3 poems by David Hanlon - Mineral Lit Mag Featured Poets Series
Your Love, A Skylight
I’m sitting in my bedroom eating a cereal bar from the food delivery you fetched
two days ago, when I was too unwell to leave the house,
reflecting on how, recently, when I furled back
the delicate cloth of my vulnerability,
further back than ever,
you saw me,
as you see me;
wrapped it around you—said, “I’m here”,
said, “You’re strong.”
How dark our rooms would be without
your hoisted window-heart,
a half-staff flag, steadfast
as the cyclical day & night.
I look up, your face, transparent.
I bask in your church-light glow,
catch sight of an aeroplane flying over me.
I mollify
in the cloudless clarity
of the surrounding cerulean cloth-
cut sky.
All of you,
all at once,
you, skylight; giver of
light,
air,
shelter.
I’m sitting in my bedroom eating a cereal bar from the food delivery you fetched
two days ago, when I was too unwell to leave the house,
reflecting on how, recently, when I furled back
the delicate cloth of my vulnerability,
further back than ever,
you saw me,
as you see me;
wrapped it around you—said, “I’m here”,
said, “You’re strong.”
How dark our rooms would be without
your hoisted window-heart,
a half-staff flag, steadfast
as the cyclical day & night.
I look up, your face, transparent.
I bask in your church-light glow,
catch sight of an aeroplane flying over me.
I mollify
in the cloudless clarity
of the surrounding cerulean cloth-
cut sky.
All of you,
all at once,
you, skylight; giver of
light,
air,
shelter.
Moon takes the night off
Did we ever stop and think how old she is?
Night shifts, seven days a week,
she, creaking manager of the sky,
overused muse, proselytized deity;
lunar lag,
distance glint:
a jewel-dazzled sham, a
torch held hostage.
Tireless labour;
nights when she was just a sliver of silver:
an indicator,
yet we only ever looked up
at what she gave us.
Tonight, she can’t face
that galactic responsibility
of birthing each new day
within her crust-calloused hands:
unfastening her velvet cloak of dusk,
uncovering dawn.
She, a yellow-white brooch holding
nocturnal life in place.
She’ll be reprimanded for this night off,
blamed for the shortened day, for the
low ocean tides:
a greyed coin tarnished, discarded down a drain.
We search for a new satellite, a new
light-source for night,
knowing we’ve atrophied her astronomical body,
siphoned it underground.
Did we ever stop and think how old she is?
Night shifts, seven days a week,
she, creaking manager of the sky,
overused muse, proselytized deity;
lunar lag,
distance glint:
a jewel-dazzled sham, a
torch held hostage.
Tireless labour;
nights when she was just a sliver of silver:
an indicator,
yet we only ever looked up
at what she gave us.
Tonight, she can’t face
that galactic responsibility
of birthing each new day
within her crust-calloused hands:
unfastening her velvet cloak of dusk,
uncovering dawn.
She, a yellow-white brooch holding
nocturnal life in place.
She’ll be reprimanded for this night off,
blamed for the shortened day, for the
low ocean tides:
a greyed coin tarnished, discarded down a drain.
We search for a new satellite, a new
light-source for night,
knowing we’ve atrophied her astronomical body,
siphoned it underground.
Mending
It saved my life:
valuing sensibility
as finality.
A drilling fatigue--
I bury my whaled on dis-
ease, dismembering
something, called
likeability into a
chameleon’s tongue
It saved my life
excess spillage trauma
minimizing a steam roll
tongue tip slice;
down the middle, pint
glass snaking. Fury-hiss:
I am stitching myself
together between the messes
of the night sky.
Unraveling tapestry, I,
animal hungry,
un-gorging chaos into
neglected homes.
My mouth is a splintered window, padlocked doors for eyes.
This lake is a
labyrinth, is a mirror.
I gaze in.
I admire the patch-
work.
It saved my life:
valuing sensibility
as finality.
A drilling fatigue--
I bury my whaled on dis-
ease, dismembering
something, called
likeability into a
chameleon’s tongue
It saved my life
excess spillage trauma
minimizing a steam roll
tongue tip slice;
down the middle, pint
glass snaking. Fury-hiss:
I am stitching myself
together between the messes
of the night sky.
Unraveling tapestry, I,
animal hungry,
un-gorging chaos into
neglected homes.
My mouth is a splintered window, padlocked doors for eyes.
This lake is a
labyrinth, is a mirror.
I gaze in.
I admire the patch-
work.
5 Questions with David Hanlon
What inspired these poems?
