Hard Drive E-Book

Paul Stephenson

• Herausgeber: Carcanet Poetry
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 83

Beschreibung

Shortlisted for the Gay Poetry Lammy Award 2024When his partner suddenly died, life changed utterly for Paul Stephenson. Hard Drive is the outcome of his revisiting a world he thought he knew, but which had been upended. In poems that are affectionate, self-examining, sometimes funny and often surprised by grief in the oddest corners, the poet takes us through rooms, routines, and rituals of bereavement, the memory of love, a shared life and separation. A noted formalist, with a flair for experiment, pattern and the use of constraints, Stephenson has written a remarkable first book, moving and, despite everything, a hopeful record of a gay relationship. It is also a landmark elegy collection.

Leseprobe

Hard Drive

Paul Stephenson

CARCANET  POETRY

Contents

Title PageAnglepoise I. SIGNATUREThe ThesisWhat Jean SawThe Description of the BuildingSignatureI tell him about the peopleOther people who died at 38My MonarchAperture (Winter Poem)Humorous ElbowingsMasterpiece TheatreNot DeadYour NameConddolencesGrief, it’s not what it used to beThe fraction left over is largeII. OFFICIALDOMVoicemailOfficialdomInterrogativeThe Train to SóllerCause (2016)Grief as Two Sides of the Atlantic OceanMistakeThe ButtonThe Hymn of HimRetortA Tonic of StonesCollecting You from Golders GreenNamesakeLetter from AmericaA Prayer for Death AdminIII. CLEARING SHELVESBattleshipsClearing His ShelvesThe Only Book I TookYour novelClinically ProvenBirkenstocksXylem (The Weight of Learning)Bikes in BasementsStorage KingdomMoving StuffAll the Never You Can CarryHard DriveThe Shortest DayBetter Verbs for ScatteringIV. COVERED RESERVOIRArchitect’s DrawersDeskCities Beginning with BA Word Between UsCaldo Verde (Soup with Collard Greens)Regret with Massive Orange, Red and Brown KilimClimbing TbilisiThe Mid-Morning Dictator, GoriEnter the GyreRelationship as Covered ReservoirHis Nasturtiums / Nasturtiums Him AlwaysBoy at the End of a Long Narrow GardenHand Puppets (You at Your Youest)V. INTENTIONSLoving the Social Anthropologist IWhen we were Jackson PollockI can be happilyFree SpotifyOn mailing a lock of his hair to America, belatedlyChecking InIntentionsLoving the Social Anthropologist IINurtureWe weren’t married. He was my civil partner.St. PancrasGrief as Northern French LandscapeThe Once-a-Month NightOne year onVI. ATTACHMENTYour BrainBad Conference / AttachmentWriting to Your MotherFirst DraftsPutting It Out ThereSnowdrops / DropboxStarchitect (2016)Grief as the Preamble of the Maastricht TreatyWedding in LimousinAcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorCopyright

9

Anglepoise

You’ll be in the front room

at your computer,

surrounded by your family

of anglepoise lamps.

The novel will be making

steady progress.

I’ll be in the kitchen

with my laptop and radio,

editing some poem or other,

devoting an hour to

the question of a comma,

semi-colon, full stop.

Voices will drift up to me

from where you are.

My drama will drift down

the hallway to you.

There’ll be hot radiators

and rugs, curtains drawn.

We’ll both be home,

absorbed in our projects,

each working our way

through the bottle of red.

I’ll be alive. You’ll be alive.

It’ll be like old times.

11

Hard Drive

13

I. SIGNATURE

15

The Thesis

It was June and I had to see a student.

A Tuesday morning and I had to see several students.

I knew something was wrong.

I called and asked a friend for help.

I was far away, and I had to see a student.

She said she’d go round and ring the bell.

I tried to listen to the mouth of the student.

He or she was seeking my approval.

I knew something was wrong.

It was June and I was seeing a student.

I gave some useful advice. I gave a smile.

I knew something was wrong.

I wished them well, saw off the student.

The deadline was approaching for submitting the thesis.

It was late morning and I had to see a student.

I sat across from a student, faced the thesis.

And then across from another student.

I waited for my friend’s call. My friend was in London.

I knew something wasn’t right.

I worked my way through the students.

16

What Jean Saw

Through the letterbox

the little bald patch of you

asleep on the floor

17

The Description of the Building

Online it says it’s homely in style,

double-fronted and two-storied

with gable dormer windows in the roof.

It refers to brick quoins and brick surrounds,

two large chimneys, one either side,

and an arched entrance for large vehicles.

