displaced and out of place
for years I was lost
in the rush hour crowd of
King’s Cross Station
tongue-tied with words
in the same language but
a dialect whose defences
I never could break through
the same but different
separated by an ocean my people
fought to cross
death by a thousand cuts
on the edge of a paper my people
fought to sign
the red coat didn’t fit me
but I tried to finess my way into normal
over cups of tea, pints, and long vodkas
I embraced everything willing
to accept a hug with two kisses,
mother tongue in cheek
in the end I was still the sore thumb,
betrayed by a colloquial I didn’t
want to leave behind
well-loved, kindly regarded
but forever and always
a homesick stranger
I wrote this poem recently for a magazine submission. . . . and was soundly rejected but hey that means now I can share it with you! Once upon a time, I moved to England. In my own way, I was an immigrant, albeit temporarily. It wasn’t easy. Thank you for reading!
(I would have shared a photo from my time in the UK but all those negative scans are still locked in my defunct hard drive. So instead I used a phone photo of travel in other times, other places.)
The Poetry Patio 