Mirror Poems | Best Poems about Mirrors and Reflections


    Lord, said David, since you do not need us,
    why did you create these two worlds?

    Reality replied: O prisoner of time,
    I was a secret treasure of kindness and generosity,
    and I wished this treasure to be known,
    so I created a mirror: its shining face, the heart;
    its darkened back, the world;
    The back would please you if you’ve never seen the face.

    Has anyone ever produced a mirror out of mud and straw?
    Yet clean away the mud and straw,
    and a mirror might be revealed.

    Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,
    it isn’t wine. If you wish your heart to be bright,
    you must do a little work.

    My King addressed the soul of my flesh:
    You return just as you left.
    Where are the traces of my gifts?

    We know that alchemy transforms copper into gold.
    This Sun doesn’t want a crown or robe from God’s grace.
    He is a hat to a hundred bald men,
    a covering for ten who were naked.

    Jesus sat humbly on the back of an ass, my child!
    How could a zephyr ride an ass?
    Spirit, find your way, in seeking lowness like a stream.
    Reason, tread the path of selflessness into eternity.

    Remember God so much that you are forgotten.
    Let the caller and the called disappear;
    be lost in the Call.

    Morning In The Burned House Poem by Margaret Atwood

    In the burned house I am eating breakfast.
    You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,
    yet here I am.

    The spoon which was melted scrapes against
    the bowl which was melted also.
    No one else is around.

    Where have they gone to, brother and sister,
    mother and father? Off along the shore,
    perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers,

    their dishes piled beside the sink,
    which is beside the woodstove
    with its grate and sooty kettle,

    every detail clear,
    tin cup and rippled mirror.
    The day is bright and songless,

    the lake is blue, the forest watchful.
    In the east a bank of cloud
    rises up silently like dark bread.

    I can see the swirls in the oilcloth,
    I can see the flaws in the glass,
    those flares where the sun hits them.

    I can’t see my own arms and legs
    or know if this is a trap or blessing,
    finding myself back here, where everything

    in this house has long been over,
    kettle and mirror, spoon and bowl,
    including my own body,

    including the body I had then,
    including the body I have now
    as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy,

    bare child’s feet on the scorched floorboards
    (I can almost see)
    in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts

    and grubby yellow T-shirt
    holding my cindery, non-existent,
    radiant flesh. Incandescent.

    A Song Of Eternity In Time Poem by Sidney Lanier

    Once, at night, in the manor wood
    My Love and I long silent stood,
    Amazed that any heavens could
    Decree to part us, bitterly repining.
    My Love, in aimless love and grief,
    Reached forth and drew aside a leaf
    That just above us played the thief
    And stole our starlight that for us was shining.

    A star that had remarked her pain
    Shone straightway down that leafy lane,
    And wrought his image, mirror-plain,
    Within a tear that on her lash hung gleaming.
    “Thus Time,” I cried, “is but a tear
    Some one hath wept ‘twixt hope and fear,
    Yet in his little lucent sphere
    Our star of stars, Eternity, is beaming.”

    Insomnia Poem by Elizabeth Bishop

    The moon in the bureau mirror
    looks out a million miles
    (and perhaps with pride, at herself,
    but she never, never smiles)
    far and away beyond sleep, or
    perhaps she’s a daytime sleeper.

    By the Universe deserted,
    she’d tell it to go to hell,
    and she’d find a body of water,
    or a mirror, on which to dwell.
    So wrap up care in a cobweb
    and drop it down the well

    into that world inverted
    where left is always right,
    where the shadows are really the body,
    where we stay awake all night,
    where the heavens are shallow as the sea
    is now deep, and you love me.

    A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty Poem by Ogden Nash

    Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
    Feels the sun with terror,
    One unwilling step she takes,
    Shuddering to the mirror.

    Miranda in Miranda’s sight
    Is old and gray and dirty;
    Twenty-nine she was last night;
    This morning she is thirty.

    Shining like the morning star,
    Like the twilight shining,
    Haunted by a calendar,
    Miranda is a-pining.

    Silly girl, silver girl,
    Draw the mirror toward you;
    Time who makes the years to whirl
    Adorned as he adored you.

    Time is timelessness for you;
    Calendars for the human;
    What’s a year, or thirty, to
    Loveliness made woman?

    Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
    Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
    Pick up your glass and tell me, then–
    How old is Spring, Miranda?

    Fair Play Poem by Benjamin Zephaniah

    Mirror mirror on the wall
    Could you please return our ball
    Our football went through your crack
    You have two now
    Give one back.

    Beauty Xxv Poem by Kahlil Gibran

    And a poet said, ‘Speak to us of Beauty.’

    Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide?

    And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?

    The aggrieved and the injured say, ‘Beauty is kind and gentle.

    Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us.’

    And the passionate say, ‘Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread.

    Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.’

    The tired and the weary say, ‘beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit.

    Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow.’

    But the restless say, ‘We have heard her shouting among the mountains,

    And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions.’

    At night the watchmen of the city say, ‘Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east.’

    And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say, ‘we have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset.’

    In winter say the snow-bound, ‘She shall come with the spring leaping upon the hills.’

    And in the summer heat the reapers say, ‘We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair.’

    All these things have you said of beauty.

    Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied,

    And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy.

    It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth,

    But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted.

    It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear,

    But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears.

    It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw,

    But rather a garden forever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight.

    People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.

    But you are life and you are the veil.

    Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.

    But you are eternity and you are the mirror.

    Mirror, Mirror Poem by Spike Milligan

    A young spring-tender girl
    combed her joyous hair
    ‘You are very ugly’ said the mirror.
    on her lips hung
    a smile of dove-secret loveliness,
    for only that morning had not
    the blind boy said,
    ‘You are beautiful’?

    A Hint At What Is Beautiful? Poem by yoonoos peerbocus

    Beautiful is the ‘thank you’
    Wrapped with gratitude,
    Offered to peace prone people
    Who offer what is real-themselves
    To nurse with love and humility
    napalm asphyxiated victims
    in our stained world

    veiling ambition with face of
    humanity.Beautiful is the moment
    when sunlit world fades away
    And with it mind made mirror
    While look inward drawn, sight insight led,
    and heart shuts out desire to let in

    Love After Love Poem by Derek Walcott

    The time will come
    when, with elation
    you will greet yourself arriving
    at your own door, in your own mirror
    and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

    and say, sit here. Eat.
    You will love again the stranger who was your self.
    Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
    to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

    all your life, whom you ignored
    for another, who knows you by heart.
    Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

    the photographs, the desperate notes,
    peel your own image from the mirror.
    Sit. Feast on your life.