Sketches from Both Sides of The Sky is a collection of poetry, literary snapshots and insights that explores the subject of inherited mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder/manic depression. One of the intentions of this podcast is to encourage others to use poetry as a tool to express their deep-rooted inherited tendencies. It was commissioned by Apples & Snakes.
http://applesandsnakesblog.org/blog/sketches-from-both-sides-of-the-sky-by-holly-daffurn
“How do manic words taste on a balanced tongue? How do manic words dance in a mouth that is dark with depression?”
“If you are carrying a genetic tendency towards anything, be it a mental illness; a physical illness; a love of art; a passion for words; be sure to write it down, to speak it out loud and to preserve it for generations to come. This is your legacy, your grand inheritance. What you pass on to your children and their children should be the most valuable and treasured possessions that you have. Pass on your wisdom and your insight, pass on your courage and honesty, pass on your story and your words.”
A selection of poems from the collection…
Where does it hurt?
From the green fronds of childhood
I could reel off labels
root to tip
eyebrows to toe nails
in a keen French voice
my language ability
peaking beyond my humble stature
*
cocooned in my shame of solitary unexplained grief
I shed tears like skin
the scales fell
from reddened eyes
I had no words to share
despite the roaring tongues of my mind
“Where does it hurt?”
my fingers would find my throat
it was the only answer I had
in my empty hands
*
no-one ever said
it was ok
to hurt it a place that you cannot touch
my fingertips caught against
the sharp ridges of savage emotions
blind in the blackness
this place I could not name
rich in colour
I had no words for
an endless landscape
voiced by a familiarity
that was mine alone
the climate of pain
deeper than my life-experience
and darker than the womb
*
this continent is autumnal now
an army of skeletal trees
puncture the sulk of the skies
the ground
cold in its bloodlessness
only the star of diagnosis
my bi-polaris
ever cast light on the savagery of stone
sculpted by an ocean without water
***
Born
You were born on the kitchen table
spewed into life
on a tide of blood and shit
flooding against the mug rings
reminders of the desperate comfort of tea
your chubby limbs beating out against the glassy solidity
that was bitten by the pen knib
barely protected by the hymen of paper
virginal white
his last words
still traceable
her fingertips find them nightly
now she arches against the stability of the wood
and draws you to her
you so wide-eyed and alien
smeared with newness
she prays that you will be like your father
in all ways…but one
you were born on the kitchen table
where his fingerprints
still linger
***
Intimacy
You say you didn’t make a move
though you surely cast a line
and the line was formed of heartfelt words
and words are fractured rhymes
and rhymes are where my heart resides
as language forms my blood
so although you didn’t make a move
you touched me where you shouldn’t have
for to touch someone with your words
is the most intimate of acts
when you lick someone with your language
there is no turning back
***
Blank Canvas
Next week is a blank canvas
I want to thread it with your eyelashes
the collision where our smiles meet
the smudge of your fingerprints
warm it with your breath
and push the imprint of your story
into each fibre
soak it in your sex and substance
capture the tears
and the vicious rip of your laughter
I want it streaked with every colour of you
yet my gallery is crammed with portraits
that I recognise with shut eyes
there is no room for new
that doesn’t stop me
picturing you
***
Shoes
I wear my shoes loud
in their colour and their clatter
and when I stride the streets
the scurf and seagulls scatter
“well, we can hear you coming!”
