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13 Reasons Why Poetry

This is a Photograph of Me by Margaret Atwood

It was taken some time ago

At first it seems to be

a smeared

print: blurred lines and grey flecks

blended with the paper;

then, as you scan

it, you can see something in the left-hand corner

a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree

(balsam or spruce) emerging

and, to the right, halfway up

what ought to be a gentle

slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,

and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken

the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center

of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where

precisely, or to say

how large or how small I am:

the effect of water

on light is a distortion.

but if you look long enough

eventually

you will see me.) 

The Kiss by Sara Teasdale

I hoped that he would love me,

And he has kissed my mouth,

But I am like a stricken bird

That cannot reach the south.

For though I know he loves me,

To-night my heart is sad;

His kiss was not so wonderful

As all the dreams I had

Mirror by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.

Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike

I am not cruel, only truthful –

The eye of a little god, four-cornered.

Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.

It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long

I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.

Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.

Searching my reaches for what she really is.

Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.

I see her back, and reflect it faithfully

She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.

I am important to her. She comes and goes.

Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.

In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman

Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Up-hill by Christina Rossetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face?

You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when 'ust in sight?

They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labor you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yea, beds for all who come

Betrayal by -Frank P. Whyte

Betrayal comes in many forms,

But relies on underlying intimacy

To insure a lethal wound.

It is an emotional ambush,

Carefully designed,

Flawlessly executed,

Producing an evil sound

In the orchestra of life.

"Let's talk about it," she said,

"So I might explain why you are wrong.

You are paranoid, suspicious

And you lack the proper trust.

If only you had more faith in me,

You would understand your flaws."

Then, filled with doubt,

And tangents notwithstanding,

I struggle with myself.

Am I flawed?

Do I lack the proper trust?

Am I paranoid and suspicious?

Perhaps it is me.

The Betrayer

Will wrap themselves in a coat of righteousness,

Impervious to honest eyes

That are searching for a soul.

Instead...

They will describe their soul for you,

And demand that you will see

The spiritual mirage.

And so I am stranded

In the valley of disregard.

Alone.

And I am left to decide

Who brought me to this barren wasteland.

Why does conscience desert me

And tell me that I am wrong,

When evil lies before me and not within?

And then I know...

That betrayal is not a lonely thing,

It has an evil twin.

Betrayal is a conspiracy

With those who would wield the saber;

Darkened assignations,

Construed in private

By blighted souls.

Consider if you will,

Old Palestine,

Where the blood of innocents was spilled

By a thousand stones,

And jeers,

And a hatred born of lies.

Consider life in Salem,

And screams heard above the flames,

Hatred in the eyes of the accusers

Tragic death without a crime. 

And so we arrive at a point in our lives

When I know that I've been betrayed.

I hear hushed conversations from afar;

Justifications and rationalizations

From those who have sprung the trap.

Perhaps I am wrong,

And this is all some tragic mistake,

But I reside in the valley of disregard,

And I feel the stones as I am tied to the stake.

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