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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 29 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! |
Matthew Johnson
"Driving Through Western Maryland"
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Before I wrote this poem, “Driving Through Western Maryland,” I had visited Maryland on several occasions throughout my life. As a child, a family vacation took us to both Maryland and Washington D.C. Later, as an adult, I would visit my sister in Prince George’s County, where she resided for a time.
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Each journey had its rhythm: whether I was traveling I-95 South from Connecticut or I-85 (which morphs into I-95) from North Carolina, the route was familiar. Yet, one trip diverged dramatically from the norm. On that occasion, I was making my way to Prince George’s County from Oneonta, NY, which charted a wholly different course through Western Maryland—a landscape starkly distinct from the metropolitan one I had experienced on my previous trips.
As I navigated this unique part of the state, the scenery was one of rolling hills, expansive farms, and quaint rural expanses. The presence of Confederate flags and emblems, an anomaly to my previous experiences in Maryland, caught my eye as well—a haunting reminder of the state’s complex history, which I think, reflects the greater complications of the country as a whole.
Traversing this distinct stretch of the Maryland became the inspiration for this poem.
As I navigated this unique part of the state, the scenery was one of rolling hills, expansive farms, and quaint rural expanses. The presence of Confederate flags and emblems, an anomaly to my previous experiences in Maryland, caught my eye as well—a haunting reminder of the state’s complex history, which I think, reflects the greater complications of the country as a whole.
Traversing this distinct stretch of the Maryland became the inspiration for this poem.
Emily Laubham
"Unrighteous Afternoon"
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In "Unrighteous Afternoon," I had fun playing with the allure, whimsy, and danger of disconnection. The poem is fixed on the tension between escapism and presence, using the metaphor of a house to represent the self. Like many writers before me, I fancy myself a bit of a Winchester Mystery House, with strange perimeters, hidden rooms, and staircases that lead to nowhere.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve dissociated from my house-body, retreating into daydreams and fantasies to escape discomfort. This act of separation, while initially a means of survival, has left me wondering what—or who—moves in when I’m gone. Do I conjure something up in the act of leaving? Another version of myself, a “friendly ghost,” or something more unsettling? Maybe it’s free-floating loneliness, simply looking for a place to crash, and my bed was just right. |
The poem also reflects a shift in philosophies. I used to find comfort in the idea that the soul and body were separate entities—the body as a vessel, something like Tupperware. But now, I question that separation. Maybe the body is more dynamic than a container, more like a radio that transduces sensory experiences while the mind transduces consciousness. God, I hope so. At least I think I do.
Presence, while beautiful, is painful, and staying tethered to my body has always felt like an ongoing negotiation. Like in many of my poems, I ultimately arrive at a temporary resolution for the tension. For now, I trust what’s mine. For now, I fill this space. Staying in my body—inhabiting the present moment—is perhaps the hardest work I’ve done, but it’s worth the effort. At least, for now.
Where do you go to escape the pain of reality?
Presence, while beautiful, is painful, and staying tethered to my body has always felt like an ongoing negotiation. Like in many of my poems, I ultimately arrive at a temporary resolution for the tension. For now, I trust what’s mine. For now, I fill this space. Staying in my body—inhabiting the present moment—is perhaps the hardest work I’ve done, but it’s worth the effort. At least, for now.
Where do you go to escape the pain of reality?
Annette Sisson
"Yield"
I first drafted “Yield” over thirty years ago when my son was young and I was a new mother. All the elements in the current version were there: seeing a school bus on the drive to daycare, arriving and my son scurrying off with his friends, my childhood bus driver and his story, and planting the bulbs with my son on the hill’s gentle slope. I was writing only incidentally in those days but knew the poem had strengths yet wasn’t ready. Over the years, I took it out and re-read it occasionally but still wasn’t sure what it needed. Then about a year ago, I ran across the poem again and began to sculpt. I retitled it, condensed the language, played with form. Now the poem’s shape creates a structure that mimics the poem’s suggestion that maybe the best we can do is send our children into this dangerous world gradually, knowing the traffic will race and press, thick and fast. (Note to other poets: Keep believing in your work!)
