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Helen Dunmore's family reveal poem written in the author's last days Helen Dunmore's family reveal poem written in the author's last days
(about 4 hours later)
A poem written by Helen Dunmore in the final days of her life, which “glows with clear-eyed calm” in the face of death has been revealed by her publishers, a day after the 64-year-old writer died.A poem written by Helen Dunmore in the final days of her life, which “glows with clear-eyed calm” in the face of death has been revealed by her publishers, a day after the 64-year-old writer died.
Hold out your arms was written on 25 May, and shows Dunmore facing the terminal stage of cancer with courage, resignation and calm. Poet Ruth Padel said: “This last poem, quietly sensual and subtle at the same time, luminous and utterly gentle, glows with clear-eyed calm and breathes secure love for her family for nature.”Hold out your arms was written on 25 May, and shows Dunmore facing the terminal stage of cancer with courage, resignation and calm. Poet Ruth Padel said: “This last poem, quietly sensual and subtle at the same time, luminous and utterly gentle, glows with clear-eyed calm and breathes secure love for her family for nature.”
Dunmore addresses death directly, likening it to a mother tenderly caring for her child and to a bearded iris, “lovely and intricate”. The imagery is warm and comforting, as the author imagines herself as a young, shy child, waiting to be lifted by her mother and taken home. “She will pick me up and hold me / So no one can see me, / I will scrub my hair into hers,” she writes.Dunmore addresses death directly, likening it to a mother tenderly caring for her child and to a bearded iris, “lovely and intricate”. The imagery is warm and comforting, as the author imagines herself as a young, shy child, waiting to be lifted by her mother and taken home. “She will pick me up and hold me / So no one can see me, / I will scrub my hair into hers,” she writes.
In a heartbreaking conclusion, it ends: “As you push back my hair – / Which could do with a comb / But never mind – / You murmur / ‘We’re nearly there.’”In a heartbreaking conclusion, it ends: “As you push back my hair – / Which could do with a comb / But never mind – / You murmur / ‘We’re nearly there.’”
“The new poem shows us what a terrible loss this is – of a presence, a friend and a warm, always-ready smile as well as a wonderful poet,” Padel said.“The new poem shows us what a terrible loss this is – of a presence, a friend and a warm, always-ready smile as well as a wonderful poet,” Padel said.
Editor Neil Astley, of Dunmore’s poetry publisher Bloodaxe, said the poem will be included in the second edition of her final collection Inside the Wave, which was published in April, at the wish of her family. Dunmore sent Astley the poem the day after writing it on her iPhone.Editor Neil Astley, of Dunmore’s poetry publisher Bloodaxe, said the poem will be included in the second edition of her final collection Inside the Wave, which was published in April, at the wish of her family. Dunmore sent Astley the poem the day after writing it on her iPhone.
“I wrote back saying I thought it was a truly wonderful poem, “such a leave-taking, so intimately rooted in all the poems which led up to it, and in your life and love of nature”, and asked if we could add it to the reprint of Inside the Wave, which was about to go to press. Graciously – Helen was truly gracious in all our dealings – she agreed,” Neil said.“I wrote back saying I thought it was a truly wonderful poem, “such a leave-taking, so intimately rooted in all the poems which led up to it, and in your life and love of nature”, and asked if we could add it to the reprint of Inside the Wave, which was about to go to press. Graciously – Helen was truly gracious in all our dealings – she agreed,” Neil said.
In her last year, Dunmore continued to work. As well as the poetry collection, which was described in the Guardian as “smooth as a sea pebble and liminal – poised between life and death”, she published an acclaimed novel, Birdcage Walk, a haunting depiction of domestic constraints set during the French Revolution.In her last year, Dunmore continued to work. As well as the poetry collection, which was described in the Guardian as “smooth as a sea pebble and liminal – poised between life and death”, she published an acclaimed novel, Birdcage Walk, a haunting depiction of domestic constraints set during the French Revolution.
Yorkshire-born Dunmore’s first poetry collection, The Apple Fall, was published when she was 22, and what followed was a career marked both by her prolific output – including poetry, short stories, children’s books and novels – and her regular appearances on the prize podium. She took the inaugural Orange prize in 1996 for her novel A Spell in Winter, as well as being shortlisted for the TS Eliot poetry prize.Yorkshire-born Dunmore’s first poetry collection, The Apple Fall, was published when she was 22, and what followed was a career marked both by her prolific output – including poetry, short stories, children’s books and novels – and her regular appearances on the prize podium. She took the inaugural Orange prize in 1996 for her novel A Spell in Winter, as well as being shortlisted for the TS Eliot poetry prize.
Hold out your arms will be read on BBC Radio 4’s Front Row on Tuesday night. Hold out your arms will be read on BBC Radio 4’s Front Row this week.
Hold out your armsHold out your arms
Death, hold out your arms for meEmbrace meGive me your motherly caress,Through all this sufferingYou have not forgotten me.Death, hold out your arms for meEmbrace meGive me your motherly caress,Through all this sufferingYou have not forgotten me.
You are the bearded iris that bakes its rhizomesBeside the wall,Your scent flushes with loveliness,Sherbet, pure irisLovely and intricate.You are the bearded iris that bakes its rhizomesBeside the wall,Your scent flushes with loveliness,Sherbet, pure irisLovely and intricate.
I am the child who stands by the wallNot much taller than the iris.The sun covers meThe day waits for meIn my funny dress.I am the child who stands by the wallNot much taller than the iris.The sun covers meThe day waits for meIn my funny dress.
Death, you heap into my armsA basket of unripe damsonsRed crisscross straps that button behind me.I don’t know about school,My knowledge is for papery bud coversTall stems and brownBees touching here and there, delicatelyBefore a swerve to the sun.Death, you heap into my armsA basket of unripe damsonsRed crisscross straps that button behind me.I don’t know about school,My knowledge is for papery bud coversTall stems and brownBees touching here and there, delicatelyBefore a swerve to the sun.
Death stoops over meHer long skirts slide,She knows I am shy.Even the puffed sleeves on my white blouseEmbarrass me,She will pick me up and hold meSo no one can see me,I will scrub my hair into hers.Death stoops over meHer long skirts slide,She knows I am shy.Even the puffed sleeves on my white blouseEmbarrass me,She will pick me up and hold meSo no one can see me,I will scrub my hair into hers.
There, the iris increasesNote by noteAs the wall gives back heat.Death, there’s no need to ask:A mother will always lift a childAs a rhizomeMust lift up a flowerSo you settle meMy arms twining,Thighs gripping your hipsWhere the swell of you is.There, the iris increasesNote by noteAs the wall gives back heat.Death, there’s no need to ask:A mother will always lift a childAs a rhizomeMust lift up a flowerSo you settle meMy arms twining,Thighs gripping your hipsWhere the swell of you is.
As you push back my hair– Which could do with a combBut never mind –You murmur‘We’re nearly there.’As you push back my hair– Which could do with a combBut never mind –You murmur‘We’re nearly there.’
(25 May 2017)(25 May 2017)