Hurt By Paradise

Okay, right.

This is what I'm gonna do.

Practice.

The unbearable night, the night building that washes water,

the night wind that sounds like trapped radiator spirits.

The night red light mill.

And what's that other French surrealist writer called?

Paul Eluard?

Or is it Elua?

Do you pronounce the d?

E-L-U-A.

The night full of ship's tears,

the night window, the pains.

Ah shit!

Thought I edited that line out.

The night full of ship's tears,

and the mystery that calls you old fashioned.

The water you had planned under the ground,

to save a generation.

The night walls that shudder flowers,

the equal distances from arms and closed eyes.

And the gardens that make a city wide.

Yeah, it's definitely the one I'm gonna read to him first.

Okay, here we go.

You can do it.

Just think of them on the toilet.

Oh, and remember to read the poems slowly.

And make eye contact.

Okay, breathe.

Fitzer radio group

Submissions?

Yeah, well actually I don't deal with those.

Okay, when did you send that?

And the title was?

"Think Fast, The Future is a Rapid Dog."

No.

Well, I think I might have remembered that one.

No, okay, all right thank you very much.

Celeste

Oh, Jonathan.

Hi.

Hi.

Tea?

Oh, ahhh no, I'm fine, thank you.

So, have you got something to show me?

Such an honor.

Oh.

Just let me.

-And there was... -Aha, mmmh.

Ooh and there was...

No no ahah.

You know, Celeste my father left us,

it was just me, my mom and my little brother.

We only started speaking last year.

Oh no, my father didn't leave us

he's just having a break.

This book is more of an ode to him than a revenge book

if you know what I mean.

Well, I guess it's a universal feeling.

Loss, longing.

Maybe I could read you one.

No, I have to read poetry into myself

in my own private space.

"Hurt by Paradise."

I like it.

Most of these poems are like memories

that have haunted me in some way.

You know, people expect you to have hate

if someone just leaves without dying, but I don't.

I get it...

Well, I'm sure what you've written is impactful.

There are little boys and girls everywhere

in the same position coming of age, so important.

But it's not gonna sell.

Ooh

Is just so hard to get a serious poet's name

to stick in people's heads.

I mean, unless they die in some tragic way.

Look at Sylvia Plath.

A genius her whole life and practically ignored,

until she stuck her head in the oven.

Do you think Ted didn't try hard

to push Sylvia when she was alive.

He knew she was great.

I bet he raved about her at feybar, cheese and wine parties

all over Fitzrovia.

Just one measly collection

was all that was published in her lifetime.

No one gave a shit.

Then one sultry, obituary photo in the Times

and bang, Ariel and the Bell Jar.

Which makes me think your next move

should be adapting this into a novel.

But it's perfect.

It's like if I remove one word

the whole thing would collapse.

You know that Emma Morris book,

has been translated into 30 different languages,

and the rights have been bought to be made into a movie.

She's made millions.

You could always do poetry on the side.

She's in the top 10 international bestsellers list now.

Publishers are struggling.

We all are.

I can barely afford my children's school fees.

The middle class has gone.

Look, I really do admire your determination.

Why don't you, think about what I said and keep in touch.

How does that sound?

Harriet Toodie on line two.

Aah, great,

just finishing here.

Yeah, well I must dash, I've actually got a meeting.

Been speaking to a couple of publishers directly.

There really is a new revolution of writers and poets

who just, you know, aren't afraid to put it out there.

Exactly.

Oh, I better go.

-Okay. -Okay.

It's been really inspiring.

Thanks.

I truly admire your spirit.

Right.

There you are.

Yes, we have some news.

That's so patronizing.

Why don't we just re-work it into a novel?

Re-work it into a bunch of lies.

Think I'm conformist.

"Yeah yeah, have you hear of Emma Morris?

Emma Morris."

No I've not heard of Emma Morris.

Hi, dad it's Celeste.

Wait do I say dad?

Hello.

Fuck this is useless

Never gonna find him.

Come in, it's open.

Hey Jimmy?

Hey.

Hi.

Had the worst day, Jimmy slept all morning.

So I managed to get some reading done in the library

but then he woke up in the worst mood.

He threw everything on the floor.

Oh, and you owe me another 12 pounds.

It started raining and he didn't have his rain coat,

so I got him this one, from the charity shop over the road.

All right, that's fine.

Let me just have a...

Is it okay if I pay you Friday?

Everything lives unearthed.

Tiny cups and scissors hung over.

Lilly's in heaven, marching in glass, on the table.

Our child arranging the sky.

Sleeping between the doorway, blue garments.

An ocean on the bedroom floor.

Your scent a kind of black under heaven,

all raging and soft, breaking the tracks of summer.

A chapel in the fourth wall.

Always lit up and nursing.

We barely notice the ceiling falling onto our bed.

Emptying out the aerial stars,

that have trapped our whole lives till now.

Walked with us through hysteria,

and trees made in the empty muse.

We live in one room, the BT Tower our lighthouse.

We have become two mothers.

We have become two mothers.

Can I just read you these four lines?

Just feel like, they really explain the world,

Jimmy is gonna have to live in.

Just four lines.

God is bored of us now.

She sides with the animals and the weather,

and they watch on digital alien rampage,

with cool, sad eyes.

What do you think?

Yeah.

Yeah, it's really, what's that word?

I could have paid these

if I got accepted onto that medical trial.

They tried to give me the flu but apparently I'm immune.

Do you think it's mad.

I've been looking at all the Blackwoods in the phone book

to find my father again.

These are the ones I could find.

He left when I was five.

I mean the mad thing is I don't even know

what he looks like now.