"mansfield" poems
She heard that he’s a poet
and wondered if he would write a poem
about her.
A wave of her
shoulder length strands of pleasure
should flag down nearly any man
with an ounce of testosterone.
She wondered if she had a poem in her hair.
She spoke a few soft words
layered with one of her smiles,
the kind most guys adore
because they don’t know if it means
to come closer or to leave her alone.
Perhaps a poem rested in her smile.
If she had cleavage like Jayne Mansfield
surely he would
form lines about her in his mind
and feel compelled to tell the world
how she captured his lust.
She wished for ******* with a poem in her cleavage.
She touched him.
He seemed open to her arm around his waist.
A poet felt like any other man.
She pressed closer;
perhaps he sensed a poem
in the warmth of her lean figure.
Later in bed,
he stayed close, their legs entangled
unlike anything she could remember.
She wondered if there had been a poem
in her *****
She wished she smoked
and noticed that he didn’t.
Perhaps if they shared a cigarette
he would be enticed by the drift of the smoke from her lips.
Was there a poem in her sensual exhaling?
He seems so Hemingway,
mysterious, yet open to each moment.
Her mind played his movements
like a video tape recorder.
She wondered if she should write a poem about him?
Was there a poem in this experience?
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 9:23 PM UTC
In the aftermath
Of a very hot bath
Sylvia Plath
Used to re-read
Katherine Mansfield stories
Until she felt
A little bit snory.
Whilst Ted Hughes -
After he'd imbued
The cool waters of
A shower for an hour -
Would watch Jackanory
Till he felt Hunky Dory
Then listen to Aladdin Sane
To bring him back to
The real world again.
Watch That Man!
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
Finding something on the road
And serving it for dinner
Buying dresses far too small
And thinking you look thinner
Solar powered submarines
Broken ribs or ruptured spleens
Driving cars and drinking beers
Lightbulb licking, bad ideas
Knowing where you shouldn't be
And being there despite
Going out in thunderstorms
To fly your iron kite
Sharing needles with a shark
Going to Mansfield after dark
Setting fire to someone's ears
Telemarketing, bad ideas
Not deploying gaffer-tape
When doing D.I.Y.
Believing the implausible
While branding truth a lie
Replying to Nigerian Princes
**** bleach and ******* rinses
Tabloid papers touting fears
Voting UKIP, bad ideas
Impersonating ******
Before nineteen forty-five
Catching a train on Sunday
And assuming you'll arrive
Turning lights on with your nose
Eating food that moves or glows
Listening to Britney Spears
Marmite Pringles, bad ideas
**
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
-*If I were ***** who would I choose?*
The lovely Edmund treated her kind
Indeed, kind he was in her mind
He was protective of her
His words were of comfort
She doted on him so much
That seeing him with another depressed her
The charming Henry grew fond of her
On her gentleness and modesty he dwelled
In her modest and elegant manners, he found charm
There was a sweetness to her which felt warm
And Henry was seduced by such gentleness
He found her timidity so delightful
That for her, he harboured feelings so soon
Yet in Fanny’s innocent eyes
Crawford’s flirtations led to his own demise
Not indifferent to what seemed to be sincere efforts
He forcing his love on her however proved just worse
She was too much convinced of his pretence
In his endeavour, she found not grace but nonsense
His unsteadiness
Her ineffable kindness
They were too much different
On such belief, she wouldn’t be bent
On the other hand
There stood Edmund, oh dear Edmund
He cared about her so deeply
But his attachment was merely brotherly
Knowing such truth saddened her immensely
Yet she’d rather be with him as a sister
Than not be with him at all
He was too virtuous to be deceived
The goodness of her heart dictated to choose none
Poor Edmund was blinded by Mary’s doings
As calculated as they were, they promised sufferings
Edmund could think of no woman but Mary to be his wife
His idea of her was exceedingly flattering; what a plight
A hurt ***** could not change his mind
Her unwavering support never left his side
And the proud Henry Crawford
What to say of his ardent courtship?
