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Monday, March 19, 2012

Little Red Riding Hood

Little Red Riding Hood by northwoodsluna
Little Red Riding Hood, a photo by northwoodsluna on Flickr.
Little Red Riding Hood, a sketch done to be collaged into a journal for the Circle Jerks round robin, colored with Prisma pencils and marker I love darker versions of fairy tales. I have not decided which of the following 3 poems I will use for the journal spread, Perhaps all 3. I'm pleased with the way she came out.

Red Riding Hood had a pretty good time with the wolf

by KarenDaly

Because maidens


Like celluloid,

They fitted


With a






My own

Inner blaze.

And yet

We reciprocate

Like conversation,

Tongues embracing


And appetites


Private riot.

My forest-dog,

My liege,

My gentleman

King Kong

Lights up


Amazon boudoir

(Two women


Same night!)

He hushes

My manners,

Uncapes me


A God's

Hairy hand,


As sex


As sweet

As darlings


And thumbling

In ears

The remembrance


What ever


He perished

In my

Second birthing,

In my


Of the

Purest heresy


Blood and guts.


I keep

My strangers


But sometimes


The moon

Looks like

A man

In a dress


The Coup de Grace
by Edward Rowland Sill

Just at that moment the Wolf,
Shag jaws and slavering grin,
Steps from the property wood.
O, what a gorge, what a gulf
Opens to gobble her in,
Little Red Riding Hood!

O, what a face full of fangs!
Eyes like saucers at least
Roll to seduce and beguile.
Miss, with her dimples and bangs,
Thinks him a handsome beast;
Flashes the Riding Hood Smile;

Stands her ground like a queen,
Velvet red of the rose
Framing each little milk-tooth,
Pink tongue peeping between.
Then, wider than anyone knows,
Opens her minikin mouth,

Swallows up Wolf in a trice;
Tail going down gives a flick,
Caught as she closes her jaws.
Bows, all sugar and spice.
O, what a lady-like trick!
O, what a round of applause!

from An American Anthology, 1787–1900 (1900).

The Wolf's Postcript to 'Little Red Riding Hood'
by Agha Shahid Ali

First, grant me my sense of history:
I did it for posterity,
for kindergarten teachers
and a clear moral:
Little girls shouldn't wander off
in search of strange flowers,
and they mustn't speak to strangers.

And then grant me my generous sense of plot:
Couldn't I have gobbled her up
right there in the jungle?
Why did I ask her where her grandma lived?
As if I, a forest-dweller,
didn't know of the cottage
under the three oak trees
and the old woman lived there
all alone?
As if I couldn't have swallowed her years before?

And you may call me the Big Bad Wolf,
now my only reputation.
But I was no child-molester
though you'll agree she was pretty.

And the huntsman:
Was I sleeping while he snipped
my thick black fur
and filled me with garbage and stones?
I ran with that weight and fell down,
simply so children could laugh
at the noise of the stones
cutting through my belly,
at the garbage spilling out
with a perfect sense of timing,
just when the tale
should have come to an end.


Life is good!

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