Come Spring...
I paint my little room
all yellow
fill it with
daffodils & jonquils
drag in a giant
mirror
(left in the back yard)
so large
it takes up
all the wall
giving the illusion
of another room
as if my room
were now not so
small.
Sometime the trompe d'oeil
fools even me
& I walk into
the imaginary room.
'Ouch! '
my reflection shouts!
Come Spring...
...came you!
(totally unexpected)
& my playing with
perspective
hath you enthralled.
I'd catch you
catching your
reflection observing you
observing
the mirror couple
as they
mimiced us
watching our every
more
you thought it so
sensual
or could pretend to be
at a small orgy
when it was only
us
again
&
again.
Bodies of flesh & blood
bodies of glass.
You breathe
upon the mirror
tracing our names
with a fingertip
fragile words
made of breath
'...this love...will last...! '
***
When we break
up
the mirror
stayed intact
except for a jagged
lightning crack
& now it was I
who watched
like a gentleman of Shallot
the couple
in the mirror
(the ghosts of
memory)
making love
bodies of flesh
& blood
bodies
of
glass.
Bodies of glass... So fragile............ Bodies of glass... Not made to last.. Memories blurred by time...or seen clearly...in memories...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This confusion of reality with reflection reminds me of two lines by Yan Li, a poet who lives in Shanghai: BEFORE MY EYES DRIPPING WITH QUICKSILVER TEARS THE MIRROR SHOWS GLASS GROWN PUFFY WITH CRYING