I feel that this poem needs some words by way of introduction. It was inspired by a little broken ceramic doll that I bought at a flea-market back in 1999.
This little painted doll was made of bisque, a relatively cheap brittle ceramic. The doll was made in the World War I era, 1914-1918 and, once broken, would have been thrown away to lie buried for eighty years until the man I bought it from dug it up in his quest for old bottles.
I often wonder at the stories that old things could tell us about the people who owned them if only they could talk. I christened the doll Esmerelda and still have her up on the shelf with other casualties of the past. This poem is written in imitation of the style of 1900, you might imagine hearing a British accent while reading it.
***************
Esmerelda's cheeks were rosy;
Her hair, a crown of chestnut curls,
Never trite or rude or nosey;
She was the best of little girls.
Ever tasteful and disarming,
Turning heads in a crowded room;
She was poised, refined and charming,
When in her adolescent bloom.
She could quote the bards and sages,
As a woman, beyond compare,
Sing the music of the ages,
Recite the French of old Voltaire.
Modest, elegant and witty,
Admired and imitated too,
Fairest woman in the city,
Glorious as an Alpine view.
Her head adorned with blooms azure
And green ribbon to match her eyes,
Her skin milk-white, exceeding pure,
Oh what a wonderful disguise!
Now believe me when I tell you
That Esmerelda was a whore,
There was nothing she'd not sell you.
When you were spent she wanted more.
Once, a surgeon amputated
Her much diseased, left, lower limb.
She was cured and celebrated
For two whole days in bed with him.
In the war she toured the trenches,
Bravely, along the Western Front;
Upon tables, beds and benches,
Never missing a sweaty stunt.
Then one night a fearsome shelling
Was unleashed by the beastly Hun.
With what toll there is no telling
Save that her lover was but one.
Fortunate man he died in bliss,
Whilst savoring her wondrous charms.
She gave his pale lips one last kiss
Then the next shell took both her arms!
When the war was at last over
She was awarded by the King,
A quaint little house in Dover
Where now she teaches girls to sing.
|
Submitted by:
Piquet
view profile
|
You have new unread mail messages!
Click here for your Inbox!
