'The Grey Mirror' was commended in the 2016 National Poetry Competition.

From the judges: "‘The Grey Mirror’ is a mesmerising poem, its narrative building slowly and surely at first, issuing its invitation and becoming gradually more internal as well as outward-looking. It opens into a profound mystery, the climax of the poem having been arrived at organically. There’s a change of a voice “older, softer, sadder” and with “a lag in it” and this then ushers in a tremendous release of language: “the words would start to feel they could go anywhere”. In an image which is both visionary and closely observed, words themselves have such power they can prise open a mussel: “they pushed into its black hinge / to prise it open and draped themselves over the frills of its flesh.” The last line evokes ambiguity with its reference to the sea, that which can both swallow and renew, rather like the unconscious mind. As “a poem I can grow old in”, in Eavan Boland’s words, ‘The Grey Mirror’ encompasses, through its linguistic journey, the celebratory as well as the elegiac." - Moniza Alvi

The Grey Mirror

by Laura Scott

“I want a poem I can grow old in.” – Eavan Boland

Maybe it was there all the time, in the room with the high ceiling
and the fireplace and the mirror rimmed in gold above it,

and if I went back to that house in Ireland where she took us in
out of the rain, I’d find it. If I stood in front of the mirror I’d see

how grey and speckled with black its glass was and then I’d see
lines spreading around my eyes like rays in a child’s drawing

of the sun. And if someone called my name from somewhere else,
in another part of the house, I’d turn my head to answer them,

and the ligaments in my neck would push against my skin
and I’d catch sight of their slanting lines in the mirror.

And my voice would sound different — older, softer, sadder
maybe, like the fine rain that blows and falls outside the house.

There’d be a lag in it, a space where one sound stretched
out to reach the next. And in the slack of that lag the words would

start to feel they could go anywhere – out of the window and up to the sky
above the sea to watch the mountains forming and collapsing

on the top of the waves, and then, fast as a whippet, they’d turn
and rush back to the shore at low tide to pluck a green-lipped mussel

off its rope. And I watch them as they pushed into its black hinge
to prise it open and draped themselves over the frills of its flesh.

And I’d let them because now I’m old I know, they always go back
   to the sea.

The Poetry Society was founded in 1909 to promote “a more general recognition and appreciation of poetry”.  Since then, it has grown into one of Britain’s most dynamic arts organisations, representing British poetry both nationally and internationally.  Today it has more than 4000 members worldwide and publishes The Poetry Review.

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