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| The Poetry of Nicholas Hancock The Poet of Despair Published by The British Hancock Society with the permission of the author. |
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| HOW HAPPY, THE RETURNS? Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me; happy birthday, dear Nicholas, happy birthday to me. What was that? Am I Nick? How perceptive you are! What am I? - A mild ache, a mean, shabby heartbreak. Yes, I tell you, I star in the cheapest old flick, a biopic unseen by a soul except mine, of a boy that has aged, wishes gone, not assuaged. My porotic old spine shudders over the screen, and I burn to find heat in a world that's grown cold. On the ward the nurse smiles; her brief pity beguiles till, releasing her hold, she observes my heartbeat. And my carer at home gives a careless embrace. In parentheses she ends up pitying me. Her love, leaving no trace, is volt sundered from ohm. Then she draws back and beams, and I die a bit more. My great-niece comes to do a good turn; when she's through, her departure, last straw, is much worse than it seems. Here no candle or cake, not a card, not a gift. And there's no one to write, not a match to ignite, none that's free or spendthrift, not a stove that will bake. Love's dried up, and the drought, beyond gesture or pose, has enfeebled my will with a deadening chill that the Lord only knows. And these beings cry out 'Nick, no further approach and no closer invade our heart's final redoubt. Though your silences shout, they will never persuade us to let you encroach.' Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me; happy birthday, dear Nicholas, happy birthday to me.
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