The Telepathic Bruise
he punched and i heard them
voices internalised by men i hear them still
1. happenstance
tell me everything
fade only with the bruise
life normalising
truth deposed
hiding placed behind backs
blackened eyes weep, waning back to flesh colour
i hesitate so too, the voices doubt
myself into their existence
clever intuition away
i see only the smiling faces, regret tears
they say 'sorry.' but tell me nothing
i believe in monsters
hold on
that's just my imagination
this time was different
the truth-whispering.
constant scolding, scouring
i hear them all in my crouched ear covering
i touch my face and find no wound
but still the throaty rumblings
but still the voices
echoed lodgements
fitted in sand, silver and lime
all purpling from a bath tap
a telepathic bruise
each day now i welcome the truth
i no longer need them to harm me
self-harming becomes salvation
i know what you're thinking
she's mad
one punch too many
hear now, i can hear you now
i thank you for your honesty
little voices in your mind are now little voices in my mind
trust only in my violence
not in my ribbons
eventually they dim
i refine my art, accordingly
a bashful thought
a bash filled art
i am no treasure
2. circumstance
i return from diversion
without my brushes or turpentine hair
i return to him no longer his prodigy
yet still
he defines my art
and sweaty wakings the night stories
the nightmare now becomes me
and the first completes the pattern
he punches and i hear them
i breathe in the death
the death shouts at me
i screw up my face in sanity
listening
Copyright 2007 by Belinda Smith
Critique by Jendi Reiter
This month's critique poem, Belinda Smith's "The Telepathic Bruise", uses a fragmented stream-of-consciousness style and unusual juxtapositions of images to convey the psychological disintegration of its abused narrator. As the poem progresses, we become increasingly uncertain who is being addressed and at what point in time we find ourselves. This disorientation reflects the ongoing power of trauma to blur past and present in terrifying flashbacks, as well as the abuse victim's tragic propensity to repeat the pattern in new relationships. The speaker's sense of self has shrunk to a timid lowercase "i" who struggles to differentiate herself from a chorus of internal and external voices. By the last two lines, however, some hope has emerged that she is beginning to find stability and clarity of understanding.
The poem is divided into sections titled "happenstance" and "circumstance". These words have such similar meanings that it initially seems odd to use them as separate section headings. Isn't it like giving two chapters of a book the same title? One is forced to meditate more attentively on the subtle distinctions between them, just as the narrator must look closely at the patterns of abuse in her life to distinguish reality from nightmare, unchangeable past from potentially changeable future. "Happenstance" is a fate outside one's control, suggesting the speaker's passivity and helplessness. "Circumstance" is more open-ended. Her circumstances are merely the facts of her life right now. Do they, too, simply happen to her, or might she have the ability to change them?
The opening lines declare the subject matter of the poem, leaving Smith free to descend into the speaker's disorganized thoughts without fear that the reader will lose the storyline. With the words "tell me everything," we may relax, picturing a therapist and the beginning of a healing confession. However, our expectation of a stable, benign presence is disappointed. Immediately the erasure of truth begins. The bruise fades, and the pressure to deny the abnormality overwhelms her. If she were to tell everything, she would not be believed. She is not given a way to make sense of her experience. "they say 'sorry.' but tell me nothing".
Smith's unconventional speech pattern and word use in the second stanza make this section more compact and memorable. "the voices doubt/myself into their existence/clever intuition away". I was struck by this paradox of doubting something into existence. Doubt makes the real speaker insubstantial while enfleshing the ghosts in her mind. Smith is almost using "clever" as a verb here—the voices are "clever-ing", or tricking, her intuition with the manipulations of a mind run amok. Other unusual phrases that give the poem intensity and texture are "crouched ear covering" and "echoed lodgements/fitted in sand, silver and lime/purpling from a bath tap". Familiar objects are shattered like a Cubist portrait, revealing new angles and unsuspected violent energy.
What makes the bruise "telepathic"? It predicts the future (or one possible future); it communicates without words; it makes connections between different personalities within the speaker's mind, and between her consciousness and that of her abusers. It is even a source of dark power, like a superhero's (or super-villain's) mind-control technique: "little voices in your mind are now little voices in my mind/trust only in my violence/not in my ribbons". These suggestions, of course, do not exhaust the possible meanings of this provocative phrase.
The dark-humored pun toward the end of the first section ("a bash filled art") hints at how the speaker may escape the cycle of abuse. She is speaking the truth that was suppressed in her relationships, but indirectly, through the tools and symbols of art. But don't trust the "ribbons," the artful exterior, she warns; her work is radioactive with violence, even if sublimated into a more acceptable form.
In the second section, "circumstance," the external facts of the speaker's life may be similar but she feels that her attitude is different. "i return to him no longer his prodigy". This man, not previously introduced in the poem, could be an abusive parent, a controlling lover, and/or a domineering artistic mentor. His exact identity almost doesn't matter, because the whole theme of the poem is how she has replicated this relationship in many guises. Despite her new sense of empowerment, he still "defines my art" and haunts her nightmares. But now she is not running away from the pain. Instead of splitting into different voices, the speaker in this section has a unified, if bruised, self. She faces her demons "in sanity", which is a tiny but real step away from "insanity". Let the death shout all it wants—she is listening.
Where could a poem like "The Telepathic Bruise" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Writecorner Press Annual Poetry Award
Postmark Deadline: February 28
Writers' resource site offers prizes up to $500 and online publication for poems up to 40 lines; low fee
Connecticut River Review Annual Poetry Contest
Postmark Deadline: May 31
Long-running award from Connecticut Poetry Society offers prizes up to $400 for unpublished poems; no simultaneous submissions
Fish International Poetry Prize
Entries must be received by March 31
Irish literary publisher offers prizes up to 1,000 euros, anthology publication and reading at West Cork Literary Festival; enter online only
Lois Cranston Memorial Poetry Prize
Postmark Deadline: May 31 (don't enter before March 1)
Prestigious award offers $300 for unpublished poems by women, from the journal Calyx; no simultaneous submissions
This poem and critique appeared in the February 2007 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Categories: Poetry Critiques
