Tag: breasts

Page Three by Mab Jones


By admin

(inspired by seeing a ‘page three’ topless model on a piece of newspaper floating next to a river)

Yesterday when out walking
I saw a pair of tits.

This is not a double entendre.

Yes, whilst out walking yesterday
a couple of tits flew by.
Not the blue or bearded kind

but the pink and perkily nippled.

Two tits flitting
about near the river.

Two snapped paps
flapping wings
in the wind.

They landed and I took a photo
of the photo. I wondered,
would they sing?

But the tits of course
were voiceless, the girl who
owned them nameless, the body
they belonged to headless
thanks to a papery crease.

Not that that mattered, of course.

Despite their lack of identity
the tits seemed happy, excited.
Their look was up-for-it
and very, very playful.

But soon they flew up from the grass
and continued on their journey,
wild and strong and free,

so glad they weren’t wrapping
fish and chips, or some other

menial task.

Mab Jones has read her work all over the UK, in the US, Japan, France, and Ireland, and on BBC Radio 4. She runs International Dylan Thomas Day, writes for the New York Times, and recently won the Geoff Stevens Memorial Poetry Prize.

 

The Bra by Mab Jones


By admin

The bra was invented
In two places
Simultaneously.
By Herminie Cadolle in France
And Mary Jacob in America.
Both sprang up in
The two countries
Almost instantaneously.
Twin buds of an idea,
Fleshed out and
Eventually ripening.
But no-one really knows
Who is the true
Discoverer.
Though one of them,
Like the things they cup,
Is bigger
Than the otherer.

(Originally published in Poor Queen, Burning Eye Books, 2014)

Mab Jones has read her work all over the UK, in the US, Japan, France, and Ireland, and on BBC Radio 4. She runs International Dylan Thomas Day, writes for the New York Times, and recently won the Geoff Stevens Memorial Poetry Prize.

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Bravissima by Sherri Turner


By admin

I’ve never been blessed
with a bountiful chest
so to offer some zest
to my pitiful breast
today I got dressed
in a garment that pressed
on each fleshy crest
till they both pointed west.
It made a nice nest
on which someone could rest
but I still worried lest
the result of my quest
was an increase in jest
when I sadly confessed.

So I gave up the test
and went back to my vest.

Sherri Turner lives in Surrey. She has had numerous short stories published in women’s magazines and has won prizes for both poetry and short stories. She likes to write silly poems when she feels in danger of forgetting that this is supposed to be fun.

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