Upwards from her toes,
she went over herself
in the mirror walls, traced
the body she alone had seen
reflected, its every inch rubbed
faint pink, as though she were
polishing herself to be more
beautiful in the looking glass
clouded over with steam.
Her face, paling as she gazed,
went red to white; her eyes,
blue but unsmiling, dulled
with mirroring all she could
of the shape she wiped away
again, tenderly, gradually,
with so much care to make thin.
© 2013 Maureen E. Doallas
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This is a found poem, which I crafted from a prose excerpt from Party Going (1939) by English novelist Henry Green (1905-1973). Last week, Tom Clark featured the excerpt at his wonderful blog. As it happened, the excerpt fitted this month's poetry theme at TweetSpeakPoetry: "Mirror, Mirror".
New York Times Topics: Henry Green
Terry Southern Interview with Henry Green, The Paris Review, Summer 1958
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11 comments:
I absolutely love this, Maureen. From the opening
Upwards from her toes,
she went over herself
in the mirror walls,
the syntax and image-creation fully captured me. I was curious to see the original prose and how closely you had hewed to it: really very little. The poems is as much found in the dictionary as Green's prose, but there were the limited selection and the situation as a discipline.
The poem is really a pleasure.
Airbrushing herself svelte?
Love it.
A lovely reflection. You presented an image I can never know experientually, nevertheless poetically. Beautiful.
kinda sad to me...all the effort we spend into making ourselves into something....
I would never have realised this was a found poem if you hadn't told us, Maureen. It is, as your work always is, beautiful.
I love found poems and this is gorgeous.
Beautifully sad. Without reading your bio, your skill speaks clearly in this work. Not to diminish what is expressed but like the first reader, I, too, was impressed with your line breaks. Only with a seasoned writer can I write this and know you can appreciate my admiration. Enjoyed.
Dancers. Most of them have so little time before their bodies start to break down. And the effort it takes to get "there". It takes a bit of obsession, and I'm sure, a lot of anxiety. FABULOUS found poem
It's the sterility of her existence that feels so pronounced to me.. a life of reflections. Love the flow and form.. Works a treat for this circular, insular life.
Beautiful poem, Maureen-- the imagery flowers wonderfully-- poignant as well. xxxj
Oh, this was heartbreaking. Our desire to scrub free what we see when we look at our reflections.
A powerful piece.
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