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    The Underlook
    The Underlook
    The Underlook
    Ebook70 pages28 minutes

    The Underlook

    By Helen Seymour

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The Underlook balances precariously between the real and the surreal. Informed by experiences of physical disability, surgery, and medical trauma, this collection articulates a life lived under the bed, at the bottom of a well, in the glances exchanged between doctors. The poems revel in the uncanny and in the power of ignored or repressed spaces, summoning us under to 'listen … crouch down … press [a] hand against the white gloss shuddering'.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherThe Poetry Business
    Release dateDec 20, 2021
    ISBN9781914914010
    The Underlook

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      Book preview

      The Underlook - Helen Seymour

      Child Development Centre 1996

      Helen is starting to break her falls by putting out her arms. She’s had three episodes in which she has cried because of her hands; she says that they don’t hurt but is obviously uncomfortable. Helen is very shy in the clinic, and I hear very little speech. I understand that the content of her speech is normal but strangers have some difficulty understanding her.

      Crack

      She got drenched in blue staccato

      at four in the morning.

      Bit on the mouthpiece and sucked,

      chucked up beige in the back of the sick bus,

      ambulance yellow and green paramedics –

      it’s all nausea to me.

      Surgery was white dust and blood,

      she was all they talked about over taps and the nail brush:

      a girl had tried to plaster cast her heart

      and by the looks of what they pulled out

      it only half-worked.

      ‘She’ll be disappointed’

      one of them said.

      Six hours later her bed was empty.

      She was found wandering round the fracture clinic,

      falling in love with broken people.

      Pumped up with morphine, back into bed,

      by nightfall they found her

      making chains with her intestines.

      The sheets were blood and brown and black,

      the moon was a cut

      and her stitches were embedded, deep.

      Next to each other by the sinks again,

      turned the tap down to make sure he was heard:

      ‘Told you she’d be gutted.’

      The other one laughed and had to wash his hands,

      this time, because of the spit.

      Beep

      The anaesthetist I’ve been dating is really starting

      to annoy me, not once has he told me that I’ve still

      got some of the general anaesthetic left in me

      and it’s very rare but it can stay in you for this long,

      but as a special treat tonight, he’ll take me

      to the hospital, beep us into an empty room,

      I’ll lie down and he’ll put suction cups

      over each part of my face and drain it from me,

      it will be black and thick, he’ll pour

      it into a see-through plastic bag, clip the top

      and put it in the medical waste bin, clean my face

      with a cold wet wipe, and tell me, soon, I’ll be awake.

      Heaving

      Every time I see you, I vomit,

      and you see it, the beige-but-not-

      boring gloop of tea and saliva and

      yeast and satsuma. You never

      mention it, not anymore, you

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