Poems about body parts

One of the many ways we encourage survivors of torture to heal is through creativity. 

Past trauma can make it difficult to communicate how one feels, but poetry is a fantastic bridge for recovery and understanding. 

We have collected three poems from members of Write to Life that draw a connection between body parts and experiences as a torture survivor.

What is Write to Life?

Write to Life is a creative writing and performance group that supports our current and former clients to tell stories through art forms. 

It is the longest-running refugee-writing group in Britain, and the only one specifically for survivors of torture.

My Hands

By Nadine Tunasi

Whenever I had done something naughty, 

my mother used to shout, asking:

‘Have you lost your head?’

No, Mother,

one day when I came to England, I felt terrible.

In this new country, with a foreign language

there was nothing for me to do anymore

This time, it was my hands I had lost.

Much as everybody talks about opportunities

None of them seems to be for me

I couldn’t cook my food anymore

nor have a house to clean.

These hands, although they look like my dad’s hands,

 they were no use to me now

My Souvenirs

By Tracy 

My Dad had come along to watch me 

 - I wish my Dad had come along to watch me, presenting my souvenirs.

My Dad comes from nowhere.

From an unknown land

A land without a name

He’d struggle to get here in time.

Coming to watch me presenting my souvenirs

Dad and the people gathering

Hope to see Stonehenge mugs, bowls, ashtrays, egg-timers, plates, spoons, pens and T-shirts

Every kind of keepsake, spread out in front of me.

Some of the people came with money to this ‘Souvenirs’ presentation, in the hope that I might sell them some.

If they learned what the souvenirs were, no one would want to buy anything from me.

Dad will come in the hope of watching me making a big sale, making lots of money

No, Dad, I don't have money

When I got my souvenirs, I didn’t pay for them with money.

They are not for sale.

Hearing this, I think my Dad would disappear, with the humiliation.

Disappearing Dad: Dad disappearing… I know you are no longer on this planet.

And these are not souvenirs I’d want you to see

My Leg    

by Aso

My leg is exhausted
But it still needs to walk

Through the iron wall
Which surrounds me.
My painful leg needs to make one step, then another

To open every door in my mind.
Every new morning,

Pain comes.

Pain is like my best friend, because it’s always there.
My leg carries me to the heart of darkness, full of silent pain.

My leg carries me outside in the rain,

even if my bald head does not like to be wet.

I must go outside

Even though it hurts to walk

Because if I don’t leave my house

I will see no-one, I will learn nothing.

We say in Kurdistan, “If you lie around, doing nothing

You will just eat yourself up.”

If I stay inside

I will just eat myself up

Until there is nothing left.
The leg I have doesn’t walk very well

Because it misses the leg that’s no longer there.

The leg I still have carries too much weight.

The leg I lost hurts me in my memory

I used to walk so much, I loved to walk… 
Horrible pains in my leg – but in spite of the pain
My leg needs to kick the past away

To catch tomorrow.