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Donall Dempsey Oct 2015
THE GENTLEMAN OF SHALLOT

Come Spring...

I paint my little room
all yellow

fill it with
daffodils & jonquils

drag in a giant
mirror

(left in the back yard)      

so large

it takes up
all the wall

giving the illusion
of another room

as if my room
were now not so

small.

Sometime the trompe d'oeil
fools even me

& I walk into
the imaginary room.

'Ouch! '
my reflection shouts!

Come Spring...
...came you!

(totally unexpected)      

& my playing with
perspective

hath you enthralled.

I'd catch you
catching your
reflection observing you

observing
the mirror couple

as they
mimiced us

watching our every
more

you thought it so
sensual

or could pretend to be
at a small ****

when it was only
us

again

&

again.

Bodies of flesh & blood
bodies of glass.

You breathe
upon the mirror

tracing our names
with a fingertip

fragile words
made of breath

'...this love...will last...! '

*

When we break
up

the mirror
stayed intact

except for a jagged
lightning crack

& now it was I
who watched

like a gentleman of Shallot

the couple
in the mirror

(the ghosts of
memory)      

making love

bodies of flesh
& blood

bodies

of

glass.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2023
THE GENTLEMAN OF SHALLOT

Come Spring...

I paint my little room
all yellow

fill it with
daffodils & jonquils

drag in a giant
mirror

(left in the back yard)      

so large

it takes up
all the wall

giving the illusion
of another room

as if my room
were now not so

small.

Sometime the trompe l'œil,
fools even me

& I walk into
the imaginary room.

'Ouch! '
my reflection shouts!

Come Spring...
...came you!

(totally unexpected)      

& my playing with
perspective

hath you enthralled.

I'd catch you
catching your
reflection observing you

observing
the mirror couple

as they
mimicked us

watching our every
move

you thought it so
sensual

or could pretend to be
at a small ****

when it was only
us

again

&

again.

Bodies of flesh & blood
bodies of glass.

You breathe
upon the mirror

tracing our names
with a fingertip

fragile words
made of breath

'...this love...will last...! '

*

When we break
up

the mirror
stayed intact

except for a jagged
lightning crack

& now it was I
who watched

like a gentleman of Shallot

the couple
in the mirror

(the ghosts of
memory)      

making love

bodies of flesh
& blood

bodies

of

glass.
Diabla Diosa Jan 2016
She looks up to the mirrored glass
She sees a handsome horse and rider pass
She say, 'That man's gonna be my death
'Cause he's all I ever wanted in my life
And I know he doesn't know my name
And that all the girls are all the same to him
But still I've got to get out of this place
'Cause I don't think I can face another night
Where I'm half sick of shadows
And I can't see the sky
Everyone else can watch as the tide comes in

So why can't I?
Donall Dempsey Oct 2024
THE GENTLEMAN OF SHALLOT

Come Spring...

I paint my little room
all yellow

fill it with
daffodils & jonquils

drag in a giant
mirror

(left in the back yard)      

so large

it takes up
all the wall

giving the illusion
of another room

as if my room
were now not so

small.

Sometime the trompe l'œil,
fools even me

& I walk into
the imaginary room.

'Ouch! '
my reflection shouts!

Come Spring...
...came you!

(totally unexpected)      

& my playing with
perspective

hath you enthralled.

I'd catch you
catching your
reflection observing you

observing
the mirror couple

as they
mimicked us

watching our every
move

you thought it so
sensual

or could pretend to be
at a small ****

when it was only
us

again

&

again.

Bodies of flesh & blood
bodies of glass.

You breathe
upon the mirror

tracing our names
with a fingertip

fragile words
made of breath

'...this love...will last...! '

*

When we break
up

the mirror
stayed intact

except for a jagged
lightning crack

& now it was I
who watched

like a gentleman of Shallot

the couple
in the mirror

(the ghosts of
memory)      

making love

bodies of flesh
& blood

bodies

of

glass.
E A Bookish Feb 2016
Bougainvilleas line the house, dedicated, stoic sentinels
Ivy has replaced mortar as the only thing keeping the walls from crumbling
The windows have no glass,
But the rain is kept at bay by the gossamer webs of kind spiders.
Inside there is no furniture – only paper tomes
She sits on a pile of high school textbooks
Her table, stacks of hard cover crime novels
Her bed, a nest of magazines

There is no fridge or pantry – she doesn’t eat
But she is not starving
She devours books, has become fat on them
A varied diet: science and science fiction,
Fantasy, history, politics, philosophy
And to nourish her soul – poetry.

