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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781784100254 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Carcanet Press, Limited |
| Publication date: | 06/01/2015 |
| Edition description: | None |
| Pages: | 272 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Marrying the Ugly Millionaire
New and Collected Poems
By Sophie Hannah
Carcanet Press Ltd
Copyright © 2015 Sophie HannahAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78410-029-2
CHAPTER 1
Unbalanced
'Cambridge has a very unbalanced demographic – there's an unnaturally high concentration of intelligent people.'
There is a lot that's wrong with Cambridge, yes:
Houses are too expensive and too thin,
The Clifton Leisure Park is nothing less
Than standing proof that a grave mortal sin
Can be committed by a multiscreen
Cinema allied with a Travelodge.
A Cambridge street is no idyllic scene:
Often, on King's Parade, I have to dodge
Tourists who wish to bash me in the face
With their huge cameras. I contain my rage,
Remind myself that I don't own the place –
I must play nice and share my Chronophage,
And thank my stars. Hemmed in by Hills Road
traffic,
I savour the unbalanced demographic.
The Whole World Knows
I wasn't going to say this, but I will:
The Bourne Identity is on TV.
Hills Road is flat and nowhere near a hill.
I often wish that Woodlands Surgery
Would hire Greg House and his long-suffering
team:
Foreman, Chase, Cuddy, Cameron, Wilson too.
Don't tell me it's an unrealistic dream.
They don't exist, no, but the actors do
So something could be done, presumably
(Though I've heard Chase and Cameron make a
bid
For freedom at the end of Season 3).
I wasn't going to say that but I did.
I wasn't going to say this but I will.
We hear that line and know what to expect:
Words that will shrivel us and drive a chill
Through our warm hearts. Why bother to protect
Someone as reckless/ignorant/deranged
As your grim self? You've asked for trouble now.
You started this. I'd tactfully arranged
To swallow my disgust, avoid a row,
Spare your frail ego all my killer blows,
But since your disrespect is off the grid
You can take this:you're scum. The whole world
knows.
I wasn't going to say that but I did.
The introduction's part of the attack:
Protection offered only when withdrawn.
Ought I to want the lesser insult back?
Oh, for our hey-day, when you hid your scorn!
Anyway, I intend to steal your line,
Use it to herald harmless observations,
Hopes, sometimes dreams. I'm turning it benign.
I adore living close to railway stations!
Less than five minutes' walk to catch the train!
I wasn't going to say this but I will,
Because I feel like sharing an inane
Fact with a friend. Reader, you fit the bill.
My favourite painting cost me forty quid!
Here's looking at spontaneous outbursts, kid.
I wasn't going to say that, but I did.
Hodder Sales Conference
for Robyn Young, unsurprisingly
I stayed up far too late last night
With Robyn Young, again.
This morning, I don't feel quite right.
We stayed up drinking all last night.
There we both were at dawn's first light
Discussing love and men.
I stayed up far too late last night
With Robyn Young, again.
You'd think we had no books to write.
All those who left at ten
Woke up this morning feeling bright.
Perhaps they'd like our books to write.
My brain feels like it's had a fight.
Now for some Nurofen.
We stayed up drinking all last night.
Mustn't do that again.
Gratitude
Thank you so much for sending back my scarf!
Oh, right. You're welcome. Er ... you couldn't just go and say
thank you to my wife, could you? She was a bit upset that you
didn't send a card at the time.
(To wife) Thank you so much for sending back my scarf! I
meant to write and thank you, but I probably forgot?
Yes. You did.
I left my scarf behind. You sent it on.
I meant to buy and send a Thank You card
But I forgot, and soon the year was gone
And the year after that. My life was hard
In those two years, not in a tragic sense –
Not trapped, like Chilean miners, underground
Nor starved behind a grim high-voltage fence –
Hard in an arty way: the endless round
Of thriller panels, signings, foreign tours,
Mixed in with children's homework, costumes,
lice.
I'll show you my list if you'll show me yours.
Mine's longer. Take your pick: I'm either nice
And ludicrously busy, or a bitch
Who takes good deeds for granted, doesn't
care.
Here, have the stupid scarf back. Stitch by
stitch,
Unpick, unpick. My neck prefers cold air.
The Little Cushion and the Empty Chair
I'm paying you to listen and I'm paying you to care.
I don't have many problems. Well, let's say I have my
share.
Before we start this therapy, I think it would be fair
To warn you of my limits. You will need to be aware:
I cannot beat a cushion or accuse an empty chair.
The cushion's looking innocent. It's recently been plumped.
I'm having plaguing visions of it battered, torn and
slumped.
Yes, it's inanimate and therefore happy to be thumped.
I'm sure it has been, many times – by the depressed, the
dumped,
The discombobulated. I'll abstain. Say if you're stumped –
I'll understand. I'm stumped myself. I ought to know the
drill.
It's therapy. Why won't my mind co-operate and fill
Your empty chair with someone who ideally fits the bill?
It's not that I don't want to; I entirely lack the skill.
I can't berate a chair. I never could. I never will.
I also can't write letters that I'm never going to send.
(Might as well tell you now – you're going to find out in the
end.)
