Imagine a subway station transformed into a sanctuary during a storm, where strangers become a community bound by shared vulnerability. This is the vivid scene Menna Elfyn paints in her poem Storm in Brooklyn Subway, featured this week. Born in Glanaman, South Wales, in 1952, Elfyn is a celebrated Welsh-language poet whose work has earned her widespread acclaim. This particular piece appears in her latest collection, Parch (available at https://www.bloodaxebooks.com/ecs/product/parch-1382), a title that carries the Welsh meaning of 'respect' and also refers to a spiritual leader in a nonconformist chapel. But here's where it gets intriguing: Elfyn, a proud bilingual writer, composed many of the poems in Parch directly in English, including this week's selection. She attributes this to the growing acceptance and respect for the Welsh language in Wales, a victory won through years of non-violent advocacy. As she puts it, echoing Herta Müller, 'holding one’s own language up to the eyes of another fosters a solid relationship, a relaxed kind of love.'
Parch is a multilingual treasure, with some poems presented in their original Welsh alongside Elfyn’s English translations. Notably, two elegies, written after the loss of her sister in 2020 and her brother in 2022, showcase her emotional depth and linguistic versatility. The collection itself is a tapestry of communal experiences: queuing, building shelters from stones, participating in peace demonstrations, and even organizing chapel flower rotas. These themes of unity and shared purpose are mirrored in Storm in Brooklyn Subway, where a subway station becomes an unlikely haven during a tempest.
But here's where it gets controversial: Can a place as mundane as a subway station truly become sacred? Elfyn seems to think so, turning the act of seeking shelter into a near-religious experience. The poem opens with the striking image of a 'thistle of rain,' a phrase that brilliantly captures both the sound and the sting of rainfall. The crowd, described as 'mottled,' huddles together, their backs to the wall, gasping for refuge. This imagery evokes Emma Lazarus’s The New Colossus, with its 'huddled masses yearning to breathe free.' Yet, Elfyn’s storm is fleeting, and 'in an instant, the heavens smile.' The ground firms up, and the 'petrific hour'—once rigid and unyielding—transforms into something malleable, almost alive. Grace, likened to grease, lubricates every step, and the shelter-seekers hum their way home, their joy untainted by the lingering wetness.
The poem’s language is both tactile and transcendent, blending the physical with the spiritual. The 'petrific hour' becoming 'flesh' suggests a resurrection of sorts, a return to life and movement. And this is the part most people miss: the interplay between Welsh and English in Elfyn’s work adds a layer of luminosity, as if the languages themselves are in dialogue, creating a unique poetic energy. This reminds us of Ezra Pound’s In a Station of the Metro, another moment of underground revelation in modern poetry.
Is Elfyn’s subway station a mere shelter, or is it a metaphor for something greater? Does the act of seeking refuge together elevate the mundane to the sacred? These questions linger, inviting us to reflect on the transformative power of shared experiences. What do you think? Does the poem’s setting enhance its spiritual undertones, or is it just a clever use of imagery? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s spark a conversation!
