Knives We Used On Our Skin by Molly Twomey
A poem of wild youth, reckless abandon and the need to find release.
Who did we imagine would pick up our filters,
our shattered glass? Our minds were closed buds.
In the oaks and pines by the old icehouse
we sparked firelighters, threw back naggins,
cans of cherry cider. We sucked Bensons and mints,
had our first kiss, our last smoke.
What did we know of a beer cap in a vixen’s throat
or the stomach of a hare gagged with cigarette butts?
All we knew for sure was if we drank enough
we could voice the panic attacks we had before maths,
the mantras that our bodies were too big, too small,
too riddled with spots. We confessed
that we watched our mothers dice carrots
with the knives we used on our skin and babysat kids
by the river we dreamt of walking into.
Here we uncapped what was held so tightly
like a sluice trap after so many winters.
Our tense jaws, our cramped hearts, were held
by the earth’s nerves, those roots and vines
that quietly lowered the pressure of our blood.
Hello and welcome to Words That Burn, the podcast taking a closer look at poetry. This week's bittersweet elegy to an Irish youth is Knives We Used On Our Skin by Molly Twomey.
Before I delve into just what makes this poem prickle a very particular kind of nostalgia and linger in your mind long after you’ve read it I have a favor to ask;
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On another note this episode contains some references to eating disorders and those that find that a difficult topic may want to choose another episode to listen to.
With that said, on with the closer look.
It’s impossible not to feel the Irish influences encroaching round the edges of the poem. There’s an almost haunted rural landscape fused with the absolute chaos of youth in its lines. This is well worn territory for Molly Twomey. The entire collection this poem comes from raised by vultures is filled with poems that lean heavily on the poet's own personal experience flecked with glimmers of an Ireland not often written about. This is no misspent youth but a rocky one nonetheless.
Twomey charts her teenage years growing up in county Waterford (Homepage, 2022) and paints it in a way that shows the true ferocity and uncertainty of youth. She also chronicles her difficulties with anorexia. The entire collection is a beautiful poetic ode to recovery, that simultaneously damns the disorder and portrays the difficulty in overcoming it. While doing this Twomey never shies away from the torment of recovery, both internal and external. Yet throughout so many of those poems the poet weaves a thread of hope that leads us as readers effortlessly to the notion that maybe things will be okay. It is a very cohesive debut collection and it’s not hard to see why it's been so lauded with praise by the poetry community. (Gallery Press, 2022)
All the themes I’ve mentioned are encompassed in this poem: knives we used on our skin. It's a testament to the strange secrecy of our teenage years, the necessary subterfuge of breaking boundaries and pursuing things we’re told we shouldn’t. For the purpose of the episode, I’ve split the poem into three sections each one six lines in length.
The first one perfectly shows the ignorance of youth, the complete dedication to the now:
Who did we imagine would pick up our filters,
our shattered glass? Our minds were closed buds.
In the oaks and pines by the old icehouse
we sparked firelighters, threw back naggins,
cans of cherry cider. We sucked Bensons and mints,
had our first kiss, our last smoke.
This first section is a treasure trove of quiet hedonism. It reads like a shopping list for a baby anarchist. It catalogs objects that are a staple of Irish growing up (Dillon, 1984); filters, shattered glass, firelighters, naggins, bensons, first kiss, last smoke. Each one a micro act of rebellion and the speaker makes it clear from the very first line that the consequences of those actions didn’t even exist to them;
Who did we imagine would pick up our filters,
our shattered glass?
From there Twomey introduces her first reference to nature; our minds were closed buds. These rabble-rousers are little more than children, their minds aren't even close to fully developed and so reckless abandon is that little bit easier. In this simple analogy Twomey also sets up a juxtaposition between the energy of the people in the scene against the stillness of the nature around them.
That energetic description is achieved by attaching verbs filled with action; sparking firelighters, throwing back naggins, sucked Benson and mints. All of this creates a scene of constant movement, a subtle restlessness that permeates the section.
