Polly

Writings and Witterings


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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


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Iris

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?”

Polly:

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…

View original 230 more words


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Summer Sun – a triolet

Back in April 2012, following Catherine Crosswell’s first trioletPass the Parcel” I had been meaning to have a bash at one.  An especially hot day during the summer of 2012 seemed the perfect day to write it. It was so hot, too hot to actually do gardening [much as it needed dealing with!] – well, that was my excuse, as if I need one!

So here it is, offered to Grace for dVerse Poets for OpenLinkNight#153

Summer Sun

The summer sun beats down, merciless,
And the birds are exhausted with heat,
Sparrows dust bath, pigeons purr.
The summer sun beats down, merciless,
Up with sunshades, lounge, don’t stir,
A sun lotion Sunday paper treat.
The summer sun beats down, merciless,
And the birds are exhausted with heat.

Polly Robinson © 2012


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Twisted Wisps

Twisted Tree - photo by David Clark  www.pinterest.com/4dave1954.jpg

Twisted Tree – photo by David Clark
http://www.pinterest.com/4dave1954.jpg

The twisted old tree
at the foot
of the garden
is grandfather.

His timepiece in the hall
ticks off the days,
clay pipe on the mantle shelf
mouths his presence.

Boots on the gravel
lead to the door,
stamp on the doormat
same as ever.

Rocking chair creaks
in time with soft chimes,
wisps of smoke evoke,
cloak, smile at the joke.

Polly Robinson © 2015


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Croome Poetry Project – Heather Wastie

So thrilled to be part of this project – do let me know what you think of it all – of course, I think it wonderful! :D With many thanks to Heather Wastie, Apples & Snakes, and all my fab poetry colleagues.