Takeaway E-Book

Georgie Woodhead

• Herausgeber: The Poetry Business
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 18

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Takeaway unflinchingly observes a world where everyone is doing their best to survive, often through a lens of the mealtimes that bring us together and set us apart; whether that's a takeaway eaten in a car park, chickpeas 'speared like love-struck hearts', or a multi-generational cooking lesson. Brimming with inventive and tactile imagery, these poems play with time, until it is suspended or flowing backwards through domestic interiors where stereos send secret messages and a poltergeist misses doing the washing up.

Leseprobe

Published 2021 by

New Poets List

The Poetry Business

Campo House,

54 Campo Lane,

Sheffield S1 2EG

Copyright © Georgie Woodhead 2021

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-912196-62-3

eBook ISBN 978-1-912196-63-0

Typeset by The Poetry Business

Printed by Biddles, Sheffield

Smith|Doorstop Books are a member of Inpress:

www.inpressbooks.co.uk

Distributed by NBN International, 1 Deltic Avenue,

Rooksley, Milton Keynes MK13 8LD

The Poetry Business gratefully acknowledges the support of Arts Council England.

Contents

Takeaway

When my uncle stood at the top of the office block roof

Backtrack

Women who stand on one leg

Baby

Tim

Collins

Monkey Men

The Boxer

Pebbles

Why Mum Bit Her Tongue at the Crematorium

Baba’s Burgers

What I Know About Alice

Candyfloss

Poltergeist

Dumplings

Takeaway

After Sammy Gooch

After the explosion, we got a Chinese takeaway and sat

pulled up outside Asda crunching through prawn crackers

that looked like freeze-dried jellyfish. Our mouths too busy

to speak about the bodies we saw rag-doll flung

before the sound even cracked. The apartment windows

shattering in unison like a magic trick. The way water

and air were sucked out so the world became a dust-flood

that crept under our tongues and hid like ants. Steam choked

the car windscreen like a sauna and we glugged our Coke,

tangy and cold, while I replayed, in slow-mo, the man

who hobbled out onto the street dragging a snapped

toothpick leg. The girl with a dark red brisket gash

across her cheek like raw steak with tarmac-black

grains peppercorning her skin. Instead of words,

we kept eating, and you turned on the radio to hits

from the ’80s, and we dipped into the sweetness

of hoisin sauce, trying not to think of its sticky darkness,

our lips moving along to Jimmy – Don’t Leave Me This Way.

When my uncle stood at the top of the office block roof

he swayed from side to side, half-glugged bottle locked

in his burning fingers, his silhouette framed by the black hole of night,

flecks of scornful planets blinked behind his back. The whole world

stretched out in front of him like the sides of a fallen down box,