I was invited to be the visiting artist at a nearby university this semester, and I have the privilege of sharing my enthusiasm for poetry with a group of fifteen bright young people. Some of them identify as writers or songwriters, but many are majoring in what we sometimes stereotype as less creative disciplines—biology, chemistry, marketing, finance, aerospace—though I believe creativity has a vital role in all disciplines.
I gave this course the simple title of Poetry Is a Bridge. A bridge to what? To a better understanding of ourselves and each other and the other—that is, to people whose lives and experiences are different from our own. Of course, in this vein, storytelling is a bridge and literature is a bridge and all art is a bridge, but I'll stick to poetry for now.
Bridge over the Tennessee River at Florence, AL. Image credit: Kory Wells
With that course title, I couldn't resist opening class with “The Bridge Builder,” a relatively well-known poem and by far the best known work of Will Allen Dromgoole, who happens to have been from my hometown, Murfreesboro, Tennessee.
“The Bridge Builder” is written with a meter and rhyme scheme that's not all that fashionable today—yet these features make the poem pleasing to the ear, and that's one reason it endures. But it's also loved for the story it presents, of an old man who builds a bridge across a chasm he's just crossed—not because he'll ever use the bridge, but because someone coming after him will need it.
A chasm—a great gap—feels all too metaphorically relevant these days, doesn't it? As a board member of a library system that's been in the news often this year, I've become more personally aware of how wide and fraught with obstacles that chasm is. I've seen both sides assume and attempt to leverage the worst, most extreme stereotypes about "those people” on the other side. Being in relationship is hard work on a good day, and it can seem downright impossible when we reject the idea of common ground or even considering someone else’s view.
I’m not saying I’m above this same behavior, though I want to be. So while I love the idea of looking back on a life that's tried to make things better for the future, I don't want to overlook this fact:
Every day we have a choice: build a bridge, or tear one down?
The Bridge Builder painting by my friend Ginny Togrye parses the layers of history in our city. Dromgoole’s poem is inscribed in the upper left corner.
Although I'm the granddaughter of a fine carpenter, I don't know much about constructing buildings, and even less about bridges. I do know a little about building some things. Relationships are foremost in my mind, but also websites, software systems, arts organizations, and even cabinetry, which I've learned from my husband, who learned from his father. From all these ventures I've learned that building is hard work that requires
a plan, and
time and labor, and
often teamwork, and
frequent assessments of how things are going, and
sometimes adjustments "on the fly" when things aren't going quite as well as you hoped.
In contrast, building a poem or other piece of creative writing doesn't depend on so much of a plan—at least not at first. Instead, it requires
showing up at the work site (the page)
with your toolbox (your pen and your poetic devices and moves that become all the more plentiful and strong as you practice using them)
and following the creative impulse where it takes you.
When you put in that hard work, magic eventually happens. The bridge materializes. You feel a frisson of energy, and when you share the piece, your reader or listener feels it, and the world is changed just a little bit.
I know this not only as someone who—probably like you—has delighted in the works and live readings by some of my favorite authors, but because I’ve hosted or co-hosted more than one hundred readings, open mics, and storytelling shows in the past seven years. These events have rarely involved any well-known writers or creatives, but the magic happens regardless.
Your news feed would have you believe otherwise, and the targeted ads you see would have you believe otherwise, but listen to me: there are people in this world who are not scared or put off by how you're different.
There are people in this world who want to know your story, who want to give your perspective a chance. So start building, or keep building, your own bridge through the creative expression that calls to you.
Which brings me back to “The Bridge Builder.” There are numerous lovely readings on YouTube of this poem, and I also recorded one during the pandemic, but my favorite rendition I've discovered is this soul version by Spike Rebel. (The poem has inspired a choral piece as well.) I shared this video with my students, and they loved it, too.
A black man brings new life to the sentiments a white woman with the unlikely name of Will Allen wrote a hundred years ago. That, my friends, is the power of connection. That’s a bridge.
Prompt: Whether it's between you and one other person, or a group of people, or our entire culture, what chasm of understanding would you like to bridge?
Reading: Living Resistance by Kaitlin B. Curtice