Each of the actions undertaken by the people of the scene is undercut by a small detail that marks the actions out as something slightly more childish and showing that adult logic is not quite present. They use firelighters as opposed to a really dangerous fuel, their cider is cherry flavoured, their cigarettes are mint tipped.
The section ends with one more contrast being established; had our first kiss, our last smoke.
The first and last here are a combination of the thrill of starting and the poignancy of an end.
All in all the first section paints a relatively harmless picture of young exploration. The second section, however, shows the hidden danger of such abandon:
What did we know of a beer cap in a vixen’s throat
or the stomach of a hare gagged with cigarette butts?
All we knew for sure was if we drank enough
we could voice the panic attacks we had before maths,
the mantras that our bodies were too big, too small,
too riddled with spots. We confessed
that we watched our mothers dice carrots
with the knives we used on our skin and babysat kids by the river we dreamt of walking into.
Twomey’s obvious skill in building contrast is used to devastating effect. The carefree ignorance of the first section is replaced by sharp consequences. Their beer bottle discards are choking wildlife and their cigarettes are gagging hares. Those initial lines are a total shift away from the relative ease of the praise. I would describe it as a poetic whiplash. This can be something of a signature in her work and she has spoken about it a little. Here is a quote from an interview when she was writing raised by vultures:
She is trying to get me to introduce some more ‘yin’ or restful poems to my debut collection and she is so right, as so many of my poems have that kind of slap you in the face ‘yang’ energy. (INTERVIEW: FIRE & DUST MEETS MOLLY TWOMEY, 2020)
That ‘’slap you in the face energy’’ continues when the next two lines show us that this carefree scene is anything but. They speak of the litany of worries and insecurities that can plague a young mind. When we think of teenage drinking it is typically as a hedonistic pursuit, but here it is to escape something; It is in the shortsightedness of adulthood that we might ask, what could people so young possibly want to escape?
The answer is laid bare by Twomey; the panic attacks before math class. These are the kinds of worries that are completely alien. To an adult mind. It isn't a bill, a rent, or even something that would be considered a serious issue. The hedonistic scene of the earlier lines has taken on a more sinister note, one that increases line by line.
In the next two lines we find a use of the word mantras but perhaps not in the place we might expect it. A mantra is, after all, a calming phrase, meant to bring focus and serenity. (Burchett, P. E., 2008).Twomey turns her hand to contrast again and the mantras become anything but tranquil. The speaker lists the ways in which these teens weigh and measure themselves and others and somehow constantly come up wanting:
the mantras that our bodies were too big, too small,
too riddled with spots. We confessed
The lines begin to bleed into one another with increasing speed. Leading us from pair to pair. They add a sense of things heightening the perils of the poem reaching a head and we understand this to be the case in the next set of lines containing the poems title:
that we watched our mothers dice carrots
with the knives we used on our skin and babysat kids
The yang energy previously mentioned by Twomey reaches a crescendo as two images that should never be found in the vicinity of one another collide. There is the domesticity of the mother, the innocence of babysitting suddenly undercut by the glimpse of self harm that our speaker seems to be inflicting on themselves. What makes this all the more impactful is that the mother seems completely clueless, using the knife as though it weren’t an instrument warped from its intended purpose by the self loathing of a child.
There is something so wrong in this juxtaposition of the clueless mother and their secret keeping child and yet it is normal for teenagers to keep things from their parents. The self harm referenced here could be looked at another way. It is an action undertaken by someone who does not fully grasp the weight of it. They are using the kitchen knives they find at home as opposed to a blade of any real danger. Though flirting with danger, they're not quite ready to court it fully.
The final section of the poem takes a turn, however, and slowly we see a hint of hope and maturity creeping in:
Here we uncapped what was held so tightly
like a sluice trap after so many winters.
