots

August 2025 Poetry Feature: Anna Malihon, translated by Olena Jennings

ANNA MALIHON
The girl with a bullet in her stomach / runs across the highway to the forest / runs without saying goodbye / through the news, the noble mold of lofty speeches / through history, geography, / curfew, a day, a century / She is so young that the wind carries / her over the long boulevard between bridges