Eloise HENDY’s debut—the blue room (Makina Books, 2020)—is a candid collection of poems that are sardonic, arresting and fiercely feminist. the blue room is dotted with sharp imagery—the heart rate of smashed glass, a dentist with stiff fingers, regurgitating confetti—and Hendy’s voice seems to relish the role of both salvager and confidante of memory. Retold glimpses punctuate the narrative, from the unpredictability of cyclical relationships to the rhythm of the things that we grasp. the blue room is available now for pre-order;—see here—and Hotel is delighted to host a triad of poems from the collection in advance of its 2020 publication.
hatching plans
it is the month of cruelty and no bluebells have yet tempered the flood plains but my temper has flared in two capital cities and a variety of county towns and pain is unbecoming yet so winningly resilient i find myself copying its gestures grief is banal and springtime is banal and grieving in springtime is inconvenient oh look a snowdrop oh look another failed relationship i find myself unbecoming yet winning at very little i want to be swallowed by seabirds like a crisp packet and ditched in guts miles out from the season of eggshells and walking with yolk on my soles oh look a murmur of starlings oh look a murmur of let’s not startle the children how obscene to care for rainfall or petrichor drifting from pavements i plant a garden in the corner of my bedroom light candles for myself and my companion self-pity how careless to only water the roadsides i find myself setting off sprinklers at inopportune moments i find myself having few opportune moments i wade from the bedroom to the kitchen and back i find the scent of cactus water similar to normal water and the texture of sadness like jade, like rust |
under the host
it runs in your family like a fugitive
an open sewer a kid nose i am always wiping
nipped sheens from your brow you are always yanking
on a false lead eating nettles with raw hands
how many times have you woken up a stranger
surrounded by dead men bottle caps chucked up
from your coat sleeves like a poisoning
like cheap confetti you are littered with canned heat
pass through my hips as smoke as moonshine
your grandmother lived out her days in tiny bones
you are always asking for rice and honey always wearing
hawthorn crowns i find you in the garden
with purple hands road soda rot-gut
i rub amethysts over your eyelids your mother
is a fire-eater your father is a brittle star he loves
with arms like whips i rub amethysts on your temple
you learnt to swallow like a snake jaw
yawning sinkhole a depression pick me up
with shaking hands white spirit there has never not been
thirst i find you in the outhouse with burning lips
i find you in the bedroom with dripping hair
your hands fervent to again baptise your gasping skull
an open sewer a kid nose i am always wiping
nipped sheens from your brow you are always yanking
on a false lead eating nettles with raw hands
how many times have you woken up a stranger
surrounded by dead men bottle caps chucked up
from your coat sleeves like a poisoning
like cheap confetti you are littered with canned heat
pass through my hips as smoke as moonshine
your grandmother lived out her days in tiny bones
you are always asking for rice and honey always wearing
hawthorn crowns i find you in the garden
with purple hands road soda rot-gut
i rub amethysts over your eyelids your mother
is a fire-eater your father is a brittle star he loves
with arms like whips i rub amethysts on your temple
you learnt to swallow like a snake jaw
yawning sinkhole a depression pick me up
with shaking hands white spirit there has never not been
thirst i find you in the outhouse with burning lips
i find you in the bedroom with dripping hair
your hands fervent to again baptise your gasping skull
it’s always lighter at the horizon
it’s always lighter at the horizon i want to say one true thing like buffalo mozzarella egg whites it hurts to look at snowdrops or when i get dressed it will be in white silk but i have always been too fond of staining my bedsheets leaving soiled phantoms strung up from doorframes i furl night sweats into the furrow of my lover’s brow or when i get dressed it will be in cut glass and dream of vessels weighed down by dust sheets regurgitating confetti and mothballs lace something blue there is nothing more beautiful than dissecting the bones of my lover’s hands studying the anatomy of belonging i dream of love and exchange in open waters i get salt on my skirts or when i get dressed it will be as a swan at daybreak i fall for false symbols like astrology mozzarella it helps to have distance or when i get dressed it will be in my own skin |
Eloise HENDY is a poet and writer living in London. Her work has appeared in Ambit, The Tangerine and The Stinging Fly, amongst others, and she was recently shortlisted for The White Review Poet’s Prize 2018.
‘hatching plans’ first appeared in Ambit;
‘it’s always lighter at the horizon’ was first published in The Glasgow Review of Books;
‘under the host’ appears on Hotel for the first time.
‘it’s always lighter at the horizon’ was first published in The Glasgow Review of Books;
‘under the host’ appears on Hotel for the first time.