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Charlotte Gann
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the poet
Charlotte Gann is a writer and editor from Sussex who enjoys walking the South Downs in her spare time. Her first pamphlet was The Long Woman, which saw her shortlisted for the Michael Marks Award in 2012. Two full collections followed: Noir and The Girl Who Cried, as well as another pamphlet, Cargo. Charlotte also founded and runs online hub The Understory Conversation: a space for fellow writers to meet, talk and share in small groups and one to one.
the poems
The house
with no door
The house with no door looks welcoming,
with its wisteria and robins. I can see,
through the kitchen window, a bowl
of cherries. They’re the brightest, darkest,
shiniest cherries. But that window’s shut
and bolted. I move on round. I know
I shouldn’t walk on flowerbeds.
I keep thinking the door must be around
the next corner. I’ve lost count now
how many times I’ve circumnavigated.
In the
Classroom of Touch
This is how you hold a person, Mr Farnham says
demonstrating. Your touch needs to be light
but firm. Felt in the skin like a weight, a squeeze.
No sudden movements, please. Still is best.
The pupil he’s performing on closes her eyes,
head slightly folded like a bird’s.
She’s collapsed into his woollen front. See how
my arms arc? the teacher asks his class.
Hold each other like precious cargo.
Never be rough. Don’t shove into
the person you love. Don’t steal touch.
Be clear about this: we give a hug. Thanks Lydia,
back to your seat now. Giles–? The boy
stares down at his feet, face pink. His worst subject.
Mr Farnham waits quietly, bends his head,
smiles. C’mon Giles, he says gently. The boy
staggers down the ragged aisle between assorted
classmates. Waits while this man
opens his arms. Falls forward, hiding his face,
his sobs. The teacher enfolds him carefully,
whispers, You’re doing well, Giles.
Calling Time
So I’d sit at my desk waiting and hoping and trembling
before someone would say it – maybe me –
A quick drink after work – and we’d go
night after night, pint after pint after pint.
We’d smoke sixty cigarettes, drink drink after drink
starting at six when seven thirty seemed another, safe country
but suddenly was upon us, then long gone and it’s
more like half nine and our table a landscape of
pint glasses and overflowing ashtrays
after trip upon trip to the cigarette machine in the hallway
and turn after turn to the bar for another round,
another tray of toppling filled glasses
and laughter and it still only Tuesday, say,
and then the bar staff flashing the lights on and off
and it must be after eleven
and they’re calling a warning
and stacking chairs at the other end of the narrow room
and we’re the only table left and still
we stay drinking and shouting
until they call ‘Time’ and yank the noisy chain grille down
over the bar and padlock it and turn the lights off
and we grope our way blindly foghorning
back up the stairs and even then
not out into the night, contrite, rushing for last Tubes
but into the hotel bar for residents only
where the drinks are even more expensive
and it’s just us two now usually
and we order ‘A night cap’ then ‘One for the road’
lighting cold fags and slumping on that
black-leather slidey sofa in this pot-planted
environment with piano muzac playing softly
and it’s hard now to keep my spirits up
with you falling silent beside me so near and far away.
Publishing credits
The house with no door: The Lyrical Aye: Richie McCaffery
Calling Time: London Grip (Summer 2022)
In The Classroom of Touch: The Rialto (No. 81)