"margaret" poems
margaret
Langit ang nagbigay biyaya nang ambon ay dinilig
Ang aking hiling sa panginoon ay biglang nadinig
Pinadala ang anghel na sa mundo ko’y yayanig
Tinawag ng ng kanyang tinig, at Napatulala sa mga Titig
Maari bang malaman ang yong pakay sa akin
Kung ikaw ba ay pasakit at tuluyan na akong wawasakin?
Laging kong tanong kung ano ba ang dapat kong gawin
Kung ang kahulugan mo ay kabiguan patuloy pa ba kitang iibigin?
Nagtatanong kay Bathala, Paano ko ba mapapaliwanag ang hiwaga
Nitong pagmamahal na kung bakit sa puso kumapit ka ng kusa
Ako’y nagtataka’t di maka paniwala Bakit ito ang yong ginawa
Sa bigay **** biyaya, Ano ba ang kasalanan ko para isinumpa
Gaano ba kita pinapahalagahan? Alam mo ba ang dahilan?
Hiling ko lang ay sanay iyong maunawaan itong nararamdaman
Kaya ang paliwanag ko ay simple nalang
Masikip dito sa loob ko, kaya ang kasya ay ikaw lang
Alaalang bitbit pano ko makakalimutan
Kung Sa puso koy nakaukit ang yong pangalan
Ibinalot ng tatag ng loob para ika’y ipaglalaban
Di kita hahayaang lumuha lagi kang aalagaan.
Nagaabang ng sasakyan para dalhin sa langit, iwan ang mundo
Nakikiusap Pagbigyan sana Hiling makamit, Anghel na sundo
Saan nga ba tayo patungo? Byaheng langit sa impyerno,
Sa isipan kong magulo, Kasinungalingan ka ba o Totoo?
Linalaro sa panaginip ang dakilang pagsuyo
Tuluyang Hinamon Ang matapang na puso
Sayo napalapit at ayaw nang lumayo
Ang silakbo ay di na kaya, kayang isuko
kahit ano dito sa lupain ay handa kong ialay
Pagkat ang langit sa akin ay una mo nang binigay
Ang halaga mo sa akin ay Walang katumbas na materyal
Dahil Di kayang sukatin kung gano kita kamahal
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 12:04 AM UTC
Napabuntong-hininga na lamang
Tila ba tumatakbo ang bubutil na pawis sa noo niya
Sasabak na naman si Tatang sa gyera
Pilit binuhat ang sakong mas mabigat pa sa kanya
Marupok na ang mga buto
Ngunit hindi ang puso
Ang wika nya, "Walang hindi gagawin para sa apo."
Si Nena, sampu na ang anak
Hindi na magkanda-ugaga
Iiyak ang isa, gutom naman sa kabila
Sa sususunod na buwan,
malapit na siyang manganak
Ang ama ng mga bata, naroon sa kanto
nagpapakalunod sa alak
Sabi nga nila, walang hindi gagawin
ang magulang para sa anak.
Tanghaling tapat na,
almusal pa rin ang hinahanap
Natulala na lamang si Nena nang malaman,
ang tatay niya'y
patay na
-Tula X, Margaret Austin Go
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
Ang iyong mga matang nangungusap
Lumuluha ng buhangin
Kasama ng iyong mga pangarap
Lumipad na at nagtago sa mga ulap
Ang halimuyak ng iyong mga yakap
ay nadarama pa rin
Pilit hinugot ang mga ugat ng pasakit
Sa puso niya
Binaon nang walang pasabi
Kasabay nang pag iyak ng langit
Kailanman hindi mawawaglit
Lahat ng mga salitang nasambit
Ngunit ngayon kasama na ng hangin
Ang pagibig na hindi pa rin kayang limutin
-Tula II, Margaret Austin Go
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
Tangan ang mga halik mo
Sa aking palad umaagos
Ang damdamin minsan ay umalab
Parang sigarilyong nauupos
Dahan-dahang nauubos
Kaya nga bang balikan ang kahapon
Binaon na natin sa kahon
Katulad ng mga dahon
Nalanta at di na makaahon
Kaya pa nga bang ibalik ang kahapon
Sa saliw ng mga puso natin
Ngayon ay uhaw sa pagsintang
Naudlot ng pagkakataon
-Tula III, Margaret Austin Go
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
Tinalikdan ng araw ang langit
Hinayaang lamunin ng dagat ang hari
Mahinahon ang karagatan
Tila nagdurugo ang tubig
Hinabol ang hangganan ng nakikita
Doon nasilayan ang mukha ng asawa
Papalapit ngunit hindi naman niya kayang masungkit
Mga mata'y ipinikit
Sinariwa ang halimuyak ng kanyang mga halik
Labis na nasasabik
Gustong balikan ang mga sandali
Pagbukas ng mga mata,
Kadiliman ang naghasik
ng labis na pangungulila't hinagpis
-Tula IX, Margaret Austin Go
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 2:16 AM UTC
Malalagkit na mga halik
Amoy ng alak at yosi,
kumakapit sa damit
Kaunting barya,
puri ang kapalit
Eto ang turo ni inay
"Kapalan mo ang lipstick anak,
hindi magtatagal ikaw di'y masasanay"
manipis na tela
ang bumalot sa murang katawan ni Teresa
"Sariwang-sariwa!"
