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John Freeman
Over the pool of sleep
The night mists creep,
Then faint thin light and then clear day,
Noontide, and lingering afternoon;
Then that Wanderer, the Moon
Wandering her old wild way.
How many spirits follow
Her in that dark hollow!
Like a lost lamb she roams on high
Through the cold and soundless sky,
And stares down into her deep
Reflection in the pool of sleep.
How many follow
Her in that lone hollow!
She sees them not nor would she hear
Though both shape and sound were clear,
spring thaw
trees retrieving their reflections
from the ice
Nuthatch at the window,
probing under the sill
for frozen bugs and pupae,
one eye on the glass
where, behind the bare trees,
my bare face swims up—
that odd ice
on a sideways pond
with its year-round winter…
I need to buy a new mirror;
the last one broke when I punched it,
'cause I didn't like how I looked
when I first saw myself.
The last one broke when I punched it
and now my hand really hurts.
My actions were purely irrational,
but I couldn't help but smash it.
Now my hand really hurts,
because I couldn't help but smash it.
My actions were purely irrational
or so I like to tell myself.
I couldn't help but smash it,
'cause I didn't like how I looked;
or so I like to tell myself,
and now I need to buy a new mirror.
A fish's life isn't easy.
Look at me.
I cannot close my eyes
I cannot stop moving
I cannot help hearing
All that I never wanted to.
I do not sleep
I do not dream
All I know
That a few strokes ahead
I will kiss the cold reflection
of my own self.
Thank you, Lord, for this glass cage...
At the fair, at my favorite stall with distorted mirrors
I look at
A squat me
A fat me
A looong me
A twisted me
A me I think me
A shattered me
A stretched me -
Suddenly-
the images begin to speak
They raise a finger at me
and says I am you you are me
I am you you are me -
I hide a smile -
They too...
Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well than where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven godlike
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,
I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths--and then I lost it.
Water came to rebuke the too clear water.
One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,
Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?
Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.
Roadlake rushes to pour
its pools onto the pathways.
Mercury-mirrors dot them
imaging the trees' dark sway.
hazy morning
the great white heron stands
by its reflection
After lockup
orange sun goes down,
tired reflection.
It’s quiet here. The sky is cloudless. A moth flutters on
the most subtle of breezes. There’s barely a ripple on the
water. If reflections could speak, they would speak of
silence, of harmony and of deep introspection. Locked in
the aquatic mirror, a world of wonder stands fully
exposed to this image of itself. There is no judgment, no
criticism no need for redemption, just a picture of what is
here and now, a picture sprinkled with lily pads and
geese, a peaceful scene at perfect ease...
Bathed in echoes from the surface of the pond, each tree,
each reed, each leaf lives a fleeting second life entranced
in the liquid glass. The moth settles on a blade of marshgrass.
November river
perfect house reflections
one by one