A poem addressing some of the misconceptions associated with “moving up in the world.”
I used a cut-up, collage technique (and an old encyclopedia) to construct this poem.
From Redditch to Redcliff
A life submerged, largely cloistered,
nocturnal, clinging to the ants and termites,
becomes alpha at the high water mark.
The son of former slaves building monastic homes
marked by prosperity and the naming of plants:
A centre of culture, harvested from the plump and rat-like.
A long, sticky tongue tears open nests
already badly damaged by the bombing of frequent storms.
Powerful, resigned, parallel rods strung with beads, inaugurated.
© Lisa Mulrooney