the most salacious cry
though men like them
will never know
the voice between my thighs
they think that I mean business
but my true meaning is art
and my staccato steps
just punctuate
the ways we fall apart
***
Cut
You ask me if I’d like to use the craft knife
and slip the seductive blade across the table
head down I clamp the scissors
measured strokes
I shake my head
“I’m ok with these”
I don’t know whether to be relieved or appalled
by your forgetfulness
how that blade once cut more than paper in my hands
my wrist still clings to the scars
white and submissive
like my perceived
innocence
*
My blood day
I am moist with menses
womb full as the moon
we buy knives without question
weighty steel
sharp enough to cut bone
and the fleshy stratas above
I love you more for your trusting amnesia
the glint of the blade
entices
even now
but I will not act
I just need to lean against
the safety of its weight
***
Premedicated
I still have enough anti-psychotics
to kill a small horse
or perhaps a unicorn
if we’re being specific
*
I’m off the meds…
the sentence which instils fear in the eyes
of friends
and psychiatrists
*
It’s ok, I’m being careful…
careful as a maniac can be
I’m one of the few people I know
who can say “this last week has been manic”
and mean it
*
will there ever be a time
that I can dispose of them entirely
without risk of disposing of myself?
pristine chemical bricks
that bleach my mind
and build walls
where my soul longs to rage
*
I think the angels that visit
may be the truth
and the “reality”
we live in
to be the honest madness
*
but let’s keep the pills
that tether me to the earth
just in case
I ever return to higher plains
*
I hate the silence they bring
the slowness
the sedation
In my quicksilver state
they are the deadliest poison
*
If I am ever too conscious
seeing all that few else can see
they will bring me down
and mute the colours of my mind
***
Grief
When you died
people literally crossed the street
to avoid me
walking the cliché with nervous feet
like death is contagious
and killing yourself
is somehow more terminal
*
At the funeral
everybody told me I was beautiful
as though pain
had altered my features favourably
or vanity
is a girl’s mother tongue
*
Look after your parents
they urged
I was a child
I could barely look after myself
*
They didn’t mention you
or how you lost your head
*
Sorry for your loss
they’d mutter
words as downcast as their eyes
as if we’d mislaid you
through carelessness
which is precisely
what we did
***
Life Model
Breath creeps over the fullness of my bottom lip,
slipping within me shallow and sustained.
I ease it down past the rigid boards of my ribcage.
Clinging to its spectral tail with determined teeth.
It resurfaces and coils around my tongue.
The haughty tilt of my breasts and the balance of my frame,
unaltered by this measured motion.
My body, alert yet gentle in its rigidity
is captured in fast flurries of charcoal,
softly apologetic pencil lines
and the assertive precision of ink.
This teacher, more considerate than others
has positioned a heater beside my naked form.
The welcome warmth softens my nipples.
Lifting my public hair like fronds of seaweed
yielding to a loving current.
He describes
“the exquisite curve that runs from breast to hip”
and the words stoke the embers of my pride
until my cheeks are licked by fire.
He speaks of caressing my contours with line and shade.
I feel each stroke,
tender and urgent against my motionless skin.
The crescent of observers see my body
in its most natural exposed state,
in turn I witness their intimacy with art
and the soft underbelly of their ambition.
They are the ones who are truly naked.
***
Artists with dirty fingers
I like my artists filthy
restless fingers ink-drenched
the arid kiss of terracotta crumb
like your hands are the landscape
where your soul settles
*
every still life is a dialogue
in my mind
*
I don’t observe beauty
I articulate it
*
I love that you reel-off-your-machine-gun-fire-fury-of-worded-bullets-with-such-sharpness-and-grace-when-the-spotlight-forms-a-halo-above-you
but your mouth
searches for all the right words
in your snatched
conversations
*
I like my artists filthy
stories that spew with horrific emotion;
reality & the grotesque decay of life
come to me paint-smeared
your fingertips dense with use
rosin-dusted trousers
*
Tap your fingertips to mundanity
let every tabletop be your masterpiece;
as you seek out the soundtrack
that feeds your life
*
I like my art blood-streaked and raw
the roaring in the vocal
