Poems and Shorts

I found some quite adult and more complex interpretations of the original fairytales and they're quite horrific at times.

Little Red-Cap

At childhood’s end, the houses petered out
into playing fields, the factory, allotments
kept, like mistresses, by kneeling married men, 
the silent railway line, the hermit’s caravan, 
till you came at last to the edge of the woods. 
It was there that I first clapped eyes on the wolf. 

He stood in a clearing, reading his verse out loud 
in his wolfy drawl, a paperback in his hairy paw, 
red wine staining his bearded jaw. What big ears
he had! What big eyes he had! What teeth!
In the interval, I made quite sure he spotted me, 
sweet sixteen, never been, babe, waif, and bought me a drink, 

my first. You might ask why. Here’s why. Poetry.
The wolf, I knew, would lead me deep into the woods,
away from home, to a dark tangled thorny place
lit by the eyes of owls. I crawled in his wake,
my stockings ripped to shreds, scraps of red from my blazer
snagged on twig and branch, murder clues. I lost both shoes

but got there, wolf’s lair, better beware. Lesson one that night, 
breath of the wolf in my ear, was the love poem.
I clung till dawn to his thrashing fur, for
what little girl doesn’t dearly love a wolf?1
Then I slid from between his heavy matted paws
and went in search of a living bird – white dove –

which flew, straight, from my hands to his hope mouth.
One bite, dead. How nice, breakfast in bed, he said,
licking his chops. As soon as he slept, I crept to the back
of the lair, where a whole wall was crimson, gold, aglow with books.
Words, words were truly alive on the tongue, in the head,
warm, beating, frantic, winged; music and blood.

But then I was young – and it took ten years 
in the woods to tell that a mushroom
stoppers the mouth of a buried corpse, that birds
are the uttered thought of trees, that a greying wolf
howls the same old song at the moon, year in, year out,
season after season, same rhyme, same reason. I took an axe

to a willow to see how it wept. I took an axe to a salmon
to see how it leapt. I took an axe to the wolf
as he slept, one chop, scrotum to throat, and saw 
the glistening, virgin white of my grandmother’s bones.
I filled his old belly with stones. I stitched him up.
Out of the forest I come with my flowers, singing, all alone. 

Carol Ann Duffy 1999

The Little Mermaid

by Anne Widdowson

The Little Mermaid began to chop
Her shimmering tail in two,
And squirmed beneath the axe’s head.
Blood spread across the clammy flesh,
Wet tissue sprayed about her chest,
As she maimed the sticky limb.

The cleft drooled, alien matter,
Not only to us; the girl was sickened
By the mutant fin, felt hatred
For her mongrel blood.
But time for alterations and tweaks,
To correct this monstrous flaw.

She grasped the fragile nerves and snapped;
Scales scattered where the water lapped
Her stinking slab of meat.
Scraps of sinew licked her wrists,
Slimy, hot beneath her frenzied touch,
Her shaking, grisly hands.

The child admired her work, unfazed
By the carnage, the carcass, the sight,
Hefting the chunks like a cripple might.
The pieces oozed and bulged,
Her figure, in her eyes, much improved
Compared to that dreadful tail.

With a sigh of respite and release,
She regarded the newly botched legs
And smiled. Fillets replaced the fin she had,
Hardly equipped to walk on land.
What a pity she’d never stand
On her two new stumps.