hindi magkamayaw ang mga kalalakihan
Sa entablado kinalimutan
ang nagdurusang puso
binalatan nang dahandahan
-Tula XI, Margaret Austin Go
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC
Umiiyak ang dilag nang walang patid
Kasama ang dugo at basahan sa sahig
Nais kong mabatid
Ano ang nagdulot sa nadaramang sakit?
Binunyag ng kanyang mga mata
Walang puknat na pagsisisi ni isa
Hindi na alam kung ligaya ba o pighati
Dahil ngayon alam niyang tapos na ang lahat
Pakiwari niya
Natutulog na ang mga alon
Noon siya ay nilulunod
Naghuhumiyaw na damdamin puno ng hinagpis
Gusto niyang isigaw sa hangin
Ngayon kailangan na niyang linisin
Niyurak na pagkatao dahandahan bubuuin
Pinira-piraso
Ngumiti siya na para bang payaso
Isinilid niya sa sako
Kahit gusto man niyang maglaho
Ang amoy nitong mabaho
Nanatili pa rin sa damit niya
Parang bang tumitiling aso
Sinuyod ang masukal na gubat
Tinunton ang malalim na balon
Puno na ng lumot
Doon niya inihulog
Ngayon basahan ng mga kumot
At ang bangkay ng ama
Kasama ng kaluluwa niyang
Hinalay nang walang awa
-Tula VI, Margaret Austin Go
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
Sa akin mo lamang ibaling
Ang matamis **** pagtingin
Sapagkat hindi kayang atimin
makitang sa kanya nakatingin
Kulang pa ba ang pangakong
ngayo'y sasambitin
na lahat ibibigay
Hindi ka mabibitin
Musika ng puso'y aawitin
Sana bukas,
ang puso mo na
ay sa akin
-Tula VIII, Margaret Austin Go
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
Kinikilig pati ang mga butuin
Sa saliw ng iyong boses na malambing
Nakadungaw sa bintana
kahit lahat sila'y nakahimbing
May kaba sa damdamin
Paano bukas lahat sila'y magagalit?
Si ama , hahabulin ka ng itak
Natawa na lamang
Ang mga braso ko'y hinatak
Naglapit ang mga muka
Muntik ng atakihin sa kaba
Ang puso ko ata ay nahulog
Nang si bantay ay umalulong
Dali-dali ay nagtago
Tinginan nati'y di pa rin nagbabago
"Kailangan ko nang bumalik sa silid."
ang wika ko
Sabay dagling humalik sa sinta ko
-Tula VII, Margaret Austin Go
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
Isang kulisap
Ang ninakawan ng kinang
Ikinulong sa sisidlan
Bigla kang nanginig
Nang unang marining
Ang hikbi niyang puno ng pait
Bumalik din sayo ang sakit
Hindi ba't
Ikaw din ang may kakagawan
Ang iniisip ay sarili lamang
Bakit hndi ikaw ang magsimula
Pakawalan siya
At sindihan ang ninakaw niyang kinang
-Tula IV, Margaret Austin Go
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC
Palutang-lutang sa gitna ng dagat
Gawa ng luha kong
sinubukang saluhin sa tasa
ngunit hindi nagkasya
Sinong sasagip
sa pusong takot malunod?
Hahayaan na lamang bang magpaanod
sa tulirong mga alon
Wari'y sila ring nalilito
Saan nga ba patutungo?
Ngunit ang damdamin,
Sa iyo pa rin gustong dumaong
Umaasang sa dalampasigan,
Sa mga bisig mo, ako sisilong
Parola, Margaret Austin Go
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 6:31 AM UTC
Huwag ka nang magalala
Susubukan kong
Itali sa iyong pulso
Yaring munting tala
'Wari isang lobo
Upang ikaw ay tumahan na
Gaano ba kasakit ang iwanan?