She doesn’t remember her name
But it doesn’t matter
She is Beowulf, Boudicca, Odysseus
Dorian Grey, the Lady of Shallot,
She is both Hero and Leander  

She never leaves,
But she knows that the world is turning
The sparrows in the gable tell her so
And she doesn’t need it, no

She smiles, cries, and falls in love over and over
With the turn of each page
Her fingers have transformed into ink stains
She has lived a thousand and one lives
She holds them all inside her
She makes them live, and they keep her alive -

This is a dream that I once had.
Zaahr H Sep 2015
May the moth not care,
Towards the light.
May the flower refuse to blossom,
In springtime.
May the rise of a full moon,
Not urge the wolf to howl.
May the smell of fresh blood,
Not make the lion prowl.

May the moon not,
Direct the tides.
May the Lady of Shallot,
Not look at the Knight.
May I not be afraid,
Of a long forgotten feel.
May the sight of you not rekindle,
The old fire, my hearts ordeal.
Acora Apr 2021
The way I expressed it didn’t fully
Make sense to my dearest
Who only likes men.
I’ve never prescribed to the scrutiny
Eyes of jocks eyeing us as they do ****.
I used to see red as a fad that
had past and a warning that I’m
Not desired;
Nor will be, no matter my try.
But I’m realizing now,
Want is deeper than thou who have
wanted me only in theory.
Fruity or trans, and the girlfriend
I have, each is queer and there’s something more in it:
Queers see women the same way
they view art pieces;
So I’ve always been Venus and Ophelia,
The Lady of Shallot— not some
acquiescent cool-girl
who’ll answer your questions of
***** hair and fair children.
Where a woman I knew
sees a woman as through
some man’s eyes focused on her *******—
I cut a fringe for the change,
And remain soft in shape
For these are a lover’s desires:
Wear your identity on your sleeve,
In the curve of your arm, on the scent of your hair and upon the pendant at your neck.
Like the romantics do in literature;
After de-centering men,
You can finally be free.
Inspired by the monologue found at https://youtu.be/0o4heKCLeTs

Nelumbo nucifera, or lotus flower— liberation from attachment.
Mark McIntosh Mar 2015
drain full of peelings
broken plunger & unwashed dishes
drops sprinkle from the sky
yesterday hail
leached peas and golfballs cracked
hitting windows
perhaps reflection
back to the hills
to find freshness somehow
crusts too old to chew the grains
birds quiet in the autumnal wash
preparing for another outing of art
therapy.
ginger, shallot, chilli & chicken
rice later
something for the blood which
pumps & beats & never stops
till words release and a
semblance of peace arrives
Daisy King Jan 2015
Ophelia enters, playing the lute
to share a song that she wrote
about being sick to death of being good
but keeps hitting the wrong note.

The Lady of Shallot is mute.
She has been since she failed to float
but she etched her song into the wood
that made up her grave and her boat.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2019
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.
Not only giving a fictional character a modern life but having had her have to deal with all things modern and yes....cruel as it may seem autocorrected.

And yes I guess she at least knew who she was or where she stood as a fictional character but by being autocorrected by a whim into a real life world and all its attendant miseries she probably thought it had been better when she had been purely a creature of words. I hate autocorrect as I wish to be the one saying what I am going to be saying and not a machine second guessing me....I could never turn it off on my phone and had to endure it.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2016
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
always floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2019
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.
kirk Oct 2023
Would you tell me something, please don't keep me in suspense
I don't mean any upset, or make anyone feel tense
Usually I'm not bothered, I'll stay sitting on the fence
But for once, I just thought, I'd offer my two cents

I'm curious if you're aware, we're driven up the wall
Every time that you decide, to slow down to a crawl
Your almost paralytic, and you're never on the ball
We've seen slow moving objects, but you easily beat them all

Perhaps you are not conscious, and you aren't even awake?
Have you run out of petrol, have your pads seized on the brake?
There's nothing left in Staniforths, you've taken too much cake
Don't even get me started, on that stupid noise you make

I thought it was the Bisto Kids, who's come to join the party
The gravy's done, but just hold on, you need to be a smarty
We all know you will be first, because you're arty-farty
Your goal is a supper bowl, that's usually quite hearty

Let me tell you something, and I'll try to be precise
It's just a little peice of mind, a small piece of advice
Never hold your horses, if your sinking through thin ice
You'd only come a cropper, when it's us you sacrifice

You have this annoying habit, of just getting in the way
It's not even on occasion, because it happens every day
Do you have two broken ankles, are your feet stuck in set clay?
What exactly is the problem, what is causing the delay?

