I revised a poem which many of you were kind enough to comment upon, Mirror/Mausoleum for Two\Mirror. One goal was to give it heart. Version 1 came across as too judgemental, I felt. Hope you think I met my goal, and that, for those of you who remember vsn.1, that you feel that this is clearer and more. . .I don't know. . ."arresting?"
The poem is semi-autobiographical. I.e., partly fiction.
Happy Daze!
Pea
Mirror/Flute Flute\Mirror
The stranger claiming to be my father
and Trophy III had had the wallpaper
ripped from vast, central-vacuumed
and over-potpourri'd rooms once
crawled with flowers and soldiers
with muskets. Hel-LO? Shock not
being able to avoid your comings
and goings. Floor-to-ceiling looking
glass for no earthly reason took me
back to partitions in the museum
where I worked. Supposed to keep
rope-escaping kids from stickying
tyrannosaurus rex. Once been clear.
Mirrors that hardened the latest
patriarchal nest were the fly-trap
amber favored by dress shops in
the hope that a deluded customer is
a charging customer. Come in, Cash
Cow. Get a picture of a blank-featured
manequin with limbs like celery sticks.
Wait, that's T. III. Turns amber cold.
Brrrrrrrrrr, I mouthe to my partner.
Colonial-crazy T.II is officially spinning
in that teak monstrosity Daddy got
flattered into by an uplifted casket
sales tart. Poor sod. Neither he nor
III exist without mirrors. None
in the kitchen? Oh, dear. More
topiaries for the buck, mirror the
lot. But be careful. Stumbler could
bleed out before the ambulance arrives.
Seeing it's too late, the e.t.'s pick through
for pieces big enough to check their
do's. Gotta fly back first thing, I tellya?
Deadline, yata, 'cet. Peek at the library.
then it's pack and sack. Books cut
down glare. Nice. (20-1 she outlives.
Funeral Monday, eBay his stupid books
Tuesday. --Suits?) When smoke and
mirrors do her the favor of releasing
her from this glass, only reflection
will come from walk-in'd rags. Wigs
circling expressionless Styrofoam.
Wonder if she lash-batted the bank's
board into mirroring the vault.
Oooh, these rocks! Policies! Chips!
Fleeing in multiples to the designated
guestroom garners glimpses of truncated
columns topped by "vahzes from Yoor-up
and Ind-ya." Spend the money to fill
the fridge, hon'. Blue john, drink mix,
and pricey waters don' hack. Freezer
burned pizza, vodka, vodka, couple
frosted flutes. Thaw, they'll shatter?
Oh, well. To each his-or-her own,
own, own, own, own,
You have deep insight, and it shows in this poem. I love all the descriptive details and spurts of imagery. Very vivid, but very meaningful at the same time. Hugs,
Sheila
Bits and pieces both strange and familiar make me feel dizzy in this intriguing write.
It feels crowded like a saturated mind
(objects, things, nouns more present than verbs or adjectives, but that may be an impression) yet it also feels lightheaded in a world of contrasting thoughts.
And I love Sage's review, BTW.
Phyllis, you put the reader on guard in this tour de force, a near
stream of consciousness experience in which the poet and her memories are mirrored in her surroundings. I love Sage's review. -gene.
images and ideas, thoughts and memories come together in this one Pea like a salad made at tableside. Enjoyed and gave me lots of moments to introspect on my own life.
thanks for sharing...
Fee
When a poet can revise an earlier poem and give it "temperature", that poet has arrived on the Wall of Mirrors Fame...forget walking the damn red carpet...Mirror/Flute Flute/Mirror in a reversal of the red mercury thermometer propped up in the freezer set to the perfect temp to chill flutes...the reflections of a life frozen and thawed and then frozen again, freezer burn analogy reveals itself from the first line "The stranger claiming to be my father"...shards and what's left of bleeding memories...museums are places priceless history are stored for easy viewing...our own psyches are the haunted museums where we store the good, bad, and the ugly, roped off so others can't get too close...only when we want 'em too...when we chill, Pea...when we chill the flutes...glass is fragile as we are when frozen...we are always put to test to see if we will shatter - some do, some don't...
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Sheila
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
It feels crowded like a saturated mind
(objects, things, nouns more present than verbs or adjectives, but that may be an impression) yet it also feels lightheaded in a world of contrasting thoughts.
And I love Sage's review, BTW.
Axilea
stream of consciousness experience in which the poet and her memories are mirrored in her surroundings. I love Sage's review. -gene.
Regis
thanks for sharing...
Fee
Love,
Sage