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rig May 23
red
room: || hk still got it.

i forget the meaning of
the word constellation.
it’s been a while. look,
the bears. polaris. and
that’s – uh – cassiopeia.
yeah, when i was little i
was fascinated by all of
this i didn’t understand.

          i brought a book for us.

the thing with all these
symbols here is that i
keep mixing them up,
stripping away all the
meaning they have had
for millennia and just
gifting them mine own.
(is that a… forestfire?)

          oh, eyelash on your cheek.          i got it.

                                                            ­     (ah. the sun. right.)
                                                         ­                            (pretty.)
rig Apr 29
the moon is not.
              golden; or sssweet; or – oh…– …sssssssssssyrupy…

and yet i miss it:
its
hmm

s.
Suki G Apr 27
They call me a good girl
and so, I’ve always tried
but somehow, I can’t seem to find
the shining white pearl inside
and so, I always try
to find the good in others around
and hope that in some way, somehow,
it rights all my wrongs.
They call me a good girl —
I think I’m too good even for that.
They’ve walked over me,
stepped on my feet,
crushed down my throat,
trampled across my chest,
pinned my hands and legs,
clipped my very wings,
and for it all, they simply say
that I am a good girl.
I wonder if I’d still be good
if I shake my mane and roar
and thunder claps at my voice
and the earth trembles below
as I trade my wings for talons
and claw my way out
and soar a thousand feet high
and take back what’s rightfully mine.
But what does it matter?
They may call me names,
but I know mine:
I’m a good girl.
NaPoWriMo 2021 (April 14) Prompt: Write a poem delving into the meaning of your first/last name.
Suki G Apr 4
Stretched wide across mountains and valleys,
clusters of hills and springs of rivers,
a soft brown veil dusted with gold.
Take a long nail, pry it aside,
come, see what’s within for a modest fine.
My flesh, a soft pink for a childhood much missed,
my blood, a loud red for all the shocks I’m full of,
my bone, I’m not too sure for none have travelled far
but if you pressed me hard enough, you’d feel it -
scrolls of poems written and yet to be,
my tongue a ribbon binding them all,
my teeth an ivory chest to contain them,
and sweet lips carefully locking them for now.
A treasure trove awaits those
of my blood and water,
presented on a silver platter under
a soft brown veil dusted with gold
stretched wide across mountains and valleys,
clusters of hills and springs of rivers.
Andrew Layman Mar 25
Let's not be coy
I said,
wagging my finger
you are here to talk about me
I said repeatedly
to the mirror
so talk---
I said, playfully
or I will.
Rhododendron bumblebees
Oh how weak my knees can be
Counting every step
it’s a threat, no it’s death

Palm leaves, apple trees
wishing that I could believe
my body is a temple
break it down tenfold

Lungs heave
free me
trapped inside this barn
my body is a spool of yarn.

watch me string it out
yann Mar 1
so what if i died right there,
mouth wide open,
killed by the number of rejections my body has had to suffer through,
mine first and then the rest,
a grief made out of pebbles and rocks and other sharp objects.

what if i gave up, right now,
body crumpled in a knot
of all the hate it has received over the years,
yours first and then
the one i started throwing at it too.

there is only so much time one can save before the ticking of the clock gets too much
to keep walking in dry lands.
show me the ****** water
let me drown in it,
I should be the king of me.
EMPstrike Feb 28
A change well beyond my normal ways
Has taken hold these past few days
And, to be fair, It's only for play
But it impacts me, unexpectedly.

The perfect form! Admittedly,
it is so only to me.
But, to be fair, it helps me see
How I believe I would like to be.

Her personality is exactly me.
Which proves I love myself for real.
But, to be fair
This is me,
If I were to be fair.

She makes me want to be healthy,
She makes me think that I can be,
Me
And see
That I want to be,
Fair, for someone else.
SELF REFLECTIONS

These are poems about mirrors, images, self-image, reflections and self-reflection. How do we see ourselves differently than other people see us? Why do our impressions of ourselves sometimes end up like so much shattered glass?



Self Reflection
by Michael R. Burch

for anyone struggling with self-image

She has a comely form
and a smile that brightens her dorm ...
but she's grossly unthin
when seen from within;
soon a griefstricken campus will mourn.

Yet she'd never once criticize
a friend for the size of her thighs.
Do unto others—
sisters and brothers?
Yes, but also ourselves, likewise.



Reflections
by Michael R. Burch

I am her mirror.
I say she is kind,
lovely, breathtaking.
She screams that I’m blind.

I show her her beauty,
her brilliance and compassion.
She refuses to believe me,
for that’s the latest fashion.

She storms and she rages;
she dissolves into tears
while envious Angels
are, by God, her only Peers.



Is the mirror unkind
by Michael R. Burch

To your lovely brown eyes is the mirror unkind,
revealing far more than reflections defined
in superficial glass, so lacking in depth?
Is the mirror unkind, at times, darling Beth?

What you see my dear, I see different by far,
as our sun from Centauri is just a “small” star,
but here it brings life and warms each day’s start.
Oh, and a mirror can never reveal a true heart.



