Poems by Tony Dawson

Notre Dame

I think it was Quasimodo I saw, just a hunch.
His face certainly rang a bell,
which is why he was sometimes in pain.
His left eye was half-closed.

His face certainly rang a bell,
and he was always hanging around.
His left eye was half-closed.
He was desperately in love

and he was always hanging around,
gazing at Esmeralda.
He was desperately in love.
He also loathed the priest, Frollo,

gazing at Esmeralda,
which is why he was sometimes in pain.
He also loathed the priest, Frollo.
I think it was Quasimodo I saw, just a hunch.

An Orthodontist Woos His Girlfriend

Your man’s in awe of the midsagittal plane
of your exemplary symphysis. What a menton!
Who peers into your external auditory meatus? Your swain!
While obviously it’s your porion that I’m bent on,
your mandibular condyle puts all others in the shade,
and your anterior nasal spine is the finest ever made.
Your coronoid process leaves others in its wake,
and your nasion I worship for its very own sake.
With such bony-structured concepts to comprehend,
I feel I need some notional forceps that will bend
your skull’s deep-hidden secrets to my will,
that I might understand that life-enhancing thrill
I experience when I see the toothy wonders of your smile,
which outshines all others by at least a country mile!