Paano ba tatakpan ang mga lamat
ng puso **** nabasag?
Hayaan **** ihele ka
ng mga mumunting kuliglig sa parang
Sa pagtulog mo
Hangad ko rin
Mabura ang sakit
na iyong dinaranas
-Tula V, Margaret Austin Go
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
I found serenity
as I drown myself
in these salty tears
Ripples
severe the kind of longing
that succumbs
every part of my insides
In your absence
so perniciously
suffocating
my frail heart indulge
in these surge of montage
vivid memories of you
radiant,
warm,
ecstatic
I relinquish
-Longing, Margaret Austin Go
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
Gusto kong higitan
ang kinang ng mga butuin
Baka sakali ako'y iyong mapansin
Nagtatago sa mga hibla ng ulap
Ang pag sinta ko sayo
Sa puso ko'y lumaganap
Tila apoy na nilalamon ang kaluluwang
Tigang sa pagibig
Ang simpleng hiling
Higitan ang mga butuin
At kung maaari kay Kupido bigkasin
Sana'y puso nya din ay panain
-Tula II, Margaret Austin Go
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
A few years ago
I would not have expected
That my sister would someday be my best friend
We used to constantly bicker
Actually
That still happens every day
She ****** me off to no end
But I can’t hold a grudge
Especially not against her
And she always somehow
Resolves the problem
By making me laugh
Until my sides ache
There is nobody else out there
Who I am this comfortable around
And I sincerely doubt
There could be anyone else
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
I saw you swimming
in my teacup
I sipped and tasted
so much bitterness
in this teabag,
Pieces of my heart
crushed and dehydrated
As I hear the raindrops
continue to dance
in the same puddles
they created
Promises that we have broken
I have to add sugar
and a little bit of tear
In my cup of tea,
I saw you floating
I took a teaspoon
and shove you deeper
into a whirlpool
that reminded me
how much
I was a fool
for you,
I have to finish it all
Lined my throat
in bittersweet guilt
Swallowed them all
and ah!
a sigh of relief
I must be dreaming
-Tea, Margaret Austin Go
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
Merry Margaret
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower:
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly
Her demeaning
In every thing,
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write
Of Merry Margaret
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.
As patient and still
And as full of good will
As fair Isaphill,
Coliander,
Sweet pomander,
Good Cassander;
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought,
Far may be sought,
Ere that ye can find
So courteous, so kind
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.
6.2k
A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto
as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology
smashing to fragments: demonic astrology
(more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true though).
Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance
Concupiscent consequence: lust’s bitter fruit –
ah the thought… changing Sin into mere inconvenience.
Margaret sang her seductive refrain
about weeding the garden and progress and light.
Her sisters should view her with scornful disdain
but instead have adopted her murderous rite.
With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics
(as if she had never herself been a fetus),
condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics
while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us.
Suppressing the lives that she flushed down the drain
she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain.
As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side)
Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy
singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide
calling the shots for the coming sick century.
Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races
her zeal was empowered by murderous graces.
She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction:
“dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy”
“viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction”
Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy;
words that turn Life into mere reproduction.
She enters the realms of the ****** and the motherless
roundly condemned by her feminine otherness.
Man’s first protection: the God-given womb
which no infant should have to regard as their tomb.
Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her
as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her.
Long may she burn with the medical cynics
this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics.
Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen
and the profits swell big with each nubile teen…
yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen.
I send her this song as a funeral wreath
and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there:
“To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death
from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth.
May your torment increase with the children you bear.”
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
Hello.
Welcome to this poem written by a strange poet.
Here we will get to know the story behind the poem.
True.
He had actually created his own Taj Mahal.
Not just the telephone I refer to here in this poem.
But.
There is his Taj Mahal which we all remember daily.
Not just the telephone I refer to here in this poem.
His.
His girlfriend's name was Margaret Hello.
Do not we say Hello so many times daily?
Alex.
Alexander Graham Bell even got future generations to remember his love.
Each time when we're on a call then we almost automatically say Hello.
No.
He didn't **** or impair any of his assistants,
Totally opposite to what Shahjahan had done.
Yes.
Alexander Graham Bell was the greatest among lovers who immortalized his love,
The other one is Me! as I write all my poems without her thought escaping my mind.
;-)
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
The inadequate bookshelf that sat near the door
that my sister used to call her own was
mostly made up of adolescent reads,
books better suited for preteen girls rather than
intellectually budding young ladies—
juvenile vocabularies and simple, non-complex
plot lines do little to craft and create
worldly, knowledgeable women.
