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REFLECTION:
Poems are the way I seek something lasting in transience. My original idea for the thesis was to write a compilation of poems that revolved around my hometown of Newark, New Jersey, so that the poems could stand as representations of underrepresented beauty. As the process unfolded, the poems began to be about many things. I still think, though, that some of the most important of these poems find their setting in Newark. The poems of this thesis, ”In Transit,” are interested in dislocation and geography. Many of the poems are about literal moments of transportation: time spent on trains, buses, and airplanes. What all of these poems are concerned with is how to glean some permanence in the midst of change. The image I go back to often is that of a tree growing in the city; it is for me at once a symbol of resilient, uncommon, and often unnoticed strength, but also of something that is always in the process of encountering resistance to stability. Thus, the city tree recurs throughout these poems, which—if they hold anything else in common—is an obsession with memory and the movement of time.
The Red Line
At that verge when evening is not yet night
and the day is restless as to its end,
the train moves in the flow of the city.
Tired hands strain against the bars,
feeling the stress of weight bearing upon tracks.
An urban slumber suspended into a punctuated line.
Anonymous voices greet the passengers
as doors close and open and everything
pushes towards a pause while the sun melts
in echoes over rooftops and fire escapes and windows
overlooking the route, leaving the rest to a silence
of darkening shadow. Each new image flashing
through the scratched windows into transit,
motioning forward an architectural silhouette,
leaving the small spaces of textured brick and
pavement carved into mathematical grids.
The train moves on towards Grand and Division,
marking what it may, leaving its tracks behind.
In Transit
My bags are heavy against the weight of the train
it grates against steel and I
long for continuous days which flow
into one another. Instead
my life is a work of fragments.
Strings connected by inevitable distances.
I am lost in the fury of transit,
writing my poems in a
dark room on paper I cannot see.
Memory bites the new tongue
and I dream of home on a used pillow.
St. Lucy’s
To be granted grace in midwinter
by the softness of sunlight
breaking the smooth network
of tentative leaves in the small space
made intimate by benches and shrubs,
by its young trees whose hope rests
in tightly closed buds
as water breaks from the pipes
which crawl the brick building
is to almost forget the empty playground.
The playground
of concrete and gravel and parking spaces
becomes almost forgotten
in the sacrament of water’s flow,
a breaking of the ice
upon the pale orange wall,
seeping into pebbled earth,
streaming into crimson
eroded bricks which lie in pattern,
blessing the children’s laughter
which is no longer there,
teaching the will to stay
and the will to break.
Carla S. Ferreira is an English concentrator in Lowell House. She completed a thesis in poetry entitled “In Transit.” Next year, Carla will be teaching English in southern France and hopes to continue writing and teaching poetry.
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