Hulling It By Nicholas Long

I love Hull, one letter from Hell. Hell-hole Hull, the bottom of the boat, arse- end of England. When you visit, you scrape the bottom. I love saying the word Hull. Out loud. It has as much resonance as a tin bath. Not barth, the southern way. It makes me smile to say its name.

Shortest town in England, shorter than York, by a long vowel. Hull, it's the cavity of the ship, the guts, the bowel, shuck, shell, pod, rind of any fruit or seed. Hull, it's the envelope, the chrysalis waiting for something beautiful to emerge and perpetually disappointed. Hull, it's the encompassing membrane, the pericardium round the heart of the Humber. Hull, it's the apple's core, the house or building of a grinding wheel, a hovel, hut, sty or pen for pigs. You can hull it. There is a verb. You can lie at hull, lie a-hull, try or strike hull, meaning take down the sails or masts in a storm. You can be hull-down so far away that you're invisible, hull out, above the horizon, or quietly hull-to with furled sails. Try hulling, or drifting without sail, or hulling up and down, to and fro as the waves take you. Or you can come home, pick up fruit and hull them, stripping the outer husks, hulling, or shedding your teeth if not too careful. If you argue with your neighbour and he shoots you, you may hull out a hollow, lie down, hulled by the shot, sinking to that grave where hulls rest, past all hulling. © Nicholas Long 2004. Hulling It is taken from the poetry anthology Rehearsing Ends, published by Bitterne Books (Hull). www.bitternebooks.com

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