This is poetry unadorned and raw. It hardly feels like you’re reading verse, so different is Sian Hughes’ collection The Missing from common views of poetry as flowery or difficult.
Rather than dealing in similes and metaphors, Hughes’ writing is direct, almost prose-like if it weren’t so effective. In just a few short lines of everyday language she can nail descriptions and encapsulate emotions.
Like the evocative Fireworks on Ward 4C, so vivid you can picture the scene and almost feel the disappointed desire and sadness in the room:
The lights are out in the playroom
where gathered at the windows
on flimsy metal legs a small crowd
of saline drips and monitors
send out quiet illuminations
in response to the distant trees.
Only the rockets reach us here.
A series of explosions at ground level
do no more than colour the sky dark green
as we wait for the next high-pitched yell
to descend into a whining thump
and a spray of pink and yellow stars.
The themes of the collection are around the death of a child, grief, soured and dysfunctional relationships. Many of the poems have glimmers of humour, but what is strongest throughout is an honest melancholy.
This, from the most famous poem in the collection, The Send-Off, for example, which documents the death of a baby:
No, you don’t need a bottle, cuddle,
special rabbit, teddy, bit of cloth.
You don’t even need to close your eyes.
They were born that way, sealed shut.
You are a hard lesson to learn,
soft though you are, and transparent.
There’s a mark on your forehead –
the simple flaw that separates
the living from the dead.
It looks like I dropped you downstairs.
I didn’t. I promise. It was like this:
somebody did some counting
and when they added you up
they found one part of you didn’t match.
It’s supposed to come out even.