Featured Poet - Faith Graham

BRUISED KNEES AND BLOODY NAILS

That day I was so despondent. I was very overwhelmed. The weight of her suffering brought me to my knees, and I crawled in the dirt. Random stones bruised my knees. I wondered if I would ever get there, if anyone would try to help; but nobody thought I was worthy, it seemed. They all just kept going. They walked past. I was invisible. Everywhere else, and everything else ... maybe even everyone else mattered. My agony was unheard, unseen, non-existent ... except to me. I was suffering. 

My tears made lumps in the dirt. For a moment my childhood came to lighten the load. Mud pies. Did I make mud pies, or did I read about them? Words are my favourite things. My fingernails were decorated with a rank and nauseating mixture of dirt and blood...no, blood and dirt. My feet had abandoned me. All fours. I was on all fours. Why do they call it that? Why do the words ‘bow’, and ‘scrape’ come to mind? Was I submitting to something? Where is my will power?

It is back. It had stopped to rest without telling me. I will continue my journey now ... on all fours. There is no-one to lift me up. She is weak and frail. He too is despondent, but he stands ... though not so tall. Maybe inside he is on all fours?

I hear my name being called. I am awake. I look down at my bruised knees, and my fingernails decorated with blood and dirt...no, dirt and blood. I realized that I had gotten there, and that somehow, I had walked.

ABOUT THE POEM: Written in 2023, this poem is in reflection of the depth of my depression, triggered by my mother’s decline and imminent demise as she battled terminal cancer. I was away at university and desperately trying to get to a counselling session across campus when my legs literally gave out on me as I fell apart publicly.

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BIRD SONGS

The chorus ended as soon as I began to hear it...as if out of spite; but there is nothing spiteful about birds. They are pure and beautiful. They sing songs to inspire our souls. I sat listening keenly to the silence and felt regret that it was over. I began to reminisce about the days when I dedicated time to hearing entire symphonies; string by string, chord by chord, note by note. I was at peace then. I am unsettled now. It is quiet.

Panic.

I am alone. It is morning, but my dreams are still asleep. My heart races, as if chasing the end of time. I cannot fathom the straws that I can grasp at to save me. They are elusive. There is nothing but me, my marbles falling rapidly from the pockets hidden within my mind, my inner being, and God?

Confusion.

The clock in my head suddenly sprints away and is gaining on my racing heart. I do not hear its ticking beat. There is no rhythm. There is no hope. My stomach churns, my head spins, my thoughts flicker and flail. I am trapped in a merciless time capsule with tentacles strangling me. I am powerless. My breath threatens to leave me. I am falling. I am paralyzed. I am nervous. I am still. I am deathly afraid; of what I am uncertain. My voice has been silenced. It ends here. I will die now. There is no more time to hear the songs...or even the chorus...teasing...fading. 

Farewell.

I feel the vibrations from my accelerated pulse desperately wrestling with my jumbled thoughts. Reckless, unnerving ... familiar. I have been here before. I will not die this time. I did not die then. The time capsule will set me free ... again, and I will live on like nothing happened.

Triumph?

I am exhausted. I look at the time and realize that only a minute had passed since the music faded. It was a dreadful reminder that I want to be alive, that I need more time to hear the bird songs...to keep me calm.

Relief. Oh God.

ABOUT THE POEM: This poem is about having a panic attack that was triggered very suddenly.

~

“DABDA”

Dabda; sounds like a warm and fuzzy friend, but it is not. They say it is the roadmap to a brighter destination ...or it can be... if you are able to manoeuvre the treacherous terrain, and break free from the melancholy prison, like Andy.

Denial had accepted defeat, anger maintained its posture, and I was not keen on bargaining. For many years, I could not find my way to acceptance despite Dabda’s gentle coaxing.

Instead, I was stuck in the depression vortex where, in those decades, I felt as though I was incarcerated in an emotional quagmire, awaiting rehabilitation, and discharge; wondering, from time to time, if Dabda would leave me too. 

I embraced the solace of my bed, my tears, the emptiness, my longing, and the comforting retreat of the darkness. The generous servings of despair fed to me, malnourished my body and spirit. 

Consumed by angst and bereavement, I write. I expel. I feel. I improvise, I share, I help, I understand, I relate.

