Polly

Writings and Witterings


23 Comments

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


12 Comments

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


48 Comments

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


19 Comments

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


57 Comments

Shrine

Husband, signalman, he’ll be home soon,
carrying the noon whiff of Brasso-clean levers,
fusty yellow dusters, faintly grey.

Soft golden cloths
–red-thread blanket-stitched–
shine the upright handles.

He covers every angle,
a bright mirrored shrine.

Polly Robinson © 2015

My father was a signalman. So this week, as dVerse Poetics ask us to write about trains, this poem came to mind – a sort of homage to my dad. Hop on board.


54 Comments

Spaced in Equality

Tonight at dVerse Poets, celebrating our fourth anniversary, Marina Sofia asks you to think of three words that mean a lot, and three words to describe things you are grateful for; my words are: Croome, curlicues, equality, and daughter, mother, language. Thank you, Marina, for the prompt :)

Here’s my poem:

Spaced in Equality

My mother would have been
singularly unimpressed
with the curlicues
in artwork at Croome
– spaced in equality –
that bit she’d approve,
the art, less so.
My daughter, ditto.
But to me,
to me,
they are the mother
and daughter of language.

Polly Robinson © 2015

With acknowledgement to https://www.pinterest.com/pin/84231455507316960

Island Pavilion, Croome, with acknowledgement to Jason Grimes of Atelier & Co via pinterest