Submissions by Casted_Runes (Mr Karswell)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
I write poetry on a range of subjects and in a range of styles. My privacy is extremely important to me, though I hope that you enjoy my work and that I enjoy yours.
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
13th Jan 2025 3:15pm
13th Jan 2025 3:15pm
Like an Echo
"She should be like a town clock — keep time and observe regularity. She should not, however, like a town clock, speak so loudly that all the town may hear her.
She should be like a snail — prudent, and keep within her own house.
She should not be like a snail — carry all she has upon her back.
She should be like an echo — speak when spoken to.
But she should not be like an echo — determined always to have the last word." - "Three Wifely Virtues", The Australian Woman's Mirror, 24/02/1925
A snail slimes across a leaf,
Its hearth and...
She should be like a snail — prudent, and keep within her own house.
She should not be like a snail — carry all she has upon her back.
She should be like an echo — speak when spoken to.
But she should not be like an echo — determined always to have the last word." - "Three Wifely Virtues", The Australian Woman's Mirror, 24/02/1925
A snail slimes across a leaf,
Its hearth and...
#abuse
#feminism
#historical #marriage
#historical #marriage
48 reads
2 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
12th Jan 2025 3:32pm
12th Jan 2025 3:32pm
A Deathly Balcony
A murder of crows, I saw on her breast!’
Our vicar said to us.
‘That room enough was on her chest
Proves that Satan gave her that bust!’
Our vicar said to us.
‘That room enough was on her chest
Proves that Satan gave her that bust!’
#funny
48 reads
3 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
11th Jan 2025 8:36pm
11th Jan 2025 8:36pm
Why Are Your Poems So Dark?
after Linda Pastan
You could psychologise, of course,
could tell them dad was mean to you,
that mummy took cocaine
and never made dinner on time.
Though maybe it’s gauche
to flaunt your childhood these days,
as if you’re just auditioning
to be the underdog
of some appalling talent show,
because in your heart you simply know
that you’re not good enough.
You think, perhaps, it’s merely this:
a strain of cynic in the blood,
a slanted sight, a faithlessness
that seeks its fellows out in art,
an ear...
You could psychologise, of course,
could tell them dad was mean to you,
that mummy took cocaine
and never made dinner on time.
Though maybe it’s gauche
to flaunt your childhood these days,
as if you’re just auditioning
to be the underdog
of some appalling talent show,
because in your heart you simply know
that you’re not good enough.
You think, perhaps, it’s merely this:
a strain of cynic in the blood,
a slanted sight, a faithlessness
that seeks its fellows out in art,
an ear...
#dark
#horror
#violence #WritingPoetry
#violence #WritingPoetry
52 reads
0 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
11th Jan 2025 6:57pm
11th Jan 2025 6:57pm
The Poison Bride
When the famous poetess passed out in her mashed potatoes on Christmas Eve, 1978, her husband rolled his eyes and her two children carried on glumly chewing. It was a semi-regular performance, the passing out act. George wondered how he'd ended up marrying the silly bitch.
Once on a literary tour, they'd been besieged by girls who seemed to regard him with envy for having such unfettered access to their mentally unstable idol. He'd happily switch places with any of them, or the middle-aged sad-sack men who worried at her ankles at luncheons. Two years ago, she'd had a brief...
Once on a literary tour, they'd been besieged by girls who seemed to regard him with envy for having such unfettered access to their mentally unstable idol. He'd happily switch places with any of them, or the middle-aged sad-sack men who worried at her ankles at luncheons. Two years ago, she'd had a brief...
#death
#marriage
#ShortStory #violence
#ShortStory #violence
38 reads
3 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
10th Jan 2025 7:51pm
10th Jan 2025 7:51pm
Flowers for Confessors
after TS Eliot
Anne Sexton was obsessed with death,
That bellringer, this gravedigger.
In stylish dress, with gin-smoked breath,
Her corpse lolled in the gas-drenched car.