My heart became heavy with acceptance one day, and, before I could collect myself, Dabda patted me on the shoulder and vanished; but I was not alone. Like Dabda once was to me, depression became my constant companion.

About: "THE STAGES OF GRIEF" – D.A.B.D.A:

D- DENIAL, A- ANGER, B – BARGAINING, D - DEPRESSION, A – ACCEPTANCE

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WHEN A MOTHER’S LOVE IS GONE

I had not yet come of age

When death took her away from me

My whole world suddenly ravaged

It was tormented by uncertainties

I could not understand it

Why its power, death did abuse

To extract her from my life

The dreaded disease its muse

The pain so excruciating

I thought for sure I would die

Not even a dose of the red mist euphoria

Could ease the pain or hush my cries

The minutes ticked by slowly

Lingering into hours, then days and years

And no matter how long and hard I slept

I woke up counting tears

It tore me apart to see her suffering

To see her becoming a shadow of her vibrant herself

Still always putting the best outside

Laughing, living and embodying courage

With every year that passes

Time is the only change

The hole in my life is constant

Everything still seems strange

The world can be so inhospitable

When a mother’s love is gone

When death, the unpredictable

Leaves you all alone.

ABOUT THE POEM: This poem was written in 2014. Although my mother passed away in 1997 after a long battle with cancer, my grief, longing, and depression lingered for many years to come.

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SIX FEET UNDER

Wonder crawls across the meadows

time races past it

Life dances to rhythms

death leaves us in awe

Sadness becomes an apparition

haunting happy memories away

Touch is the only redeemer

touch is six feet under

Darkness and warmth will protect you

the light is too cold to withstand

Depression then consumes you

and your life is as good as gone

ABOUT THE POEM: This poem was written in 1999. I was still grieving for my mother who had passed away two years earlier after a long battle with cancer. I was consumed by grief, depression, and longing for her.

~

SHATTERED EGGSHELLS

Sometimes she walks along the borderline,

halfway between certainty and uncertainty

Bobbing and weaving within the confines of her mind

Sometimes shying away from insanity

Sometimes she walks with a spirit of vexation, 

Anger, and cautious self- doubt

I stand in the periphery of her reality

Hopelessly trying to figure her out

Sometimes she soars with confidence

She seems very self-assured

standing as tall as a mythical giant

then collapsing unto the floor

She lies there silently taking refuge 

Engulfed by fatigue and sadness

In these times she does not walk or soar,

But capitulates to the vampire's prowess

Oftentimes I walk on shattered eggshells

In desperate pursuit of the clues

that must be somewhere for me to find,

to help me decipher her moods

Today she sings loudly in melodious notes

Though yesterday she seemed to have had no voice

Seemingly enticed by loneliness, and, 

existing without reason to rejoice

Tomorrow she will hop, skip and jump

Unearthing distant memories of childhood bliss…

Of frolicking as she made sweet, giggling songs

Always welcoming my doting hugs and kisses

She tells me that she mostly feels nothing

Not even the beautiful light that is her smile 

It’s hard to imagine how this could possibly be

happening to my happy, vivacious child

I know all she has to offer this world

Despite my glimpses of her pain and insecurities,

No sooner than I would have tried to understand,

She denies me the sparse opportunities.

With the peepholes tightly shut, and

 the door no longer ajar, 

I am confounded by the maze

as I love her from afar.

ABOUT THE POEM: This poem is about a diagnosis of Persistent Depressive Disorder and its resemblance to borderline personality disorder.

ABOUT FAITH

"I started keeping journals and writing poems as a teenager. I now have an affinity for hybrid genres which suit my ‘unboxed’ personality. I write because it is therapeutic for me, and I express my thoughts most authentically when I do. My pieces are primarily based on my own personal struggle with depression. I also write about experiences with close family and friends with mental illnesses that impact me, and encounters with strangers obviously struggling with mental illness. I love words because they can paint pictures and convey thoughts that are too hard to verbalize. Words also provide comfort, happiness, and sometimes, catharsis. The losses and attendant grief, anxiety, and depression that I have experienced require me to write; and when I am led, there is an unrelenting fire within me to feel ‘out loud’. I accede, always. To not do so would leave me feeling unsettled. So, I write."

E: faithagraham76@gmail.com

E: zinzigrah@hotmail.com