Clare Pollard

Tam Lin’s Wife

They sat us in a pale and private place,

quietly conveyed the worst –

explained the curse that was your fate

and how for one long, ill-starred night

you’d turn and burn, become all beasts

you could dream up.

I think that I cried out. They said

that if I want to have you

then I have to hold, 

to hang on tight and not let go,

and not let go,

until you wake entire again within my arms – 

pale skin, dark tufts of hair, long bones –

in crumpled daylight.

And now the sun has sunk, dark taken hold,

and in my hug you jolt

to sudden adder, X-marked, zigzagged, venom-

quick, then rear to brute-necked dog, 

as black as forests and spume-jawed.

I tell myself that you are still my love

although I’m wet with blood, and you’re a lynx

filthy with fingerprints, clean pink mouth snapping teeth 

near heart, my throat. 

I keep you caught and don’t let go,

and don’t let go,

and feel your skull become a bleach December sun,

your eyes hot coals, you burst to blaze: a wicker-man. 

You’re searing through my fingers, 

molten lead.

Dear husband, all those things I prize in you –

your beauty, kindness, laugh –

are stripped off one by one

but even with them gone

my boy stares out from stricken shapes,

and love has no conditions. None.

*

The Two Ravens

(a ballad)

As I walked down a street alone, 

I heard two ravens make a plan,

one bird unto the other said:

‘Which shall we dine on of the dead?’

‘Out there upon a dirty track 

        way down a down, way down 

a woman’s spread upon her back, 

        in the mud.

her throat cut and her body raped, 

for bags of books, a glimpse of face.

        O down, derry derry, if she’s bad they’re good.

The bird said: ‘no one cares she lies

In dust near dogs in smears of flies,

the army’s led by fear and oil, 

the husband’s had his honour spoiled,

‘her son’s stood in a hood of black

        way down a down, way down 

a donkey, ridden, told to crack,

        in the blood.

and other women fear to speak, 

which means she’ll waste if not for beaks.’ 

        O down, derry derry, if they’re bad she’s good.

So low as planes they did swoop down, 

to chew on unveiled eyes of brown,

they pecked out clumps of her dark hair 

to line their nests when they grew bare.

And many commentators moaned, 

        way down a down, way down 

but armoured cars drove past the bones.

        and I stood 

I watched the ravens feed on war,

and knew I’d watch for evermore. 

        O down, derry derry, if she’s bad we’re good.

*

Pendle

When you must climb the hill, a woman’s back bruised tender 

with heather, & frozen puddles are fingernails gone bad,

then someone is to blame.

When you must wade for miles through ragged-robin, the rain-knives

& bog-rosemary to beg alms, when the neighbours owe you oats,

then someone is to blame. 

When your children curdle like milk & turn one by one to clay dolls,

& your husband’s fledgling-weak & you’re a good Christian woman,

then someone is to blame.

When you dream of a woman fucking goats or men with horns; 

of waking the witch, swimming her – lime-scalded & vice-tight, 

then someone is to blame.

When you imagine her face yoked in a bridle & you want to slit 

below her heart & suck there; weigh her weight against a bible, 

then someone is to blame.

When the merlin steals hen-chicks & your fields are blighted

like a mouthful of black teeth, & your cow stark mad

then someone is to blame.

*

The Caravan

We were alive that evening, on the north Yorkshire moors,

in a valley of scuffed hills and smouldering gorse.

Pheasants strutted, their feathers as richly patterned

as Moroccan rugs, past the old Roma caravan – 

candles, a rose-cushioned bed, etched glass –

that I’d hired to imagine us gipsies 

as our bacon and bean stew bubbled,

as you built a fire, moustached, shirt-sleeves rolled.

It kindled and started to lick, and you laughed

in your muddy boots, there in the wild – 

or as close as we can now get to the wild – 

skinning up a joint with dirty hands, sloshing wine 

into beakers, the sky turning heather with night,

the moon a huge cauldron of light,

the chill wind blasting away our mortgage, 

emails, bills, TV, our broken washing machine.

Smoke and stars meant my thoughts loosened, 

and took off like the owls that circled overhead,

and I knew your hands would later catch in my hair,

hoped the wedding ring on them never seemed a snare –  

for if you were a traveller I would not make you settle,

but would have you follow your own weather,

and if you were a hawk I would not have you hooded,

but would watch, dry-mouthed, as you hung above the fields, 

and if you were a rabbit I would not want you tame,

but would watch you gambolling through the bracken,

though there is dark meat packed around your ribs,

and the hawk hangs in the skies.

'With Changeling, Clare Pollard fulfils the promise of her remarkable earliest collection, written whilst she was still at school. This is clearly poetry for the 21st Century – edgy and alive, youthful and intelligent… This energising poet can help us confront the unease and complexity of modern life' – Moniza Alvi & Paul Farley, PBS Bulletin.

'The poems are startling, formally inventive, the diction never less than astonishingly varied – it is a passionate, angry, moving, alarming, splendid book. Reading it inspired me to think of new things poetry could say and do; in this collection Pollard moves into the front rank of British poets' – Todd Swift, Eyewear (British Poetry Book of 2011).

'"Tam Lin’s Wife" is perhaps her greatest triumph yet, illustrating the painful yet courageous concessions that love can require. Though based upon a fantastical Scottish ballad, its resonances are broad and far-reaching… Even when a poem’s message is partially obscured, the impression it leaves is always vivid and concentrated. Clare’s elegance of expression ensures that such poems are still a pleasure – as well as a discomfort – to read' – Rina Buznea, Time Out.

'Pollard is still at her best with the lyrical and personal, and it is “Waiting for the Kettle to Boil, Lancashire” that fully combines the themes that have always driven Pollard’s work – identity, ambition, duty, guilt – with the colloquial tone and eye for life’s paradoxes that lend her best poems charm and force' – Ben Wilkinson, Guardian.