Lies I do well, but I cannot cathartically pretend,
Which has a happy side effect that I did not intend:
The chair thinks I'm all right. The little cushion is my
friend.
The Dalai Lama on Twitter
We do as much harm to ourselves and to others when we take offence as when we give offence.
I am following the Dalai Lama on Twitter
But the Dalai Lama is not yet following me.
That's fine. Things are as they are. I do not feel
bitter.
Enlightenment is his thing. Reciprocity?
Not so much. He is a spiritual big-hitter
And I write detective novels. It's easy to see
Why I'm following the Dalai Lama on Twitter
And the Dalai Lama is not yet following me.
He doesn't know how often I pick up litter,
How many signed books I have given away for
free,
Not to Russell Brand, Wayne Rooney or Gary
Glitter
But as raffle prizes for this or that charity,
And since I would hate to think of myself as a
quitter –
Because I, at least, know it isn't all about me –
I am following the Dalai Lama on Twitter
Even though he is self-absorbed to the nth
degree.
You'd think a sage of his rank would know about
karma,
About courtesy, and the decent thing to do.
Oh, follow me, follow me, follow me, Dalai
Lama!
I'm an expert on House MD and crime fiction
too.
I wouldn't DM you outlandish theories of
Dharma
Or make you retweet my latest good review.
I am following, on Twitter, the Dalai Lama
But the Dalai Lama has not thought to follow me
too.
(PS – Eckhart Tolle, this also applies to you.)
I Cannot In All Conscience Share a Platform With The Train
I cannot in all conscience share a platform with the train.
It's always overheated and refuses to explain.
Instead it scuttles off, as cowards do, to Audley End.
Condemn and shun the train or I'll no longer be your friend.
It isn't just the heat. You heard the buffet car admit
It has sold out of crisps. And that is not the worst of it.
The loos (the buffet's allies) smell of hamsters, and the
bloke
Who checked our tickets laughed – no doubt at an
offensive joke.
Don't tell me cars and planes pollute the air with noxious
fumes.
Yes, the Titanic stashed the rich and poor in separate
rooms.
Are you suggesting I'm to blame? Then why the veiled
attack?
My point is that this train should have a better luggage rack
–
One that would take my weight but not make stripe marks
on my bum.
Before I disembark, I challenge everyone to come
And check my reputation for that nonexistent stain.
I cannot in all conscience share a platform with the train.
The Storming
There are differences, one assumes,
between us and the people we know who storm out of
rooms,
sometimes crying, but not every time;
sometimes muttering, sometimes an angry marching mime
is their exit mode. Where do they go,
all those people who storm out of rooms? Will we ever
know?
Are there sandwiches there, and a flask
of hot tea? We won't find out if we never ask.
Once they've fled the provoking scene,
do they all get together somewhere? Do they reconvene
in a basement, an attic, a flat?
Do they also reserve the right to storm out of that,
and if so, do they take turns to storm
or link arms and desert en masse in a furious swarm,
leaving nobody in their wake?
Would there be any point in the storming, for nobody's
sake?
There are differences, one fears,
between us and the people who storm out of rooms in tears,
as if, having ruined it all
in the snug, they imagine they'll be better off in the hall,
and that anyone left in a chair
automatically gets to be wrong and to blame and unfair,
unaware of how bad stormers feel,
and quite lacking in feelings themselves. That is part of the
deal.
Notice how I don't leap to my feet,
how I nestle in cushions and curl myself into my seat.
Leave at once for the moral high ground.
I'll stay here by the fire, mocking storms and just lounging
around.
The One Who Should Be Crying
What are you crying for?
I'm the one who should be crying.
What are you writing a poem called
The One Who Should Be Crying for?
I'm the one who should be writing a poem
called Emotions Must Be Earned
And Exchanged, Like Vouchers, For Something Worth
Having, Like Rules.
What are you dreaming about me for?
I have never staged a show trial in a hall
while you signed your books in a cramped room next door.
I'm not responsible for what you dream about.
I've forced your authentic self into hiding? Prove it,
or this conversation ends here.
Multiple Warning Survivors Anonymous
Please don't warn me of things that won't
happen,
Like: the man who just sold me some land
Might in fact have a vat
Of the plague in his hat
And a new black death minutely planned.
Please don't mention unlikely disasters
That you think I'd be wise to avoid:
Getting stalked in a tent,
Or inhaling cement ...
Yes, my life could be swiftly destroyed
But it won't be, so no need to summon
Your great ally, the spectre of doom –
Babies, injured or dead!
Dearest friend, axe in head! –
While I'm safe, sitting still in a room.
I am sure I'll avoid strangulation
By a dangling invisible thread,
But my life's in bad shape
If I cannot escape
From these horrors you plant in my head.
Can I tell you what I think is likely?
And I hope this is not out of line:
Yes, there is a small chance
I'll be stabbed by Charles Dance
But I strongly suspect I'll be fine,
Or I would be, if only you'd zip it.
No, I won't wear a bullet-proof vest
When I go to Ikea.
Don't troll me with fear.
Here's a warning: just give it a rest
Or I'll certainly spend most of Sunday
Thinking you're an assiduous scourge –
Sure as peas grow in pods.