Cocktail sticks poke out her eyes,
The housewife’s life in grim surmise.
Measured out in olives, parts,
Domestic violence, artichoke hearts.
Plath, I guess, preceded her,
As death begets, like rabbits breed.
She sought a solace in the slur
Against fathers, the daughter’s need.
She knew the pain of too much sense,
The flowers...
Anne Sexton was obsessed with death,
That bellringer, this gravedigger.
In stylish dress, with gin-smoked breath,
Her corpse lolled in the gas-drenched car.
Cocktail sticks poke out her eyes,
The housewife’s life in grim surmise.
Measured out in olives, parts,
Domestic violence, artichoke hearts.
Plath, I guess, preceded her,
As death begets, like rabbits breed.
She sought a solace in the slur
Against fathers, the daughter’s need.
She knew the pain of too much sense,
The flowers...
#historical
#MentalHealth
#suicide #WritingPoetry
#suicide #WritingPoetry
53 reads
2 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
6th Jan 2025 1:46pm
6th Jan 2025 1:46pm
The Bloodied Dandy
The hotel had been running since the Middle Ages and did a roaring trade in kitsch tours for people wanting to experience a little of the horror of murders that had happened there. Although the proprietors were innocent (tour guides employed by the hotel were at pains to emphasise) there was a conspiracy of highwaymen, as the 18th became the 19th century, to lure travellers and then kill and rob them in their rooms. One young Pink of the Ton (meaning a fashionable young man) was lured by the promise of elopement with a woman with whom he thought he had been in correspondence.
I was...
I was...
#ghosts
#historical
#horror #ShortStory
#horror #ShortStory
37 reads
3 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
5th Jan 2025 11:05pm
5th Jan 2025 11:05pm
Eyes
When televisions first became household objects,
some people were scared to undress in front of them,
the convex and glaucomic eye staring,
pervert cyclops, invader in the living room.
These days of course the eyes are much smaller,
rectangular, and with us at all times, not just
when mother’s home with fish-and-chips to eat before
a black-and-white broadcast. Eyes follow us about.
When I was young and gay, and gay, the unrestricted
internet reached out with slimy hands and claimed
a lot of naive boys and girls, the eyes ...
some people were scared to undress in front of them,
the convex and glaucomic eye staring,
pervert cyclops, invader in the living room.
These days of course the eyes are much smaller,
rectangular, and with us at all times, not just
when mother’s home with fish-and-chips to eat before
a black-and-white broadcast. Eyes follow us about.
When I was young and gay, and gay, the unrestricted
internet reached out with slimy hands and claimed
a lot of naive boys and girls, the eyes ...
#abuse
#philosophical
#power #technology
#power #technology
65 reads
2 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
26th Dec 2024 2:27pm
26th Dec 2024 2:27pm
prison
drunk on words, you threw yourself
into the hourly burly of
the great prison where thoughts are chained
by words and made to glow for their captors
they galvanise the self
that abstract thing
and make it almost real
for fleeting addictive moments
into the hourly burly of
the great prison where thoughts are chained
by words and made to glow for their captors
they galvanise the self
that abstract thing
and make it almost real
for fleeting addictive moments
#art
#identity
#SelfReflection #WritingPoetry
#SelfReflection #WritingPoetry
77 reads
3 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
23rd Dec 2024 12:49pm
23rd Dec 2024 12:49pm
The Rotten Seed
The '60s were so long ago.
I see you crying on the stage.
The truth at last we came to know
that violence can only grow,
a rotten seed that fathers sow
and whose dark fruits they gage.
The '60s were so long ago.
I see you crying on the stage.
But love can manifest with age,
forgiveness joins the high and low.
You spoke, with tears anew confession's wage,
about when you were beaten in a rage
by some sadistic schoolmaster on stage...
Before your peers, in assembly, on show.
But love can manifest with age, ...
I see you crying on the stage.
