—Poetry by Lynn White,
Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
MIRROR IMAGE
The mirror was old,
not antique
just old.
Perhaps that was the reason
it didn’t seem quite right,
didn’t seem to reflect
me as I expected.
I looked harder.
I could see my surroundings
reflected as I thought they were,
the curtains and the colours,
the lamp standing naked
all present and correct.
But I wasn’t there.
I am here.
I know I am
and I’m looking
into the old mirror
where I should see myself
reflected
but I can’t.
I think it has swallowed me,
body and soul.
(prev. pub. in Praxis, November 2020)
A QUESTION OF IDENTITY
On her 90th birthday she looked in the mirror
and tried to identify the face looking back.
She felt the same as ever
but the face,
that was the mystery
how could she connect the two,
how she felt and how she looked.
Perhaps a mystic would tell her
that the face had been through the fire of life,
but so had everything that made up her identity,
or more accurately, her multiple identities,
different ones for every occupation,
every relationship
and every situation.
The ones foisted on her by parents
were soon rejected and replaced
by the ones she made up for herself,
different identities
but always the same person,
easily recognised
but not in that mirror
but something to celebrate.
(prev. pub. in Bourgeon Online, Fall 2022)
On her 90th birthday she looked in the mirror
and tried to identify the face looking back.
She felt the same as ever
but the face,
that was the mystery
how could she connect the two,
how she felt and how she looked.
Perhaps a mystic would tell her
that the face had been through the fire of life,
but so had everything that made up her identity,
or more accurately, her multiple identities,
different ones for every occupation,
every relationship
and every situation.
The ones foisted on her by parents
were soon rejected and replaced
by the ones she made up for herself,
different identities
but always the same person,
easily recognised
but not in that mirror
but something to celebrate.
(prev. pub. in Bourgeon Online, Fall 2022)
IMAGE
Somehow
the mirror has broken
fragmenting
my image,
the image
I have of myself,
the one I like to project.
Was it the sunlight that cracked it,
the exposure to brightness,
an explosion of light.
Or was it already a distortion
ready to be destroyed
by a different audience
looking over my shoulder.
Or was it self destruction
which splintered my image
to reveal the darker side
behind the glass.
(prev. pub. in Love Your Rebellion, 2016)
Somehow
the mirror has broken
fragmenting
my image,
the image
I have of myself,
the one I like to project.
Was it the sunlight that cracked it,
the exposure to brightness,
an explosion of light.
Or was it already a distortion
ready to be destroyed
by a different audience
looking over my shoulder.
Or was it self destruction
which splintered my image
to reveal the darker side
behind the glass.
(prev. pub. in Love Your Rebellion, 2016)
REFLECTION
Tell me, mirror,
which face do you see
behind the glass?
Perhaps it’s a pale face
unsullied by sun,
moist and unlined,
a glowing reflection
shining
unbroken,
unlined.
But, let me scrape away the surface
to reveal the clear glass in places,
as if it were old, tarnished
and distressed.
Tell me mirror
which face do you see now?
Perhaps the face seems hazy,
patchy like the glass
as it reflects lines
and textures,
blotches
and blemishes.
Well, as time has passed both have
picked up some dirt in passing.
Maybe it’s darker still
in places,
in the deep places
not usually seen
Did the scraping away the glitter
reveal the treasure
and texture beneath
or is the new reflection a distortion
of reality.
Tell me, mirror,
which face do you see?
(prev. pub. by Ugly Writers, August 2018)
THROUGH THE GLASS
Alice saw herself in her looking glass
and walked through
into a topsy turvy world where
everything was back to front and inside out.
She drifted into a dreamscape
of madness and unreality,
without breaking the glass.
Uncut by the shards of her mirror
or the place she entered into.
She had only to wake to make
things the right way round again.
But walking through a clear glass,
a transparent window,
it would have been different.
Her reflection would float
towards a place where everything
seemed the right way round.
Where everything made sense
and added up sweet with reason.
A place without madness,
which looked easy to enter
and had no sharp edges.
Apparently.
But this glass forms an invisible barrier
to the other side and the life
that seduces and entices her.
And to get through she has to break the glass,
whose sharp edges cut her
and propel her crazily into a place
where she cannot wake.
A jagged, topsy turvy place
where everything spins round wildly.
Where caricatures of humanity scream out
trying to make sense of it.
Front to back and outside in.
Everything is the wrong way round again.
(prev. pub. in Anomalie, September 2015)
THAT WAS US
That was us
who wandered through Europe without maps
or money,
or sense of direction.
Who got lost a lot,
but didn’t get raped or murdered.
So far as we can remember.
Who charmed hoteliers into letting us stay
for free.
Who got up early (too cold to sleep),
and cleaned the kitchen and the floors of
the hostel in Laumiere
for the first time in many years.
Then sat on the stairs and said ‘No Pasaran’
to everyone, until it had dried,
explaining carefully in languages we did not
speak,
why this was necessary.
