Sarah Hannah

I picked up Sarah Hannah's book, Longing Distance, last summer and it quickly became one of those books that I go back to whenever I need inspiration for my own writing. I've found myself flipping through its pages a lot these past few days, as I recently learned that Hannah passed away. She reportedly committed suicide, and this news has left me feeling heavyhearted. I was supposed to have her for my poetry seminar next semester, had exchanged a few e-mails with her about my thesis, and was just so eager to study the craft of poetry under her guidance. It's such a loss.

Note to Self
by Sarah Hannah

I was waiting for forecasts from Swansea,
For developments in prints, clear rubrics
Unperceived in the act of photography,
Some pattern in a flash of sun against
A second-story window in a row of flats
to Hackney district--
I was waiting for a map in clear Queen's
English, lines articulated by skilled
And steady hands,
Proper nouns declining certain ways.

Now I think they are trees,
And the map is in my hand.
It is my hand, just pointing east,
This side of the Atlantic,
One cricket pulsing under reeds
Well past his season. When he stops
I write it, Note to self: Return, address.
Note to self: Come see me.
Write it out in pokeweed juice,
Post it from a country mailbox
Along a crabbed embankment,
A riverway still turning darkly.
A home without a house,
A zip code lost in hemlocks.