The truth at last we came to know
that violence can only grow,
a rotten seed that fathers sow
and whose dark fruits they gage.
The '60s were so long ago.
I see you crying on the stage.
But love can manifest with age,
forgiveness joins the high and low.
You spoke, with tears anew confession's wage,
about when you were beaten in a rage
by some sadistic schoolmaster on stage...
Before your peers, in assembly, on show.
But love can manifest with age, ...
#abuse
#childhood
#fatherhood #memories
#fatherhood #memories
92 reads
4 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
21st Dec 2024 5:28pm
21st Dec 2024 5:28pm
To Nathan
I think about you sometimes and
it’s all too clear you’re probably dead.
You weren’t an icon of stability
back when we used to speak,
your bald and elongated skull
reminding me of a criminal
my mother used to know
(not to use phrenology).
You wrote dark poetry
and were the reason why
the underground started to give
warnings of extreme themes.
If I was older then I might
have been more curious
and asked the pertinent questions,
less wrapped up in my own traumas.
I thought perhaps some scary man ...
it’s all too clear you’re probably dead.
You weren’t an icon of stability
back when we used to speak,
your bald and elongated skull
reminding me of a criminal
my mother used to know
(not to use phrenology).
You wrote dark poetry
and were the reason why
the underground started to give
warnings of extreme themes.
If I was older then I might
have been more curious
and asked the pertinent questions,
less wrapped up in my own traumas.
I thought perhaps some scary man ...
#abuse
#death
#friendship #memories
#friendship #memories
70 reads
2 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
19th Dec 2024 3:06pm
19th Dec 2024 3:06pm
Santa Claus Did It
a Christmas detective story
Lord Sixtus Runcorn had been murdered with an axe, by Santa Claus. Lady Runcorn had seen it through the window of the library while she was walking the primrose path about the house and promptly screamed the estate to a standstill. A doctor was on hand to administer a sedative and she was now sleeping in her chambers, attended by a close friend.
Inspector Frodsham gathered everyone in the drawing room. It was a tradition among the Runcorns of Arrowfield to retire early on Christmas Eve, so the suspects were dressed in pyjamas and robes,...
Lord Sixtus Runcorn had been murdered with an axe, by Santa Claus. Lady Runcorn had seen it through the window of the library while she was walking the primrose path about the house and promptly screamed the estate to a standstill. A doctor was on hand to administer a sedative and she was now sleeping in her chambers, attended by a close friend.
Inspector Frodsham gathered everyone in the drawing room. It was a tradition among the Runcorns of Arrowfield to retire early on Christmas Eve, so the suspects were dressed in pyjamas and robes,...
#Christmas
#murder
#mystery #ShortStory
#mystery #ShortStory
48 reads
2 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
15th Dec 2024 5:35pm
15th Dec 2024 5:35pm
The Snowman’s Revenge
a Christmas ghost story
Not one person knew who made the snowman,
they said in the end it was “kids”,
that venerable answer to
such articles of mystery.
A year had passed since Peter’s dad
had shot himself where now the snowman stood,
on losing his job in the pits,
to bitter end cursing his faithless wife.
The carrot nose and coal buttons,
the dotted smile, eyes, top hat, and scarf;
it looked like some kind wizard stopped
and filled the drive with cheer for passers by.
With child’s logic, though, Peter...
Not one person knew who made the snowman,
they said in the end it was “kids”,
that venerable answer to
such articles of mystery.
A year had passed since Peter’s dad
had shot himself where now the snowman stood,
on losing his job in the pits,
to bitter end cursing his faithless wife.
The carrot nose and coal buttons,
the dotted smile, eyes, top hat, and scarf;
it looked like some kind wizard stopped
and filled the drive with cheer for passers by.
With child’s logic, though, Peter...
#Christmas
#ghosts
#murder #revenge
#murder #revenge
90 reads
1 Comment
DU Poetry : Submissions by Casted_Runes (Mr Karswell)
