The Bridge

Poetry Writing Contest '09 Winner

by Sean Webb

Poetry Judge's Comment

The poem The Bridge is a bridge. It's one between worlds: between a parent and a child, between sky and water, between New Jersey and Pennsylvania, and other less physical, yet no less perceptible, states of being. The poem is deeply felt and observed, yet never falsely so. It is a journey where there is always more: more to consider, more to explore, more boundaries, more perceptions. Part of the poem's understated power emerges from the fact that the writer seeks to apprehend the moment more than to explain it. It reminds me why I love to read poems — the specific experience one can have from reading a poem that is not exactly like any other. It is a walking poem, but it is not simply that: Its rhythm is informed by an adult who is walking with a child. There is nothing precious about it. The consciousness of the poem is centered in the parent and reflects the way his or her mind is working, its multiple vantages, during the walk. The author writes: "Even if the wide green earth of it appears/ Never to end, it ends." The more I read it the more I like it. I suggest cutting the poem out from the paper, or printing it out, reading it a number of times, making copies of it and giving it away.

—Thomas Devaney

ABOUT THE JUDGE: Thomas Devaney is a poet, critic and the author of A Series of Small Boxes. He teaches writing at the University of Pennsylvania and Haverford College. For more information, visit thomasdevaney.net.

The bridge my daughter and I are crossing

on foot into a New Jersey winter is more

air than bridge, just as my body is more

water than self when it crosses over

into sleep. The swallows and swans

are more air and water, moving from

state to state. Pennsylvania is more air

than state. Even if massive stone buildings

anchoring each county suggest permanence,

even if the wide green earth of it appears

never to end, it ends. The great bare trees

are more air than we believe, more wind,

and more rain. The folks walking past,

snug in gray overcoats, are more air

than mothers and fathers, more water

than brothers and sisters. The people

above and below, bound by earth and sky,

the quick between them is more breath

than stone, more memory than distance.

My budding daughter, her hand in mine,

is more trepidation and wonder than bird

in a garden, more river than light dancing

on the river. The cold air racing beneath

our feet, over the swirling black water is

more bridge than absence as it carries us

to a place not unlike where we've been.