Footsteps on the Bridge
When I was younger than I am now
I helped to build a bridge
With two or three mud-speckled peers.
Waist high, between the banks,
I fumbled in the stream,
Directed by a budding Brunel,
And placed each handed-over branch
Across the meagre gulf.
When Brunel felt the width and length
Sufficient to his cause,
A grimy hand was offered
And I was hoisted back onto the grass,
Proud, Tired,
Assistant to The Bridge Builder.
The others crossed the chasm first,
Cautiousness then satisfaction in each stride
Our Brunel led the way, with seeming boredom
And the need to find another gulf,
Wider, deeper than this, a minow.
I stepped onto the branch,
Now slick with mud and slid
And fell back into the stream.
Wet cold gave way to warm tears
Embarressment of showing emotion to peers
Returned with scorn and thoughts of blame.
Then real pain.
The broken-bone type, the torn-muscle-type,
The pain that leads to words like dislocation.
But no grimy hand came down and tearful pleas
Were met with receding footsteps
And in that anguished isolation,
Confined by muddy banks,
I vowed
I would never trust those who built bridges.
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Comments by other Members
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 Dele Campbell at 22:33 on 26 June 2006
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words like dislocation
...in that anguished isolation |
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just captures the whole painful experience for me.
Ah, boyish pranks, so sinister...
Nice one, Mr B
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 Mr B. at 06:55 on 27 June 2006
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Thanks Dele,
The experience served as a metaphor for things happening at work. Despite many years difference, there is still that sense of putting your trust in others, being let down, and made to feel you have not made a positive contribution. The 'Bridges' being built now are relationships. From my perspective the poem was about self-worth and being valued in a job, but it could equally be about other forms of relationship.
A
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 James Graham at 19:52 on 28 June 2006
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I like the way you tell the story of the literal bridge-building, but also manage to broaden it out into non-literal meanings. (The explanation you give in your comment is interesting but the poem contains all that anyway.) The small-time Brunel is a nice touch, and also the way you convey the modesty of the project - the bridge could be built by you and 'two or three mud-speckled peers'; the water it crossed was a 'minnow' and Brunel had much bigger ambitions. There's an engaging humour in the story, just the kind of tone we adopt when telling about something that happened in our 'innocent' and sometimes painful youth.
As for broader meaning, we can take almost all the well-known meanings of 'building bridges' out of your closing lines. 'Building bridges' if it were always a genuine expression, would genuinely mean bringing people together, promoting peace and good relations etc, but sadly it can be very much a jargon expression used by those who are self-serving and up to something quite different.
The 'receding footsteps' are quite telling too, I think. Many other people apart from those guys on the bridge just 'walk away' in all kinds of situations, and in senses other than the literal. I also imagine the guys on the bridge laughing as they walk away - which is highly suggestive of another human trait which can be very iffy. Having a good laugh at someone's minor embarrassment can be ok, but it's easy to cross a line with that.
So I think your 'short story' poem does open up quite a lot of possibilities. When we get to the last line, it's hard to disagree that we should 'never trust those who build bridges'.
James.
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hailfabio at 13:03 on 29 June 2006
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I indeed did enjoy this. Though I'm still trying to work out what I perceive of it.
Thanks
Stephen
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NinaLara at 07:08 on 30 June 2006
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Dear Mr B,
It has taken me a few days to comment on this poem - I have kept coming back to it. I like the subject matter very much and the suggestion that there has been an impact of the boys' cruelty on your later life.
I stepped onto the branch,
Now slick with mud and slid
And fell back into the stream. |
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I like the swift action here and the half rhyme of slic and slid.
Then real pain.
The broken-bone type, the torn-muscle-type,
The pain that leads to words like dislocation.
But no grimy hand came down and tearful pleas
Were met with receding footsteps |
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And I like the conversational rhythm here.
There are a few places in the poem where I get lost a bit because it seems that there are too many words for the simple childhood story.
eg.
The navvies' ambiguity
Of weariness and pride,
The youthful kudos of The Bridge Builder. |
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I just wondered if this is necessary to the flow of the story? Or whether it could be expressed in simpler terms?
Thanks
Nina
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Mr B. at 07:31 on 30 June 2006
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Thanks James, Stephen and Nina.
I looked at that section, Nina, and while I liked what was said, I have to agree it doesn't really fit in to the tone of the poem (in other words it's verbose and waffly!!)
I changed it to
Proud, Tired,
Assistant to The Bridge Builder.
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I basically reduced the original idea down to its two key words, and made the narrator accepting of his subservient role in the project (which maintains my main theme of relationships).
Is it an improvement or have I simply fudged it?
Cheers,
A
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