Chick
By Hannah Lowe
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About this ebook
Hannah Lowe
Hannah Lowe was born in Ilford to an English mother and Jamaican-Chinese father. She has worked as a teacher of literature and creative writing, recently completed her work on a PhD, and is now a lecturer in Creative Writing at Kingston University. Her pamphlet The Hitcher (The Rialto, 2011) was widely praised. Her first book-length collection Chick (Bloodaxe Books, 2013) won the 2015 Michael Murphy Memorial Prize, was shortlisted for the Forward Prize for Best First Collection, the Fenton Aldeburgh First Collection Prize and the Seamus Heaney Centre Prize for Poetry, and was selected for the Poetry Book Society’s Next Generation Poets 2014 promotion. This was followed by two pamphlets, R x (sine wave peak, 2013) and Ormonde (Hercules Editions, 2014), and her family memoir Long Time No See (Periscope, 2015). She also read from Long Time, No See on BBC Radio 4's Book of the Week in 2015. Her second full-length collection, Chan, was published by Bloodaxe in 2016. She is the current poet in residence at Keats House and a commissioned writer on the Colonial Countryside Project with the University of Leicester and Peepal Tree Press.
Read more from Hannah Lowe
Chan Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Kids: Winner of the 2021 Costa Book of the Year Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5
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Book preview
Chick - Hannah Lowe
Chick
We talked about you all the time.
Dan said he saw you ironing cellophane.
I said you’d let me hold a thousand pounds.
We found a hollow-soled shoe.
My cousins loved your tricks.
They’d follow the lady, search your sleeves,
blow luck into your fist. Mum called you a croupier.
At school I said you drove a cab.
Most days you were back at dawn.
I watched through a crack as you slept,
a hump of blankets in the purple light,
the smell of sweat.
I saw you once Dad, knelt over cards,
strewn on the floor, panic in your face.
For God’s sake, Chick, you said.
You couldn’t do the marks.
Then, each Tuesday, £16.30 – a paper,
tobacco, one hand of Kalooki. You sunk
into the settee like you’d been kicked there,
shouted in the bathroom, asked me for money.
At the wake, a ring of phlegmy men
with yellow eyes and meaty skin, told me
what your name meant, placed the ace of hearts
across your coffin, flowers shaped as dice.
Thunder Snakes
Darling, that gambling was in my blood,
was always there like thunder snakes
that slide in through an open door,
across the boards and coil under the bed.
The dice were my first friends, then lacquered tiles
of winds and dragons, plum, bamboo.
A gambler is never lonely. There’s another man
who wants his money. He keeps the company
of kings and knaves, lies awake and flips them over
in his mind, while rain is spitting on the glass
and the anxious light of dawn
slides down the walls, across his body.
In Your Pockets
A roll of tens or twenties. Tons, you said
or monkeys, plums. I lifted what I could
for paint or felt-tip pens, you curled in bed
as I explored the shaded room, or stood
above you quietly, holding back my breath
to match the time of yours. After dinner,
you slapped cash onto the table-cloth
or fetched a fist of bracelets from the car,
a sack of dresses.
It was easy, getting
what you wanted till you couldn’t deal
a round of Pinochle or stop the trembling
of your hands around the steering wheel.
Then you were home. No need to snoop. All bets
were off. I didn’t pick your empty pockets.
Five Ways to Load a Dice
Like the yellowed cubes of knucklebone
they plucked from slag and ashes at Pompeii,
speared with pig bristle or flint
to slow the roll.
Or like your father in the rattling alleys
of Shanghai, who smelt his sweat among
the shooters crouched like toads around the felt,
who breathed into his palms
to warm the wax he’d painted on. These ways are