Give me your tired, your poor,

your huddled masses…

the centre of a sentence and sonnet of hope

that I memorised from childhood

and in which I vowed to witness

with my own eyes

when I finally

plucked up the courage to ask the lady to dance

with me, an immigrant

who wasn’t tired, was not poor,

had nobody to huddle with, but who

yearned to break free…New Colossus

on a distant shore, how, I hope,

you now weep angel as your promise

is broken and your head must hang

in shame

as your lamp is smothered,

as your memory is corroded

as your passion is choked

as your skirt reveals restriction

as your beckoning arms

that once held out such tender mercy,

now is held back, the wretched of other lands

held back by gun point, held back at the wire

and the wall, held back…held back

and your name more than tarnished,

new colossus, repressed and baseless

your words mean nothing now.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018