Treasure Island

Muriel Stuart

(1889-1967 / England)

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The Seed-Shop


Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -
........................
........................
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Comments about this poem (The Seed-Shop by Muriel Stuart )

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  • * Sunprincess * (5/30/2014 7:25:00 PM)

    ............so beautifully she penned the seed-shop....what is and what shall or can be....seeds are the dreams of tomorrow.... (Report) Reply

  • Carlos Echeverria (9/13/2012 6:32:00 PM)

    Mr. Straw, resorting to insults only serves to embarrass you more than your ill-conceived concept of poetry. You're on the verge of becoming a philistine, unless... (Report) Reply

  • Carlos Echeverria (9/13/2012 6:25:00 PM)

    Mr. Straw, resorting to insults only serves to embarrass you even more than your ill-conceived concept of poetry. (Report) Reply

  • Carlos Echeverria (9/13/2012 6:12:00 PM)

    Mr. Straw, resorting to insults only embarrasses you more than your ill-conceived concept of poetry does. (Report) Reply

  • Carlos Echeverria (9/13/2012 3:24:00 PM)

    Forlorn = forsaken...FORLORN AS ASHES rings true...SHRIVELLED, SENSELESS, DRY-really drives the point home. (Report) Reply

  • Kevin Straw (9/13/2012 11:14:00 AM)

    This is rather beautiful
    But Forlorn as ashes is wrong - ashes do not come alive!
    And simple house of death is wrong - a seed is a house of life! (Report) Reply

  • Chitalu Taizya Simbeya (9/13/2012 7:25:00 AM)

    Beutiful peom cant stop reading....post more Muriel Stuart



    Thoughts Of The Moment



    I thirst for you in good times and bad
    Give you all the kisses my lover hungers
    And yet you feels nothing

    Every touch, accompanied by a kiss
    I know you know i want you
    But its still a bliss
    Full of Temptations

    When i have sucked all the juices out of you
    You careless if i pick on someone else
    i guess this love is one sided
    And a bunch of empty silent promises

    If money is the root of all evil
    Then you are the sterm
    And when we lean on you
    You break us down

    Though I have an option
    You have enslaved me
    One day I will leave
    But the Day is indefinite


    Chitalu Taizya simbeya (Report) Reply

  • Stevie Taite (9/13/2012 1:40:00 AM)

    I think the life/ death conflict is quite deliberate and there is more to this part of that Stanza than the words day. A wonderful seed of a poem that flowered into a great poem! (Report) Reply

  • Ian Fraser (9/16/2011 9:58:00 PM)

    It's a great idea, ideal for poetry but I don't think Ms Smart made the best of it. She didn't seem to be able to decide between two conflicting ideas 1. the seed as the progenitor of all life 2. the seed trapped in its deady prison within the store condemned to futility. (Report) Reply

  • Ramesh T A (9/13/2010 2:26:00 AM)

    A store room with old stock of grocery items said in literary style is interesting to read! (Report) Reply

  • Norma Southwood (4/17/2010 10:30:00 PM)

    Death that shall quicken at the call of Spring,
    sleepers to stir beneath June's magic kiss,
    though birds pass over, unremembering,
    and no bee seeks here roses that were his.

    (This verse is missing from the Poemhunter.com version, sadly.) (Report) Reply

  • Mimi Mata (9/13/2008 10:16:00 PM)

    Muriel,
    Hello, your eclectic style and honest imagery make others understand a deeper sense of life that humanitizes the human heart and soul...I am a new member here on this site and I would love to share a poem I wrote with a soul that I know would comprehend the mysteries and complexities if life.

    The Sweetest Grapes (By Mimi C Mata)

    Hello there,
    In your armor of dark,
    Did you come because I spilled my wine?
    Or is it my eyes you love,
    How they flickered the fire,
    You knew and adored?
    Yet maybe,
    Just maybe, in this lonely hour,
    You can hold your minions,
    That tortured my dreams,
    How my soul evaded like smoke,
    In the eyes of all that I spoke to...
    Sanity in a chalice,
    Will become spilled wine,
    'Or so you say'
    And insanity will taste,
    Like the sweetest grapes in spring.
    And to my dissipated knowledge,
    I will make a pledge...
    For God to save me,
    For God to save me...
    I ask,
    Will you search through my glass heart?
    Estranged and stained,
    That I believed in justice,
    Despite my wars?
    That I welcomed love,
    Although I suffered within the hands,
    Of all I knew to believe...
    Loved me?
    Did they love me,
    In ways of love,
    Or of that of the grotesque?
    Either way,
    I believe it was just the melancholy passing of sadness,
    Like that of a dying petal
    That my soul suffered from...
    And the snake licking my dead thorns,
    Did not bother me,
    Because I am human...
    Now what am I?
    Another evil or of that of God?
    Will the wings that you offer me,
    Smell of coal and turn to ash?
    For the sweetest grapes
    That the devil drank...
    Tasted bitter.

    Mimi Mata (Report) Reply

  • Connie Young (6/14/2008 3:18:00 PM)

    I think this poem is missing a verse. I have a copy that has a second stanza between the first and 'second' stanzas listed in this copy. Whose is correct? (Report) Reply

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