Monday, 25 June 2018

A poem by Susannah Hart

Steve’s party

Next to the vol-au-vents and sausages
there’s a cluster of pressed flesh and cleavage,
a general squeezing in of belts and bulging
out of bellies. Less hair now on the men,
but where it’s there, it’s slicked back, flattened
to the retiring scalp. Over the golf course the sun’s
doing that thing it does, that melting ice-cream
raspberry ripple stuff that grabs something inside
you, so you want to shout stop stop stop
turn the music off break the windows burst
the balloons. The kids can’t bear to watch
the beerish leering and Pete dancing with Sue
and the dads’ hands on the mums’ posh-frocked
backsides. They think you’re beyond that now,
beyond the sex and the chase, empty seedbeds
grateful just to have got this far. And all at once
you recognise what miracle is, this extraordinary
banal miracle of the body surviving, still here
still singing, raising your dry white wine and
singing unabashed Happy Birthday dear Stephen
as outside unnoticed the sun sulks off to bed

Susannah Hart is a London-based poet who is on the board of Magma and is the co-editor of Magma 70, The Europe Issue. She also works as a brand consultant. Her poetry has been widely published in magazines and online, and her first collection Out of True is due to be published by Live Canon later this year.

1 comment:

  1. Fab poem, I love its words, its sentiment and its directness.