Well-worn
by Elma Mitchell (Poems New & Selected, Peterloo Poets)

I have worn everything you gave me –
The ring, of course, and that absurd string of beads
Reaching to the navel, and your battered shirts
Full of your energy and our many conjunctions.

And I have worn myself – this body, your tent
Of contentment, once your second skin,
Shrunk now, but serviceable, not yet for the scrap-heap.

I have worn, almost to shreds, our tatty jokes,
Ludicrous memories, and our crumpled rags
Of rhythm and phrase – old hat, but comfortable.

Everything has been worn, nothing worn out.

This poem . . .

This poem is dangerous: it should not be left
Within the reach of children, or even of adults
Who might swallow it whole, with possibly
Undesirable side-effects. If you come across
An unattended, unidentified poem
In a public place, do not attempt to tackle it
Yourself. Send it (preferably, in a sealed container)
To the nearest centre of learning, where it will be rendered
Harmless, by experts. Even the simplest poem
May destroy your immunity to human emotions.
All poems must carry a Government warning. Words
Can seriously affect your heart.

In Well-worn every gift, actual or imaginary, is used, thereby honouring the giver. The ring indicates that the poem may be written about the poet’s husband; the beads are “absurd” but no less loved for that, and the battered shirts are full of memories of the man’s body and their love-making, as inferred by use of the word “conjunctions”.

The poet has worn herself too, as she would, since her body is her own. But she says that her body was also once his “second skin”. The word “once” makes me think that he may no longer be with her, because while her body is “not yet ready for the scrap heap”, he is no longer using it as his “tent of contentment”.

The mention that the poet has worn “almost to shreds” the “tatty jokes” and “ludicrous memories” they shared makes me think that those jokes and memories are not being renewed and replenished; our poet has been going over the old ones as if in tribute to the man in question.

Everything is remembered with abiding affection, and enjoyed for the comfort it brings. And nothing is yet worn out, so the tribute may continue as long as the poet wishes.

The second poem, This Poem . . ., warns us that poems can cause damage if not properly handled. It is a tongue-in-cheek look at the sometimes devastating effect of words, using the idea of a (possibly incendiary) poem.

The answer to the danger of an “unattended, unidentified poem” is to neutralise it by sending it (appropriately sealed) to “the nearest centre for learning, where it will be rendered/ Harmless by experts”. How true. How often has some wonderful piece of verse, some rousing sonnet or impassioned soliloquy been reduced to the verbal equivalent of dried biscuit crumbs by overanalysis?

Knowing how something is put together by examining how it works is often useful, but sometimes in the process of dismemberment the magic is lost; the emotional energy evaporates; the writer’s natural and instinctive creativity is disempowered by forensic examination. It’s rather like taking a frog and turning it into a minute cadaver, so it may offer up its formaldehyde intestines to the student.

Who then forgets what a remarkable creature it was when it lived, before it was killed to find out what makes it a frog. But now it only looks like a frog – there is no longer anything frog-like about it. The life force that makes a frog – or a poem – work, cannot be minutely dissected without the death of the subject.

“Words/ Can seriously affect your heart.” And it’s true. They might tap into the reader’s secret, inner life, the life they don’t like to share with anyone, where they keep all their most private thoughts – and tweak a nerve. Words can change a life: “I love you/ I don’t love you” or “you are this week’s lottery winner”, or “someone died”, or “you’re pregnant” (disconcerting if you’re male). Words matter, so they should be treated with respect. What is heard cannot be unheard, what is read cannot be unread; thoughtful responsibility travels with the use of words.

frieda.hughes@thetimes.co.uk

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