Specular Poetry.

THE BACK SEAT OF MY MOTHER'S CAR - Julia Copus

When I inititally came across this poem, and read through the first half, I wasn't very impressed. It wasn't until I finished it when the full impact of what I had just read hit me. The poem is written in a form called specular, in which the second half of the poem mirrors the first. The second half is really just the first half of the poem read the other way around. I love the idea of it. I think it's an excellent way of portraying two different perspectives of the same situation. Julia Copus developed the technique herself. WOW.

We left before I had time
to comfort you, to tell you that we nearly touched
hands in that vacuous half-dark. I wanted
to stem the burning waters running over me like tiny
rivers down my face and legs, but at the same time I was reaching out
for the slit in the window where the sky streamed in,
cold as ether, and I could see your fat mole-fingers grasping
the dusty August air. I pressed my face to the glass;
I was calling to you – Daddy! – as we screeched away into
the distance, my own hand tingling like an amputation.
You were mouthing something I still remember, the noiseless words
piercing me like that catgut shriek that flew up, furious as a sunset
pouring itself out against the sky. The ensuing silence
was the one clear thing I could decipher –
the roar of the engine drowning your voice,
with the cool slick glass between us.

With the cool slick glass between us,
the roar of the engine drowning, your voice
was the one clear thing I could decipher –
pouring itself out against the sky, the ensuing silence
piercing me like that catgut shriek that flew up, furious as a sunset.
You were mouthing something: I still remember the noiseless words,
the distance, my own hand tingling like an amputation.
I was calling to you, Daddy, as we screeched away into
the dusty August air. I pressed my face to the glass,
cold as ether, and I could see your fat mole-fingers grasping
for the slit in the window where the sky streamed in
rivers down my face and legs, but at the same time I was reaching out
to stem the burning waters running over me like tiny
hands in that vacuous half-dark. I wanted
to comfort you, to tell you that we nearly touched.
We left before I had time.

Here's my sad attempt at specular poetry. Once again, bear with me, I know it's not perfect and not completely specular either. But I've gotta do something with my rotten, half-baked poems:P And yes, I couldn't come up with a title for this. 

The world was perfect

the moment you walked in, how clearly I remember!

My hands already shivering in the blast of the air conditioning

and your presence.

The square table I had chosen

lacked intimacy, I remember.

The moment you walked in,

your hair swinging into your eyes,

I would've liked to curl my fingers around

your lips, slightly parted, saying

'I came all this way only for you.'

This moment, I'd like to believe

You half-shrugging, always obliging

while I was creating wispy cloud turrets in the air

forever holding out for

The moment you'd enter the room.

The moment you'd enter the room,

I was creating wispy cloud turrets in the air, always holding out for

you, half-shrugging, always obliging

defined the very nature of our relationship.

This moment, I'd like to believe

your lips, slightly parted, were saying

'I came all this way only for you.'

I would've liked to curl my fingers around

your hair, swinging into your eyes.

The moment you walked in

lacked intimacy. I remember

the square table I had chosen

And your presence

My hands already shivering in the blast of the air-conditioning

You walked in, how clearly I remember!

The moment the world was perfect