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.
vulnerable
hissing on the floor of hell,
you’ve always thought yourself a freak,
too inward to charm the ball or the Belle,
too ugly to be iconic.
too queer to at least seem well-meaning,
too puritanical and sharp
to strut like some gay butterfly
or keep in tune with love’s young larks.
o tender-hearted tormenter of self,
I’ve caught you in the prickly gorse.
o little broken boy, o elf,
I’ve shielded you within this prickled place.
we raise each other up, I tend your wounds.
the carapace of irony peels back, in parts.
you’ve always thought yourself a freak,
too inward to charm the ball or the Belle,
too ugly to be iconic.
too queer to at least seem well-meaning,
too puritanical and sharp
to strut like some gay butterfly
or keep in tune with love’s young larks.
o tender-hearted tormenter of self,
I’ve caught you in the prickly gorse.
o little broken boy, o elf,
I’ve shielded you within this prickled place.
we raise each other up, I tend your wounds.
the carapace of irony peels back, in parts.
#SelfHarm
#SelfReflection
#SelfDiscovery #SelfWorth
#SelfDiscovery #SelfWorth
83 reads
5 Comments
Across the Hilltops Danced
The religion of one age is the literary entertainment of the next.” - Emerson
What fairy feet across the hilltop danced
before the Christ and first Mohammedans arrived
to render all these stones a blasted heresy?
We lean our picnic on the moss and eat
our sandwiches, removed from fear of blasphemy
to talk and think on Mother Nature’s gifts, the seat
of what may once have been a grand temple.
The children run towards the ancient lake
on which a royal barge may have lilted,
the raiments gilded by a cyclop’s eye
that...
What fairy feet across the hilltop danced
before the Christ and first Mohammedans arrived
to render all these stones a blasted heresy?
We lean our picnic on the moss and eat
our sandwiches, removed from fear of blasphemy
to talk and think on Mother Nature’s gifts, the seat
of what may once have been a grand temple.
The children run towards the ancient lake
on which a royal barge may have lilted,
the raiments gilded by a cyclop’s eye
that...
#spiritual
#mythology
#pagan #magic
#pagan #magic
81 reads
1 Comment
The Solace and the Self
How often we define ourselves
by what we consume.
Becoming vehicles of the past,
those of us for whom our media
creates that sacred space between
the solace and the self,
the joy that paints the walls
of our abodes.
We settle into grooves.
The music lovers find vinyl,
and some hear only that produced
before the fall of 1962,
and even those who listen more
collect what most accords
with self’s baseline.
The same with books, and films,
and games. We do not all ...
by what we consume.
Becoming vehicles of the past,
those of us for whom our media
creates that sacred space between
the solace and the self,
the joy that paints the walls
of our abodes.
We settle into grooves.
The music lovers find vinyl,
and some hear only that produced
before the fall of 1962,
and even those who listen more
collect what most accords
with self’s baseline.
The same with books, and films,
and games. We do not all ...
#music
#books
#PopCulture #art
#PopCulture #art
86 reads
0 Comments
The Catamite
a private-eye story
Just give me another, okay? You know I’m good for it. And I’ve not driven since three months ago when that cop hauled me in for chasing a punk down a culvert in the Bay.
So anyway, I got the job - a while before the last war - sitting in my car outside Georgie’s place. Georgie’s was a speakeasy just off Main, in a house where the bigwigs went, so as long as you kept your nose clean Eliot Ness and his boys let you be.
I was counting through bills to give to the doorman when a fruity-looking guy walks up in a lime green...
Just give me another, okay? You know I’m good for it. And I’ve not driven since three months ago when that cop hauled me in for chasing a punk down a culvert in the Bay.
So anyway, I got the job - a while before the last war - sitting in my car outside Georgie’s place. Georgie’s was a speakeasy just off Main, in a house where the bigwigs went, so as long as you kept your nose clean Eliot Ness and his boys let you be.
I was counting through bills to give to the doorman when a fruity-looking guy walks up in a lime green...
#violence
#ShortStory
#mystery #ForbiddenLove
#mystery #ForbiddenLove
93 reads
1 Comment
A Christmas Ghost Story
We live in fear of Santa in this house,
said Mark Abel before the fireplace.
The family ‘stead once used to hunt grouse
had in it arranged a party of six,
observed by nought but a grandfather’s ticks.
‘Twas in the winter’s keep, continued Mark,
when an old fat man was seen on the roof.
Yet gifts were not found, come Xmas Day’s lark,
but in father’s room? The patriarch dead,
a red cap with white trim on his old pale head.
Perhaps this is not, said Mrs Abel,
what we should be hearing tonight. Nonsense!
cried Mark, with a...
said Mark Abel before the fireplace.
The family ‘stead once used to hunt grouse
had in it arranged a party of six,
observed by nought but a grandfather’s ticks.
‘Twas in the winter’s keep, continued Mark,
when an old fat man was seen on the roof.
