Happy reading for me :)
Well worth taking a look at – Carrie’s new book is one to read, for sure :)
Originally posted on The Write Transition:
It’s no secret I’m not much of a guest blogger. But when Sue Archer, freelance editor and blogger, offered to interview me on her blog after Eating Bull came out, even a brainless acorn would know I’d be a fool to decline.
So here’s where I am today if you happen to have time to stop by. Thanks, Sue!
Given the recent Paris attacks, I wanted to post the following photo. I think it’s clear by the joy on my face how much I love that amazing city. My thoughts and heart go out to cette belle dame and her residents.
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News from the fab launch of Heather’s new collection – it’s a joyride around the carpet industry in Kidderminster – great poems/stories/scripts – something for everyone.
Originally posted on Weaving Yarns:
This post is all about the fact that Weaving Yarns, poems, songs and real life stories from the carpet industry, is now available to buy! Here is a link for online purchases from Black Pear Press who have been excellent to work with and have produced a first class item which I’m proud to hold in my hand, read from and generally wave in the air at people. http://blackpear.net/authors-and-books/heather-wastie/ You can also buy copies in the Museum of Carpet shop and from me of course!
(More photos, taken by Tony Judge from Black Pear Press, appear below.)
I am indebted to the following performers who helped me put together an evening’s entertainment of poetry and music, performing their own work as well as mine: Sarah Tamar, Kathy Gee, Mike Alma, Polly Robinson and Kate Wragg. Many thanks to you all for your wonderful work.
I will let…
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He howls at the blue moon, head back, chin up,
dust and smoke tint his face misty maya blue.
Two moons in one month, haunting, daunting, rare.
Mayan prediction: world ends. This is rare.
The werewolf pads through pale forest, hackles up;
moonlight filters through the canopy, true blue.
Inky night: light is the midnight moon, blue.
Strange bruised beasts lurk, fangs glint icily rare,
silence and stealth start to wake werewolves up.
Polly Robinson © 2015
So pleased to see my Hallowe’en ‘Sweet Word’ poem here :)
Originally posted on Silver Birch Press:
My favourites came in cubes:
and other boiled sweets
like toffee crunch
loose in quarters,
weighed out from glass jars
lining the sweet shop shelves.
Square quarter bags
and two ounce triangular paper cones;
right at the base,
where small fingers could firkle,
there lay the sugar
and slivers of sweets,
a delight on the fingertip,
on the tongue.
A memory so sweet
it makes the mouth water,
has lasted as long
as sherbet fountains
and liquorice sticks,
gob stoppers and bubble gum.
brought cinder toffee
to stain your tongue.
AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: The photo is of my friend Di (l’il devil) and me (the witch) at a Hallowe’en event at St John’s Library organised by Worcestershire LitFest & Fringe. We volunteered to help in the kitchen and had a marvellous time. The children at the event were…
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At d’Verse Poetics ‘carved in stone’, Björn is tending the bar. He has given us a series of petroglyphs, carvings found in caves in Sweden.
Weather away, feather away
in the acid forests, dissolve,
crumble and fade, disappear
after three thousand five hundred years.
Before you go, let us see once more,
lives lived in harmony,
man is strong, is phallic,
the woman: fertility.
A most important figure,
an icon for what it can do,
the Sun Ship, represents
transport, conquests, food.
Ten thousand ships in Bohuslän
the ship has a finger-like crew
the bulge at the stem, neighing now and again,
is the Sun Horse pulling the sun.
People believed that, in the day
the horse transported the sun,
they wondered how it got back again,
and so the myth was begun.
Our lifestyle destroys cultural heritage,
and all this wonderful work
will disappear in a few decades,
the rock carvings of Tanum.
Polly Robinson © 2015
She’d cupped a small bird in her hand,
born this year, feathers silky soft,
she encouraged flight, held it aloft,
so warm, so weak, it trembled.
She wheeled her chair along smooth garden ways,
a feather dropped, wafted soft.
The bird stayed in the hayloft.
Quietude, rest and warmth worked their magic,
the creature stilled, silently calm,
the scented hay seemed to act as a balm.
The gentle gauche girl returned the next day,
no drama, the bird had flown away.
The girl in the chair and her protégé.
Polly Robinson © 2015