First of the Last Chances

  SOPHIE HANNAH

  First of the Last Chances

  For Phoebe with love

  Acknowledgements

  Some of these poems have previously appeared in the following publications: The Times Literary Supplement, Critical Quarterly, The New Delta Review, The Hudson Review, Mslexia, PN Review, Poetry Review, The Gift: New Writing for the NHS (Stride), Earth Has Not Anything to Shew More Fair (Shakespeare’s Globe and the Wordsworth Trust), Last Words: New Poetry for the New Century (Picador).

  ‘Brief Encounter’ was commissioned by First NorthWestern Trains, ‘Where to Look’ was commissioned by Acoustiguide for the reopening of Manchester City Art Gallery, and ‘Seasonal Dilemma’ was commissioned by the British Council for their 2001 Christmas card.

  The eight poems of ‘A Woman’s Life and Loves’ were commissioned by Ann Martin-Davis for a music touring project called ‘Cycles’. ‘Cycles’ was sponsored by ClearBlue and produced with funds from the RVW Trust, the Britten–Pears Foundation, the Performing Right Society Foundation for New Music, Southern and South East Arts, and the Arts Council of England.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Long for This World

  You Won’t Find a Bath in Leeds

  Out of This World

  Wells-Next-the-Sea

  Six of One

  Seasonal Dilemma

  Second-hand Advice for a Friend

  Dark Mechanic Mills

  Martins Heron Heart

  Tide to Land

  The Shadow Tree

  He is Now a Country Member

  Silk Librarian

  God’s Eleventh Rule

  Where to Look

  Brief Encounter

  The Cycle

  Black River

  The Cancellation

  The Guest Speaker

  Everyone in the Changing Room

  Your Funeral

  Away-day

  Mother-to-be

  Now and Then

  Healing Powers

  Homeopathy

  Your Turn Next

  To a Certain Person

  0208

  Leave

  Ante-Natal

  On Westminster Bridge

  Ballade of the Rift

  Wedding Poem

  Royal Wedding Poem

  GODISNOWHERE (Now Read Again)

  Metaphysical Villanelle

  Squirrel’s the Word

  First of the Last Chances

  A Woman’s Life and Loves

  View

  Equals

  Postcard

  Match

  Bridesmaid

  Test

  Charge

  Favourite

  About the Author

  Also by Sophie Hannah

  Copyright

  Long for This World

  I settle for less than snow,

  try to go gracefully as 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.

  You Won’t Find a Bath in Leeds

  From the River Cam and the A14

  To the Aire and the tall M1,

  We left the place where home had been,

  Still wondering what we’d done,

  And we went to Yorkshire, undeterred

  By the hearts we’d left down south

  And we couldn’t believe the words we heard

  From the lettings agent’s mouth.

  He showed us a flat near an abbatoir,

  Then one where a man had died,

  Then one with nowhere to park our car

  Then one with no bath inside.

  With the undertone of cheering

  Of a person who impedes,

  He looked straight at us, sneering,

  ‘You won’t find a bath in Leeds.’

  ‘We have come to Leeds from Cambridge.

  We have heard that Leeds is nice.

  A bath is seen in Cambridge

  As an integral device,

  So don’t tell me that a shower

  Is sufficient to meet my needs,’

  I said. I received a glower

  And, ‘You won’t find a bath in Leeds.’

  He fingered a fraying curtain

  And I said, ‘You can’t be sure.

  Some things in life are uncertain

  And that’s what hope is for.

  One day I might meet Robert Redford

  At Bristol Temple Meads.

  I’ve found baths in Bracknell and Bedford

  And I might find a bath in Leeds.’

  He replied with a refutation

  Which served to increase our pain

  But we didn’t head for the station

  Or run for a rescue train,

  Though we felt like trampled flowers

  Who’d been set upon by weeds.

  We told him to stuff his showers

  And we would find a bath in Leeds.

  Some people are snide and scathing

  And they try to undermine

  Your favourite form of bathing

  Or the way you write a line.