The first poem, ‘Your love, a skylight', was inspired by thinking of a dear friend who had brought food shopping to my door whilst I was self-isolating recently. I have not long ago moved into a new bedroom and it is an attic room with a skylight. In the moment when I was thinking of, and appreciating, my close friend's love, sunlight was beaming through the skylight. It was beautiful: so pure and bright; the way it lit up the box room and made it appear bigger. It was the perfect metaphor for the love my wonderful friend gives.
The second poem, 'Moon takes the night off', was inspired by another poem from my debut poetry collection, 'Spectrum of Flight', named ‘Moon as masked self’. I was re-reading this poem that I had written and thinking about how I had personified the moon. In this poem the moon, as a constant source of light, is a metaphor for the “happy face” I put on in front of others when going through my depression, and how exhausting constantly wearing this mask is. I was thinking about work and how much I felt I had to wear this mask at work. This made me think of the moon as an employee, a manager even, who works every night: as the moon is always there (in the sky) every night, and the poem came from this idea.
The third poem, ‘Mending’, was inspired by my past and my chaotic lifestyle. I was thinking about peer pressure and how undisciplined I was when I was younger. I was thinking how this ties in with low self-esteem: knowing one’s own boundaries and asserting them boosts our self-worth and is so vital in maintaining a strong sense of self. I didn’t know any of this back then, but as I reflect now, I realise how this lack of boundaries and assertiveness contributed to a lot of my struggles at the time.
Describe your writing process.
I’m a scatterbrain and so my writing process is just as disorganised, unpredictable and sporadic. I would say I usually get a ‘spark’ where I’ll be thinking about something metaphysical or concerning human nature and then I’ll see an object/something visual that will reflect that thought. I usually start with this one metaphor and then the poem blooms from this. I particularly like constructing a whole poem using an extended metaphor. The first poem in my collection, ‘I’ll never forget the dead fox on the roadside with its guts hanging out’, is a prime example of this. In this poem the image of a disembowelled fox is a metaphor for an array of personal pain, trauma and psychological musings.
If you could meet any poet, who would you want to meet and why?
Oh, there are so many greats to choose from! But I would have to say that it would be Andrew McMillan. I only started writing and avidly reading poetry four or so years ago, and McMillan’s collection, ‘Physical’, was the first complete collection I read. I found it truly inspiring; it resonated with me deeply and gave me the confidence and courage to explore my own struggles with masculinity and sexuality. It is an incredible book. I hadn’t read anything like it before. That level of emotional honesty and insight was so refreshing and forceful. I can’t wait to purchase his most recent collection, ‘Playtime’, when I have a bit more money!
What are three of your favourite words? What do you like about them?
I like the word ‘furl’: to roll up or fold something. I like the way it presents as a combination of ‘fur’ and ‘curl’ and so I imagine a fluffy cat curling up into a ball. This is a comforting image. I like that it instantly makes me thing of this image, yet it is also not a true reflection of the meaning of the term. To ‘furl’ does mean to curl but it has nothing to do with fur. It means I must work my brain to think beyond this instant image that appears.
The word ‘vulnerable’ is such an important word for me. Realising that being vulnerable is not a weakness but a strength has been a lifesaver. I love how turning this definition on its head has such a powerful impact. There are so many messages society feeds us that are so damaging to our mental wellbeing. The irony is that thinking vulnerability is a weakness causes us to not show our emotions, which causes us to be weak. Accepting and showing our vulnerability is a strength. Knowing when we need help from another (as we all do) and asking for it when we need it is a strength. It also shows us for what we are: human, and that is beautiful.
The third word is ‘kind’. I just love this word because I believe it is a quality that we should all strive to possess. I’ve learned to value kindness deeply. It is one of the most beautiful and positive things we can show to another being. I put effort into being kind to others. The more we put our energy into positive and loving qualities such as kindness the healthier we become. It gives me peace, vitality and strength. There is an extraordinary power to kindness. If there was ever a source of happiness and fulfillment it must be it.
If your poetry was a colour, what colour would it be?
It would have to be blue. I have a poem in my debut collection titled, ‘On blue’, which explores gender stereotypes and toxic masculinity. Blue is the ultimate ‘boys’ colour and I was not the ultimate ‘boy’. What’s interesting is that it was still my favourite colour. When I think of blue now, I think of the sky and the ocean. There is a sense of freedom and possibility attached to these vast expanses. My book, ‘Spectrum of Flight’ is all about breaking free from this toxic blue and flying into the blue of the open sky. Blue then becomes redefined, trapped becomes freedom. It’s turned on its head, just like the meaning of vulnerable.
