Interlude (7)

A special interlude post on ‘A story in many unequal parts, some missing’.

Includes AI art, the reading of Part 07 and a new poem on the lines of the previous post. It is called Thirteen Ways to Tell your Story. A look at my own writing process (followed or otherwise, wise or otherwise). Click here to read and hear.  

Leave your thoughts, bring your own art and memoir poetry to the mix.

Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall

Sharing this piece from September 29th, 2016. It was written for dVerse Poets, inspired by Wallace Stevens’ classic, ‘Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird’. But interestingly, this poem was included in a dverse poets anthology called CHIAROSCURO which is supposedly part of the proposed LunarCodex to be inducted into the Polaris time capsule, targeted for the 2023 SpaceX/ Astrobotic Griffin lander/ NASA VIPER rover mission, headed for the Lunar South Pole. I have no idea how to process this information, but there it is. 
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I
how many mirrors
has this morning hung
everywhere I see my soul

II
like mirror shards
the morning dew falls
suddenly a thousand skies

III
my grandmother’s mirror
photoshopping my image
with her soft eyes

IV
somedays the mirror
stretches a hand
to catch a falling tear

V
between me and the mirror
seven steps
seven presumptions

VI
the sky is our mirror
you see the falling stars
I am bewitched by the moon

VII
empty mirror
how much did I lose of myself
leaving you

VIII
free,
the way we looked
before there were mirrors

IX
hidden behind the mirror
all those reflections
before this

X
today the mirror
casts three reflections
asking me to choose

XI
in his rearview mirror
he brings home
the waxing moon

XII
then what saved Narcissus?
a ripple?
a tear?

XIII
three blackbirds
flying past the mirror
six pause

A story in many unequal parts, some missing – 14

Born in one town and raised in four others
before I was ten, I feel like the earth, unable
to say where I started. Was it night first…

Read the whole poem here. This story and all its unequal parts are on the new blog, along with some readings, so it will be a lot easier to catch up on previous episodes, if you haven’t read them already. Do follow that blog/subscribe via email for updates. And if you’d like to be a guest reader or link your art, drop me a note! Or if you too are writing your story on your blog, let’s create a unique blogroll of poetic memoirs.

A year after “Duplicity”

Last September, “Duplicity” was born. A second book of poems. Birthed in the dark days of the pandemic. A few weeks later. I wrote this on my blog:

As the exhilaration of bringing forth a new book begins to settle, it presents the writer with another empty page. The writing has to being again and the poet, like a child, stares out at a freshly scrubbed world, learning anew, words and meanings, tasting phrases and metaphors, slowly, as if the morning is a foreign language, strange and tempting yet utterly incomprehensible.

I started writing what I had tagged #citypoems in the pre-virus era but only sometime after the debilitating second wave, when I had a stack of pandemic poetry, written in the silence and despair of the endless lockdowns, did I start putting “Duplicity” together. But all that seems like a long time ago.

What happens next? What happens on the morning-after-the-month-after-the-book?

We climb ladders with invisible rungs. Never knowing if our feet are planted in the right place, on safe ground. From that uncertainty, come the poems. Comes this journey. And how glad and how grateful I am for it. That need to write from a place of honesty and self-awareness has spilt into this year and all my current writing. What could be better?

Thanks to everyone who supported the book. And thanks even more to all readers who came back to me with their thoughts.

“Duplicity” is available in print and kindle editions on Amazon.

The Way It Works, Or Doesn’t

the way it works, or doesn’t,
one piece of evidence points to another, on and on, even as the search
changes and the seeker
becomes another person, then another;
but not all things are clues, some things just are,
they don’t say anything, won’t go anywhere,
your breath on my skin was not a portent, but I didn’t know that until later,
until it was too late to stop moving,
until it was too late to stop crying;
some things we take along with us, half carrying, half dragging,
their screams incoherent, their eyes streaming, bright like dying stars,
by the time I realised I had found myself,
by the time I figured out why there were no footprints to follow,
by the time I came back to where I began,
where it began,
my head was pounding,
there were welts on my soul, the shape of your fingers,
something you had said was still a bleeding wound;
your walking away was not a sign,
not a symptom of an incoming deluge,
my clothes were wet,
there was water in my shoes,
there were no clues, not even rain,
not even a ripple,
some things just are,
some days, it doesn’t work,
we cannot walk on water

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First posted this poem here on this day four years ago. This poem still seems relevant to me, especially as I  work on the new series. Four years is a long time but is also just yesterday.  

A story in many unequal parts, some missing – 13

Gathering reflections from a river
gone by. Remembering like a
reluctant rain. The day…

Read the whole poem here. This story and all its unequal parts are on the new blog, along with some readings, so it will be a lot easier to catch up on previous episodes. Do follow that blog/subscribe via email for updates. And if you’d like to be a guest reader or link your art, drop me a note! Or if you too are writing your story on your blog, let’s create a unique blogroll.