SurVision Magazine / Hannah Linden

The Past Is Dead, the Past Did Not Exist

All my music ever wanted was to tunnel into forever through the wall of Now.
—Richard Powers, Orfeo

You are the harmonic of the vowel. This showdown
puts bullets into the words that are the new taboo.
We are not going to talk about any of this.

I want to make new music. I died somewhere
between the covers of the story I was writing
in my head. The one with no I.

Someone lived in the wall of Now. Books make good
bricks. Was it comfortable? Are you asking me
a question? You are not the same person. That you died.

I should have made love to the notes
in my inner ear. I am pregnant with a song
that will dissonate before reception.

Something irreligious has wormed
its way into my thinking. Lines form.
Was I going to compose you a story?

Inside/Outside

Hide my complaints in the bottom drawer
where their patterns will flower into old photographs.
Rinse the jumble before it gets saddled to my youth.
Someone is going to call it treasure one day
and wish it back with the friends who baked
memories into pies—four and twenty blackbirds
who all flew away before they could be eaten.

We were all so rude then, excitement-like wreckage
on the beach. I scavenge an old oak battered
into a smooth fragment and call it my inspiration.
I've forgotten why I loved you. These mysteries
mount up like nettles on a compost heap.
There's no answer that could rid me of them.

Hannah Linden is from Devon, England. Her debut pamphlet is The Beautiful Open Sky (V. Press, 2022). She won the Cafe Writers Poetry Competition in 2021.

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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English. Issue Fifteen HANNAH LINDEN The Past Is Dead, the Past Did Not Exist All my music ever wanted was to tunnel into forever through the wall of Now. —Richard Powers, Orfeo You are the harmonic of the vowel. This showdown puts bullets into the words that are the new taboo. We are not going to talk about any of this. I want to make new music. I died somewhere between the covers of the story I was writing in my head. The one with no I. Someone lived in the wall of Now. Books make good bricks. Was it comfortable? Are you asking me a question? You are not the same person. That you died. I should have made love to the notes in my inner ear. I am pregnant with a song that will dissonate before reception. Something irreligious has wormed its way into my thinking. Lines form. Was I going to compose you a story? Inside/Outside Hide my complaints in the bottom drawer where their patterns will flower into old photographs. Rinse the jumble before it gets saddled to my youth. Someone is going to call it treasure one day and wish it back with the friends who baked memories into pies—four and twenty blackbirds who all flew away before they could be eaten. We were all so rude then, excitement-like wreckage on the beach. I scavenge an old oak battered into a smooth fragment and call it my inspiration. I've forgotten why I loved you. These mysteries mount up like nettles on a compost heap. There's no answer that could rid me of them. Hannah Linden is from Devon, England. Her debut pamphlet is The Beautiful Open Sky (V. Press, 2022). She won the Cafe Writers Poetry Competition in 2021.
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