I suspect you may have parkinsons, or you're riddled with senility
Or are you attempting feebly, to Insult my sensibility?
Jesus Christ you've come too far, with inactive inability
The result of which is certainly, an impending liability

Why are you pacing back and forth, it's a cross contamination.
The last supper comes to mind, cos there is no explanation
If you scrutinise, I feel betrayed, with your food examination
You're like a giant tortoise, on a lazy stay vacation

We can't get to the cupboards, we can't open any door
The sideboard is a waste of time, your blocking every drawer
Sandwichs are on the move, crumbs fall down on the floor
Place your bread on porcelain, that's what the plates are for

Do I have to grow carbuncles, while I stand about and wait?
We don't need a running commentary, of what's on the buffet plate
It takes the **** at ten o'clock, when you stared out at eight
A Standing Charge should be enforced, set at the highest rate

Six eggs in a basket, what's in the cooking ***?
Tomatoes on a flat bread, thats a lovely fresh shallot
Potatoes with warm butter on, we're hoping they stay hot
I think I better call the Doc, and he will say Great Scott

Maybe you can't help yourself, and this is not your fault
But come on now it don't seem fair, when it causes a revolt
Is there any reason, why you're grinding to a halt?
You need a ******* cattle ****, or a massive lightning bolt

There doesn't seem much point to this, when everything's so slow?
You seem to be oblivious, and you don't even know
Will you collect two hundred pounds, somehow I don't think so
A Monopoly on standing still, cos you never will pass go

An arcade with all the classics, is where you ort to be
Then you could indulgence yourself, in a forgone guarantee
Mommy quick, I just can’t wait, give me a 50p
I know it will be challenging, to a very high degree

First there will be Pac-man, in a geriatric aider
Power pills will be no good, if your a ghostly masquerader
Donkey Kong will wait to long, for the dithering crusader
But your stuck and you've become, the ultimate Space Invader

Around the world in 80 days, there simply is no chance
***** Fog would just say no, without a second glance
You always appear stationary, and you're usually in a trance
If we started off from Dover, we would never get to France

The balloon would just come crashing down, because the airs gone cold
Rheumatism would set in, as Mr fog turned old
Poor Phileas would lose his hair, his head would just be bald
You'd make him wait, you'd seal his fate, his youth would be annulled

You've mastered the pure artform, of the dawdling Dilly-Dally
Good job your not a *******, in a seedy dark back ally!
I wouldn't dare to enter you. . . in our local summer rally
You'd only stop to analyse, the foliage in the valley

Don't hang around indefinitely, because we're all getting thinner
A hot meal would be nice, instead of a cold dinner
Be courteous to others, and we're onto a sure winner
It isn't very popular, when it's you that is the sinner

I sat here waiting patiently, so what's it all about?
Sunday launch took far too long, oh come on you old trout
You cannot reach a bean or pea, or a single brussel spout
**** this **** I'm off to bed, I'll ****** go without

Why are you so meticulous, cos it causes so much friction
To be frank when your a guest, it's not your jurisdiction
Its utterly ridiculous, but I will stand by my conviction
Please vacate the area, and get out my ******* kitchen

Stop hovering around the hob, and by the feeding trough
Your slower than a garden snail, your like a wingless moth
If I wasn't such a gentle soul, I'd tell you to *******
Perhaps your part Banana slug, and the slowest Three-Toed Sloth
This is about someone who is slow and always in the way
Donall Dempsey Apr 2018
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.
Harrison Buloke Sep 2019
Meeting minutes of the p-brane

The thought that three thimble thumbs thatch this thorny threat, surely superimpose suede surfaces; such summoned suits shall share sheepishly short shoes. Should sharp, shimmering, shallot shapes ship shaking shin splints, splurge splashed splinter. Spray specially spun sparkling springs spanning space, spreading sparks sprung splendidly.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2019
"...TREMBLE IN THE WATER CHILLY..."

the loneliness
manifests itself
as a creature

that prowls around her
tiny room
caged within her brain

even the loneliness
feels lonely
trapped inside itself

she reaches out
to touch the image
the mirror offers her

a self
made of glass
she her own - stranger

she watches her hand
pass through
the mirror's surface

"I'm the Lady of Shallot!"
she thought of...to...her  self
"...the poem made real..."

pills scatter
across a ***** floor
the mirror eating her
She had tried to **** herself many times....she called herself a "failed suicide-ist" and this was one of the times she lived to tell the tale. Alas there would come a time when she succeeded. She said that the feeling would overcome her rather than a clear decision....that the feeling made the decision for her... the world would shrink down to a nothingness and that in this great darkness...death was the only door and that she was so grateful that it opened for her. She was always so angry with the people who saved her.


***


The Lady of Shalott (1832)

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

Part I

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
       To many-tower'd Camelot;
The yellow-leaved waterlily
The green-sheathed daffodilly
Tremble in the water chilly
       Round about Shalott.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2022
HALF SICK WITH SHADOWS

The Lady of Shallot
sat on my sofa and sobbed

begging me for
poetical asylum

despite Patel's crackdown
on poetry refugees.

