HOLD OUT YOUR ARMS
Hold
out your arms
A beautiful poem about death written during Helen Dunmore's last days.
Death, hold out your arms for me
Embrace me
Give me your motherly caress,
Through all this suffering
You have not forgotten me.
Embrace me
Give me your motherly caress,
Through all this suffering
You have not forgotten me.
You are the bearded
iris that bakes its rhizomes
Beside the wall,
Your scent flushes with loveliness,
Sherbet, pure iris
Lovely and intricate.
Beside the wall,
Your scent flushes with loveliness,
Sherbet, pure iris
Lovely and intricate.
I am the child who
stands by the wall
Not much taller than the iris.
The sun covers me
The day waits for me
In my funny dress.
Not much taller than the iris.
The sun covers me
The day waits for me
In my funny dress.
Death, you heap
into my arms
A basket of unripe damsons
Red crisscross straps that button behind me.
I don’t know about school,
My knowledge is for papery bud covers
Tall stems and brown
Bees touching here and there, delicately
Before a swerve to the sun.
A basket of unripe damsons
Red crisscross straps that button behind me.
I don’t know about school,
My knowledge is for papery bud covers
Tall stems and brown
Bees touching here and there, delicately
Before a swerve to the sun.
Death stoops over
me
Her long skirts slide,
She knows I am shy.
Even the puffed sleeves on my white blouse
Embarrass me,
She will pick me up and hold me
So no one can see me,
I will scrub my hair into hers.
Her long skirts slide,
She knows I am shy.
Even the puffed sleeves on my white blouse
Embarrass me,
She will pick me up and hold me
So no one can see me,
I will scrub my hair into hers.
There, the iris
increases
Note by note
As the wall gives back heat.
Death, there’s no need to ask:
A mother will always lift a child
As a rhizome
Must lift up a flower
So you settle me
My arms twining,
Thighs gripping your hips
Where the swell of you is.
Note by note
As the wall gives back heat.
Death, there’s no need to ask:
A mother will always lift a child
As a rhizome
Must lift up a flower
So you settle me
My arms twining,
Thighs gripping your hips
Where the swell of you is.
As you push back my
hair
– Which could do with a comb
But never mind –
You murmur
‘We’re nearly there.’
– Which could do with a comb
But never mind –
You murmur
‘We’re nearly there.’
(25
May 2017)
ARCHBISHOP JONATHAN BLAKE IS INNOCENT-HE HELPED STOP A PAEDOPHILE
"You brave, courageous and wonderful man. To stand up for the truth in the face of suppression and oppression is truly an act of a pure heart."
posted by Bishop Jonathan Blake | 11:05 AM
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