lookingglass
Through the "Looking Glass," readers are invited to dig deeper into our issues as contributors share reflections on their work. Specifically, "Looking Glass" provides a sort of parlor where authors and artists reveal the genesis of their pieces, as well as provide meta-discursive insight into their textual and visual creative works. Issue 23 Reflections
Read on for reflections by select authors and artists
on the genesis and craft of their pieces in Glassworks and then read the full issue online! |
Carla Schwartz
"If I visited My Mother's Grave"

The poem "If I Visited my Mother's Grave" is very much an elegy in dialog with my mother and my grandmother. My mother's family escaped persecution from the Nazi's in 1939 with a lot of forethought and some luck. They lived in a German city, Gleiwitz, which is now the Polish city Gliwice. The poem refers to Kristallnacht, which took place in November, 1938. My mother, a young girl at the time, remembered the event throughout her life. My grandmother had seen the writing on the wall and packed away all their belongings (furniture, dishes, etc.) and shipped these to Danzig, which is now the Polish city Gdansk. Danzig was a free port. Years later my grandmother bartered for the money she required to have her belongings shipped to New York after the war in exchange for some of the dishes. My mother and grandmother were very close, and my grandmother spoke German to my mother. The poem is personal, at the same time, speaks to the fact that any family's survival of the dire circumstances of war has a strong effect on a family's stories. At the end of the poem, I bring the speaker (me) in, to focus on a small joy my mother had as a child.
Kelly DuMar
"Good Samaritan"

I’m compelled to write in my dream journal the morning after experiencing what Carl Jung referred to as a “big dream”—a dream that seems to arrive from the collective unconscious. A big dream expresses archetypes, by which Jung means archaic forms of innate human knowledge we all share, passed down to us from our ancestors.
Instinctively, I recognized my dream that inspired “good Samaritan,” as an awakening dream—one I must write from—because it was a highly emotional experience that shadowed my morning. I sensed there were larger than life mythical elements in the dramatic suicide attempt of The Stranger. The visceral, theatrical elements of the dream made me squirm, evoked tears—and I had actually woken up singing! This dream broke my heart, and broke something open for me that I needed to integrate into consciousness.
Instead of writing a journal exploration, however, I wrote the dream into a first draft of a poem with the title, “I wake up singing.” I walked mulling over the dream after writing, letting it unfold further. My daily practice is to take photos of nature from what spontaneously draws my attention on my walks. This image, some fallen bark of a weather-worn tree by the railroad tracks, stunned me.
Instinctively, I recognized my dream that inspired “good Samaritan,” as an awakening dream—one I must write from—because it was a highly emotional experience that shadowed my morning. I sensed there were larger than life mythical elements in the dramatic suicide attempt of The Stranger. The visceral, theatrical elements of the dream made me squirm, evoked tears—and I had actually woken up singing! This dream broke my heart, and broke something open for me that I needed to integrate into consciousness.
Instead of writing a journal exploration, however, I wrote the dream into a first draft of a poem with the title, “I wake up singing.” I walked mulling over the dream after writing, letting it unfold further. My daily practice is to take photos of nature from what spontaneously draws my attention on my walks. This image, some fallen bark of a weather-worn tree by the railroad tracks, stunned me.

Aha. This image seemed to conjure the mythical allusion in my “big” dream: the way of blood, from the parable of the Good Samaritan as told by Jesus in the Gospel of Luke, which I had discovered while writing out the first draft of the poem.
But, however much a dream may enact symbolic, poetic language and image, a dream is not a poem. It must be crafted as one. So, I began revising, and workshopping. Because, as the poet, Philip Larkin, wrote, as much as the writing may be an emotional experience for the poet, it’s not a poem if it fails to re-create emotion in a reader. My poem was evoking an emotional response for others as I crafted the experience of The Stranger’s acute vulnerability and despair, and the “good Samaritan’s” willingness to act.
In the end, I can say that what moved me most in the experience of writing the poem was the discovery that the good Samaritan succeeds in conveying a sense of hope to The Stranger, despite the hopelessness of the situation. The good Samaritan realizes, with a kind of horror, that she cannot actually do anything to save him—she has no clean bandages. She has only an act of humanity to perform: a lullaby, useless and necessary as a poem.
But, however much a dream may enact symbolic, poetic language and image, a dream is not a poem. It must be crafted as one. So, I began revising, and workshopping. Because, as the poet, Philip Larkin, wrote, as much as the writing may be an emotional experience for the poet, it’s not a poem if it fails to re-create emotion in a reader. My poem was evoking an emotional response for others as I crafted the experience of The Stranger’s acute vulnerability and despair, and the “good Samaritan’s” willingness to act.
In the end, I can say that what moved me most in the experience of writing the poem was the discovery that the good Samaritan succeeds in conveying a sense of hope to The Stranger, despite the hopelessness of the situation. The good Samaritan realizes, with a kind of horror, that she cannot actually do anything to save him—she has no clean bandages. She has only an act of humanity to perform: a lullaby, useless and necessary as a poem.
Claudia Schatz
"Flower, Stem" | "How to Cross the Room"

