Featured Poet - Ann Byrne

TRICHOTILLOMANIAC

I guess there is a kind of madness

in sitting

and pulling out 

your own hair.

But it doesn’t seem like that

in the moment—

seeking out the perfect strand,

it's hard work,

a labour of love

if you will.

Once found,

it must be lovingly convinced

of its own demise—

gently pulled between the fingers

and coaxed from its safe haven

duped by notions of a better life

before its ultimate

abandonment

on the floor. 

And then I'm left 

feeling like 

a callous 

murderer.

Though only after 

the sick pleasure

of dislodging 

that little innocent

has passed—

A thrill that convinces me

to strike again

over

and

over

insatiably, like a crazy 

serial killer. 

They call me 

The Trichotillomaniac. 

I'm on the most wanted list

for crimes

against hair.

MAGIC MIRROR ON THE WALL: 

A SHORT FILM ON BODY DYSMORPHIA 

I had a magic mirror in my house, 

no Disney logo. 

It didn't show me things 

just how they were

or how I wished them to be. 

It was a crazy Machiavellian, 

a twisted trickster, 

It showed me everything 

I couldn't see, 

everything 

except me.

Cue creepy circus music:

It's hall of mirrors time—

One image grotesque and wide,

another shows bulging eyes, 

this one stretches out my face, 

that one inflates my nose. 

It nauseates and horrifies me 

and I back up 

through a 

sickening 

spinning 

tunnel—

every time

I looked

inside 

my magic mirror. 

Until

I shattered it—

Along with its illusions.

No more circus freak, 

Just a standard girl

if kind of 

a movie geek. 

THE ART OF PICKING

I used to pick my skin. 

I'd see a little spot,

I'd let it grow

and then

I'd pop it—

ahhhh

That satisfying moment

when the spot is gone. 

But that's not the end—

the blemish has to go

so I pick, and pick

and pick

until it's gone. 

Wait. I see 

another one. 

These days 

I write poetry. 

The doctor says,

"it's healthy."

I have a little idea

and watch it grow

and then

I grab at it

with my pen

and let it go—

ahhhh

That gratifying moment

when the poem is written. 

But then, I see a word

that doesn't fit

and I pick, and pick

and pick

at my mind

until I find 

the perfect 

replacement. 

There, look— I see 

another one. 

ABOUT THE POEMS: 'Trichotillomaniac', 'Magic Mirror on The Wall: A Short Film on Body Dysmorphia' and 'The Art of Picking' refer to some issues I struggle with known as: Body-focused repetitive behaviours (BFRBs). They are classified as Obsessive-Compulsive and Related Disorders in the DSM-5. I have become much better at dealing with all of these conditions over the years. One important method has been humour and also giving them their own little personalities and stories to separate them from me. This also reflects my love of story, especially movies. I see these things as conditions to live alongside rather than "fix" completely, they are managed, not cured.

UNCLEAN

An egg, 

the first fragments

of a child 

born soiled, somehow—

a stain, 

seeped inside the cells, 

marking them

unclean. 

Cells forged 

in the ovary

of my mother

who saw filth on

everything, 

including me. 

We must clean

and clean, 

and clean, 

scrub the stains, 

until it gleams.

But no amount

of scouring 

will suffice,

it's all

unclean. 

My mother, 

ill conceived 

in the womb

of a human mystery —

a question mark

in female form, 

who bore a 

sullied child

from a union,

unholy.

She left that 

stain behind 

to bleach 

a life

unclean.

ABOUT THE POEM: This poem is about intergenerational trauma and carried shame. It highlights the feeling of being born "wrong", when these things are present in the family system. While the poem suggests that the feeling of wrongness can exist almost at a cellular level, its is not a pessimistic view. Rather, I think recognising how deep these things run, helps in meaning-making out of difficult and intense emotional experiences, especially those that had no voice at a young age. Shedding light on my family history and opening up the shame have been very healing for me. 



THE DONUT STAND 

Jesus, that donut stand on O'Connell Street 

has been there forever. 

Wafting the mouth-watering aroma

of sugar and fried bread 

out into the throng

for as long as I 

can remember. 

I remember that smell, 

when my mam brought me to Return to Oz 

in the Savoy 

when I was six. 

The stairs looked so grand, 

and I was so small.

I cried at the end 

but pretended to have something

in my eye, 

ashamed for my mother 

to see me cry—

we weren't raised like that.

I remember that smell 

when she brought us in, 

every Christmas, 

to buy new clothes 

and get the last 

of the presents.

I remember when she couldn't go in anymore, 

her memory not what it used to be

but the donut stand

was still standing.

She's in the nursing home now, 

and will likely never pass the place 

again.

That donut stand will probably 

still be there when she's gone.

Maybe when I'm gone too. 

And they are 

damned good 

donuts. 

THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL 

When I arrive

she’s lying on her side,

looking through me 

not at me

as is the way, 

these days.

I feed her, the daughter

become caretaker.

She touches my stray hair

fixing something. 

Is that memory?

Or her old OCD?—fix everything, 

make it tidy. 

Or the deep instinct of a mother, 

buried and rediscovered?

I don't know.

But I remember that rhyme

she used to sing me 

and I sing it

absently

"There was a little girl,

who had a little curl..."

Eyes cleared suddenly, 

she smiles at me

and strokes my face

and for a minute

she's really with me,

like she used to be 

when I was 

a little girl.

ABOUT THE POEMS: 'The Donut Stand' and 'There was a Little Girl'

address, in different ways, the loss and grief suffered when a parent has dementia. There is nothing quite like watching your parent slip away slowly over time and moving from the role of child to caretaker. I hope these poems capture some of this experience and speak to those who are going through a similar struggle.