CATRIN
By Gillian Clarke
I can remember you, child, *anaphora creates a sense of nostalgia
As I stood in a hot, white
Room at the window watching
The people and cars taking
Turn at the traffic lights.
I can remember you, our first
Fierce confrontation, the tight *aliteration/ harsh sound
Red rope of love which we both
Fought over. It was a square
Environmental blank, disinfected
Of paintings or toys. I wrote * coming of age/ the discarding of
All over the walls with my things of childhood
Words, coloured the clean squares
With the wild, tender circles * juxtaposition reflecting
Of our struggle to become bitter sweet of coming of age
Separate. We want, we shouted,
To be two, to be ourselves.
Neither won nor lost the struggle
In the glass tank clouded with feelings
Which changed us both. Still I am fighting
You off, as you stand there
With your straight, strong, long
Brown hair and your rosy,
Defiant glare, bringing up
From the heart’s pool that old rope,
Tightening about my life,
Trailing love and conflict, *juxtaposition
As you ask may you skate
In the dark, for one more hour
The speaker has entitled this poem with her daughter’s name and has
excluded her own persona from the title. As the poem progresses
however it becomes clear that this is not a poem simply dedicated to her
daughter, as the title would imply, but a poem about both mother and
daughter. Interestingly, the speaker, having referred to her daughter by
By Gillian Clarke
I can remember you, child, *anaphora creates a sense of nostalgia
As I stood in a hot, white
Room at the window watching
The people and cars taking
Turn at the traffic lights.
I can remember you, our first
Fierce confrontation, the tight *aliteration/ harsh sound
Red rope of love which we both
Fought over. It was a square
Environmental blank, disinfected
Of paintings or toys. I wrote * coming of age/ the discarding of
All over the walls with my things of childhood
Words, coloured the clean squares
With the wild, tender circles * juxtaposition reflecting
Of our struggle to become bitter sweet of coming of age
Separate. We want, we shouted,
To be two, to be ourselves.
Neither won nor lost the struggle
In the glass tank clouded with feelings
Which changed us both. Still I am fighting
You off, as you stand there
With your straight, strong, long
Brown hair and your rosy,
Defiant glare, bringing up
From the heart’s pool that old rope,
Tightening about my life,
Trailing love and conflict, *juxtaposition
As you ask may you skate
In the dark, for one more hour
The speaker has entitled this poem with her daughter’s name and has
excluded her own persona from the title. As the poem progresses
however it becomes clear that this is not a poem simply dedicated to her
daughter, as the title would imply, but a poem about both mother and
daughter. Interestingly, the speaker, having referred to her daughter by
