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Product Details
ISBN-13: | 9781847778734 |
---|---|
Publisher: | Carcanet Press, Limited |
Publication date: | 04/01/2003 |
Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
Format: | eBook |
Pages: | 64 |
File size: | 212 KB |
About the Author
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Read an Excerpt
First of the Last Chances
By Sophie Hannah
Carcanet Press Ltd
Copyright © 2003 Sophie HannahAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84777-873-4
CHAPTER 1
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
than 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,
is a trick of the light, an invention
of the skin on the top of the lake.
I am here for the shadow tree's sake,
for its unannounced coming and going
(no one plants, no one chops). I would give
anything for a shadow tree, knowing,
as its branches get caught in the sieve
of the surface of water and live
for a glance of the moon, moments only,
that the dark fabrication I saw
was a miracle, not like the lonely
unexceptional lump on the shore,
such a stickler for natural law
with its sap, its botanical listing
and its representation at Kew,
its pedantic disciples, insisting
that one cannot be both false and true.
We are shadow trees. That's what we do.
He is Now a Country Member
He is now a country member.
The subscription rate goes down.
January to December,
If you live or work in town
You pay more. You come more often
And the fee, therefore, is high.
In a vain attempt to soften
Last year's blow, he now drops by.
Not a word since last September.
He left town. We both know why.
He says, 'I'm a country member.'
'I remember,' I reply.
Silk Librarian
We have a silk librarian,
One who behaves and looks
Just like a real librarian
When lending people books.
We lost our first librarian
Then others of her ilk.
We need a good librarian
And so we've gone for silk.
A silk librarian endures.
The paid and unpaid bills
Are neatly filed in metal drawers.
Eye-drops, inhalers, pills –
Gone. We no longer house the cures
For the imagined ills
Of real librarians with flaws
That far outweigh their skills.
Real flowers used to be displayed.
They died and made a mess.
Genuine salaries were paid.
Silk wages cost us less,
Though, over time, the colours fade
From eyes and hair and dress.
Every two years or so, upgrade
To maximise success.
Feel free to disapprove, protest
At what you never knew
Until just now, and never guessed
And cannot prove untrue.
A sin too many, once confessed,
Becomes a sin too few.
While you deny that silk is best
We cut the silk for you.
God's Eleventh Rule
I want to sit beside the pool all day,
Swim now and then, read Peeping Tom, a novel
By Howard Jacobson. You needn't pay
To hire a car to drive me to a hovel
Full of charred native art. Please can I stay
Behind? I will if necessary grovel.
I want to sit beside the pool all day,
Swim now and then, read Peeping Tom, a novel.
Pardon? You're worried I will find it boring?
My days will be repetitive and flat?
You think it would be oodles more alluring
To see the chair where Mao Tse Tung once sat.
Novels and pools are all I need for touring,
My Peeping Tom, Nostromo after that.
Pardon? You're worried I will find it boring.
My days will be repetitive and flat.
Okay, so you were right about Nostromo,
But I've a right to stay in this hotel.
Sienna: I refused to see il duomo.
(Does that mean Mussolini? Who can tell?)
In Spain I told them, 'Baño, bebo, como.'
I shunned the site where Moorish warriors fell.
Okay, so you were right about Nostromo
But I've a right to stay in this hotel.
I'm so alarmed, my voice becomes falsetto
When you prescribe a trip round local slums.
Would I drag you from Harvey Nicks to Netto?
No I would not. Down, down go both my thumbs.
I'm happy in this five-star rich man's ghetto
Where teeth are, by and large, attached to gums.
I'm so alarmed, my voice becomes falsetto
When you prescribe a trip round local slums.
It's not an English thing. No need to grapple
With the strange ways we foreigners behave.
My colleague would be thrilled to see your chapel,
Turrets and frescos and your deepest cave,
But as for me, I'd rather watch sun dapple
The contours of a chlorinated wave.
It's not an English thing. No need to grapple
With the strange ways we foreigners behave.
I want to spend all day beside the pool.
I wish that this were needless repetition,
But next to you, a steroid-guzzling mule,
A hunger strike and the first Christian mission
Look apathetic. God's eleventh rule:
Thou shalt get sore feet at an exhibition.
I want to spend all day beside the pool.
I wish that this were needless repetition.
Where to Look
The leaves that this year brought
next year won't bring again.
If autumn has one thought
it is not where? but when?
Summer is on the ground
long before winter's sting.
The loss must be profound
to make us hunt for spring.
Eyes down, we find it dead,
red powder at our feet
but staring straight ahead
we see its green wings beat,
all future and no past,
baffled as winter grieves.
Next year, not this or last,
is where to look for leaves.
Brief Encounter
I loved you and I left you at the station.
I watched you on the platform and I waved,
Taking in every scrap of information.
Every last detail of your face, I saved,
Thinking that when the engine started running
And as the train proceeded down the track,
You'd shrink, then disappear. But love is cunning:
The station café faded into black,
So did the world around you and beside you.
You alone seemed to grow. In broken hearts
Both distance and perspective are denied you.
Love looks no smaller as the train departs.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from First of the Last Chances by Sophie Hannah. Copyright © 2003 Sophie Hannah. Excerpted by permission of Carcanet Press Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
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,