Writings and Witterings


The Vampire Prince

Written to the theme ‘Vampires’ for 42 Worcester, Wednesday 30 September 2015, and shared with dVerse Poets today. Do follow the link to dVerse, a group of talented poets who would welcome your poem and your comments on the poems of others. In the meantime…

The Vampire Prince

A Transylvanian melody
will chime through the night.
The air is still and warm,
there is no trace of light.
He steals through forest glades
to the castle where she lies,
she tries to hear leaves rustling,
her hopes she can’t disguise,
she knows he’s coming for her,
yet no fear shows in her eyes.

She loves him, oh, she loves him,
his dark and brooding brow,
his high and sculpted cheekbones,
his skin white-cold, ice-sallow.
With a cape of burnished black,
he is not the maniac the villagers
with their garlic seem to dread.
She smiles at the thought
of the crosses they have wrought
to stop him ascending to her bed.

She knows her soul will wince
when she hears the chimes, her prince
will be climbing up the stairs
to claim her for his own.
The scent of who-knows-what,
aromatic, spiced, sincere,
is the harbinger she’s waited for;
waited for, for years.

A rap upon her door
has her swooning, heart a’soar.
She loves him, oh, she loves him
and will do evermore.
Her prince leans in towards her,
his cape’s as soft as zephyrs,
it sweeps her pure white nightgown
as he slowly travels down;
his breath, a mist of insight,
strokes her sweet soft frown.

His teeth glint in the moonlight,
from her, he gets no swift flight,
she arches, sighs in delight.
His teeth make the connection
with her, gentle perfection,
it takes no great detection
to know…
she is his.

Polly Robinson © 2015


Poetry Competition winners


Vote for your favourite!

Originally posted on Weaving Yarns:

In my capacity as The Worcestershire Poet Laureate, I ran a National Poetry Day competition for Worcestershire poets. The results have just been announced, and there’s chance to vote for your favourite of four poems which didn’t quite make the top three. See http://worcslitfest.co.uk/litfest-npd-competition-update-and-poll/

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Dance With Me?

‘Dance with me?’

When Dad was embarrassed, he whistled,
a tootling flootling whoot;
three notes,
always the same, breath gently pushed
through pursed lips, eyes to heaven.

‘Do you want to dance, Dad?’
and he’d whistle.
‘Let’s waltz.’

As we waltzed his lips
remained pursed, exhaling
whistles silent
but audible, as his breath passed my ears,
his eyes upwards, looking at no one,
hoping no one was looking at him.

‘Dance with me?’

Polly Robinson © 2015


Not Home

Before the face of all he owns
in front of times long gone
aeons of dark and dry bleached bone
behind a veil of song
all around beam rictus grins
while his expression’s stone
and rats gnaw through the black of bins
for all who are alone
he moves forward
in a flickering light
void voices on a phone
caution as his chest cleaves tight
shuffle here
shuffle there
shuffle home

Polly Robinson © 2015



Athenian red-figure lekythos, Museum of Art Rhode Island School of Design (http://www.theoi.com/Pontios/Iris.html)
You are a rainbow,
a golden winged messenger,
a dewey fresh faced goddess
refilling rain clouds
with water from the sea.

Speed of the wind,
with your man, Zephyrus,
by your side,
plunge into
the ocean deep,
underworld dark,
unhindered by the caduceus
staff in your left hand.

Sister to the harpies,
bring to Zeus the great oath of the gods.
Iris, with a ewer
of nectar.

Swift footed,
sure, like a storm,
see your sister’s wings
on Achilles’ heels.

Delicate herald of light
in a gossamer gown:
ruby red;
orange organza;
yardbird yellow;
green parakeet;
blue sky blue;
divisive indigo;
virtuous violet,
the realm of the rainbow is yours
always beyond reach.

Polly Robinson 2015

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“Whose Shoes are These?”


An ekphrastic poem, or perhaps more correctly, a poem employing ekphrasis, from Peter Young inspired by Croome

Originally posted on esperluetterbox:

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA The Departed – Sorsha Galvin

I’m woken by the footsteps that come running,
Sometimes barefoot, through night’s heavy dew.
The tracks don’t last, the crushed grass soon recovers;
No longer can I follow where they flew.

It’s not that every waking has this pattern.
Some tip-toe past the edges of my dreams,
Many more show no consideration
And clatter, clack and clomp, they rouse from sleep
My drowsy comprehension of the day.

Through practice I can recognize the footfall,
Each different pair of shoes reveals its soul:
The playful pumps of poetry twist meaning,
The heavy muddy boots of ill-formed writing
That editing will surely put to rights.

My clichéd carpet slippers’ best endeavours
A million times remind me what I know.
Flim-flam flip-flops flap at me with flummery
Distracting, entertaining – nothing deep.

Can’t catch the drift of trainers, far too swift.
Tread lightly on my dreams? I’ll give…

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