I'm currently fascinated by the trans performance artist Nina Arsenault, but that is almost by the by. There's a photo on her Facebook of an installation in Korea - a series of mirrorhenges in a wood, and I suspect that there may be more than one poem to come out of that image for me, which is why, oddly, I don't propose to post it here.

But here is a sonnet, which may be standalone or may not...

Some mirrors, standing among trees.
In interlocking circles. No one sees
The interlocking circles of the space
between the mirrors, yet your face

if you should walk past moves from glass to air
you cannot see it mirrored; it is there
implied, contained, continued. Comes again
and goes. And if you walk past in the rain

you're mirrored there in every single drop
on glass, in air. Reflections never stop,
but glitter on and pass your face between
image of image. Look upon the scene

and never see how many times you show
We are more in the world than we can know.

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Over on Facebook, the excellent Dan Levitin started a Swifty competition. And I committed one of my worst ever puns.

'I'm getting very drunk over the prospect of a Lib Dem defeat' she said Clegglessly.

I thank you...

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That photo speaks to me productively
Another sonnet:

The trees have leaves, that fall upon the glass
Nothing reflects from leaves.The place that was
In every image has a leaf-shaped bite
taken from it. And in the line of sight

Infinite mirrors show each other's shine
less by that leaf's shape, by its green and spine
perfectly pictured, When it blows away
something is lost, that absence and the play

of light and dark, solid and not quite there.
Wholeness restored to image, yet we care
that something real intruded on the show.
We care and then we have to let it go

And watch pure light unhindered flow between
Mirrors again, unmarked where leaves have been

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For Shakespeare's Birthday


Odd that some of the best settings of Shakespeare are by composers of the second and third rank.

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Ashes to Ashes
It was always s clearly a show about death and last things and deconstructing the notion of heroes - remember thou are dust and unto dust thou shalt return/ashes to ashes,dust to dust, if god won't have you the devil must/funk to funky we know Major Tom's a junky'. In retrospect, what is Life on Mars, if it is not Death. With no more heroes, any more, as we were reminded this episode.

This is me officially capitulating to the selenak and paratti side of the force where before I was resistant.

And it is clear that Gene preaches survival, or redemption, through struggle, where Yates tries to bring people over to his side, to get them to desert Gene. And Keats has a pleasing shape and cites scripture, or at least regulations, to his purpose. When he got the undercover cop to relax into death, he shone from behind - and Gene when he thanked him for saving Chris referred to his having descended from on high and having light that shone from him.

Keats is the light-bearer; Keats is Lucifer.

Which I guess makes Gene God, or something like it.

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