Who, with wide-eyed innocence and
impressively bad French
failed to understand the policemen’s demands,
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’
Until our new friends with the nice smiles and
no papers had disappeared.
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’
Sod off!
That was us
who swam off the rocks, with a man we’d met
in a cafe,
because he said we could.
And swam and swam until two policemen came,
(one very stern and one very twinkly),
and said we couldn’t.
Nor could we leave the rocks without clothes on,
or with clothes clinging to our still wet bodies,
or lie on the rocks until we were dry,
in case we disconcerted the traffic or populace.
This being the main street in Trieste.
Who lived in a house ‘typique du Turque’ with
a water pump in the garden
and a toilet, also ‘Typique du Turque’, which
made us very ill indeed.
But the parties were good and the con-
versations interesting,
even though no one spoke English.
And we learned to speak some Albanian,
which was always handy.
And we survived to sit thirstily by a hot, dusty
roadside and fantasize
about the ice cold mountain water streaming
through the streets of Pec,
and even about the water pump in the garden.
Who left Barcelona dressed in summer skirts
and sandals
and arrived late by a dark roadside in snowy
Andorra,
at a place full of ‘apres ski’ types with plummy
voices and fat wallets,
inviting us into their warm hotel to buy us
drinks and hot food,
to warm us up, they said.
No chance!
No class traitors, us! Not us,
Not us.
They’re not like us,
these two old women in the mirror
wearing our jeans and our smiles.
Not us,
they can’t be us.
Not us.
Not us.
(prev. pub. in Necro Production Magazine, 2020)
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
“Mirrors,” she said, “are never to be trusted.”
―Neil Gaiman, Coraline
______________________
Our gratitude to Lynn White from Wales for her musing on mirrors today, which happen to be our Seed of the Week. It’s always a pleasure to hear from our counterparts overseas!
In addition to Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento tonight at 8pm, there will be two workshops earlier in the day: Rhony Bhopla’s Write Your Artist Statement on Zoom at 3pm, and an Ekphrastic workshop from Arts and Culture El Dorado with Lara Gularte at 5:30pm. Sign up for either or both of these at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/, and click on that same link for Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS, with details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area. And keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
______________________
—Medusa
That was us
who wandered through Europe without maps
or money,
or sense of direction.
Who got lost a lot,
but didn’t get raped or murdered.
So far as we can remember.
Who charmed hoteliers into letting us stay
for free.
Who got up early (too cold to sleep),
and cleaned the kitchen and the floors of
the hostel in Laumiere
for the first time in many years.
Then sat on the stairs and said ‘No Pasaran’
to everyone, until it had dried,
explaining carefully in languages we did not
speak,
why this was necessary.
Who, with wide-eyed innocence and
impressively bad French
failed to understand the policemen’s demands,
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’
Until our new friends with the nice smiles and
no papers had disappeared.
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’
Sod off!
That was us
who swam off the rocks, with a man we’d met
in a cafe,
because he said we could.
And swam and swam until two policemen came,
(one very stern and one very twinkly),
and said we couldn’t.
Nor could we leave the rocks without clothes on,
or with clothes clinging to our still wet bodies,
or lie on the rocks until we were dry,
in case we disconcerted the traffic or populace.
This being the main street in Trieste.
Who lived in a house ‘typique du Turque’ with
a water pump in the garden
and a toilet, also ‘Typique du Turque’, which
made us very ill indeed.
But the parties were good and the con-
versations interesting,
even though no one spoke English.
And we learned to speak some Albanian,
which was always handy.
And we survived to sit thirstily by a hot, dusty
roadside and fantasize
about the ice cold mountain water streaming
through the streets of Pec,
and even about the water pump in the garden.
Who left Barcelona dressed in summer skirts
and sandals
and arrived late by a dark roadside in snowy
Andorra,
at a place full of ‘apres ski’ types with plummy
voices and fat wallets,
inviting us into their warm hotel to buy us
drinks and hot food,
to warm us up, they said.
No chance!
No class traitors, us! Not us,
Not us.
They’re not like us,
these two old women in the mirror
wearing our jeans and our smiles.
Not us,
they can’t be us.
Not us.
Not us.
(prev. pub. in Necro Production Magazine, 2020)
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
“Mirrors,” she said, “are never to be trusted.”
―Neil Gaiman, Coraline
______________________
Our gratitude to Lynn White from Wales for her musing on mirrors today, which happen to be our Seed of the Week. It’s always a pleasure to hear from our counterparts overseas!
In addition to Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento tonight at 8pm, there will be two workshops earlier in the day: Rhony Bhopla’s Write Your Artist Statement on Zoom at 3pm, and an Ekphrastic workshop from Arts and Culture El Dorado with Lara Gularte at 5:30pm. Sign up for either or both of these at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/, and click on that same link for Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS, with details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area. And keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
______________________
—Medusa
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
