Written by
Sophie Hannah |
Although you have given me a stomach upset,
Weak knees, a lurching heart, a fuzzy brain,
A high-pitched laugh, a monumental phone bill,
A feeling of unworthiness, sharp pain
When you are somewhere else, a guilty conscience,
A longing, and a dread of what’s in store,
A pulse rate for the Guinness Book of Records -
Life now is better than it was before.
Although you have given me a raging temper,
Insomnia, a rising sense of panic,
A hopeless challenge, bouts of introspection,
Raw, bitten nails, a voice that’s strangely manic,
A selfish streak, a fear of isolation,
A silly smile, lips that are chapped and sore,
A running joke, a risk, an inspiration –
Life now is better than it was before.
Although you have given me a premonition,
Chattering teeth, a goal, a lot to lose,
A granted wish, mixed motives, superstitions,
Hang-ups and headaches, fear of awful news,
A bubble in my throat, a dare to swallow,
A crack of light under a closing door,
The crude, fantastic prospect of forever –
Life now is better that it was before.
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Written by
Sophie Hannah |
I know the rules and hear myself agree
Not to invest beyond this one night stand.
I know your patter: in, out, like the sea.
The sharp north wind must blow away the sand.
Soon my supply will meet your last demand
And you will have no further use for me.
I will not swim against the tide, to land.
I know the rules.
I hear myself agree.
I've kept a stash of hours, just two or three
To smuggle off your coast like contraband.
We will both manage (you more easily)
Not to invest beyond this one night stand.
To narrow-minded friends I will expand
On cheap not being the same as duty free.
I'll say this was exactly what I planned.
I know your pattern: in, out, like the sea.
It's not as if we were designed to be
Strolling along the beach front, hand in hand.
Things change, of natural necessity.
The sharp north wind must blow away the sand
And every storm to rage, however grand,
Will end in pain and shipwreck and debris
And each time there's a voice I have to strand
On a bare rock, hardened against its plea;
I know the rules.
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Written by
Sophie Hannah |
Where they have been, if they have been away,
or what they've done at home, if they have not -
you make them write about the holiday.
One writes My Dad did.
What? Your Dad did what?
That's not a sentence.
Never mind the bell.
We stay behind until the work is done.
You count their words (you who can count and spell);
all the assignments are complete bar one
and though this boy seems bright, that one is his.
He says he's finished, doesn't want to add
anything, hands it in just as it is.
No change.
My Dad did.
What? What did his Dad?
You find the 'E' you gave him as you sort
through reams of what this girl did, what that lad did,
and read the line again, just one 'e' short:
This holiday was horrible.
My Dad did.
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Written by
Sophie Hannah |
I settle for less than snow,
try to go gracefully like seasons go
which will regain their ground -
ditch, hill and field - when a new year comes round.
Now I know everything:
how winter leaves without resenting spring,
lives in a safe time frame,
gives up so much but knows he can reclaim
all titles that are his,
fall out for months and still be what he is.
I settle for less than snow:
high only once, then no way up from low,
then to be swept from drives.
Ten words I throw into your changing lives
fly like ten snowballs hurled:
I hope to be, and will, long for this world.
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Written by
Sophie Hannah |
He has slept with accountants and brokers,
With a cowgirl (well, someone from Healds).
He has slept with non-smokers and smokers
In commercial and cultural fields.
He has slept with book-keepers, book-binders,
Slept with auditors, florists, PAs
Child psychologists, even child minders,
With directors of firms and of plays.
He has slept with the stupid and clever.
He has slept with the rich and the poor
But he sadly admits that he's never
Slept with a poet before.
Real poets are rare, he confesses,
While it's easy to find a cashier.
So I give him some poets' addresses
And consider a change of career.
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Written by
Sophie Hannah |
When I leave you postcode and your commuting station,
When I left undone all the things we planned to do
You may feel you have been left by association
But there is leaving and leaving you.
When I leave your town and the club that you belong to,
When I leave without much warning or much regret,
Remember, there's doing wrong and there's doing wrong to
You, which I'll never do and I haven't yet,
And when I have gone, remember that in weighing
Everything up, from love to a cheaper rent,
You were all the reasons I thought of staying,
And none of the reasons why I went
And although I leave your sight and I leave your setting,
And our separation is soon to be a fact,
Though you stand beside what I'm leaving and forgetting,
I'm not leaving you, not if motive makes the act.
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Written by
Sophie Hannah |
Like summer in some countries and like rain
in mine, for nuns like God, for drunks like beer,
like food for chefs, for invalids like pain,
You've occupied a large part of the year.
The during months to those before and since
would make a ratio of ten to two,
counting the ones spent trying to convince
myself there was a beating heart in you
when diagrams were all you'd let me see.
Hearts should be made of either blood or stone,
of both, like mine.
There's still December free -
the month in which I'll save this year, alone.
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Written by
Sophie Hannah |
He’ll be pleased if I phone to ask him how he is.
It will make me look considerate and he likes considerate people.
He’ll be reassured to see that I haven’t lost interest,
Which might make him happy and then I’ll have done him a favour.
If I phone him right now I’ll get to speak to him sooner
Than I will if I sit around waiting for him to phone me.
He might not want to phone me from work in case someone hears
And begins (or continues) to suspect that there’s something
Between us.
If I want to and don’t, aren’t I being a bit immature?
We’re both adults.
Does it matter, with adults, who makes the
First move?
But there’s always the chance he’ll back off if I come on too strong.
The less keen I appear, the more keen he’s likely to be,
And I phoned him twice on Thursday and once on Friday.
He must therefore be fully aware that it’s his turn, not mine.
If I make it too easy for him, he’ll assume I’m too easy,
While if I make no effort, that leaves him with more of a challenge.
I should demonstrate that I have a sense of proportion.
His work must come first for a while and I shouldn’t’ mind waiting.
For all I know he could have gone off me already
And if I don’t phone I can always say, later, that I went off him first.
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Written by
Sophie Hannah |
I heave my morning like a sack
of signs that don't appear,
say August, August, takes me back.
.
.
That it was not this year.
.
.
say greenness, greenness, that's the link.
.
.
That they were different trees
does not occur to those who think
in anniversaries.
I drive my morning like a truck
with a backsliding load,
say bastard, bastard, always stuck
behind him on the road
(although I saw another man
in a distinct machine
last time a Dentressangle van
was on the Al4).
I draw my evening like a blind,
say darkness, darkness, that's
if not the very then the kind.
.
.
That I see only slats.
.
.
say moonlight, moonlight, shines the same.
.
.
That it's a streetlamp's glow
might be enough to take the name
from everything we know.
I sketch my evening like a plan.
I think I recognise
the Norbert Dentressangle van.
.
.
That mine are clouded eyes.
.
.
say whiteness, whiteness, that's the shade.
.
.
That paint is tins apart
might mean some progress can be made
in worlds outside the heart.
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