Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt
Two mirrors, set in opposition, observe, the created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's from unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's image, faintly recollected,
living face, face to face, with past insurrections, alters his future visions.
From cold water lake she's drawn, now impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, like an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive. But this old man's tiddlywink,
land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation,
neither silvered or exacting, stain a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon,
'cept for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face,
a black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.
His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets,
hung damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths,
disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsel words.
Man here to her, pledges allegiance, by audaciously defiling her sanctity,
a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance,
even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either,
from her words, confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.
Mirror by Sylvia Plath
**I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
with gratitude for the inspiration from, to:
"Words are his instrument, poised to deliver, sometimes
sometimes a word or two for you,
reality is on its way...going to come through and fit for you."
for Patty M, who swore me to never, and only, give up to you, my best.
for Sia, who loves her Sylvia so.
Born on April 24~25, 2016
and of course, for Sylvia