The first poem, ‘Your love, a skylight', was inspired by thinking of a dear friend who had brought food shopping to my door whilst I was self-isolating recently. I have not long ago moved into a new bedroom and it is an attic room with a skylight. In the moment when I was thinking of, and appreciating, my close friend's love, sunlight was beaming through the skylight. It was beautiful: so pure and bright; the way it lit up the box room and made it appear bigger. It was the perfect metaphor for the love my wonderful friend gives.
The second poem, 'Moon takes the night off', was inspired by another poem from my debut poetry collection, 'Spectrum of Flight', named ‘Moon as masked self’. I was re-reading this poem that I had written and thinking about how I had personified the moon. In this poem the moon, as a constant source of light, is a metaphor for the “happy face” I put on in front of others when going through my depression, and how exhausting constantly wearing this mask is. I was thinking about work and how much I felt I had to wear this mask at work. This made me think of the moon as an employee, a manager even, who works every night: as the moon is always there (in the sky) every night, and the poem came from this idea.
The third poem, ‘Mending’, was inspired by my past and my chaotic lifestyle. I was thinking about peer pressure and how undisciplined I was when I was younger. I was thinking how this ties in with low self-esteem: knowing one’s own boundaries and asserting them boosts our self-worth and is so vital in maintaining a strong sense of self. I didn’t know any of this back then, but as I reflect now, I realise how this lack of boundaries and assertiveness contributed to a lot of my struggles at the time.
Describe your writing process.
I’m a scatterbrain and so my writing process is just as disorganised, unpredictable and sporadic. I would say I usually get a ‘spark’ where I’ll be thinking about something metaphysical or concerning human nature and then I’ll see an object/something visual that will reflect that thought. I usually start with this one metaphor and then the poem blooms from this. I particularly like constructing a whole poem using an extended metaphor. The first poem in my collection, ‘I’ll never forget the dead fox on the roadside with its guts hanging out’, is a prime example of this. In this poem the image of a disembowelled fox is a metaphor for an array of personal pain, trauma and psychological musings.
If you could meet any poet, who would you want to meet and why?
Oh, there are so many greats to choose from! But I would have to say that it would be Andrew McMillan. I only started writing and avidly reading poetry four or so years ago, and McMillan’s collection, ‘Physical’, was the first complete collection I read. I found it truly inspiring; it resonated with me deeply and gave me the confidence and courage to explore my own struggles with masculinity and sexuality. It is an incredible book. I hadn’t read anything like it before. That level of emotional honesty and insight was so refreshing and forceful. I can’t wait to purchase his most recent collection, ‘Playtime’, when I have a bit more money!
What are three of your favourite words? What do you like about them?
I like the word ‘furl’: to roll up or fold something. I like the way it presents as a combination of ‘fur’ and ‘curl’ and so I imagine a fluffy cat curling up into a ball. This is a comforting image. I like that it instantly makes me thing of this image, yet it is also not a true reflection of the meaning of the term. To ‘furl’ does mean to curl but it has nothing to do with fur. It means I must work my brain to think beyond this instant image that appears.
The word ‘vulnerable’ is such an important word for me. Realising that being vulnerable is not a weakness but a strength has been a lifesaver. I love how turning this definition on its head has such a powerful impact. There are so many messages society feeds us that are so damaging to our mental wellbeing. The irony is that thinking vulnerability is a weakness causes us to not show our emotions, which causes us to be weak. Accepting and showing our vulnerability is a strength. Knowing when we need help from another (as we all do) and asking for it when we need it is a strength. It also shows us for what we are: human, and that is beautiful.
The third word is ‘kind’. I just love this word because I believe it is a quality that we should all strive to possess. I’ve learned to value kindness deeply. It is one of the most beautiful and positive things we can show to another being. I put effort into being kind to others. The more we put our energy into positive and loving qualities such as kindness the healthier we become. It gives me peace, vitality and strength. There is an extraordinary power to kindness. If there was ever a source of happiness and fulfillment it must be it.
If your poetry was a colour, what colour would it be?
It would have to be blue. I have a poem in my debut collection titled, ‘On blue’, which explores gender stereotypes and toxic masculinity. Blue is the ultimate ‘boys’ colour and I was not the ultimate ‘boy’. What’s interesting is that it was still my favourite colour. When I think of blue now, I think of the sky and the ocean. There is a sense of freedom and possibility attached to these vast expanses. My book, ‘Spectrum of Flight’ is all about breaking free from this toxic blue and flying into the blue of the open sky. Blue then becomes redefined, trapped becomes freedom. It’s turned on its head, just like the meaning of vulnerable.
David Hanlon is a confessional poet from Cardiff, Wales, now living in Bristol, England. He is a Best of the Net nominee. You can find his work online in over 40 online magazines. His first chapbook Spectrum of Flight is available for purchase now at Animal Heart Press.