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© Helicon Magazine 2019

University of Bristol

 

Part 3

Poetry by Hannah Green
Analysed by Fleur Adderley

Homage to Queen Patti 

Just Kids, 

on a mundane train that’s commuter-ville bound,

Rain spats glass and I am thunderstruck,

Dumbstruck, knocked flat and black and blue

By words on a page, as empty-eyed bodies press close,

And I see my own small life play out like a ghost. 

 

Beyond, there are smokey New York Streets

As they were in myth, in truth, in hope

Some fabled lands where names like gods

Produce a prayer,

And glimpses of greatness so quickly called to ash

Bright stars and dark bars and hotel floors

Joplin and Dylan and Sedgwick and Smith

Hot, white angels in the darkened doorway of the past,

Slip-shod Salomes and dark veined saints

Jim Morrison palely upon his cross and it smells

Like dirt and love and city street trash

And the poetry

In the screams of heroine queens in a Greenwich night

The hot and heavy smoke of the limelight

The stinging incense at the altar of fame, the cusp of beauty

And the dull darkening of pain.

Hannah Green’s words are written to be spoken softly in dimly lit rooms into the minds of wistful thinkers. Her delicacy in writing and character is rather hypnotic and it is as if the words she speaks are mere exhalations of her essence. She is one of those writers who has good shit to say but will only ever grace the ears who truly listen, which means that when she opens her art up to you its something very special, like getting an invite into Smith and Mapplethorpe’s room at the Chelsea. She is an old soul who has imprinted her marks onto this earth many times before, but she is thoughtfully and elegantly growing as an artist once more, and I must say it is a very exciting thing to watch. 

This work of hers delves into the depths of the beauty and horror plastered across the cityscape of seventies New York. The chaos and the calm of the death, fame and artistry that saturated so many bruised lives fascinates Green. She holds the legacies of these masters cupped in her hands as she rushes through the hot sweaty city grit and prominent veins and smoke and painful chord progressions and sex and so on. She peers into that world where the smoke still rises despite the fire burning out bright and quick within moments of it setting alight.