Please consider those odds
When you next feel the dread-warning urge.
If one day I am crushed by a hippo
Then my agent will give you a ring.
If you like you can mourn me,
But please, please – don't warn me.
Your warning's my only bad thing.
Two Poems about the Alternative Voting System (AV)
1) A LIMERICK
'Person X is my choice number one,
And my second choice ...'
'Don't jump the
gun!
Person X is still in. Wait, he's out and can't win.'
'So my second choice?'
'Sorry, we're
done.'
2) A HAIKU
1,2. 1,2,3.
1,2,3,4. 1,2,3.
1,2. 1,2. 1.
A Christmas Truce
What would I like for Christmas?
A close friend wants to know.
Perfume? A clock? A spa day?
Some tickets for a show?
'I need ideas by Monday,'
She huffs, as if I'm not
Sufficiently respectful
Of her present-buying slot,
Which will expire by Tuesday,
Her harried tone implies.
Art books? Posh wine? New teapot?
Brainstorm! Prioritise!
What do I want for Christmas?
I want you not to ask.
I'd rather get no gifts at all
Than be assigned the task
Of emailing a wish list
(One I must first create)
To all my friends and family
Before a certain date.
Can I propose a Christmas truce
To make my dreams come true?
Create no work for me and I'll
Create no work for you.
I've got enough possessions –
Shoes, coats, a diamond ring –
I want not to be asked to do
A time-consuming thing.
Yes, that's a proper present – Abstract,
but no less real.
What do you mean it seems as if
I don't care how you feel?
ALL RIGHT! I'll have a teapot.
What? Then wrap it in a fleece.
Yes, I will ring to say it got here
Safely, in one piece.
Frumpy Secret
I have a frumpy secret,
Too stupid to withhold.
It's practical, it's legal,
And it must not be told.
I have been doing something
I'm not supposed to do,
So everyday, so humdrum,
You'd nod off if you knew.
It lacks the haggard glamour
That ought to go with sin.
It's almost as dramatic
As emptying the bin
And yet, for crazy reasons
That I cannot explain
Without offending someone,
I'm stuck with this insane
And uninspiring secret
I've no desire to keep.
No, really. No, you wouldn't.
I can't. Go back to sleep.
If You Were Standing Where His Shadow Fell
The tyrant's favourite chocolates are Maltesers.
We roll them at his toes, surround his feet.
They drop through grates; we pluck them out with
tweezers.
He sulks. They are too round and brown and sweet.
The tyrant thinks a soppy armadillo
would make an ideal pet: tough shell, limp heart.
He keeps a doodle underneath his pillow.
The rest is down to us. He's done his part;
we have to find it, buy it, love it, feed it,
teach it that we're its slaves, ignore the swell
of indignation, since we'll never need it.
If you were standing where his shadow fell
you'd willingly succumb to his distortions.
You'd contemplate revenge, then rule it out.
He's living what he's earned, in hefty portions:
each day, each year. Oh, he is in no doubt
that we confide in lamps, bond with umbrellas,
in preference to him. This is our fault,
or so he thinks, confining us to cellars.
He'll remain unaware. Exalt! Exalt
when he releases you; embrace the terror
of his renewed attack before too long.
For your sake and for his, don't make the error
of showing him he's all the bad and wrong.
Frequently Asked Questions
1. Is the lying the point, or are the disappearances the point?
2. Do you worry about being found out?
3. Or do you have an enormous trust fund, so it doesn't really matter?
4. Why don't you tell everyone the same story?
5. Or would that be as tedious as telling the truth?
6. If you found out that I'd started lying to you, would you mind?
7. Do you secretly want to get caught?
8. Would you consider making an exception for books? Never lie about which ones you like or dislike? Never say you've read ones that you haven't?
9. Is it weird that if you answered 'yes' to question 8, I'd forgive you the rest?
10. Do you know that I know?
11. What's your email password? I won't use it, I promise. I'm only asking because Steven Spielberg said he'd never play badminton with me again if I didn't.
Growing Up Fast
Children grow up so madly fast.
My daughter, not yet eight,
Wants to know when a boyfriend will
Invite her on a date.
I'm all in favour of the trend.
At this rate, when she's ten
She will discover herbal tea
And Monarch of the Glen
And snuggly early nights with books.
Her drug-fuelled nightclub phase
Will be behind her (finished in
A record seven days,
Containing one 'I hate you', one
'God, that is so unfair'.)
By twelve, she'll love my killjoy streak
Because it proves I care,
By thirteen she'll have realised
She must suspect and doubt
Everything I have ever said.
At fourteen, she'll move out,
Find an alternative world view,
Forgive the gaping flaw
In mine for what it put her through,
And then she'll be mature.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Marrying the Ugly Millionaire by Sophie Hannah. Copyright © 2015 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
New Poems,From Early Bird Blues,
From Second Helping of Your Heart,
The Hero and the Girl Next Door,
Hotels Like Houses,
Leaving and Leaving You,
First of the Last Chances,
Pessimism for Beginners,
A Note on the Text,
Acknowledgements,
Index of Titles,
Index of First Lines,