Our tense jaws, our cramped hearts, were held
by the earth’s nerves, those roots and vines
that quietly lowered the pressure of our blood.
The speaker brings us back to nature, but not without a hint of the harm we’ve previously seen being present; the river we dreamt of walking into. However much like the speaker, we as readers finally find some relief from the constant tension and breakneck pace of the poem.
Suddenly tensions are uncapped, as naggins are set loose in a casual callback to the first section I looked at.
More rural irish imagery is used using a sluice trap to fully emphasise that sense of release.
From contrast to absolute fluidity as Twomey weaves in and out of imagery that reinforce her earlier message of teenage anxiety and difficulty.
She has been writing of tightness and that extends to the bodies of the young people here, she writes of tense jaws and cramped hearts but pushes the metaphor extending it to even the natural landscape: by the earth's nerves. In doing this, Twomey ties the two formerly disparate images back together, showing that we might consider ourselves somehow apart from nature with our human worries and implements, structures like maths classes but deep down we are just like the animals mentioned in earlier parts of the poem; inextricable from nature.
This is confirmed in the final line: those roots and vines
that quietly lowered the pressure of our blood.
For me, the reading here is simple; In youth we will seek any form of release from the pressures we feel around us. That much is evidenced by this poem, those pockets of relief can often be destructive, both for ourselves and those around us. Meanwhile, it is the landscape itself and our, oftentimes, wilfully forgotten connection to it that can deliver us.
knives we used on our skin by Molly Tomi is a poignant and stirring portrayal of the trials and tribulations of Irish youth. The poem Brims with the echoes of an almost haunted rural landscape and the absolute chaos we can encounter in our adolescence.
It is a poem that truly exposes the turbulence of being young, however, Amidst that turbulence. Tomi subtly hints at Hope and recovery, the narrative turns towards the inherent connection between humans and nature, suggesting that we can always return to it and find some kind of relief. That sense of relief floods the final lines, Knives We Used On Our Skin is a powerful and unflinching look at the complexities and struggles of youth. In reading it, it can help us understand the importance of recognizing and addressing the issues young people go through. The juxtaposition of imagery between self-harm and everyday objects proves a certain need for vigilance from parents.
In recognizing what our children might be going through the poem is a testament to the harsh realities of adolescence, but also an ode to the resilience of it
References:
Dillon, M. (1984). Youth culture in Ireland. Tara.tcd.ie. Retrieved July 12, 2023, from http://www.tara.tcd.ie/handle/2262/68741
First Fortnight: Molly Twomey on the healing power of poetry. (2023, January 2). RTE. Retrieved July 12, 2023, from https://www.rte.ie/culture/2022/1216/1342324-first-fortnight-molly-twomey-on-the-healing-power-of-poetry/
Homepage. (2022). Molly Twomey. Retrieved July 12, 2023, from https://mollytwomey.com/
INTERVIEW: FIRE & DUST MEETS MOLLY TWOMEY. (2020, December 11). Here Comes Everyone. Retrieved July 12, 2023, from https://hcemagazine.com/interview-fire-dust-meets-molly-twomey/
Molly Twomey - islandsedgepoetry. (2021, December). Island's Edge Poetry. Retrieved July 12, 2023, from https://www.islandsedgepoetry.net/poets-k-z/molly-twomey/
Raised Among Vultures. (2022, May 12). The Gallery Press. Retrieved July 12, 2023, from https://gallerypress.com/product/raised-among-vultures/
Sheridan, C. (2022, July 9). Colette Sheridan talks to Molly Twomey whose debut poetry collection deals with her eating disorder. Irish Examiner. Retrieved July 12, 2023, from https://www.irishexaminer.com/lifestyle/artsandculture/arid-40914110.html
Burchett, P. E. (2008). The “Magical” Language of Mantra. Journal of the American Academy of Religion, 76(4), 807–843. http://www.jstor.org/stable/25484067