the chisel cruel enough to cut bone
your world is framed & shot
captured
as you pervert the rule of thirds
into exquisite fractals
*
Just weaving to the bar to buy a second coffee
is a dance to you
your tip toe trip graceful against the endless grey of the floor
*
Your fingers nibbled by needles
your mind a canvas of chaos & colour
*
Crowds become orchestral
you draw out crescendo
with each grandiose gesture
*
I like my artists oblivious of audience
World-absorbed
self-unaware
when the line between the canvas
and the hand
does not exist
*
The thrill as you reveal each
new piece
of art
and all I can see
is your eyes
***
Word
If I was a word on a page
I’d resent the uniformity of font
and that we all existed in monochrome
even though brilliance & darkness
are my truth
*
I would despise another word
being forced upon me
when the book shut
my reluctant neighbour’s weight on mine
for endless years
*
My airing would be a moment
eyes would skim my surface
I would not stand out
I’d be one in a string
a sketch of meaning
alone I would have no value
*
If I am to be a word
let it be in your hand
your careless cursive
your voice
settled in the notebook
that never leaves you
where each word matters completely
but secretly
I’m your favourite
***
Tulips
The soil was rich where I planted you
in a place favoured by the sun
the garden suckling on my sense of unease
its filth creeping under my nails
soiling my sanitary sanity
kissing my knees with rough biting grit
*
I don’t want my skin ravaged by the elements
I am lily white, let me stay so
*
With the door locked behind me
I find my sanctuary
away from the wail of the wind
as the rain pushes her brazen nudity
against the transparency of the windows
all that is raw and raging
I am safe from
in my box of mortar and mortgages
*
I trust the earth to tend you
raise you skyward
in this faith
I become forgetful
until the clemency of the afternoon
and the persistence of obligation
take me to you
*
Your petals faded
beyond the point of perfection
overarching clumsily against a weary stem
I came too late
*
The door is thrown open
a collision of differences
my daughter returns from school
and once more
I forget the wilt of flowers
*
I am my own garden
and your fear of growth
has left you housebound
***
Warriors
You are of the same tribe
you wear my mark like a compliment
*
just a glance
and the flesh burns
*
we are cut from the same cloth
but the fabric pushes pins into my skin
*
you long to find yourself in me
but we both know
that you will only drown in the extra weight
***
Birthright
In my blood
your stories curl like smoke
each jolt of an ending
the fickle spark of conception
fixed in the double-helix
the burning welt of tragedy
shackled to sorrow
and the bleak reminder of consequence
I didn’t inherit your hands
just the dis-ease
that forces them
you plunged art into the heart of me
clinging to the blade of the sword with two edges
the flair of creativity
ignited by insanity
this is my birthright
my rich inheritance
the gnarled roots of the family tree
bitten and rotten by the shame of decay
the branches
touch the heavens
the bipolar
squirms through the biopolymers
two shades of intensity
coil around each other
seductive and serpentine
***
Dear Depression…
Dear Depression,
you’re welcome today
I feel you wordlessly slink in the back-door
clinging to the shadows
nibbling off the raw ragged edges
of remorse
I need you today
for right now
I am the one in the white coat
I want to circle you
with inquisitive eyes
find the heart of you
measure its skittish dance
I need to study the ebb and flow
of your darkness
*
Your fur is matted and dank
I’m not edging closer
to draw out your softness
to make you sleek and appealing
I need the roughness of your tongue
and the squalor of your stench
*
Bring your worst to me
lay it at my feet
a putrid present
overripe organs
swell into bloody juices
let me lay it out
on the pristine, white board of my paper
the perfect cadaver
and dissect it
with the sharpness of this pen
***
The System
The System is well-dressed
and well-heeled
but badly suited
to the screaming need
the most unappealing face of sanity
his words fall out
neat and prescribed
cut with sterile servitude
*
You have been climbing mountains
for too many eternities
you were born on the foothills
with a longing to touch the sun
*
The Cuts come
they circle you
carrion claws and vicious beaks
their dusty feathers
choke you to silence
snipping away the last ribbons of safety
knocking back
the dregs of comfort
*