I thought I must spring clean the
naiveté away and replace it with
the works of great authors like
Sylvia Plath
Simone de Beauvoir
Virginia Woolf
Margaret Atwood
Betty Friedan;
ingenious femme fatales that cut down
to the brittled bones of the misogynists
and burned their marrow along with the
ashes of bras and aprons and 350 degree oven heat.
Growing up, to me, seemed like a wonderful epiphany
chock-full of ideas and opinions and
clever, ironic remarks that chased satirical witticisms
like felines to rodents and wolves to deer—
being an adult would guarantee me a say,
a vote
prior 1920’s America
play dress up as a suffragette
women’s rights
femininity personified by dolls in plastic houses.
To be eighteen-years-old,
the goal, the legality, the bright light at the end of the tunnel;
the official womanhood it would bestow upon me
seemed like something almost tangible
with the way that it loomed over my head.
Get good marks
graduate high school
travel back in time sixty years
meet a nice boy
become a “good wife”
have dinner ready by five
bear two beautiful heirs
clean up the messes left in the kitchen
fast-forward to the twenty-first century
go to a good college
find a stable career
settle down if the fancy strikes you
live non-docile and full of passion—
the parallelism of times are severely
di
lap
i
dat
ed.
1950’s America would never be a home for me
because I am much too wild to be contained.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
Winters can be tedious.
Sun dips into early dusk.
A dead fire refuses to ignite.
There's a quick repetition
of opening and closing blinds
over a barred window.
In need of reflection
I search a familiar face
in an unfamiliar landscape.
I have her in my grasp,
half illusion, half real,
a symbolic mask denies
her true face,
her glittering crown
divides us by its radiance.
Groping in darkness,
I stumble over objects
of wood and stone,
my unsteady tread tripping
over their contours.
I light a candle.
Bathed in amber light,
our shadows merge.
A new door opens,
stretching the perspective.
No formal borders here,
they wouldn't survive
the present climate.
In their place,
intricately carved
figureheads and totems-
a vision of the past.
My eye is a camera,
retinas branded with imagery
for the photographer's delight-
coloured pebbles, carved wooden animals,
tin cans, bones.....
....A Glass Sentinel
(though she isn't visible)
I can see right through her-
a vision of smokescreens
and subterfuge.
Past stumps of driftwood,
past the uncut grass,
a few flowers...
...to the fabricated backdrop
of a burning house, black smoke
rising
in
a
thin
stream.
At the open door -
The Guardian,
(I know her inside out)
unmoved,
(she didn't bat an eye)
defiant in a new skin,
a softer version-
The Mother protecting her children,
arms splayed, prepared
for fight or flight.
A russet flame
Licking her spine exhales
'Get out of my way!'
but she wasn't listening.
Smile fixed,
eyes of a phoenix,
a lion,
a raptor,
protector.
We all need feeding,
but not this way!
Throw me a cloth,
a napkin,
a man-size tissue
a lifeline!
She wanted this,
no, wished it-
this symbolism,
this burning of ironic portraits,
to clear the deck,
make way for new.
It shook the house,
its fate sealed behind closed doors.
I compose myself,
pull her back from the perilous edge,
gather her in my arms.
Fragments of shattered words
flutter in the ether.
What is real?
What is fiction?
A carbon copy of thousands?
A charred corner?
A forgotten candle?
WARNING:
'Eating fire' is a risky business
but can attract a large audience.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
An Open Letter to Really Important People
The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement
A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness
We post this serious looking document
Bloated with long vocabulary words
Sodden with weak dependent clauses
Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go
To the GossipNet all serious like
And everyone has to pay attention to us
Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know -
You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name
Signatories:
Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie.
Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be
Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED
Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret ****** Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico
Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X
(Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
THERE is a queen in China, or maybe it's in Spain,
And birthdays and holidays such praises can be heard
Of her unblemished lineaments, a whiteness with no
stain,
That she might be that sprightly girl trodden by a
bird;
And there's a score of duchesses, surpassing woma-
kind,
Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay
And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance
of his mind:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
The young men every night applaud their Gaby's
laughing eye,
And Ruth St. Denis had more charm although she had
poor luck;
From nineteen hundred nine or ten, Pavlova's had the
cry
And there's a player in the States who gathers up her
cloak
And flings herself out of the room when Juliet would
be bride
With all a woman's passion, a child's imperious way,
And there are -- but no matter if there are scores beside:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
There's Margaret and Marjorie and Dorothy and Nan,
A Daphne and a Mary who live in privacy;
One's had her fill of lovers, another's had but one,
Another boasts, "I pick and choose and have but two
or three.'