Yet gifts were not found, come Xmas Day’s lark,
but in father’s room? The patriarch dead,
a red cap with white trim on his old pale head.
Perhaps this is not, said Mrs Abel,
what we should be hearing tonight. Nonsense!
cried Mark, with a...
#Christmas
#ghosts
#revenge #horror
#revenge #horror
89 reads
7 Comments
Pagan Carol
To Yule a good year
in the old Celtic way,
the Holly King rides
to break the last day.
The druids assemble
in pitch and in gloam,
to see the King’s train
ride onwards to roam.
So let us all stand
upon Charlemagne’s grave,
the pagan soul breathes
and clamours to save.
in the old Celtic way,
the Holly King rides
to break the last day.
The druids assemble
in pitch and in gloam,
to see the King’s train
ride onwards to roam.
So let us all stand
upon Charlemagne’s grave,
the pagan soul breathes
and clamours to save.
#winter
#Christmas
62 reads
2 Comments
A Sicilian Romance by Ann Radcliffe (1790)
a book review
This one was a lot more fun than I expected it to be. Ann Radcliffe is one of the earliest Gothic writers, after Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto and before MG Lewis with The Monk (which she denounced as too violent). To my mind she’s a better novelist than either, and although I knew I’d enjoy the atmosphere that she creates, what surprised me on returning to A Sicilian Romance is how much I enjoyed the plot. Her characters are notedly one-dimensional and her storytelling tends towards soap opera, with all its romantic intrigues, near escapes, improbable twists,...
This one was a lot more fun than I expected it to be. Ann Radcliffe is one of the earliest Gothic writers, after Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto and before MG Lewis with The Monk (which she denounced as too violent). To my mind she’s a better novelist than either, and although I knew I’d enjoy the atmosphere that she creates, what surprised me on returning to A Sicilian Romance is how much I enjoyed the plot. Her characters are notedly one-dimensional and her storytelling tends towards soap opera, with all its romantic intrigues, near escapes, improbable twists,...
#books
51 reads
0 Comments
Authorship
It can’t ‘ave been ol’ Willy Shakes,
‘e’s just a commoner;
it must ‘ave been the Oxford Earl,
‘im what’s uptight and proper.
Ol’ Mister ‘Speare can shake ‘is will
as much as ‘e shakes ‘is willy,
to impute genius to sons
of glove-makers is still silly.
‘e’s just a commoner;
it must ‘ave been the Oxford Earl,
‘im what’s uptight and proper.
Ol’ Mister ‘Speare can shake ‘is will
as much as ‘e shakes ‘is willy,
to impute genius to sons
of glove-makers is still silly.
#books
#historical
79 reads
4 Comments
For My Mate’s Cat
Goodnight, sweet Ming,
you were a splash of marmalade
on this our dry and toasty world.
Some olive garden outside space
is now seeing your tail unfurled.
We’ll miss you this coming Christmas,
but know, that cats like you
make inside fires glow.
you were a splash of marmalade
on this our dry and toasty world.
Some olive garden outside space
is now seeing your tail unfurled.
We’ll miss you this coming Christmas,
but know, that cats like you
make inside fires glow.
#love
#death
#cats #animals
#cats #animals
75 reads
0 Comments
Limerick
There once was a fella called George
Whose anus was like Cheddar Gorge.
With stalagmites filled
The party mood chilled
As a gusher his pucker did forge.
Whose anus was like Cheddar Gorge.
With stalagmites filled
The party mood chilled
As a gusher his pucker did forge.
#parody
44 reads
0 Comments
Now to Hear, and Now to Haunt
My God is not always your God,
or even my God.
I float in the liminal spaces between
a faith and unbelief.
And if I may dwell in the house of the Lord
and watch the games across His moors
the questions will not cease,
nor would He wish them to, I think.
or even my God.
I float in the liminal spaces between
a faith and unbelief.
And if I may dwell in the house of the Lord
and watch the games across His moors
the questions will not cease,
nor would He wish them to, I think.
#religion
#God
#faith #spiritual
#faith #spiritual
53 reads
0 Comments
From Parallels to Present: Rules and Regulations of Detective Fiction
an essay
Spoilers for
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (major)
The Moonstone (minor)
In an October 2023 article for The Times, restaurant critic and columnist Giles Coren related his experience of reading The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie (1926) to his young children, one chapter a night for about a month. Despite referring to “the drear clunk of the prose and “characterisation” based mostly on clothes, accents and facial twitches,” Coren describes his and his family’s enjoyment of the detective elements. That is until the solution is...
Spoilers for
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (major)
The Moonstone (minor)
In an October 2023 article for The Times, restaurant critic and columnist Giles Coren related his experience of reading The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie (1926) to his young children, one chapter a night for about a month. Despite referring to “the drear clunk of the prose and “characterisation” based mostly on clothes, accents and facial twitches,” Coren describes his and his family’s enjoyment of the detective elements. That is until the solution is...
#books
63 reads
2 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by Casted_Runes (Mr Karswell)