Polly

Writings and Witterings


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Bones Under A Bridge

Tiny pile of bones
under a bridge
you were found out;
talked to the hawk,
or a murder of crows.
Maybe your first love,
the one that found you
in flagrante
set you up,
or perhaps the second
who had the pleasure
of hearing your infidelity;
selfish, you will be alone.
The bridge didn’t help.
We will celebrate
bones ‘neath the bridge.
No one cares.

Polly Robinson © 2015


1 Comment

Flash Fiction Competition 2015

Polly:

The Fifth Flash Fiction competition is open – give it a go – open to all!

Originally posted on Worcestershire LitFest & Fringe:

  • The 2015 WLF&F Flash Fiction Competition is now open
  • Closing Date Friday 24 April 2015
  • Send us your flash fiction maximum 300 words
  • Up to three submissions
  • Entry fee: £4 per story or £10 for three
  • For rules see below
  •  Judges: Calum Kerr and Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

The Flash Fiction Winners will be announced at the Festival Launch event Friday 12 June 2015

There will be a celebratory launch of the 2015 anthology later in the year

With thanks to our sponsors for 2015:

Simply Lets logo 4 web

We’re looking for Flash Fiction of fewer than 300 words to be submitted to us before 24 April 2015.

Competition now open. Payment details below.

Competition Rules

  1. Closing date is 24 April 2015.
  2. The maximum word limit is 300, not including the title (no minimum).
  3. You may send up to three entries.
  4. Submitted pieces must not have been published or performed elsewhere, must be the entrant’s…

View original 633 more words


20 Comments

A Fine Disregard

Written early in 2013…perhaps I had an inkling…

A Fine Disregard for Awkward Facts

He has a true dislike
of anything uncomfortable;
will go to any length
to avoid,
to hide,
to circumnavigate the prickly
pear of confrontation.

When it comes to facts,
indisputable facts,
that he dislikes
he manages to ignore them completely,
utterly.
There are none so blind
as those who will not see.

Polly Robinson © 2013


6 Comments

Hare, Fox, and Owl

A hare a fox and an owl
met at the crossroads,
‘Come,’ said the fox, ‘show
me where we must hide
from the hunter.’
‘Oh,’ said the hare,
‘we don’t need to hide,
the hunters don’t seek
hares.’
‘Who, who,’ said the owl,
‘said they did?’

Polly Robinson © 2015

An update to a 2013 poem.


34 Comments

Six Foot Four – Sunflower

SunflowerSpirals

Image by lucapost via Flickr

Six Foot Four – Sunflower
What could be
more
outrageous
than
a six foot four
sunflower?
Native
of the Americas.

Perhaps…
10 tonnes of Ai Weiwei’s
famous porcelain sunflower seeds!
10 tonnes,
a tenth of those
covered
Tate Modern’s
Turbine Hall.

The perfect sunshine
yellow, fiery and proud,
stunning spirals
typically loud,
typically
times thirty-four inside,
fifty-five outside,
spirals.

Helianthus annuus
for birds,
for bread, medicine,
dyes, body paints,
sunflower oil,
livestock feed, latex
–yes, latex
six foot four!

Polly Robinson © 2015

To cheer up a miserable and overcast February afternoon, a rewrite of my 2012 poem about sunflowers, surely the most cheery of all :)


15 Comments

Chatterton–Paper & Platform

HOT NEWS! You can now get my series of poems Chatterton as an eBook click here!  There are just two  is one limited first edition paperback in stock, so if you are a paper, rather than a digital type, click below to snaffle the last one :D

UK postage:
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Non-UK postage:
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Chatterton Front Cover


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The Journey

Riding from far North they came
through snow and sleet and sheeting rain.
Ice formed behind them, frosted, cracked
red dragon scales, in parts, looked blacked.
On wings sheer clipped, their fire breath quenched,
onward, moving South, they went.

Flying ahead of the sunset West:
werewolves; sprites in fiery vests;
pixies pointing ears to learn
where coal black jackdaws crash and burn.
There is no place to hide.

Then from the sunrise in the East
the faerie queen on bounding beast
the size of which sees grown elves weep.
They hear her voice so light (though deep)
control the slavering ride.

Inch by inch from the dry drought South
carrying dead sheep in its mouth
the Kraken, skin scabbed, wracked and ripped
scouts for the havering hare who nips
at the frail fingers of sylvan wamblers.

Polly Robinson © 2014

Reposting this especially for Poetics: Snowed Under, Iced In, Cosying Up – not sure about the ‘cosying up’ bit though… ;)