turning text into poetry

Last November, I attempted NaNoWriMo, which is a challenge to write a 50,000 word novel in one month. I didn't manage to finish it, but I wrote a few sections of text that I am proud of. One of the main characters in this attempted novel is a woman in an abusive relationship and as she stands in front of the mirror one morning, she makes some observations about the signs of her abuse. I turned that piece of text into the following poem:


Magic Eye

My skin is smooth,
the skin of a mango,
discoloured that way too.

The bruise is beautiful –
numerous shades of blue and purple.
Its design could draw me in,
like an exceptionally striking piece of abstract art
or one of those magic eye pieces,
where the picture behind the shapes slowly swims into focus
as you stare past the surface.

I’ve always loved magic eyes;
it’s as if they are sages offering some wisdom
with trembling outstretched arms.
Their gift waves in and out of focus,
as it slowly solidifies into something tangible.
But if you haven’t learned the secret
to grabbing that wisdom
before it slips out of their shaking fingers,
you won’t find it.
That kind of wisdom
is only available for a select few.

I gaze at my bruise,
get drawn into its dark beauty
against the pale creaminess of the flesh
that stretches across my chin.

I will the story behind it to tell itself
to those around me,
to reveal the story that I cannot.
However, as I stare at it, or past it,
trying to make the truth swim to the surface,
I realize that the real story isn’t even visible to me
and I will mask it with the magic eye
of makeup and a new story.

So how can I hope for someone else
to interpret the map of my bruised body
and tell me what I need to hear?