Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall

They say vampires don’t have a reflection. Which might explain why I haven’t been feeling myself lately. This morning when I tried to apply lipstick, I missed my mouth, well, because I grew faint and then vanished altogether. Mirrors don’t lie. How did I procure this ailment? Did I frolic unwittingly with the undead whilst I was out and get nipped without my knowledge? How does one catch vampirism…? Oh well, I thought, as my reflection emerged again slowly before my eyes. There’s nothing I can do about it now. Perhaps no one will notice.

Evocation, Shirin Abedirinad, 2015 (Mirror in Desert, Tehran)

Written for Sammi Scribbles Weekend Writing Prompt: Mirror, 95 words.

What Shape is this Waning?

The
washed-out
planet is
euphoniously shifting.  It
creaks and grinds with turning
but cannot escape from itself.  From us.  It
writhes in its own hot soup, trying to
heal.  It doesn’t want to
fail.  We mustn’t.
And yet
and
yet –

***

The
moon
has turned
away from me
tonight.  It peered over then,
having colluded with the sun earlier that day,
simply shrugged and slipped under a blanket.  Still,
I’ll wait for it, until
it’s cast off
its pall,
until
tomorrow.

***

Change
is
afoot.  Sands
of time glide
underfoot, slipping, never not shifting.
Nothing is still though it appears to be.
Light and shade persist in their love affair
defining this, that, you, me.
Merging only at
twilight before
parting
again.

© N Nazir 2021

Photo by Geni Hoka on Pexels.com

Written for dVerse poetry prompt: Concrete or Abstract? hosted by Ingrid. The challenge is to write a poem using only concrete nouns and imagery. Hence, the following words are banned: soul, love, lust, dreams, sorrow, suffering, heartache, wonder, etc and any other such abstract nouns.

* * *

I have used two lines from previous poems as prompts for these poems, using the Fibonacci form. I came across this form whilst doing NaPoWriMo earlier this year. It comprises of the following structure 1-1-2-3-5-8 though I have mirrored it backwards to make it longer: 1-1-2-3-5-8-8-5-3-2-1-1, mostly, because I enjoy the shape it makes 🙂 Plus I get more words to play with.

The line “the washed-out planet is euphoniously shifting” is the title of a poem I wrote a few months ago which you can read here if you so wish.

The line “the moon has turned away from me tonight” is from a poem I also wrote a few months ago entitled Caught In-between an Ache and a Dream which you can read here if inclined.

Thank you for dropping by ❤

This Poem Needs Tuning

My little finger strains to meet
the string two frets away.

Some chords will never be played.
I have been a novice at this for years.

I concede it is not my gift given, only
an ever-straining desire of the muscles

and that’s okay.  There’s no time
to do everything after all.

And sometimes
winning is a hollow thing.

© N Nazir 2021

And Then the Sun Broke Through the Clouds…

Vicky Wendish, Visual Verse September 2021 image

You smiled at me and I teetered . . . on the edge of maybe.  I am suspicious of men who don’t blink.

I ponder the meaning of it all, the electric moment.  I ponder whether I should stop pondering the meaning of it all.

Sometimes, there isn’t one.  And words cannot transcribe what instinct always knows. My body is live with conduction. But look…


…you can read the rest of the poem here.

© N Nazir 2021

*With warmest thanks to Visual Verse for publishing my poem! I honestly thought I hadn’t made the cut this month. I was pleasantly surprised this evening ❤

As One, We Heave

We can always sense the storm coming.

We flee indoors minutes before.
Our hive mind electric just knows. 
The vibration sings
through the particles that govern us. 

We know exactly when to escape.
We are programmed this way. 
Each of us a tiny marching brain cell. 

You could never understand our language.
It is beyond telepathy. 

We don’t bite. 
We can. 
But often, we don’t. 
Having said that,
you wouldn’t want to meet our Australian cousins.
Now they’re rough,
always spoiling for a fight.
They need no provocation.
Toothed, venomous and mighty.
Avoid at all costs.

In general, though, we’re a nice bunch.

We move as one dark swathe of blanket
along walls, when the heavens pelt outside.

Sometimes, at the pinnacle of summer heat
after a luscious bounty of rain
we grow full-bodied
sprout wings
ready, willing, hunting
with only one thought in our tiny minds
our one big super mind.
Mating. 

Our nuptial flight.
Our amorous swarm.
You must suffer us,
it’s the only way we can spawn.

The queen – for there is always a queen –
is the egg woman. 
We are hatchlings of instinct.
You could say we are made of pure instinct.

You cannot imagine the strength of us.
Don’t bother.
You could not conceive it.

Still, we are a good omen
for those who labour.
For the sweat of hard work
will burn you pure
and bear the fruit you deserve
for the relentless machine
that you are.



© N Nazir 2021

Google images

Written for dVerse Poetry Prompt: Creepies and Crawlies, hosted by Sarah.

You can read another insect-inspired poem I wrote here.