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Best Famous Edward Field Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Edward Field poems. This is a select list of the best famous Edward Field poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Edward Field poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Edward Field poems.

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by Edward Field | |

The Farewell

 They say the ice will hold
so there I go,
forced to believe them by my act of trusting people,
stepping out on it,

and naturally it gaps open
and I, forced to carry on coolly
by my act of being imperturbable,
slide erectly into the water wearing my captain's helmet,
waving to the shore with a sad smile,
"Goodbye my darlings, goodbye dear one,"
as the ice meets again over my head with a click.


by Edward Field | |

Unwanted

 The poster with my picture on it
Is hanging on the bulletin board in the Post Office.
I stand by it hoping to be recognized Posing first full face and then profile But everybody passes by and I have to admit The photograph was taken some years ago.
I was unwanted then and I'm unwanted now Ah guess ah'll go up echo mountain and crah.
I wish someone would find my fingerprints somewhere Maybe on a corpse and say, You're it.
Description: Male, or reasonably so White, but not lily-white and usually deep-red Thirty-fivish, and looks it lately Five-feet-nine and one-hundred-thirty pounds: no physique Black hair going gray, hairline receding fast What used to be curly, now fuzzy Brown eyes starey under beetling brow Mole on chin, probably will become a wen It is perfectly obvious that he was not popular at school No good at baseball, and wet his bed.
His aliases tell his history: Dumbell, Good-for-nothing, Jewboy, Fieldinsky, Skinny, Fierce Face, Greaseball, Sissy.
Warning: This man is not dangerous, answers to any name Responds to love, don't call him or he will come.


by Edward Field | |

Curse of the Cat Woman

 It sometimes happens
that the woman you meet and fall in love with
is of that strange Transylvanian people
with an affinity for cats.
You take her to a restuarant, say, or a show, on an ordinary date, being attracted by the glitter in her slitty eyes and her catlike walk, and afterwards of course you take her in your arms and she turns into a black panther and bites you to death.
Or perhaps you are saved in the nick of time and she is tormented by the knowledge of her tendency: That she daren't hug a man unless she wants to risk clawing him up.
This puts you both in a difficult position-- panting lovers who are prevented from touching not by bars but by circumstance: You have terrible fights and say cruel things for having the hots does not give you a sweet temper.
One night you are walking down a dark street And hear the pad-pad of a panther following you, but when you turn around there are only shadows, or perhaps one shadow too many.
You approach, calling, "Who's there?" and it leaps on you.
Luckily you have brought along your sword and you stab it to death.
And before your eyes it turns into the woman you love, her breast impaled on your sword, her mouth dribbling blood saying she loved you but couldn't help her tendency.
So death released her from the curse at last, and you knew from the angelic smile on her dead face that in spite of a life the devil owned, love had won, and heaven pardoned her.


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by Edward Field | |

The Return of Frankenstein

 He didn't die in the whirlpool by the mill
where he had fallen in after a wild chase
by all the people of the town.
Somehow he clung to an overhanging rock until the villagers went away.
And when he came out, he was changed forever, that soft heart of his had hardened and he really was a monster now.
He was out to pay them back, to throw the lie of brotherly love in their white Christian teeth.
Wasn't his flesh human flesh even made from the bodies of criminals, the worst the Baron could find? But love is not necessarily implicit in human flesh: Their hatred was now his hatred, so he set out on his new career his previous one being the victim, the good man who suffers.
Now no longer the hunted but the hunter he was in charge of his destiny and knew how to be cold and clever, preserving barely a spark of memory for the old blind musician who once took him in and offered brotherhood.
His idea -- if his career now had an idea -- was to kill them all, keep them in terror anyway, let them feel hunted.
Then perhaps they would look at others with a little pity and love.
Only a suffering people have any virtue.