Mirror, Mirror had a Great Fall

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There is a story to be found in anything and, I am finding, that there is also a theology to be found in any story. I feel this poem is an apt example of enjoying the beauty of an old tale reimagined while contemplating a truth that shimmered in the retelling.

Mirror, Mirror Had Great Fall

“Mirror, mirror upon the wall,

Who is the fairest of them all?”

I once was asked from day to day

And in reply I’d always say

“My lady, it is surely true;

The brightest, fairest one is you.”

 

It was my joy, your face to see,

Peering in and out of me.

And mine was whitest complexion

For it was rightest reflection;

To revel was no vanity

For I shone back your own beauty.

.

“Mirror, mirror upon the wall.”

I’d thrill to hear my mistress call

And sing to her worshipful words

That beauty best was only hers,

That there could be another one

Would be to think the moon the sun.

 

Yet still a subtle crack did creep

Out from some secret, smeary deep

And when her face would turn aside,

A self-whisper would soft confide.

The dream I dared not dream when she

Would smile, singing, before me.

.

“Mirror, mirror upon the wall-”

Her song my heart did yet enthrall

For ’tis my nature to reflect

That which I love as first object.

In her dawn’s light, all else soon fades,

Sly secrets flee as shyest shades.

 

But then again as she’d depart

(Though I know she yet saw mine heart)

I’d ponder those sly smudgélings

That obscure honest imagings

And I could not but speculate

What once I’d simply contemplate.

.

  I, the Mirror on the wall, 

Dreamt I was fairest of them all!

And as I answered, said aloud

Those words, so false and yet so proud:

“I cannot say, my dearest queen,

For you’re the only one I’ve seen.”

 

“Perhaps,” I pressed, not to give in,

Enthused by this first spoken sin,

“There is another one dearer

Kept hid within this magic mirror

And if I only can break free,

I’ll find the fairest one is me.”

.

O! Mirror hung upon the wall,

You must have known that you would fall;

To try and see your own self rule

Was to prove only princely fool.

A mirror looking in its glass

Will find nothing but emptiness.

 

In turning to a blank portrait

I chose the broken mirror’s fate;

Bad fortune was my prideful gain,

For nihil gleamed the shattered pane.

I thought not e’er to see again

Bright Beauty,

but, of a sudden- 

.

“Mirror mine, though you did fall,”

Spoke she, most loved and feared of all,

“Your shattered face was made for mine

And I have power to refine,

To smooth and polish, good as new,

Though with a somehow richer hue.

 

“You, shaped to be an image of

The Beauty that shines forth above,

Are raised once more to this high wall,

To see the more-than-fair of all

And hence reflect and emulate

That Beauty ever true and great.”

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Weekday Communion: a little poem

In God alone my soul finds rest

And oft I meet Him here:

In the quiet, dim narthex,

Breathing the churchly air.

Babies here have been baptized

And joyful couples wed;

Funerals tearful bade goodbyes

And pow’rful scriptures read.

But as I sit now quietly-

No sound but for the organ-

I rather think this cup of tea

Is a weekday communion.

Ordinary Beauty

Sometimes I want to weep

At unnoticed beauty –

That’s not seen for its shyness,

Dismissed, “ordinary.”

It’s in the chatter of the birds,

The smell of mesquite trees,

The ebb and flow of whispered words

Caught by th’eavesdropping breeze.

In foamy sips of coffee

In silly, printed cups,

And in the dreamy things I think

When I’m just waking up.

In books written for children

That yet I love and keep.

In the softness of my bed

As I drift back to sleep.

When in rare quiet moments,

I slow my busy mind,

I fall in love with beauties

Of daily, simple kind

And realize that perhaps- perhaps!

The truest art of all

Is found more oft’ than splendor

In beauties sweet and small.

Non-Writing Writer

I was inspired this morning as I walked to practice piano for an upcoming recital… this would have been great, had I been inspired to practice. Rather, I was inspired to set the opening of Wordsworth’s The Prelude to music. 

My roommate (bless her) stopped me just in time: “Ryanne, if you write a melody and add lyrics, you’ll also want to add harmony and piano. You don’t have time!” 

Valid. 

But I felt strongly the annoyance of being unable to create due to the pressures of my ordinary, required pursuits. 

So I wrote a little rhyme to vent: 

A non writing writer’s a monster they say:

A little too frazzled and nearly insane.

She lives in an enchanted, storybook world 

Yet can’t venture in, for life is a whirl.

One single word leads to many and two-

Well, they multiply to be more than a few. 

And should she dare to compose a small line 

She risks the danger of falling behind;

The everyday life has no cares for the muse,

Though the poet’s soul, she hardly did choose. 

So cursed with a mind that brews up ideas 

And a heart that ever ceaselessly feels,

She stumbles about with a businesslike stride 

And forces her little brainchildren to hide

And wait for a time when life will relax 

It’s grip made of boring and ord’nary tasks-

So she might finally write them all down,

These inkling ideas that, impatient, abound. 

Autumn’s Daughter 

I am this season’s child 

     though I am dressed as spring: 

The burning gold of fall is hid

      beneath the flow’rs I bring. 

While storms of thought are whirling, 

     and swirl within my mind,

All you see’s the cloudless blue  

     of clear sky in my eyes.

Dreams and nightmares flutter

    like vibrant, falling leaves, 

 But I doubt you’d ever know  

     for the roses in my cheeks. 

Though my hair’s bright as sunlit May 

     and my lips brim with laughter,

My birth was a November day 

     and I am Autumn’s Daughter. 

The Heiligenstadt Testament

How painful in cruel irony…

That you, though sighted, cannot see:

Deafness- not pride- is Beethoven’s malady.

.

This “unlicked bearcub” of a child

Was born spirited and wild,

Yet yearned to love, kind and mild.

.

But those called to the highest aims

Are ne’er allowed to stay the same:

Both blessing and curse shall raise a name.

.

Torn ‘tween the two he yet did know

That despite the silent, awful blow,

The call of Art he was destined to follow.

.

The Muse and Virtue spurred him on;

This lifesong born and bred in Bonn

Would never, though softened, fade as gone.

.

Tired eyes shall ruin writers

And fear mute the tongues of singers.

But these who quit are amateurs

For trials train the masters.

.

Art’s best servants are the ones

Who fight to finish work begun.

These faithful press onward through life

To create art out of their strife.

Three o’Clock in the Morning

Three in the morning,

an hour of woe,

Breathes heartache and mourning

and deepest sorrow.

Its minutes are counted

with seconds and sighs

As in blanket-mound bed

fears dance ‘fore sore eyes.

The moments just lumber-

a funeral dirge-

While we, seeking slumber,

turn, toss on its verge.

The stillness is silence

as cold as a tomb

Yet burns so intense

it crowds th’empty room.

No pillow can soften,

nor lullaby light,

The three o’clock coffin

of a restless night.