No reference is made to the red gloss

paint of the door, or to the red gloss

of the gates to the right. It doesn’t talk about

the sign: No parking – Gates in Constant Use,

or how the red acts as a beacon for visitors

when the day is turning overcast.

It talks about a plaque from 1891

by the Hackney District Board of Works,

and how the place played a crucial role

in ‘Operation Mincemeat’, informed

the international non-fiction bestseller

The Man Who Never Was.

A lengthy text, it doesn’t mention how,

when you’ve an appointment to see the body,

you stare over at the building

from inside the car, muttering That must be it,

while the driver, a family member

or close friend, roots around for change.

18

Signature

In his sleep, except he isn’t

really sleeping (that’s just what we

like to tell ourselves), he looks as if he’s

grinning, as if he knows something new,

has seen a sight to comfort him and

offer reassurance so he can close

his eyes for good. Or else he’s understood,

once and for all, what us lot don’t

that this here is one massive joke,

some lame farce from the beginning.

I wouldn’t be surprised, because he has,

because he had, his own sense of humour,

black, in the mishaps and embarrassment

saw the human comedy, relishing

the doddering and stumbling of others,

their sticky situations, how they keep on

talking, talking, words making it worse,

digging a hole for themselves. I look

at his mouth and he’s not saying much

but keeping shtum, lips sealed, mum’s

the word. And I am positive, one hundred

per cent, that he won’t tell me what is

tickling him, not this time. I edge up, lean in

and steep over, allow myself to touch his

forehead, lay my palm flat on the long fringe

and with my thumb caress each fine brow,

stroke them in the right direction, feel the love

cold and wet from refrigeration.

19

I tell him about the people

who have been in touch, about

his parents, my brother, Mum and Tom,

the friends we’ve not seen in years,

the ones we spent good times with,

drinking and laughing, gallivanting.

I want him to hear how we’ve been

in contact, keen for him to know

they’re all thinking of him. I need him

to learn, one by one, the long list

of our life, of all those who love him.

In a hushed tone, speaking softly,

sorry for my silly embarrassment,

paranoid in case someone’s there –

a mortuary worker listening

from behind the curtain backdrop,

I stand in the low-ceilinged room

and force myself, try to keep it casual,

muster words to fill the quiet.

I run out of names, exhaust the list,

resort to love and apologies.

20

Other people who died at 38

include the Thracian Gladiator, Spartacus

and Roman Emperor, Lucius Verus

include the painter, Caravaggio

and the painter, Dora Carrington

include the composer, George Gershwin

and the composer, Felix Mendelssohn

include the novelist, Charlotte Brontë

and the novelist, Mary Wollstonecraft

include the poet, Federico García Lorca

and the poet, Guillaume Apollinaire

include Charles II of Spain

and Louis XVI of France

include William, Prince of Orange

and King Oswald of Northumbria

21

My Monarch

In his gown of white cotton with intricate brocade,

here he lies, collected and regal, my own medieval

King of England

He’d like that, of England, this his adopted country,

lying in a white cotton gown with intricate brocade.

His nose is finer than I recall, cheeks a little sunken.

Hair beneath the chin, like he’s missed a bit shaving.

Up to his chest, a dark purple velvet with gold trim.

He lies here in white cotton, the intricate brocade.

22

Aperture (Winter Poem)

This morning, red sky through a sash window,

a sloping glass roof and frosted path curving.

I didn’t venture out but instead took a photo,

to freeze time and to capture the moment.

A camera is a remarkable thing, how it preserves

what we see. Or later, invites us to look again.

Some people like to take a photo,

said the woman in the mortuary.

I would never have dreamed of taking a photo.

No sound, no flash, he took one, took several.

An innocent act. I will not forget the taking.

A camera is a phone is a knot in my stomach.

I hate the viewfinder and I hate the focus.

I hate the shutter release, the way light bounces.

23

Humorous Elbowings

after Elizabeth Bishop ‘The Bight’

Humorous elbowings, not serious ones.

Not dour elbowings that started the day

on the wrong arm. Elbowings that can

see what’s funny, elbowings that rib you,

tickle your sides. No sour-faced elbowings.

No no-nonsense elbowings, just elbowings

that don’t nudge, that aren’t dead or dying

but deadpan. That category of elbowings

with a glisten in their joint, those that love

to really take the mickey out of kneeings.

Elbowings that don’t do diets or obsess

over headlines or sorting the recycling or

train for years of evening classes to qualify

as Tax Accountants. Elbowings that crack

blue jokes like eggs producing blue chicks

whose blue runs off in the rain. Elbowings

you can trust in a crowd and know will

pay back every single penny. Elbowings

that conduct live orchestras to an absent

audience and take a modest bow. Elbowings