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.