On Looking into Curious George’s Mirrors
by Michael R. Burch

for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon aka Seamus Cassidy

Maya was made in the image of God;
may the reflections she sees in those curious mirrors
always echo back Love.

Amen



The Mistake
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All your life, O Ghalib,
You kept repeating the same mistake:
Your face was *****
But you were obsessed with cleaning the mirror!



Shattered
by Vera Pavlova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards
barefoot.



Radiance
by Michael R. Burch

for Dylan Thomas

The poet delves earth’s detritus—hard toil—
for raw-edged nouns, barbed verbs, vowels’ lush bouquet;
each syllable his pen excretes—dense soil,
dark images impacted, rooted clay.

The poet sees the sea but feels its meaning—
the teeming brine, the mirrored oval flame
that leashes and excites its turgid surface ...
then squanders years imagining love’s the same.

Belatedly he turns to what lies broken—
the scarred and furrowed plot he fiercely sifts,
among death’s sicksweet dungs and composts seeking
one element that scorches and uplifts.



Downdraft
by Michael R. Burch

for Dylan Thomas

We feel rather than understand what he meant
as he reveals a shattered firmament
which before him never existed.

Here, there are no images gnarled and twisted
out of too many words,
but only flocks of white birds

wheeling and flying.

Here, as the sun spins, reeling and dying,
the voice of a last gull
or perhaps a lost soul,

echoes its lonely madrigal
and we feel its strange pull
on the astonished soul.

O My Prodigal!

The vents of the sky, ripped asunder,
echo this wild, primal thunder—
now dying into undulations of vanishing wings . . .

and this voice which in haggard bleak rapture still somehow downward sings.




Resemblance
by Michael R. Burch

Take this geode with its rough exterior—
crude-skinned, brilliant-hearted ...
a diode of amethyst—wild, electric;
its sequined cavity—parted, revealing.
Find in its fire all brittle passion,
each jagged shard relentlessly aching.
Each spire inward—a fission startled;
in its shattered entrails—fractured light,
the heart ice breaking.



Wonderland
by Michael R. Burch

We stood, kids of the Lamb, to put to test
the beatific anthems of the blessed,
the sentence of the martyr, and the pen’s
sincere religion. Magnified, the lens
shot back absurd reflections of each face—
a carnival-like mirror. In the space
between the silver backing and the glass,
we caught a glimpse of Joan, a frumpy lass
who never brushed her hair or teeth, and failed
to pass on GO, and frequently was jailed
for awe’s beliefs. Like Alice, she grew wee
to fit the door, then couldn’t lift the key.
We failed the test, and so the jury’s hung.
In Oz, “The Witch is Dead” ranks number one.



Mirror
by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My era's obscuring mirror
shattered
because it magnified the small
and made the great seem insignificant.
Dictators and monsters filled its contours.
Now when I breathe
its jagged shards pierce my heart
and instead of sweat
I exude glass.



Polish
by Michael R. Burch

Your fingers end in talons—
the ones you trim to hide
the predator inside.
Ten thousand creatures sacrificed;
but really, what’s the loss?
Apply a splash of gloss.
You picked the perfect color
to mirror nature’s law:
red, like tooth and claw.



Mending Glass
by Michael R. Burch

In the cobwebbed house—
lost in shadows
by the jagged mirror,
in the intricate silver face
cracked ten thousand times,
silently he watches,
and in the twisted light
sometimes he catches there
a familiar glimpse of revealing lace,
white stockings and garters,
a pale face pressed indiscreetly near
with a predatory leer,
the sheer flash of nylon,
an embrace, or a sharp slap,
. . . a sudden lurch of terror.

He finds bright slivers
—the hard sharp brittle shards,
the silver jags of memory
starkly impressed there—
and mends his error.



The Poet
by Michael R. Burch

He walks to the sink,
takes out his teeth,
rubs his gums.
He tries not to think.

In the mirror, on the mantle,
Time—the silver measure—
does not stare or blink,
but in a wrinkle flutters,
in a hand upon the brink
of a second, hovers.

Through a mousehole,
something scuttles
on restless incessant feet.

There is no link
between life and death
or from a fading past
to a more tenuous present
that a word uncovers
in the great wink.

The white foam lathers
at his thin pink
stretched neck
like a tightening noose.
He tries not to think.

Keywords/Tags: mirror, image, images, imagery, self, self-image, self discovery, fear of self, self control, self harm, reflection, reflections, reflecting, glass, mrbref
yann Jan 25
what if we took a bath,
you and me,
we laid down in the water,
and your body was bare,
the little dots on your shoulders
smiling at me like lovers,
your hands would reach for me
to join you,
and what if my body had changed by then,
the scars over my chest
smiling at you like a promise,
i'd let you close,
i'd let you touch,
i
i crave for it.
ache for it so badly.

touch my new body,
allow me to breathe so close to your skin,
let's soak for a while,
in this tender fantasy,
my back to your chest,
the warmth of the water,
your hands over my hands,
the trust in our shoulders,

what if we took a bath,
me and you,
and we let our bodies
exist, together.
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