Summer poets season – Hannah Silva

By PRSD, on Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Here at the PRSD, we’re great believers in the power of words, which is why we got in touch with poets for our very special summer poets season.

First up is writer, performer and theatre director Hannah Silva, who explores language, performance and voice. But why take our word for it? Or even Jenni Doherty’s words for it for that matter? (Jenni is an editor with the Irish publishers Guildhall Press), who described Hannah as: “Innovative, experimental, raw, sexy, brave, original and a breath of fresh air.” You can find out for yourself by listening to the poem (with accompanying text), and even popping along to Uncut Poets at the Exeter Phoenix on July 24 (it’s in the Black Box and costs £5 or £3 and kicks off at 7.30pm.

[audio: http://newsandmediarepublic.org/images/stories/audio/facingstateslive.mp3]

This poem is Facing States, and has been previously publishes in Tears in the Fence.

Facing States

Writing to someone else’s music, I predict my own. It opens between notes. It licks. It licks. It likes the sound in a cell. The piano next door, everyone flees. In a derelict momentum we travel across bridges. A serpent and another empty house. An inside out. The belongings reveal. They reveal a body working in spite of itself. A fake sun on leaves. How did we leave these flakes of ourselves so visible? So visible.

Look at my lips. Look at how perfect they smile. Smile perfect look. And my skin; it is flawless, do you want to touch? It is like ebony, like gold. Silver, it is bronze pussy, it licks, it licks, it likes to be touched.

Wanting is this air thinking. Sun on now now no. I touch breasts. They milk smooth in the cupping. Nipples pink nipples drown dribble ripple down pubic. To kill this body with sin I run.

Look at him run. He is sweat thigh as dust cries. Look at his eyes. Cry their found look. His eyes look found. In his tears his running beats. What about your music? The streets fall behind and….

What are you doing? Why are you here? What’s that noise? I’m walking towards you. I’ve been here since yesterday. Will you photograph me naked? This is my perfect. Will you film me having sex? My perfect kindness. Have me.

You looked different yesterday. This is my shiver on a perfect dream. Playing on a grand piano while the disintegration surrounds. Will the torn sound repent? All the tears touch each other. They like to be touched. This is someone else’s disease. Shared she he here, descend

tktktktktktktktktktktktk too long taking too long taking looking what do you think about this bit? Ah oo looking a ee, are you ooee at I mouth? And wantee ah oo are standing so eee still that I ao know I know no one.

This, watched I. Until it, down the last page walked. It took the hand, and in hand in. Look at the dust. Look how smooth the mark is left. Look how the traces match the waiting costs. I think this is like whispering to friends who listen tight. The sounds at night seem to echo this thought. Like an emptiness.