At some point, vulnerable ***** could fall for him
But she never did, not even once
He changed for her in manners and words
But to defy one’s true nature would be to lie to oneself
Temptations so strong
In the presence of an interested Mrs Rushworth
Needless to say; his true colours showed, infidelity ensued
In the end, who to choose?
If I were in Fanny’s shoes
It certainly wouldn’t be Henry
Such a **** doesn’t deserve a pure soul like *****
Though I don’t doubt that he truly fell for her
He ruined all chances of being with her
His incessant words of love were received with pain
He tried to win her affection in vain
But to try to gain a girl’s heart with flowery talks
This is an unwise move, it is too much
Thank God, Edmund realised his error in the end
But can he redeem himself when he showed so poor a judgement?
I doubt so; and I dare question his change of heart
His infatuation for Mary faded, and his love for ***** grew so fast
Does it even make sense to have one’s eyes opened that fast?
I dare answer in the negative
This said, none of them deserve *****
If I were ***** I’d choose none...
-15/05/10
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
a charming lady
with the most romantic exotic name
sends me a letter
December 2011
online at poemhuntdown.com
once, twice
a note of love
how magical!
she’s enslaved my heart
asking for my reply
via email
and she’ll send me her photo
I quickly resolve
to pen a reply
to put loveless 2011 to rest
and start 2012 with romance
and so I search her page online
and she has comments
on other poets too
But Oh, woe is me!
my love
has approached these others too
with the same message of love:
Osip Mandelstam (1891-1938)
Katharine Mansfield (1888-1923)
Hakim Abu al-Qasim Mansur Firdowsi
(932 A. D. and 941 A. D)
Oh, my love! my love!
do not go unto them
I will email you
and we will love each other
till we both rest in one grave
but you must promise
never to visit the other men;
and as for Katharine Mansfield -
I think
you picked the wrong man
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 3:28 PM UTC
In the eyes of the fragile *****
The world was all placid
Passive, the girl had been made so
Trapped in the era’s all civilities
And delicately softened with the suppression of feelings
For the expression of them came across as rude
Thus her inferior position in the dwelling rendered her mute
For a thought of her very own was deemed inappropriate
Yet, Edmund’s support since the beginning, always stayed
Edmund, this cousin so dear, the obliging one
The one for whom her feelings grew against all odds
The secret, endearing wish for a deeper affection
And the realization of the impossibility of such connection
Swirled within as conflicting thoughts
Tormenting her already wretched soul
And the presence of Miss Crawford
With her magnificence, left her torn
Her charm thus clouded a manipulative nature
But blinded the sensitive Edmund with elusive rapture
And hurt poor ***** who saw it all so clear
How to bear the loss of a companion so dear?
Deceptive motives so well masked
Yet ***** should deny it when so asked
Because she was not to choose
Because Mary was not one to lose
Despite her acting nice to *****
Were her intentions sincere?
***** certainly was no figure to revere
How was she to save her cousin from delusion?
The answer was yet to come
For now, the road was lonesome...
-10/05/10
May 9, 2010
May 9, 2010 at 7:26 PM UTC
I straightened my hair
And got ready for the day;
Another day without you here…
Just another normal Saturday.
“Hey! Over here! Don’t you see me still?”
I don’t understand. Who gives me these chills?
“It’s me, Jayne Mansfield.
Won’t you come out to play?”
*Don’t talk to me that way.
I don’t know you.*
“You’re wasting away your day!
What else is there to say?”
*Leave me alone.
You’re not my friend;
How do I put these strange thoughts
To an end?*
“It’s me, Lady Diana, Queen of the Land;
I’ve come to free you from slavery
And give you a hand.”
Leave me now! and that’s a demand!
”Now, hold on one moment;
I may not be Queen,
But you are still speaking
to supreme royalty…”
*What? Who are you?