If head and limb have beauty and the instep's high and
light
They can spread out what sail they please for all I have
to say,
Be but the breakers of men's hearts or engines of
delight:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
There'll be that crowd, that barbarous crowd, through
all the centuries,
And who can say but some young belle may walk and
talk men wild
Who is my beauty's equal, though that my heart denies,
But not the exact likeness, the simplicity of a child,
And that proud look as though she had gazed into the
burning sun,
And all the shapely body no tittle gone astray.
I mourn for that most lonely thing; and yet God's will
be done:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
3.9k
Mahal kong Margaret,
Patawad
(Higit pa sa Sampong beses ko na tong nagawa
Hanggang ngayon di pa maunawa
Ang tulad mo sa akin na nag mahal ng kusa
Nasaktan ko ng di sinasadya)
Alam kong sawa ka na sa paulit ulit na nang yayari,
Away bati sa mga bagay na kahit na simple.
Walang ibang Iniisip kundi ang puro pansarili,
Nagseselos ako bawat sinong makatabi.
Marahil pagod ka na, at gusto mo nang umayaw.
Ngunit sana ikaw ay magbalik tanaw
Humihingi ng tawad, hiling na magbalik ang dating ako at ikaw
Maging ako man ang inakalang papawi ng luha sya pa ang unang bumitaw
Tanggapin ang alay kong tsokolate at rosas na pula
Tikman ang tamis nito, tulad ng pagsisikap kong laging pasobra
May taglay na bango ang bulaklak, binabalik ang alaala
Ng lumipas, Kalakip ang tula galing sa puso, inukit sa pluma, indinaan ko sa letra.
Pakinggan mo sana ang mga daing kong nawalan nang tinig
Masdan ng mga mata **** nakapinid,ayaw nang tumititig
Muli nating painitin ang samahang unti unti nang lumalamig
Bigyang pagkakataong buhayin ang pusong di na pumipintig
Alam mo namang lahat ay aking gagawin,
Ano mang kaparusahan ay handa ko nang akoin,
Sa panong paraan ba ako patatawarin?
para lang ANG PANGALAWANG PAGKAKATAON SA AKIN AY IYONG MARAPATIN.
＊ｐｓ． ｈｉｎｔａｙｉｎ ｋｉｔａ ｄｕｕｎ ｌａｇｉ 。
１－４ｐｍ ｋａｄａ ｍｅｉｒｋｕｌｅｓ
Makatang humihingi ng tawad,
August E. Estrellado
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 1:33 AM UTC
Georgiana Seymour,
Duchess of Somerset
crowned _'Queen of Beauty'_
at the 1839 Eglinton
Tournament, the first known
beauty pageant;
W
European festivals dating to the medieval era
provide the most direct lineage for beauty pageants.
For example, English May Day celebrations always
involved the selection of a May Queen.
In the United States, the May Day tradition
of selecting a woman to serve as a symbol
of bounty and community ideals continued,
as young beautiful women participated
in public celebrations; such as the beauty pageant
held during the Eglinton Tournament of 1839,
organized by Archibald Montgomerie, 13th Earl of Eglinton,
as part of a re-enactment of a medieval joust
that was held in Scotland; the pageant was won
by Georgiana Seymour, Duchess of Somerset,
wife of Edward Seymour, 12th Duke of Somerset,
and sister of Caroline Norton;
Georgiana proclaimed _"Queen of Beauty"_;
Entrepreneur Phineas Taylor Barnum staged
the first modern American pageant in 1854,
his beauty contest closed down after public protest;
However beauty contests became popular
in the 1880s; In 1888 the title of _'beauty queen'_
was awarded to an 18-year-old Creole contestant
at a pageant in Spa, Belgium. All participants
had to supply a photograph & a short description
of themselves to be eligible to enter; a final selection
of 21 judged by a formal panel.
Such events were not regarded as respectable;
But beauty contests came to be considered more
respectable with the first modern _"Miss America"_
contest held in 1921;
Still the oldest pageant in operation,
the Miss America pageant was organized
in 1921 by a local businessman as a means
to entice tourists to Atlantic City, New Jersey;
The pageant hosted the winners of local
newspaper beauty contests in the
_Inter-City Beauty Contest_ & was attended
by over one hundred thousand people;
_Sixteen-year-old Margaret Gorman of Washington, D.C.
was crowned Miss America 1921, having won both the
popularity and beauty contests, and was awarded $100_
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC