Bridges (a poem)

Happy New Year Everyone! I hope 2017 brings you brilliant things.

A couple of months ago, I decided I really wanted to write and share more in 2o17. I love writing, but (as pretty much anyone will admit!), sharing what I write can be a struggle at times. I’m also rubbish at getting into a regular routine with writing; instead relying on sudden creative bursts in between patches of not writing at all. As a result, I often find myself having to re-teach myself things after not writing for a while-and it can take a while to get back into a creative flow.

So, this year I’ve decided I’m going to try and  share a poem every week for a year-scaryscaryscary! This idea was inspired by an amazing performance poet called Ben Norris, who shared a poem every week on YouTube in 2016. It was fabulous to hear his work, which also seemed to develop and grow over the course of the year. Hopefully I can go on a similar journey, and improve little by little over the course of the next 365 days.

Here’s my first offering-a poem tentatively titled ‘Bridges’. I wrote the first draft a while ago but I’m still tweaking and editing it. Here’s the current version. Enjoy!

Over in America,
The air is thick with surprise and anger.
She is Latina-
Breaking down walls
Beneath the whitest glass ceiling of them all.
He is behind the door-
A threshold Unknown
Despite being her being here for 20 years, or more.
She tidies cups,
And Brews the coffee-
Clinking away carefully
Until she is ready-
Rolling in with her trolley.
‘This world is not straight’,
He shouts in her face
Whilst helping himself to the creamiest cake.
They small talk through his crumbs-
And though she is far from the main event,
He briefly notices her attempts-
The food, a smile, the offer of coffee.
And then, he forgets-
Regards her insignificant,
And part of all this mess.
He shouts down his phone-
Tries to connect,
But really feels quite alone.
The woman sighs-
Notices that the ties in him run deeply.
Then quickly disappears,
Discreetly.
Here in Wales,
There have been brexits
And breakfasts
And a never ending run up to Christmas.
A house of work and magic still stands-
And the gentle hands of a girl wrap around a mug of tea.
Suddenly, a man enters-
Quietly, discreetly.
Offers no words,
As his language is different to hers.
So she offers him a biscuit,
And comments on the trinkets that he brings with him.
His feet dance with happiness-
And his mouth explains in words she almost understands.
He notices their differences
And her efforts
And decides to embrace it-
Because, he must-
Let’s face it.
And then,
She remembers that she is significant-
A lovely part of this mess-
And proudly vows to remain at her best.
Building bridges with memories-
Not walls with forgetfulness.
And maybe American Latinas
And rich city bankers
Will sense her spirit-
If we can build a bridge of sorts
To cross this wild Atlantic.

 

Image courtesy of The National Trust.

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