Over the past few years, I’ve started seeing almost everything through the lens of the body. Both of these poems were born from that exploration and observation.
In Flower, Stem, I wanted the two-part, parallel form to evoke breasts, but also for the symmetry of the stanzas to underscore the violent contrast in their content. I wrote this poem at a time when my body was a source of sexual joy and discovery, but when I was also confronting the body as a corporeal, medical, completely non-sexual reality, a source of pain and worry, the potential for death. I needed to write this to face that duality, to accept that a body contains all possibilities—not inherently sexual, not inherently morbid, but both, all.
In How to Cross the Room, I was thinking about fear and femininity and wanted to write down a gesture, an act, so common that it goes unnoticed or is seen as natural: the way that womxn shrink and stick together for safety. I’m fascinated by how intangible, invisible forces have tangible, visible effects on us—the physical and psychological discomfort created in male-dominated spaces literally makes womxn move differently; oppression embodied. Sticking with other womxn can feel like a source of safety and empowerment, but I also wonder if that freedom is a trap, another form of imprisonment. If we have to hold ourselves apart in order to feel safe, what does that safety really represent? Maybe we can measure our progress by how womxn walk through crowded rooms.
In Flower, Stem, I wanted the two-part, parallel form to evoke breasts, but also for the symmetry of the stanzas to underscore the violent contrast in their content. I wrote this poem at a time when my body was a source of sexual joy and discovery, but when I was also confronting the body as a corporeal, medical, completely non-sexual reality, a source of pain and worry, the potential for death. I needed to write this to face that duality, to accept that a body contains all possibilities—not inherently sexual, not inherently morbid, but both, all.
In How to Cross the Room, I was thinking about fear and femininity and wanted to write down a gesture, an act, so common that it goes unnoticed or is seen as natural: the way that womxn shrink and stick together for safety. I’m fascinated by how intangible, invisible forces have tangible, visible effects on us—the physical and psychological discomfort created in male-dominated spaces literally makes womxn move differently; oppression embodied. Sticking with other womxn can feel like a source of safety and empowerment, but I also wonder if that freedom is a trap, another form of imprisonment. If we have to hold ourselves apart in order to feel safe, what does that safety really represent? Maybe we can measure our progress by how womxn walk through crowded rooms.
Mark Blackford
"Christmas" | "Of bad dreams and home movies" | "late-night snack"

Up until about two years ago, I was riding the longest streak of creative stagnancy one could have possibly imagined themselves being on. So many would have called it “writer’s block” but—really—I was a writer, blocked-out. I was—and I still consider myself to be—an addict, although I no longer partake in my vices, and I had hit a point where I was entirely consumed by my dependencies and incapable of being anything but them. My family and my identity were on the verge of collapse and, after an awful night referenced in a poem published elsewhere, I made an invaluable decision.
As sobriety gained a stronger footing within me, I found myself—for the first in a long time—having an urge to write. I did not plan for these to be the poems I wrote, but this is what came out when I went back to my desk. As I wrote these poems—in particular, “Christmas”—I found them taking on a nostalgic, almost romanticized vibe, while also carrying an undertone of anger and regret, as if I were taking a trip down Memorably Forgettable Lane.
Sometimes, the content of these poems can be difficult to push through. Some may say that some of these stories needn’t or shouldn’t be shared, but so many of these are nightmares I have of days and nights that I for so long could not remember. I cannot move forward without first confronting this past. I wrote—and continue to write—these poems to reconcile with myself; to remember what I was and, particularly in “Of Bad Dreams and Home Movies” to remind myself of where I am, now.
As sobriety gained a stronger footing within me, I found myself—for the first in a long time—having an urge to write. I did not plan for these to be the poems I wrote, but this is what came out when I went back to my desk. As I wrote these poems—in particular, “Christmas”—I found them taking on a nostalgic, almost romanticized vibe, while also carrying an undertone of anger and regret, as if I were taking a trip down Memorably Forgettable Lane.
Sometimes, the content of these poems can be difficult to push through. Some may say that some of these stories needn’t or shouldn’t be shared, but so many of these are nightmares I have of days and nights that I for so long could not remember. I cannot move forward without first confronting this past. I wrote—and continue to write—these poems to reconcile with myself; to remember what I was and, particularly in “Of Bad Dreams and Home Movies” to remind myself of where I am, now.
Phillip Watts Brown
"Serpents"

“Serpents” is part of an ongoing project about sexuality and religion, exploring parallels between the biblical story of the Fall and my experience of coming out and subsequently leaving the faith I was raised in. Adolescence can be difficult for most people, but it’s particularly challenging for LGBTQ+ teens. There are so many questions and new feelings—and when a religion labels your sexuality abhorrent and sinful, it’s impossible to emerge unscathed. This poem investigates some of those potential consequences.
In the Bible, the serpent is the villain and blamed for Adam and Eve eating the forbidden fruit, often interpreted as giving into sexual desire. In this poem, the snake imagery is both menacing and sensual—and what it represents seems to shift as the numbered sections move from past to present. This poem had many iterations, which happens for me when the subject matter is charged or complicated to write about. It was also very difficult to finish, perhaps because this process is a lifelong one.
In the Bible, the serpent is the villain and blamed for Adam and Eve eating the forbidden fruit, often interpreted as giving into sexual desire. In this poem, the snake imagery is both menacing and sensual—and what it represents seems to shift as the numbered sections move from past to present. This poem had many iterations, which happens for me when the subject matter is charged or complicated to write about. It was also very difficult to finish, perhaps because this process is a lifelong one.