Polly

Writings and Witterings


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The Conjunction

July 1st saw a conjunction or ‘close approach’ between Venus and Jupiter in the western horizon. At the moment of closest approach, Venus was at mag -5.3, and Jupiter at mag -1.8, both in the constellation Leo. Details from In-The-Sky.org

Image © Y. Beletsky ESO 2009

Image © Y. Beletsky ESO 2009

The Conjunction

Venus and Jupiter,
kissing in the skies,
sink together slowly
before our very eyes,
bedding and bonding
way up high,
supreme mythical beings
from days long gone by.

Polly Robinson © 2015


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No Creosote

In the potting shed
the scent of ancient creosote
wafts in heavy summer heat.
Years of grandpa, pipe in mouth,
leaning against the wall
as grandma wielded the black
brush and yelled,

‘Get back you
kids,’ followed by her gap-tooth grin.

She lives in the still-
standing walls…
no creosote now.

Polly Robinson © 2015

First published on this blog in 2014, this is a revised version – yesterday’s heat put me in mind of it.

Potting shed


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not sorry yet

Meadow Run Away

four-year-old legs pumping running away
ma shouts after me ‘come back’ sister wails
ma is livid i pushed the bowl downstairs
this is how she sees it it is my fault
a tall ten-pint goldfish bowl three goldfish
i run down the meadow behind our house
it is hay-making time yellow grass scent
and dust tickle my nose and make me sneeze
sneeze stops me for long enough she catches
me i have glanced behind in my run and
seen her struggling with my little sister
but ma is grim-faced and determined that
i will be caught and punished it was an
accident i tripped knocked into the bowl
which bounced down each stair fish flying water
arcing the finest mirrored droplets splash
the sound of breaking glass tinkles downwards
she comes out of the kitchen babe on hip
and roars ‘nooooo’ i flee out the open door
my legs pump i feel my heart i hear my
breath coming jagged i smell the hay i
sneeze she catches me she screams thrashes me
and at each step thrashes me again all
up the meadow back into the house she
is crying hot angry tears me howling
mortified indignant rebellious
an accident i sob my jaw jutting
i am but four-years-old not sorry yet

Polly Robinson © 2012

‘not sorry yet’ was written in 2012 and published in my first poetry collection ‘Girl’s Got Rhythm‘ which was reprinted 2014.


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I’ll Be Watching This…

BBC 4 Chatterton Documentary 8.30pm Monday 15th June 2015

Michael Doble of The Thomas Chatterton Society kindly sent me this link as he knows of my interest in, and pamphlet of poems about, Thomas Chatterton.

I’ll be watching on ‘catch up’ TV as I shall be out that evening with LitFest :)

Chatterton BBC4 Broadcast 15th June 2015


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The Journey

Riding from the 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
a dead sheep carried in its mouth
the Kraken, skin scabbed, wracked and ripped
scouts for the havering[1] hare who nips
at the frail fingers of sylvan wamblers[2].

Polly Robinson © 2015

This poem will mark the start of my ‘World of Fae’ compilation of poetry and prose. One day it will be complete :)

My thanks to a friend who helped me to amend one of the lines – appreciated.

[1] Act in a vacillating or indecisive manner – talk foolishly
[2] Something that moves unsteadily or with a weaving or rolling motion


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Tim

A singer / songwriter brought back to mind by a meeting with friends…thanks Holly. My tribute.

Tim

Vietnam heroin
changed his life,
held in thrall
–white evil.
‘If I were a carpenter’
Woodstock.
No one
can forget the haunting,
perfect cut gem,
from a wondrous
poignant
pen.
OD.

Polly Robinson © 2015