Anna Wickham

(1884-1947 / England)

The Fired Pot - Poem by Anna Wickham

In our town, people live in rows.
The only irregular thing in a street is the steeple;
And where that points to, God only knows,
And not the poor disciplined people!

And I have watched the women growing old,
Passionate about pins, and pence, and soap,
Till the heart within my wedded breast grew cold,
And I lost hope.

But a young soldier came to our town,
He spoke his mind most candidly.
He asked me quickly to lie down,
And that was very good for me.

For though I gave him no embrace —
Remembering my duty —
He altered the expression of my face,
And gave me back my beauty.

Topic(s) of this poem: lust


Comments about The Fired Pot by Anna Wickham

  • Kelly Kurt (4/4/2015 3:38:00 AM)


    A very lovely poem, Anna. Thanks (Report) Reply

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • (4/4/2015 3:23:00 AM)


    Clever, beautiful and intriguing. (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, April 4, 2015



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