Are you friends with them too?*
“I am Grace Kelly,
The Princess of Doom.”
*Shoo! Shoo! I don’t need you.
I need my best friend
Who was lost in her youth…
Just gone – like, ****
“It’s alright,” said sweet Jayne,
Kneeled down on all fours…
“It’s okay,” said the Queen,
Who cried even more…
“Don’t be scared,” said the Princess,
Who just wasn’t sure
How to convince me that death
Unfolds into something much more…
"Live on," they all chanted,
and all I heard was love
coming from the voices
which now lived above.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
Inside a box of 78's I smell the dust of youth
listening to Elvis in the record booth
back-combing my beehive and spraying it with lacquer
stiletto heels and dirndl skirts and belted waists that flatter
The taste of coca-cola at the local diner
glamorous bright red lipstick, there was nothing finer
tuppence to play a disk on the old juke box
stockings and suspenders and pretty floral frocks
The 1950's rock 'n roll era rebelled
the first time the young were able to express themselves
there was no birth pill, and smoking was the norm
no career women then, just housewives on top form
No mobile phones or internet way back then
or laptops and tablets or electronic pen
life was about dancing until the midnight hour
snogging behind the bicycle shed as women had great power
A time when conversation was something people did
families interacted and we played outside as kids
listening to the wireless and dancing around the kitchen
Mom making pastry and darning socks with criss-cross stitching
Monroe and Mansfield inspired dynamic verve
even motor cars had romantic **** curves
but I am happy looking back with my happy stories
time stops for no man and I have the fondest memories
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
*i know, i should have attempted to collect black sabbath's oeuvre, instead i missed out on master of reality's song solitude, loved that song, learned to play it apart from the solo, and a girl remarked 'i did't know you could play country music', country?! ah, you mean country as in: sleepy hollow haunted woods and wide open fields and remote routes into isolation? ah, well then yes. shame really, but i'm not going to feel ashamed having collected iron maiden and slayer oeuvres (up to a sensible point), but **** me, that song! and thank god i smashed my guitar on the stones, bye bye, you haunted guitar.*
you know, after reading a lot of books,
esp. in your ****** prime and want of party party,
you digest things a lot easier,
mind you, i used to visit my grandparents
in the summer religiously, a perfect environment
to have read major books:
kierkegaard's either / or, bertrand russell's
history of western philosophy,
dostoyevsky's the karamazov brothers,
bolesław prus' the doll,
don quixote, tatarkiewicz's on joy...
i mean mammoth-sized books (by the way,
mammoth is a word derived from estonian,
and they didn't become extinct as far back
as you might think)... but the perfect environment
to read them... and after you've done that,
and enjoyed a few other books in between
you just turn to writing, and reading book
reviews... like today, i sneezed four times
to protect me against the guilt of laughing
reading a book review, rather than the book itself:
death drive - there are no accidents,
a book about celebrities crashing their cars,
fatal car accidents; enlisted examples refer to:
jayne mansfield, albert camus, james dean,
eddie cochran, mike hailwood, mike hawthorn,
marc bolan, tara browne, isadora duncan.
i guess you just forget reading books,
having testified to yourself an adequate cultural
canon being possessed: well, i mean,
imagine going back to the town of your birth
you left aged 8 and spending time with your
grandparents for a month - you have to
make shroud economics in such scenarios.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
(This poem may be considered as a dyptich / diptych / dipstick with "The Dreariness of Dawn")
The Dreariness of Dusk
Anticipated no victories today
Expected no letters to be answered
Or packages of life to be delivered
Not given even the hope of a hope
But…
But, no, the weary hours were unrelieved
The weary, dreary hours of near-despair
Plodding like a mule harnessed to the past
And given only the ghost of a ghost
As was expected, the teapot was warm -
“Yes, but there ain’t going to be no tea” 1
1 Katherine Mansfield
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 3:59 PM UTC