Artists Mistake

She’s a mess of straight lines,

the artist was jogged when designing her mind-

the colours blurred, and merged,

to form something wholly unheard of.

But the artist was modern, a risk taker-

what cared he if her figure

had two left knees, joint by what looked

like a barge pole.

So disjointed was she, but so

elegantly that her defects were

mostly unnoticed, until she was all of 16.

Then, the flesh paint began to wear

thin, her pieces began to unstick and

the cracks began to gleam through.

She jolted whilst walking and

winced as she smiled- her hands

were a too purple, and her pupils

were the wrong size.

Her artist mourned her raggedy

state, but then squinted, bent

his head to one side and

waxed lyrical about courageous vision

and beauty incarnate.

She carried on; she was not changed,

Only seen, finally,

as the artists mistake.



5 thoughts on “Artists Mistake

  1. That’s a great poem, and some powerful thoughts!

    Don’t dwell on the mistake, though. I’m ploughing through the revision of my book*, it’ll be out in a few days. I am very careful to make my main character someone who isn’t perfect, and without letting any cats out of bags**, I will say that imperfection is that which leads the human to sympathize with a character.

    The bland stereotypical James Bond images – they’re not characters – keep the mind happy through amazing stunts and visual violence. Most modern detective stories focus on someone who’s been killed.

    Learning the secret of empathy – which does lie in your book, by the way, even if you’re not conscious of it yet – is that which makes for something people will read, and re-read.

    (*The first bit, at least.)
    (**No cats were bagged in the making of this comment).


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