the corvid rises from the yellow moon,
wept to a body of death,

dismissal of its heartbeat to the atramental stars
of unbidden dance; I know how this goes,
I’ve been here before,
slipping out of one’s own skin;

it was memoirs hung by wings,
by the man’s madness; dither now
or die in memory. The moon shall forever watch
as reprieved temporarily, the misremembrance
of the egg we asunder, pierced by the vagary 
 in empty spaces; I was always a worm on those days,

in anamnesis of different personalities,
but likewise, I was not real despite the disguise
my mind has stroked like the pentirsi
of the moon
its violet, sanguinolent images,
abounding delusion; whittling fingers,
and weak chevilles as I held the guitar; fingernails
shaped to each ghost of dream and loathing,
where mind does not recognize itself 
where the moon held the noose
over the red amalgam hills to reach
the sea, starving in its clawing embrace
vomiting memories in its wake.

© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.

Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a poem, any form, about the vatic voice. It could be speaking as a God to a poet. It could be a poet receiving a message.  It could be a poem of prophesy.  It could be about one others regard as mad by their words. It could be you invoking the vatic voice. After you’ve chosen your perspective and completed your poem, say a few words about the process you went through and how it felt.

I was really inspired by The Hall of Mirrors by Kraftwerk for this poem. In my piece, I describe how prophesy is repeated if someone keeps expecting things to never change. If they expect the same result each time, the chances are that nothing will change for them personally. For this specifically, if the image of the narrator remains the same, how can they expect the change they had sought for from the start?

36 thoughts on “mirrors.”

  1. I haven’t listened to Kraftwerk in years – my grandma was a fan back in the seventies. I think I understand where you are coming from in this poem, Lucy. I love that you start with a bird, a corvid, an omen or a prophesy, and the lines:
    ‘it was memoirs hung by wings,
    by the man’s madness; dither now
    or die in memory’
    great use of hard alliteration, definitely a warning. I see you have included ’violet, sanguinolent images’, a recurring colour.

    Liked by 5 people

    1. Thank you so, so much Kim. I’ve had the song in my head for a few days and it really evokes a lot of images in identity and change. It’s interesting.

      I’m also so glad you like the repetition I included in the poem. Lately, I’ve been fixated on red imagery, particularly with the use of the word, “sanguinolent.” So glad you could enjoy this piece. Thank you very much for your feedback. 🙂

      Liked by 3 people

  2. I appreciated listening to the Kraftwerk song that inspired your poem, reading your footnote, then reading the poem through a few times. I wonder how many get lost in the looking glass? Good stuff, Lucy.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. The beginning made me think of Poe’s raven… and indeed;
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
    Also the misattributed quote by Albert Einstein: “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results”

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Oh, that is such a brilliant connection to my piece. I hadn’t even thought of Poe’s “The Raven.” And yes, great point! Thank you, as always, for your feedback and analyses. They’re much appreciated.


  4. ‘ I know how this goes, I’ve been here before….’ says it all. Such a tour of wondrous dark images – the old guitar, the fingernails, the raven, the moon. Aside from the raven (Bjorn’s comment) – at your line ‘I was not real despite the disguise’ I thought about Helen of Troy – in Euripides’ play the real Helen is exiled in Egypt – while a phantom takes her place at the King’s side – and everyone went to war – over an image or a phantom – that vanished into air. DK if you’ve come across – but a wonderful take on dumb war and history repeating…

    Liked by 2 people

  5. I loooooove it. It is packed in symbolism – I will need to reread several times to unpack it all :))) you also talk about self-fulfilling prophecies and breaking patterns and all right? It is. stunning.

    Thanks for enlightening me about Vatic voice I am embarassed to say I was ignorant of this concept. Will take a look at that challenge too.

    Oh, I love Kraftwerk, hadnt listened to them in a long while. I had not come across this great song about reflected/self-reflected mirrors before though. It’s….a great song and a true story. I am lost for words…

    In all this is floatingly and sanguinolently interesting (this is just a placeholder word). :))) Deserves several various rereads.

    The meandering mind sees the sea in the end, does it not?. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Aw, shucks. I thank you so much and I’m happy you enjoyed this piece. I never heard of the vatic voice either until the prompt, actually.

      It can take time, but it does indeed. 🙂


  6. Perilous turf, where and when the Voice comes to us bidding us step off the ledge: Will we fly, or will it be hair nose & eyeballs to Doom? Madness and suicide cling shrill to the process & we surrender short of the depth or learn to dive there, discovering that darkness is its own buoyancy and wing … The answer we must embrace is Yes and Yes; but most alcoholics die drunk and more than a few initiate shamans froze to mental death in the throes of primal reconstruction. Tuff stuff. But what else are we gonna do, what choice did we ever have? We write it, as Elizabeth Bishop said, and die trying. The sonorous weave of mystery in history in this poem (always a favorite register of mine) is punched with red starburst words, difficult for any ear’s brain (“atramental,” “pentirsi,” “sanguinolet”) and indicative of a vatic tongue lavishing what violently shook the sibyl on the tripod. Like the witness of depth in a whale’s eye. More will be revealed. Well done —

    Liked by 2 people

  7. […] the corvid rises from the yellow moon,wept to a body of death, dismissal of its heartbeat to the atramental starsof unbidden dance; I know how this goes,I’ve been here before,slipping out of one’s own skin; it was memoirs hung by… Read More › […]


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