I participated in the UW English Department’s Summer in London program in Summer 2018.
I wrote this poem while on the white cliffs in a little, pocket-sized journal that I had brought around with me while on my trip. Recollecting all of the details was incredibly easy to do with the scenery right in front of me — I felt like a painter, shaping everything I saw into words. The biggest takeaway from Dover that I hope readers will grasp is a spirit of adventure, along with a wonder of how big this world is, and how small we are in the presence of giant, natural wonders of the world. The White Cliffs of Dover served as a massive, almost protective, image that made me feel at peace. It’s so reassuring to know there is something bigger than ourselves out there in the world.
On the bottom right corner of The Old World 1
small valleys of grassery and greenery are palm-pressed
like kneaded dough,
into the top of white chalky cliffs.
And although patches of dead grass on its’ trail poke at the edges of my socks,
the deceased squares of brownness are bright beneath the sun’s handprint.
Green on white looks like fabric,
the way the stitches of the steeple’s edge ripple
and sway like lace.
The desires of the cliff edges 10
become white buttercream frosting on a dry cake:
sugary white winds hit my face, 350 feet above the water
with the sun sprinkled on it
like breadcrumbs made of gold flakes.
There’s a manmade brick stump on the sill
of the escarpment, Where I sit
like a sugar doll—
Letting my feet overhang the sea.
I claw my fingers into a side of the massive rock, 19
let the rubble pack deep into my fingernails
take stones broken off of the bluff
allowing the sedimentary, floury dust
trickle down to my tennis shoes.
I take the white stones and 24
draw my name into the brick seat,
scribble on the back of my left hand
rub them between my thumbs—a caveman with his stick—
Patting the wall onto my hands
Like a bar gymnast clapping on chalk before a stunt.
Then, I roll and rub it in
drying out the short strands of my mane
as the sun burns into my scalp, still stroking
the powder through.
I want to swing my body around the crag 35
Slam my back again the white wall of crumbling cliff-fall debris
As it gives me a hug from behind,
And squeezes the breath out of me, the way it did when I hiked its’ trail
I want to take shelter in the lighthouse at the very peak of the mountain’s stake
And wake up forever
With France an ocean away.
Aspiring novelist, professor, and poet majoring in Creative Writing and Italian at UW. MG advocate, motivational speaker, cellist, traveler, fencer, and gamer.
Comments are closed.