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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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Written by Edward Field | Create an image from this poem


 The monster has escaped from the dungeon
where he was kept by the Baron,
who made him with knobs sticking out from each side of his neck
where the head was attached to the body
and stitching all over
where parts of cadavers were sewed together.
He is pursued by the ignorant villagers, who think he is evil and dangerous because he is ugly and makes ugly noises.
They wave firebrands at him and cudgels and rakes, but he escapes and comes to the thatched cottage of an old blind man playing on the violin Mendelssohn's "Spring Song.
" Hearing him approach, the blind man welcomes him: "Come in, my friend," and takes him by the arm.
"You must be weary," and sits him down inside the house.
For the blind man has long dreamed of having a friend to share his lonely life.
The monster has never known kindness ‹ the Baron was cruel -- but somehow he is able to accept it now, and he really has no instincts to harm the old man, for in spite of his awful looks he has a tender heart: Who knows what cadaver that part of him came from? The old man seats him at table, offers him bread, and says, "Eat, my friend.
" The monster rears back roaring in terror.
"No, my friend, it is good.
Eat -- gooood" and the old man shows him how to eat, and reassured, the monster eats and says, "Eat -- gooood," trying out the words and finding them good too.
The old man offers him a glass of wine, "Drink, my friend.
Drink -- gooood.
" The monster drinks, slurping horribly, and says, "Drink -- gooood," in his deep nutty voice and smiles maybe for the first time in his life.
Then the blind man puts a cigar in the monster's mouth and lights a large wooden match that flares up in his face.
The monster, remembering the torches of the villagers, recoils, grunting in terror.
"No, my friend, smoke -- gooood," and the old man demonstrates with his own cigar.
The monster takes a tentative puff and smiles hugely, saying, "Smoke -- gooood," and sits back like a banker, grunting and puffing.
Now the old man plays Mendelssohn's "Spring Song" on the violin while tears come into our dear monster s eyes as he thinks of the stones of the mob the pleasures of meal-time, the magic new words he has learned and above all of the friend he has found.
It is just as well that he is unaware -- being simple enough to believe only in the present -- that the mob will find him and pursue him for the rest of his short unnatural life, until trapped at the whirlpool's edge he plunges to his death.

Written by Edward Field | Create an image from this poem

The Bride of Frankenstein

 The Baron has decided to mate the monster,
to breed him perhaps,
in the interests of pure science, his only god.
So he goes up into his laboratory which he has built in the tower of the castle to be as near the interplanetary forces as possible, and puts together the prettiest monster-woman you ever saw with a body like a pin-up girl and hardly any stitching at all where he sewed on the head of a raped and murdered beauty queen.
He sets his liquids burping, and coils blinking and buzzing, and waits for an electric storm to send through the equipment the spark vital for life.
The storm breaks over the castle and the equipment really goes crazy like a kitchen full of modern appliances as the lightning juice starts oozing right into that pretty corpse.
He goes to get the monster so he will be right there when she opens her eyes, for she might fall in love with the first thing she sees as ducklings do.
That monster is already straining at his chains and slurping, ready to go right to it: He has been well prepared for coupling by his pinching leering keeper who's been saying for weeks, "Ya gonna get a little nookie, kid," or "How do you go for some poontang, baby?" All the evil in him is focused on this one thing now as he is led into her very presence.
She awakens slowly, she bats her eyes, she gets up out of the equipment, and finally she stands in all her seamed glory, a monster princess with a hairdo like a fright wig, lightning flashing in the background like a halo and a wedding veil, like a photographer snapping pictures of great moments.
She stands and stares with her electric eyes, beginning to understand that in this life too she was just another body to be raped.
The monster is ready to go: He roars with joy at the sight of her, so they let him loose and he goes right for those knockers.
And she starts screaming to break your heart and you realize that she was just born: In spite of her big **** she was just a baby.
But her instincts are right -- rather death than that green slobber: She jumps off the parapet.
And then the monster's sex drive goes wild.
Thwarted, it turns to violence, demonstrating sublimation crudely; and he wrecks the lab, those burping acids and buzzing coils, overturning the control panel so the equipment goes off like a bomb, and the stone castle crumbles and crashes in the storm destroying them all .
Perhaps somehow the Baron got out of that wreckage of his dreams with his evil intact, if not his good looks, and more wicked than ever went on with his thrilling career.
And perhaps even the monster lived to roam the earth, his desire still ungratified; and lovers out walking in shadowy and deserted places will see his shape loom up over them, their doom -- and children sleeping in their beds will wake up in the dark night screaming as his hideous body grabs them.
Written by Edward Field | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by Edward Field | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by Edward Field | Create an image from this poem


 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.

Written by Edward Field | Create an image from this poem

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.

Book: Shattered Sighs