AMERICA, that still unfolding experiment, is a land of contradictions and inversions.

I am writing this from an anonymous, ersatz, placeless place, a room whose windows you cannot open, in an establishment calling itself a Comfort Inn, which is neither comfortable, nor, unfortunately, an inn — more Coke in a plastic cup than a tankard of foaming ale!

But the real contradictions, of course, run far deeper than that. Flying into Nashville, the night before I write this, I had my usual dread of Immigration and Customs officialdom — actually, any officialdom — and, as has happened many times before, I was pulled aside for “secondary questioning”: questions that this time included “Why was I born in Nigeria? Can I spell the town of my birth?” etc. They let me through in the end; and, of course, there couldn’t be a greater contrast between suspicious officialdom at the border and the extraordinary warmth with which my American friends greet me, with their national talent for hospitality.

But, this time, the contradictions run deeper still, as the country seems to be spiralling down into a war with itself. My Nashville friends had already been telling me harrowing stories of raids by US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), harrying and handcuffing anyone who looked a little Hispanic, on the presumption that they were an illegal immigrant; and, of course, most of those who serve the white population here — the farm labourers, the gardeners, the hotel cleaners — are all Hispanic. The elderly lady, with her greying black hair and fine mahogany skin inscribed with the lines of age and experience, who shuffled in to bring out the breakfast things and to refill the coffee urn this morning looked more than weary: she looked frightened.

And yet, when I made my way to a Starbucks a little later, for a better coffee, there was a brightly coloured poster on the notice board proudly proclaiming: “HISPANIC HERITAGE MONTH. We honour the vibrant cultures, achievements and diverse experience of Hispanic and Latin American communities, this month and all year long. We celebrate the joy and vitality that come from building community and belonging for everyone.”

Suddenly, what might have been a piece of bland corporate correctness feels like a truly subversive proclamation. If the masked and armed thugs from the ICE ever bust into that particular Starbucks, I wonder whether any of them will stop to read that notice before they start hauling people out on to the streets and throwing them into their vans?

I might once have written this with an unfortunately smug sense of moral superiority, as someone coming from a more civilised country, a country that would never stoop to this kind of thing. Now, I’m not so sure. Now, I see the forces at work in my own beloved home which I have watched with growing dismay in the US. I see the same amplification of fear, the same appeal to bigotry, the same divisiveness exploited for cheap political capital, the same dog-whistle soundbites.

What is to be done? I am not a politician, but I am a poet. In tending to my craft, I am constantly seeking clarity, empathy, an imaginative vision capable of more than one perspective, and, above all, truth-telling. All I can hope to do is to practise my craft, so as to add, if I can, a little more of these necessities to the public discourse.