The Other Side of The Mirror – Syeda Faiza
Rocking the chair, I sit in solitude
Waiting for the unbeknownst partner.
I know he is already around, revealed by
The moving curtains and tinkling chimes.
He knows I’ve always waited for him
To step out of the realm on the other side.
In silence and darkness his reflection emerges
And I see his steely cold blue eyes, gleaming.
His fingers hold onto the edges,
His veins tighten and knuckles crack,
The feet protrude and his body slides out,
From The Other Side of The Mirror.
The Other Side Of The Mirror – Thom Boulton a.k.a Blaidh Nemorlith
Perfect teeth,
chiselled,
in a row that looks like Greek architecture
and there
in the glint
stands Herakles,
trying to push them,
shrug them,
wrestle them free to the floor
but in this moment
he cannot.
Perfect nose,
when leaning left,
ensuring that
bent bit stays
on the other side of the mirror,
away from the cameras and front page headlines,
only the best,
only the best will do.
If Judy Garland were alive
she’d sing for him,
let him know his dreams would come true,
somewhere,
somewhere, on the other side of the mirror.
On the other side of the mirror
is a land of elfin artists,
that know the contours of a his face
so well
that they can cast the lighting carefully
or use shadow to hide chickenpox scars,
they are the last of a dying breed,
being replaced by photosuite software,
brushes made of air,
and
eating disorders.
He tilts the mirror forward
and he shrinks a bit,
revealing blotchy skin
and flaked eczema
which drifts down off his brow and onto his jumper,
well, it is Christmas after all,
what is Christmas without snowfall?
Or jumpers?
He huffs,
whacks on cream
and the gleam shines like the legs of those beautiful women,
waltzing onto chatshow,
who have had so much gel rubbed on their legs to ensure perfection
that you can now see the studio audience
gawping at them,
in reflection.
He dreams of the glimpse he got,
his face at that sweet angle
but now
it is a folded page corner in the book of his image,
tucked away neatly,
for safe keeping,
on the other side of the mirror.
Halves Of A Mess – Brittaina Goffy
Dark, warm pupils
stare across the room
Brother to brother,
One flaunting, one shy
Desires and actions
Halves of a mess
Hunched over, crying,
Open wings, flying
Other half so brave
This half dead
Reflect, support,
and destroy the other
The Other Side Of The Mirror – Carol Forrester
As a child I tried and failed to read Through The Looking Glass.
Since then the pages have gathered dust
and I have left the spine un-cracked.
Yet I still wonder about mirrors
and whether they could be portals,
or doorways or traps,
or anything other than just my reflection.
At secondary school
I was told that if you looked in a mirror at midnight
the devil would be there looking back.
In the evenings I avoid my reflection
and chunter soft criticisms
about not being ridiculous.
I ignore the voice at the back of my head,
the one that dares me to look,
to reach out and test
if the glass is solid,
to see if it has changed at all.
I only ever see myself.
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