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 pubic 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.
© Holly Daffurn 2015
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
where 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
***
© Holly Daffurn 2015
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
© Holly Daffurn 2015
Holly Winter-Hughes 