To My Nine-Year-Old Self

by Helen Dunmore (Glad of These Times, Bloodaxe Books)

Your must forgive me. Don’t look so surprised,
perplexed, and eager to be gone,
balancing on your hands or on the tightrope.
You would rather run than walk,
rather climb than run rather leap from a height than anything.

I have spoiled this body we once shared.
Look at the scars, and watch the way I move,
careful of a bad back or a bruised foot.
Do you remember how, three minutes after waking
we’d jump straight out of the ground floor window
into the summer morning?

That dream we had, no doubt it’s as fresh in your mind
as the white paper to write it on.
We made a start, but something else came up –
a baby vole, or a bag of sherbet lemons –
and besides, that summer of ambition
created an ice-lolly factory, a wasp trap
and a den by the cesspit.

I’d like to say that we could be friends
but the truth is we have nothing in common
beyond a few shared years. I won’t keep you then.
Time to pick rosehips for tuppence a pound,
time to hide down scared lanes
from men in cars after girl-children.

Or to lunge out over the water
on a rope that swings from that tree
long buried in housing –
but no, I shan’t cloud your morning. God knows
I have fears enough for us both –

I leave you in an ecstasy of concentration
slowly peeling a ripe scab from your knee
to taste it on your tongue.

When I look into the eyes of a nine-year-old, I know that what they see in me is someone so much older that they cannot imagine being my age. And it would be the same if it were my younger self gazing at what I have become all these years later. In hindsight we can always see our periods of evolution and the incidents that made us what we are now, but if we were able to look into the future, we would see someone we don’t relate to because we haven’t experienced what they have been through, nor do we want to look that old. And to be honest, if we knew what was coming we might run as fast as we could in the other direction.

Helen Dunmore begins her poem by asking her nine-year-old self for forgiveness for her intrusion. In addressing the child she used to be she acknowledges the girl’s obvious desire to be elsewhere, all itchy and scratchy with the energy of youth: “You would rather run than walk, rather climb than run/ rather leap from a height than anything.” And it’s true; children are full of boundless energy. Unless they’re glued to the television or a video game, or have just been told that they can’t play in the park because the joy of racing across the grass must be accompanied by body armour and a helmet, as escalating health and safety issues negate the use of common sense and a good pair of shoes.

Thankfully there is none of that here; it was a time when children were allowed to run and fall over, grazing their knees so they got scabs. There are no belly-baring T-shirts either, or inappropriate knickers with suggestive ideas emblazoned across them beneath a tag that says “suitable for nine-year-olds”, which are all about wanting to grow up too soon. Growing up is something that this girl does not hanker after; she seems to revel in her youth.

Dunmore confesses that she has “spoiled the body” that they once shared, although she would not have spoilt it intentionally; the body had to be used to carry out the actions of life. There are scars, and the physical differences are obvious; the girl can jump from a downstairs window three minutes after leaping out of bed, while her older self is cautious of her bad back and bruised foot. I know the feeling and Ibuprofen is a friend.

The poem contains a poignant combination of fond memories and an acceptance of the passage of time, which is what separates the older poet from her younger self. There is familiarity, but as we grow older we grow away from the people we used to be. The price of experience is our youth.

The young girl is distracted from writing down a dream they shared when something else came up in the “summer of ambition” that “created an ice-lolly factory, a wasp trap/ and a den by the cesspit”, because the days are full of adventure and new discoveries; she is free from the commitments we burden ourselves with in later life.

Although this childhood seems idyllic there is the spectre of danger too, in the form of “men in cars after girl-children” in the “scared lanes”, and the idea of swinging out over water on an old rope. Old ropes are notoriously prone to breaking. Then our poet withdraws, not wanting to frighten her younger self: “I shan’t cloud your morning,” she says, “I have fears enough for us both.” And the knowledge of consequences: old rope + weight of nine-year-old swung out over water = possible breakage of rope + wet child = possible drowning if the child can’t swim or her head hits an underwater stone.

Dunmore admits they have nothing in common “but a few shared years”. And it’s true; while our continual evolution is based on our younger selves, it’s hard to relate to them; we know so much more than they do. Nor can we easily relate to the person we have yet to become, for they will have evolved beyond us.

In the end, Dunmore leaves the child that she was, picking a ripe scab from her knee in “an ecstasy of concentration”, and we know the girl has already lost interest in her older, unfamiliar, unrecognisable self. She does what children often do and touches her scab to her tongue to taste it; she is still child enough to use taste as a means of discovery because in the beginning everything goes in a child’s mouth; it is all about defining objects through the senses. Everything has a smell and a flavour to be inquired after, from CDs (plastic and tasteless), to fresh cuts that bleed (tinny), worms (they wriggle deliciously, but don’t ask) and the old favourite; flies (food that vibrates as it’s swallowed). Young people think they will never be us, and then, when they are, they forget what it was like to be them – until, perhaps, they read this poem and think about it.

frieda.hughes@thetimes.co.uk

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