One Poem by Stephen Kingsnorth

Written in response to this month’s Special Challenge.


The high-cheek blush took subtle brush,
why broken eye-brow, crimson mouth,
and eye detail, mascara, lash?

Where thin skin bone and lips draw back,
by coloured face around the bridge,
is she in treatment, staging best?

The channel cut in hair of arch
reminds me of some slaver’s mark,
is painted girl possessed by pimp?

And what of staining round the tip,
is it on nose or on my screen –
is this stored model, star of film?

Did she enjoy bathe, focussed light,
but what beyond her, unclear sight?
An empty glass, near certainty?

Why all these questions, mannequin?
Posed by art, poet, drama, book,
unless I wonder, I am dead.

As vital, eroteme, as facts,
thus why our mindful sleuthing counts,
to gauge our own experience.


Stephen Kingsnorth, retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had pieces accepted by Nine Muses Poetry; Voices Poetry; Eunoia Review; Runcible Spoon; Ink Sweat and Tears; The Poetry Village; The Seventh Quarry; Gold Dust; From the Edge and Allegro Poetry Magazines.

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