Poem: The Travel Bureau by Ruth Mitchell - Mad Over Living
You are here
Home > Poems > Poem: The Travel Bureau by Ruth Mitchell

Poem: The Travel Bureau by Ruth Mitchell

The Travel Bureau

http://terra-properties.com/contact-us/ Beauty of any good poem is that it’s like a liquid. It takes the shape of a container. That container is the reader’s mind & heart.To each his/her own is what the writer of this piece wants to convey.

http://nothingelsemattersblog.com/category/happinesswellbeing/wellbeing/page/2/ Take away from any reading is proportional to the reader’s experiences, inherent nature & imagination.

indian pharmacy robaxin In this poem, author tries to bring in the contrast of the protagonist’s personal & professional life. We all would have wondered at life’s irony at some point. Here the girl would use all her charm to bring in far away places near by vividly describing them with full enthusiasm so that people end up travelling. Truth is she has never been to those places & she leads a seemingly boring & uninteresting life in reality

May be her life is damn interesting in her own mind. One can either feel sad for the girl or appreciate her professional skill to bring into life all those distant places just through her words & eyes. For all you know she might be enjoying her dual personality

Another way to look at it is – not to judge someone by what they do. They might have another outlook to life all together. May be she projects a seemingly lackluster life to guard herself from the cruel world because she possess sensitive skin

We leave you with the actual poem & your mind to ponder on it

The Travel Bureau

Feature image source: http://wallpaperstock.net/

The Travel Bureau by Ruth Comfort Mitchell

All day she sits behind a bright brass rail
Planning proud journeyings in terms that bring
Far places near; high-colored words that sing,
“The Taj Mahal at agrave,” “Kashmir’s Vale,”
Spanning wide spaces with her clear detail,
“Sevilla or Fiesole in spring,
Through the fiords in June.” Her words take wing.
She is the minstrel of the great out-trail.
At half past five she puts her maps away,
Pins on a gray, meek hat, and braves the sleet,
A timid eye on traffic. Dully gray
The house that harbors her in a gray street,
The close, sequestered, colorless retreat
Where she was born, where she will always stay.

Do let us know your thoughts

Top