You tumble in the dust and scree
bloody knees caked with earth
broken bones
fragile as promise
only your madness is complete
your only strength
your insanity
*
You make it to the summit
your audience with god
will last two reluctant minutes
you are a statistic
a neat little check box
fenced in by the boredom in his eyes
*
Look beyond him
the sky is endless in her pleasure
kissing each of the earth’s faces
she is playing with your hair
longing for you to dance
***
Lunar
It’s the darkness that I see
the face bathed in shadows
not the vibrancy
the slither of a crescent
quivers
illuminescent
but it’s the velvet depths of darkness
that speak
to me
***
Stigma
You brandish the suicides like trophies
forgetting they lead back to me
and every time that you yank them
you tear at my sanity
you slam the statistics on the table
all meaty and bloody and raw
clipped from newspaper fairytales
the ink still clings to your pores
your eyes are alive with the gossip
your cheeks flush full with the chance
to impart your heartless knowledge
in your circling vultures dance
I’d forgive you for tea and sympathy
or considering how I might feel
but the drama of my life excites you
so much that you forget that I’m real
***
Both Sides
You pull back my eyelids
an invasion of blinding brilliance
the morning-after
filled with bloody realisation
your laughter is the clatter of empty bottles
triumphant as the gathered contraband digits
the only rejection that you’ve ever known
is an exhausted bank card
you are my fly too close to the sun
wing-singeing beauty
my excess
my abundance
the lavish in the gift
dripped with jewelled generosity
such loud blinding splendour
that makes eyes and nations fall
you are
the loudest voice in the room
and the shortest skirt
you are
bite off more than you can chew
but swallow it down regardless
boundaries obliterate
the concept of personal space
does not apply to you
except in reference to
the entire galaxy that rages within
your mind is like central station
a tapestry of colour and opportunity
set to an insistent backdrop
you shoot for the stars
but fly far beyond
you are
the yes before the question mark
faster than the speed of life
retina burning
in your brilliance
sleep is for mortals
you brush it off with impatient fingers
you sign me up for everything
that terrifies me
then leave without a word
flicking the switch
as you shoot out the door
casting my world into darkness
where your sister grips me
clammy with neediness
stripping me of your finery
she is
the slow descent into grief
when no-one has died
she is
the terror in the morning light
she plucks my self-belief from me
and crumbles it to ash
she has never known a day without rain
she kisses my throat
and the swelling burns to the spleen
she pins me to the bed
with her cold limbs
and persistent cracked kisses
a tongue that dribbles out
the stream of my regret
her insistence
a blade that seduces me
her laughter
the death rattle in the box of pills
she is
the steel on steel
that stole my brother
she is
the darkest shade of emptiness
you both
exist in separate realms
slamming against the membrane that divides
never beside
you have yet to inspire the other’s discarded breath
you both shroud me in your precious clandestiny
a shared tendency to visit
without invitation
your luggage ominous and hazardous
as it clutters my space
no-one acknowledges you
but your eyes obliterate mine
eclipsing
my very self
***
Bare Bones
The darkness is alive
frantic with pulse and motion
buzzing like fury
the black in the blood
vicious
as the tongue wag of judgement
rock-splitting
insistence
that pulls me from my roots
my tongue and hands lose their fluency
under your shadow
voice and gesture dismissed
by the precision in your swoop and steal
the pliancy of my flesh
clinging
to the parental stability of bone
throwing itself against the marble floor
of skeletal majesty
clambering carrion disperse
fragmented savages
a portrait of claws and eagerness
the sharp, selfish beak
my flesh falls from me
with the ease of autumn
bare bones bear brittle
soon sun-bleached in their exposure
each organ framed seductively
ripe for the pluck
reddened
swollen with juice
full
becoming
you take it all
morsel by morsel
leaving sinews
and the pounding heart
rich with blood and memory
you tear me apart
but leave me conscious and aching
riddled with pain and torment
the sands that surround
are sodden with your shit
and the limp shrug of your feathers
discarded
petrol blue in their insolence
© Holly Daffurn 2015
Holly Winter-Hughes 