The Man Beneath the Bridge of Letters

He is not the standard. He is merely the cautionary tale told in the margins.

He arrives with the air of someone

who believes time itself has knighted him,

as though the years alone

have carved his name into marble.

But marble does not form

from mere persistence.

It forms from pressure,

from fire,

from transformation.

None of which he has known.

He speaks of craft

the way a tourist speaks of ancient cities,

with confidence unburdened by experience,

with certainty untroubled by nuance.

His lessons fall like brittle leaves,

yellowed by neglect,

crumbling at the slightest touch

of genuine inquiry.

He calls himself a mentor,

yet his guidance is a dim lantern

held by a man who has forgotten

how to walk the path himself.

He mistakes condescension for clarity,

mistakes volume for vision,

mistakes the echo of his own voice

for the applause of a crowd

that left long ago.

He clings to rules

as though they were sacred relics,

proof of a kingdom he once commanded,

though no one remembers

the crown,

the oath,

or the reign.

He guards the bridge of letters

with the fervor of a man

who fears what waits beyond it,

new voices,

new forms,

new light.

And yet,

above the place where he crouches,

the writers cross freely.

They build,

they bloom,

they rise.

Their pages hum with a life

he cannot enter,

for he has chosen the shadows

and named them home.

Let him rattle his borrowed wisdom.

Let him polish his thinning myths.

Let him whisper his warnings

to anyone who will listen.

For in the quiet truth of things,

he is not the gatekeeper

he imagines himself to be.

He is merely the footnote,

a reminder of what becomes

of those who mistake bitterness

for brilliance,

and fear

for authority.

Reviews

[Dee]

Wonderful poem! A character study fashioned in flowing, visual, creative and emotional depth. Kudus. A small contribution of my own:

Jagged are the shards of words he forced through rotted teeth,
A sanctimony fetid, greedy, grasping, cruel and cheap,
Yoked poorly to tradition he can never understand,
Gone truant – without reason – laughter, love for fellow man.

[Curly Grace]

Thank you for this thoughtful read. Your added lines are powerful, and I appreciate the care you brought to them. It means a lot to me that the poem spoke to you.

[Ken Simm.]

I hesitate to say but you know this man, this so-called teacher and are wary of him. By the way you have so ably described him you have known him in the broadest sense for some time.

[Brandon Houser]

Damn. It's amazing what brilliance questionable people can bring out of a person. If this were about me, I'd be tempted to frame this, and better myself after.

[Pete]

quite an impact. some great metaphors. smooth flow. that man is no vagabond. we shouldn't judge this book merely by its cover. well said.

[Relic]

This man sounds like an amalgam of many. I read the other day narcissists are always the guy who runs the companies and controls the narratives. I think you may have written about that type here.

[Curly Grace]

Me too, Relic. He feels like a figure made of many shadows, all those men who try to bend the world with their own reflection. He’s stitched from familiar echoes, the kind you recognize before he even speaks.

[Relic]

Even your reply is poetic. lol :)

[Rosie C]

This is deep, indeed

This is some skill, your writing is totally exceptional. The flow of the poem is so exquisite. You carry my eyes from here to there.

I admire the description of this male character. Even though he is mistaken, he seems to be emotionally aware of himself. Holding his cards close to his chest. Mysterious, questionable and mindful.

An impressive read. This has inspired me to write a bit more clearly and straight to the point.

[Curly Grace]

Thank you so much, Rosie. Your words mean a lot. I’m delighted the piece resonated with you, and it makes me happy to know it sparked something in your own writing.

[Betty Hermelee]

Very well written; this man seems to think he is bigger than himself in many ways you describe so well...it seems that he is rather ordinary, fearful, maybe looked over, surely does not stand out in a crowd, more like others ignore his oddness.... others don't seem to listen to his words..for they make no sense.."he is not the gatekeeper"... he is not a leader of any kind ...he is ordinary and tries to hide it...by knighting himself as worthy...yet he is outside of being ordinary..."he is merely a footnote..."
Warmly, B

[Curly Grace]

Thank you, B. You see him with such clarity, and I’m grateful for the care in your reading.

[Vol]

Curly!
This brilliant. First, the subject! People who believe they know what they are talking about! So now I must think before I say anything, because I wonder if all my wisdom is borrowed, plagiarized, trite, maybe even wrong. It sounds as though you could put a name at the top, but this is universal, and we should all give ourselves pause before we speak. But no one does. I have sat in lectures and business meetings too, where this man was at the podium... unfortunately, just as memorable as the ones who lit the room on fire. The whole exercise tickles my guts, imagining you sitting bored, and the notes you took are stanzas in this poem.
Vol

[Curly Grace]

Vol, you always catch the undercurrent. I wasn’t thinking of any one man so much as that familiar figure we’ve all endured — the one who mistakes certainty for wisdom and volume for vision. You’re right, he shows up everywhere: classrooms, boardrooms, podiums, break rooms. I’ve met him more times than I care to count.
And yes, sometimes the only way to survive those moments is to turn the boredom into notes, and the notes into a poem.
Thank you for reading the way you do...with humor, with honesty, and with that gut‑tickled imagination of yours.

[Desert Knave]

This is a strong write that fits our current world (not just one person) so well. Great job. ~Jim

[Curly Grace]

Thank you, Jim. I’m glad the piece resonated that way for you. I appreciate you taking the time to read it.