Dragonfly's Poetry & Prolixity: Mirror, Mirror by Tom Healy

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Mirror, Mirror by Tom Healy

MIRROR, MIRROR

By Tom Healy

What do we do when we hate our bodies?

A good coat helps.

Some know how to pull off a hat.

And there are paints, lighting, knives, needles,

various kinds of resignation,

the laugh in the mirror, the lie

of saying it doesn’t matter.

There is also the company we keep:

surgeons and dermatologists,

faith healers and instruction-givers,

tailors of cashmere and skin

who send their bills for holding

our shame-red hands, raw

from the slipping rope,

the same hands with which we tremble

ever so slightly, holding novels in bed,

concentrating on the organization

of pain and joy

we say is another mirror,

a depth, a conjure in which we might meet

someone who says touch me.

_________________________________________________

I avoid mirrors. I haven't recognized the woman in my mirrors for a long time now. Pain makes you ugly, depressed, sad and sick. People hate sickly people. They run screaming if, when they politely say, "How are you?", and you answer truthfully, "I feel like shit, everything hurts and I haven't slept all night for many years now...How are you?" They trip over their feet to get the hell away from you. Few people have sincere empathy, which is to truly imagine yourself in the other person's place.

I'm grateful for the people in my life who've shown me empathy in spite of wanting to run. You know who you are. Bless you all & have a Thanksgiving filled with love, empathy and gratitude. xo, Marion

1 comment:

Kelly said...: I'm not much of a fan of mirrors, either. *sigh*

Wishing you all the best for your Thanksgiving, too, Marion.

I absolutely LOVE the color of that flower! Beautiful.; November 12, 2015 at 1:33 PM

I Love Lorrie Moore!!

“You’re not a poetess, I hope,” said the English geologist next to her. “We had a poetess here last month, and things got a bit dodgy here for the rest of us.”

“Really.” After the soup, there was risotto with squid ink.

“Yes. She kept referring to insects as ‘God’s typos’ and then she kept us all after dinner one evening so she could read from her poems, which seemed to consist primarily of the repeating line ‘the hairy kiwi of his balls.’”

From: “Birds of America” by Lorrie Moore, page 266, ‘Terrific Mother’

Miranda July's Best Book:

"Do you have doubts about life? Are you unsure if it is worth the trouble? Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person's face as you pass on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of fire underneath the ground: all these things are for you. They are as much for you as they are for other people. Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing. Stand up and face the east. Now praise the sky and praise the light within each person under the sky. It's okay to be unsure. But praise, praise, praise." From: "No One Belongs Here More Than You Stories by Miranda July", Page 11

A Dreamy, Drug of a Book

"The minute you land in New Orleans, something wet and dark leaps on you and starts humping you like a swamp dog in heat, and the only way to get that aspect of New Orleans off you is to eat it off. That means beignets and crayfish bisque and jambalaya, it means shrimp remoulade, pecan pie and red beans with rice, it means elegant pompano au papillote, funky file z'herbes, and raw oysters by the dozen, it means grillades for breakfast, a po' boy with chowchow at bedtime, and tubs of gumbo in between. It is not unusual for a visitor to the city to gain fifteen pounds in a week---yet the alternative is a whole lot worse. If you don't eat night and day, if you don't constantly funnel the indigenous flavors into your bloodstream, then the mystery beast will go right on humping you, and you will feel its sordid presence rubbing against you long after you have left town." ~Tom Robbins, "Jitterbug Perfume", page 240