I made her a nice
cup of Earl Grey tea

slice of lemon
no sugar.

I enquired of her
"But why me?"

"You have loved me
all your life

letting me live
inside your head

free to roam
around your mind

any old time
no questions asked.

I thought of you as
you thought of me.

We are of one mind now
...are we not?"

She explained her name was Elaine
and had been a time traveller and that

when her 'mirror' cracked
(as she called her machine)

Tennyson trapped her
in that poem of his

words to the left of her
words to the right of her

into the volume
of his verse

she found herself
all of a sudden.

God how she hated
dead Victorian poets.

And it was all a pack of lies
and Lance a Lot was a ****.

She had constantly turned down
his incessant facebook friend requests.

And as for facebook
that was just a big yuk.

Oh and she hated shallots
( and green onions )

although she thought
Booker T. and the MG's

groovy and such fun
to dance to.

"Tennyson was so morose
and such a class 1 bore."

But now she had broken free
and had come to me.

No more teens mad at  me
for having to learn me off by heart.

I fixed her 'mirror.
It was only cracked.

She could have escaped
at any time but I hadn't

the heart
to tell her that.

Fixed her up with a new
facebook page LoS777.

And in a twinkling she
had vanished into where ever?

"I'll leave a door open
always in my mind!"

I shouted to the shadows
and the nothingness.

The willows whitened.
The aspens quivered.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2021
HALF SICK WITH SHADOWS



The Lady of Shallot
sat on my sofa and sobbed

begging me for
poetical asylum

despite Patel's crackdown
on poetry refugees.

I made her a nice
cup of Earl Grey tea

slice of lemon
no sugar.

I enquired of her
"But why me?"

"You have loved me
all your life

letting me live
inside your head

free to roam
around your mind

any old time
no questions asked.

I thought of you as
you thought of me.

We are of one mind now
...are we not?"

She explained her name was Elaine
and had been a time traveller and that

when her 'mirror' cracked
(as she called her machine)

Tennyson trapped her
in that poem of his

words to the left of her
words to the right of her

into the volume
of his verse

she found herself
all of a sudden.

God how she hated
dead Victorian poets.

And it was all a pack of lies
and Lance a Lot was a ****.

She had constantly turned down
his incessant facebook friend requests.

And as for facebook
that was just a big yuk.

Oh and she hated shallots
( and green onions )

although she thought
Booker T. and the MG's

groovy and such fun
to dance to.

"Tennyson was so morose
and such a class 1 bore."

But now she had broken free
and had come to me.

No more teens made at me
for having to learn me off by heart.

I fixed her 'mirror.
It was only cracked.

She could have escaped
at any time but I hadn't

the heart
to tell her that.

Fixed her up with a new
facebook page LoS777.

And in a twinkling she
had vanished into where ever?

"I'll leave a door open
always in my mind!"

I shouted to the shadows
and the nothingness.

The willows whitened.
The aspens quivered.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2020
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2024
HALF SICK WITH SHADOWS

The Lady of Shallot
sat on my sofa and sobbed

begging me for
poetical asylum

despite Patel's crackdown
on poetry refugees.

I made her a nice
cup of Earl Grey tea

slice of lemon
no sugar.

I enquired of her
"But why me?"

"You have loved me
all your life

letting me live
inside your head

free to roam
around your mind

any old time
no questions asked.

I thought of you as
you thought of me.

We are of one mind now
...are we not?"

She explained her name was Elaine
and had been a time traveller and that

when her 'mirror' cracked
(as she called her machine)

Tennyson trapped her
in that poem of his

words to the left of her
words to the right of her

into the volume
of his verse

she found herself
all of a sudden.

God how she hated
dead Victorian poets.

And it was all a pack of lies
and Lance a Lot was a ****.

She had constantly turned down
his incessant facebook friend requests.

And as for facebook
that was just a big yuk.

Oh and she hated shallots
( and green onions )

although she thought
Booker T. and the MG's

groovy and such fun
to dance to.

"Tennyson was so morose
and such a class 1 bore."

But now she had broken free
and had come to me.

No more teens mad at me
for having to learn me off by heart.

I fixed her 'mirror.
It was only cracked.

She could have escaped
at any time but I hadn't

the heart
to tell her that.

Fixed her up with a new
facebook page LoS777.

And in a twinkling she
had vanished into where ever?

"I'll leave a door open
always in my mind!"

I shouted to the shadows
and the nothingness.

The willows whitened.
The aspens quivered.
Qualyxian Quest Nov 2020
Some unusual things have happened
But I yearn for ordinary

Not for me meant to be
O! Mother Mary!

Tennyson's idle tears
The Lady of Shallot

When you have a tan
What is it you've got?

          Not a lot.

— The End —