  At night, while you’re busy praying

  That your every plan succeeds,

  There are killjoys somewhere saying,

  ‘You won’t find a bath in Leeds.’

  A better definition

  Might be reading all of Proust,

  But the concept of ambition

  Has been radically reduced.

  While the London wits are burning

  Their cash in the Groucho Club,

  In Yorkshire we’re simply yearning

  To locate an enamel tub.

  I win, Mr Bath Bad Tiding.

  I have not one bath but two.

  En-suite in the sweet West Riding

  And no bloody thanks to you.

  I may never run fast, or tower

  Over Wimbledon’s top seeds

  Or hit sixes like David Gower

  But I have found a bath in Leeds.

  Out of This World

  Cannot remember grass between my toes

  or how it feels when feet and tarmac touch.

  Cannot recall my life before I rose

  and I have had to rise above so much

  that first I hit the roof-rack of the car,

  then my ascent bent back a lamp post’s head.

  I have, without exception and so far,

  risen above a tower of what’s been said,

  above a mountain range of what’s been done

  to people, books and cities that I love.

  I’ll risk head-on collision with the sun

  if I have one more thing to rise above.

  What if the risen suffocate in space?

  You send us up, not knowing where we’ll go.

  Would it be such a terrible disgrace

  if just this once, I were to sink below

  the quilted warmth of your intended slur,

  your next offence, soft as a feather bed?

  I’d prove more difficult to disinter

  t
han knobbly tree roots or the tenured dead

  and after having done my stint in blue

  and subsequent to equal time in green

  it will not matter if I dropped or flew

  out of this world. Out of this world, I mean.

  Wells-Next-the-Sea

  I came this little seaside town

  And went a pub they call The Crown

  Where straight away I happened see

  A man who seemed quite partial me.

  I proved susceptible his charms

  And fell right in his open arms.

  From time time, every now and then,

  I hope meet up with him again.

  Six of One

  I put it to my indecisive friend:

  we step up our surveillance of the shops.

  He shakes his head and says he’d like to spend

  some time in jail, one year or two years, tops,

  to ascertain which he prefers, the robbers or the cops.

  He sighs and mentions double-sided coins.

  He knows full well that his reaction peeves

  his colleagues, but he argues if he joins

  a bad crowd for a while, then when he leaves

  he’ll know for sure he likes policemen slightly more than thieves.

  I say he couldn’t stand two years inside.

  True, he replies, but think of my release.

  I can’t confirm what’s right until I’ve tried

  what’s wrong. He tells me I’m the one he’ll fleece.

  I grin. He might like confrontation rather more than peace.

  Gently, I tell him not to be a fool.

  Why not? he says. He tried the bottom set

  before the top at comprehensive school.

  I say Remember…. No. He might forget.

  He’s not convinced that credit suits him any more than debt.

  Listen, I shout, that noise. He bites his nails

  while I pursue the yelp of an alarm

  to a smashed window. As our siren wails

  I grab my indecisive partner’s arm

  hoping by now he feels protection has the edge on harm.

  He shrugs me off. No progress has been made

  since his long, non-committal day began.

  I scream It’s over! Finished! – a tirade

  that would provoke a more conclusive man.

  He asks me why I think this sort of ending’s better than

  Seasonal Dilemma

  Another Christmas compromise. Let’s drink another toast.

  Once more we failed to dodge the things that put us out the most.

  To solve this timeless riddle I would crawl from coast to coast:

  Which is worse at Christmas, to visit or to host?

  To spend a week with relatives and listen to them boast,

  Try not to look too outraged when they make you eat nut roast

  Or have them drive their pram wheels over each new morning’s post?

  Which is worse at Christmas, to visit or to host?

  Dickens, you let me down. You should have made Scrooge ask the ghost

  Which is worse at Christmas, to visit or to host?

  Second-hand Advice for a Friend

  I used to do workshops in schools quite a lot

  And some classes were good, although others were not,

  And when sessions went wrong, in no matter what way,

  There was one standard phrase every teacher would say.

