Synesthetic Mirrors
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I am a diagnosed synesthete. To help you better understand synesthesia before reading this poem, below are three links. It is not necessary to read all three.
Another thing: When I write that something tastes like copper, for instance, it is the color, not the metal.
~ Gabrielle ~
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Synesthesia
http://psyche.csse.monash.edu.au/v2/psyche-2-10-cytowic.html
http://web.mit.edu/synesthesia/www/synesthesia.html
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Imagine a room of seven mirrors;
six floor-to-ceiling sides and a bottom.
The mirrors reflect off each other
into infinity and at various angles.
Walk with me into my poetic world, that of a (primarily) color synesthete.
The bottom mirror is the one upon which I stand and sometimes write.
It is an Australian black opal mirror struggling to emanate a rainbow.
Its mica content tries to mimic what is directly above it, but it fails...always.
I position myself on this dark, easily breakable mirror,
walking hard over its depths, sometimes writing of it
but not allowing it to touch me. It tastes like copper.
This is the only mirror from which I can look straight up.
To my upper right is a Mozambique garnet mirror.
My gorgeous side writes here; the side that
wears pretty clothes and makeup, and dances
and flirts and falls in love. It tastes like creme brulee.
To my lower right is a chromium-rich Chinese peridot mirror.
It is all the silliness and fun. It is the place where
I laugh and write some outrageous poems.
It is crunchy and tastes like popcorn with sugar
Behind me is a pleochroic Andelusite mirror from Spain.
Its poetry, like its colors, shifts, reflecting various snapshots of my life;
some good, some not so good. I never stay in this mirror long.
It tastes like cognac sometimes and Campari other times.
To my lower left is a mirror of iron pyrite a/k/a fool's gold.
It is the mirror of my work and things related to it.
This mirror is smudged and dirty and oily and cracked.
It has the salty taste of sweat and tears and smells like fire and blood.
To my upper left is a liquid African amethyst mirror.
It fluoresces intense blues. I like to enter this watery mirror.
My spirit writes here. So does my intuition.
This mirror holds secrets. It tastes like velvety Merlot.
In front of me is a mirror of clear quartz crystal.
It is the mirror of my dog, my baby Bear. I miss her so much.
It is a gift until I get to heaven to be with her.
It tastes like sugar. It smells like angels.
Above me is a flawless diamond.
It is where I go to be still with God and
write of Him and to Him. It smells like heat.
It powerfully radiates His full color spectrum.
Imagine this explosion of color and reflection.
It is like being in a kaleidoscope,
constantly changing with just the slightest turn
because my life, poetic and otherwise, is not static.
I rarely write in just one mirror because the
reflections of the other mirrors demand influence.
So, most of my poems are written in multiple mirrors.
I catch glimpses of myself. They taste like metal.
While each mirror plays off the others,
only the diamond remains unchanged.
It is the diamond in which I will one day live.
The six side mirrors will not be needed.
And the dark mirror beneath my feet will be destroyed
along with its pain, fear and sadness.
The only reflections will be those caused by the Shekinah
Glory of God because there will be no need for the sun.
By Gabrielle S.
© 2008 Gabrielle S.
(All rights reserved)
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