The Voyage Poem by Tom Billsborough
The Voyage
THE VOYAGE
For a child obsessed by maps and prints
The Universe matches his vast appetite.
How large the world seems by lamplight
How miniscule in memory!
One day we leave, our brains so full of flame
Hearts swollen with rancour and bitter desires.
And we travel following the rhythm of waves
Cradling infinity on the finite seas.
Some, glad to leave an infamous country,
Others, their cradle's horror, and some
Astrologers drowned in a woman's eyes:
Circe the tyrant with her seductive perfumes.
I love this poem, but it is so despairing. The only trace of happiness lies in those childhood memories of his dream of The Voyage. But when he is old enough to actually book passage, he is jaded, possessed by ennui, unable to see the voyage for what it is: an escape from his self-imposed prison. As a young man, Baudelaire sailed to India: Great! the exoticism, the eroticism of India would be an ideal setting for for his lush, sensuous poetry, and he could live the poetry through his senses and being. NO! On the Sychelles Islands, just shy of India, he transferred to a ship RETURNING TO FRANCE. WHY? ? Because reality could never fulfill the Dream and its blunt materiality would crush the fragile spirit of the Dream. So he returned to Paris and the hashish den and dreamed of an India of the Imagination - boundless, perfect, never-ending. (For a sturdy, pioneering vision of The Journey, read Whitman's VOYAGE TO INDIA, and it you've read, let's both re-read it and celebrate the essential health espoused by the American poet compared the sickness of the European poet (Hold him in your armchair, you can feel his disease.) Throughout I feel Whitman summons us to complete the abortive voyage of Columbus, or put it this way, One thing I can tell you is you've got to be free.)
I think Baudelaire created his own Circes which, as you say, remained in France. His childhood dreams were crushed by his withdrawal into an increasingly morbid self. And whilst he produced great poetry as a result I think I would have to echo Eliot in thinking it self-limiting. Whitman's vision and the glory of Keats' Chapman's Homer or St Jean Perse's Anabase were beyond his self defeating Spirit. I think my enthusiasm for Baudelaire was initially driven by the fact that at school we had a course which dealt with the 19th century in chronological order and suddenly I was confronted with the darkness of Les Fleurs du Mal. after Leconte de Lisle etc. At least he lead me on to discover the later flowering of French verse from Mallarme to Bonnefoy so I owe him a debt in that respect.
I love this poem, but it is so despairing. The only trace of happiness lies in those childhood memories of his dream of The Voyage. But when he is old enough to actually book passage, he is jaded, possessed by ennui, unable to see the voyage for what it is: an escape from his self-imposed prison. As a young man, Baudelaire sailed to India: Great! the exoticism, the eroticism of India would be an ideal setting for for his lush, sensuous poetry, and he could live the poetry through his senses and being. NO! On the Sychelles Islands, just shy of India, he transferred to a ship RETURNING TO FRANCE. WHY? ? Because reality could never fulfill the Dream and its blunt materiality would crush the fragile spirit of the Dream. So he returned to Paris and the hashish den and dreamed of an India of the Imagination - boundless, perfect, never-ending. (For a sturdy, pioneering vision of The Journey, read Whitman's VOYAGE TO INDIA, and it you've read, let's both re-read it and celebrate the essential health espoused by the American poet compared the sickness of the European poet (Hold him in your armchair, you can feel his disease. Throughout I feel Whitman summons us to complete the abortive voyage of Columbus, or put it this way, One thing I can tell you is you've got to be free.)
A wonderful translation, the image of a young boy wanting to see and know the world. the discovery of other countries, then the universe. a lovely read Tom ;)
I think it attracted me first because I love maps, especially old one. I have a big one of Dumbarton for 1816. One of Isa's ancestors lived there about then. So I could identify with the boy in Baudelaire's poem and the love of the sea too.
And ruinous too in many cases! Thanks, Edward. I think Baudelaire was speaking from harsh experience!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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12/17/2025 3:43:32 AM # 1.0.0
I was a child, too, in love with maps. I left, fleeing the myopic perception of the external world as an unnecessary extension of the small town borders in which I was raised. I spent my childhood struggling against the halters of provincial complacency, immersing myself in the literature of the exotic world beyond the ordinary. I can so empathize with Mr. Baudelaire in that regard, and still consider myself to be navigating the rhythm of these waves, (bobbin' about like a piece of driftwood, as Annette describes) carrying a small lantern of the infinite within me, kindled in those long nights poring over maps and travelogues. Thanks for sharing this fine translation, Tom. It is a significant contribution. S
Thanks, Seamus. I must confess I've created an imaginary Island on my computer and occasionally add new bits here and there. maybe it's because I had to give up a subject I loved, Geography, at school to take Greek, as my prowess at Latin was, in my opinion, much over-rated! I suppose I gained a love of Sophocles, Homer and the philosophers, but like you the stories of adventurers and navigators were always in the forefront of my mind. To actually discover and name mountains and rivers must have been a great thrill. I suppose the modern equivalents are astronomers. I can see now why you have such a magical imagination.