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A New Year, a new challenge (2 Viewers)

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Olly Buckle

Here it is, fresh from our new laureate, Lady S.

You are most graciously requested to write a poem on the subject of "Fashion"

You may, of course, approach it from any angle you wish (Within the rules of the forum)

The very best of luck to you all, please post your entries here.

Comments on the poems are welcome in the polling thread when we close, other comments in the "Bard's bistro" please.

Edit. we allow two weeks for entries, thread closes Jan 20th, poems should be original for the challenge and not amended after posting
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Celeste Barwick

Senior Member
Fashion Victim

Embellished, the face of fashion is,
with an illusory smirk and mocking.
Its eyes, like alien gems,
impeccably placed over porcelain cheeks
and pearly strands of teeth.
Curled, waved, and colored heads
propped aloofly aloft
feathery wisps of women,
promenading through popular culture:
Draped, pintucked, pleated, smocked.
Its glassy eyes and seductive sneer,
snared with a lense in perfect light,
then caged between glossy pages.
The glint of its shiny lips -
smashed between fragrant, thin paper;
Caught behind the printed bars
of beauty tips.
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Lady S

Freedom Writer
Senior Member
Versace Dreams

Creation takes a crafted walk

from runway lights
to a Venice boulevard;
Versace dreams and soft ice cream,
in the scheme of things, seem
to draw her mind down side alleys.

Through rose pink lace,
which fails to hide
a face designed to grace
the cover of a magazine,
the drunk sleeps in the doorway,
barely seen.

Those track marks on the arm
of a girl with little charm
will cause Creation no concern,
there’s nothing she can learn

from such a plight.

Better the whirl of the socialite world
and Versace veils - to make her believe
she’s better than those living
on the streets.

Hopefuls pulled into the glare,

where Creation helps to feed the dream,
around them whispers of despair,
pretending that they cannot hear;
follow LA dreams into the next bar room -

where all the stars are waiters.



Staff member
Fashion Comes Full Circle

A budding fashionista
at the tender age of six,
she catwalks all her dollies
down the broken, front porch bricks.
Much too young to question
why her chunky, baby thighs,
sure don’t look like Barbie’s
to her solemn little eyes.

A full-fledged fat-shun-ista,
and she’s barely turning twelve,
her self esteem as fragile
as the fairies on her shelves.
She voraciously devours
every Glamour, Vogue and Zink,
while slipping mum’s spaghetti,
on the sly, into the sink.

A trendy fad-shionista
by the time she’s seventeen,
one must be seen as different,
yet, be cookie cutter lean.
Each look should be consistent
with the latest uniform,
and still seem to be out there,
far beyond the norm.

Who knows what she will be
by the time she’s twenty four,
but if wisdom comes with age,
she may finally meet Dior.




Glass of cider in her hand –
she took short sips and showed
a wide-eyed smile to welcome all
who glanced her way.

____Maelstrom of colour -

the African shirt she wore
to simulate her summer dress,
concealing nothing
of those endless legs.

“I’m doing ethnic now,” she said.
“Just call me Africa

____and don’t give me no dread.”

She laughed and blew a kiss my way.
I smiled but couldn’t think
of something cool to say.

In designer clothes,
with well heeled friends,
she stood and stared across
the quayside at the rain swept sea;
hardly noticed me as I approached
beside the harbour wall.

____“Where’s Africa today?” I asked.

She laughed and took a sip
of iced champagne.
“Africa died yesterday when world leaders
decided she must now find her own way.
Her poverty is not their fault, they say;
now I have to live the way they lead -
leave someone else to grieve
and feel the passion.

____I simply have to follow
____today’s fashion.”…

Chesters Daughter

Staff member
Global Moderator
Off the Rack Rebel

Fashion takes a bashin'
each time I enter a room
bedecked in emo ebony
such très chic gloom and doom.

A belt adorned with studs
duly dresses up my duds
tight tee and skinny jeans
locks the color of green beans.

My critics shake their heads
for I adore looking dead,
the only glint of light
from piercings left and right.

I am an anti-model
who simply will not coddle
to Seventh Avenue fads
created by anal cads.

Yep, fashion takes a bashin'
each time I enter a room,
but at least I'm not a slave
to what's hottest off the loom.
I like writing the occassional poem so gave this contest a go :)

The Fashion Crusade

From their altars,
And with their Holy Books,
Stand the Fashion Police,
Preaching about good looks.

You shall not buy that,
You shall not wear that,
You shall not have that hair.
You shall not shop there.

The crowd stands up,
A great uproar of devotion,
Applause in every direction,
And a swelling of angry emotion.

How dare they not buy what we buy,
How dare they not dress like us,
How dare they not have our hair,
How dare they not shop where we shop.

The exalted leader asks for quiet,
The room is filled with silence,
Not a whisper is uttered,
Not a word of defiance.

The shepherd survey’s his flock,
His mouth becomes open,
The walls echo with vibration,
The stillness is broken.

When they buy what they buy,
We shall mock them.
When they dress like they dress,
We shall abhor them.

When they have their hair,
We shall shave them.
When they shop in their shops,
We shall disown them.

Their orders had been spoken,
Their master had finished his tirade,
And as sheep they marched,
To launch a fashion crusade.
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WF Veterans

The beast is on the prowl,
creeping subtly towards its prey.
Eyes flashing with its hunger,
tasting the humiliation of the day.

Pink with blue, and repeated grins of white,
perhaps the downright dull beige,
or the draping rags of effort –
as green as a vulture’s rage.

I can already smell the ink
that’ll have her drown in tears;
show the benefits of recycling
to her bathroom sink; her fears.

How easy to fall her foundation!
So simple to press down, to spill
her dignity, respect, built knowingly
on her stiletto’s broken heel.

Now I sit alone, legacy in hand
and watch the latest star with a smirk;
notice the gleam of hope in the child’s bright eyes...
Looks like it’s time for work.

Olly Buckle

And learn to fashion.

There had always been a cobble, an edge,
Even before doing mixed with saying,
Five heavy hits along a hand held wedge.
Then, with saying came thinking and playing,
A grammar, an order for expression.
The natural shapes of leaf, prey and man,
Fresh seen, a conceptual digression
A leaf tip hanging drop, the curve of hand.
Hitting became knapping, finely flaking
The clues remain about the place somewhere
Discarded chips, flying from the making
Show I was handed by their arc across, there
I sat by Stone Age hearth to fashion
The objects used for death and passion.


WF Veterans
Training Pants

Innocence wrapped in innocence,
attracted to the pretty,
the glitter,
the high walk in beautiful shoes,
wide blue eyes multiplied inside the cuts
and facets of a diamond necklace.

Skin belongs against satin,
mirrors for the pose
smoky eyes
enhanced with rainbow shadows,
let slip the soul.
Carefully fashioned inside the lines,
lips, glossed in red, encased a smile
and formed such dangerous words
when Tommy said,

“Look Mommy and Daddy, I’m Barbie.”


Senior Member
All That Glitters

The tornadic thought of the age-
so fleeting yet firm,
insistent in conforming all to the common pattern of destruction
and gone in a moment.

Heed the demanding trendy cries,
though needy hearts may languish.
The energies of life thus are diverted from lasting profit
and leak away.


Olly Buckle

Time to close the thread and open a voting thread folks, some great poems here. let's have your comments in the voting thread I am about to open please.
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