  Each time couplets were questioned by gum-chewing thugs

  In reluctant time out from the dealing of drugs,

  Some poor teacher would utter the desperate plea:

  ‘Show Sophie Hannah how good you can be.’

  This phenomenon cannot be simply explained

  Since I don’t think it’s something they learned when they trained.

  You do not have to say, for your PGCE,

  ‘Show Sophie Hannah how good you can be.’

  You do not have to say it to work or to live

  But compared with advice that I’ve heard teachers give

  Such as, ‘Don’t eat in classrooms’ or ‘Straighten your tie’,

  I’ve arrived at the view that it ranks pretty high.

  Outside the school gates, in the world of grown men,

  It’s a phrase I’m inclined to recite now and then.

  I don’t see why I shouldn’t extend its remit

  On the offchance it might be a nationwide hit.

  I’ve a friend who I reckon could use it. And how.

  We’ve had a nice day so let’s not spoil it now.

  I am no kind of teacher, and yet I can see

  That you’re not in the place where you clearly should be.

  No answering back – just return to the fold.

  We’ll have none of your cheek and you’ll do as you’re told

  By the staff of Leeds Grammar, St Mark’s and Garth Hill,

  All those manifestations of teacherly will

  Who join dozens of voices in dozens of schools

  That make grownups of children and wise men of fools.

  Stop behaving like someone who’s out of his tree.

  Show Sophie Hannah how good you can be.

  Dark Mechanic Mills

  A car is a machine. It’s not organic.

  It is a man-made thing that can be fixed,

  Maybe by you, as you are a mechanic

  Although I must admit that I have mixed

  Feelings about your skills in this connection.

  You shrug and say my engine sounds ‘right rough’.

  Shouldn’t you, then, proceed with an inspection?

  Looking like Magnus Mills is not enough.

  Resemblance to a Booker Prize contender

  Has a quaint charm but only goes so far.

  When servicing formed the entire agenda,

  When I had no real trouble with my car,

  Our whole relationship was based upon it,

  This likeness, but you can’t go in a huff

  If I suggest you open up the bonnet.

  Looking like Magnus Mills is not enough.

  I lay all my suggestions on the table:

  Fuel pump or filter, alternator, clutch,

  The coil or the accelerator cable

  Or just plain yearning for the oily touch

  Of a soft rag in a mechanic’s fingers.

  That’s not your style at all. You merely grin.

  Is it your Booker confidence that lingers?

  I don’t know why. You didn’t even win.

  You laugh as if you can’t see what the fuss is

  When I explain my car keeps cutting out.

  I know that Magnus Mills has driven buses;

  That’s not the way I choose to get about.

  I’m sorry that it has to end so badly

  But I am up to here with being towed

  And I’d take a clone of Jeffrey Archer, gladly,

  If he could make my car move down the road.

  Martins Heron Heart

  No doctor cares enough

  to analyse the content of my veins,

  my blood that bears a rough

  resemblance to a Stagecoach South West Trains

  timetable. Start, please start,

  Wokingham Bracknell Martins Heron heart.

  Send a mechanic, quick,

  the best you have. Should your mechanic fail

  to get me going, stick

  me on a train to Egham, Sunningdale,

  Virginia Water, Staines.

  It’s true; those Waterloo to Reading trains

  prove all your theories wrong –

  medicine, science. I am on the mend,

  doctor, thanks to a long

  list of the Sunday running times. Attend

  my bedside. Tick your chart.

  Wokingham Bracknell Martins Heron heart

  Tide to Land

  I know the rules and hear myself agree

  Not to invest beyond
this one night stand.

  I know your pattern: 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 and 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.

  The Shadow Tree

  In the lake, a reflected tree dangles

  while its counterpart squats on the land.

  Together they look, from some angles,

  like a hand growing out of a hand.

  Trunk to trunk, bark to water, they stand.

  One is real, that would be the contention,

  while the other, illusion or fake,