Polly

Writings and Witterings


24 Comments

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


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 :)


62 Comments

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… ;)


20 Comments

Brown And Blue

We live in canvas bells for five days’
sweat-clammy shelter,
hot in fields of hay,
as a great war rages.
Anne and I become snake
and snake charmer around a smoky campfire.
The menfolk ‘on the front’
– some of our dads –
kill.
My dad’s a Local Defence Volunteer. He has a gun.
We have a singsong, Pack Up Your Troubles for wide-eyed mothers,
nurses, head-scarved land girls,
and munitions factory workers, canary-faced women
who feast on fat pork spitting
splitting sausages that stay
on the tongue with charred onion breath, for hours.

We wonder what it’s like
on the bloody muddy Western front.
Will jam jars and cotton reels really help?
If You Were The Only Girl In The World
our mothers’ eyes shine.
Big blue-garbed Girl Guides
tease us because we’re brown
– few gongs yet –
Me, arms akimbo, in a khaki sleeping bag;
writhing, serpentine, up and down,
side to side,
while Anne tootles, fluting on her recorder,
face dark with gravy browning.
In the trenches guns shatter eardrums, pop eyeballs, make mush of bones.

The big girls give out rubbery gas masks
– hard to breathe –
they send messages using small flags;
wrinkle soapy fingers in hospitals; lather and launder dressings;
roll bandages; prep stretchers for bleeding bodies.

We collect warm hens’ eggs, harvest cabbages and keep our chins up,
knit socks and scarves for the Tommies,
and hope our mums don’t get a telegram.

Polly Robinson © 2014

This poem was published in Remember, the Paragram Poetry Anthology 2014, I mentioned this in conversation with my friend, Mike Alma, who has sent me the photo below to show what the Girl Guides looked like in the early 20th century. Many thanks Mike. Here is Mike’s photo of Doris and Peg, bet they loved camping.

Mike's mum as a Guide circa 1920

Mike’s mum as a Guide circa 1920


44 Comments

Dry January

Poetry is alive and well,
plus it’s Björn’s birthday – that’s so swell.
What celebrations there will be
lots to eat and drink; he’ll be merry,
unless he’s doing ‘Dry January,’
like folk in the UK for charity.
There are other ways to get a message across
without such promo’s and all that dross.
If we want to give, we’ll give and then
many will give and give again;
no need for novelties, or bigging up,
we just do it quietly, without all that truck.
Those who commit to a better world
can do without a public fuss unfurled,
they quietly get on with helping others,
not suggesting time needed to recover
from a month of no alcohol like we’re in prohibition.
All I say is…don’t make it a tradition.

Polly Robinson © 2015

 

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