The honest melancholy of Sian Hughes’s The Missing

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 sadnessĀ 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.

Come on in! – Charles Bukowski

Come on in! is an evocative book of poems that conjures up a visceral sense of down-at-heel urban America.

There are themes here which won’t surprise: alcoholism, cigarettes, poverty, sex, cheap apartments, homelessness. But also reflections on being a successful writer and the contrast between the down-and-out years and the later years of Bukowski’s life.

The style of poetry is distinctively Bukowski’s: paired down language and short lines, often just a few words, are used to create strong feelings, with occasional metaphors or pieces of imagery that bring the whole thing to life. Like this:

but I cannot sleep and I sit in the kitchen

with a big black fly

that goes around and around and around

like a piece of snot grown a

heart,

– from first family

 

The comparison with the beat poets is an obvious one, but Bukowsi isn’t trying as hard as Ginsberg et al and so he impresses so much more with his simplicity. Like this, a poem that is in fact about the beats:

my opinion remains the

same: writing is done

one person

at a time

one place

at a time

and all the gatherings

of

the

flock

have very little

to do

with

anything.

 

any one of them

could have made

a decent living as a

bill collector or a

used car

salesman

 

and they still

could

make an honest living

instead of bitching about

changes of fashion and

the ways of fate.

– from the ‘Beats’

There’s something a little samey about reading these poems one after another; it is best, perhaps, to dip in and read five or so at a time. They are, though, wonderful bits of writing. Short, often vignette-like; this is poetry as its simplest, rawest, funniest, most surprising.