Do visit this exhibition in June if you can – my poem ‘Breathe’ will be there – thank you to the organisers.
Family Palms
I meet him halfway,
in a café
between his home and mine.
My heart rants and rails,
impaled, yet veiled.
We walk slowly—at first—
then we run.
Overwhelmed—together.
He wears a tweed jacket,
rough and fragrant;
hugs me close
like we’ve known each other always.
Inside the café, we can’t stop,
can’t stop talking,
—talking—
until I notice his hands,
his hands.
I take his in my own,
turn it palm upwards
—mine too—
there’s no doubt:
carbon copies.
Father and daughter meet at last.
Hands revealed.
Hearts unveiled
in the palms of our hands.
© 2019 Polly Stretton
Submission guidelines for a new anthology
News from Charley Barnes and Claire Walker.
Drop-in / Review with Nigel Kent and Adrian Green
‘Raw’ in two exhibitions
Lovely to see my poem ‘Raw’ on display in Malvern at the outdoor exhibition by Malvern Spoken Word poets, it was also in The Hive as part of the ‘My Worcestershire’ project which included poems from poets all over the world who are part of the Poetry Bubble. The Malvern Spoken Word exhibition continues until February 2024.
A Confession to Agata
A Confession to Agata
after William Carlos Williams
We have eaten
the blackberry jam
that was in
the fridge
and which
you were probably
wishing you still had
for breakfast.
Forgive us.
It was delicious
so sweet
and so cold.
© 2023 Polly Stretton
The Wait
I wait for something
anything
to cut through the ennui
something to stimulate my sleeping muse
© 2023 Polly Stretton
Fifteen Minutes of Fame
Let’s get on a reality show
and get ourselves embarrassed
by our shopping habits
or performing rabbits,
or the way we sing a note;
maybe how we choose to bake,
or even how we sew.
Could be more
than fifteen minutes,
I have to agree with the pedants…
the point’s the same,
in any game:
fifteen minutes
of so-called fame.
© 2023 Polly Stretton
Launch of Worcestershire Poet Laureate collection
Excited to be going to the launch of Rhianna Levi’s poet laureate collection at Script Haven in Worcester today. It starts at 4pm. Would be great to see you there. More details available from Black Pear Press
Observations
I once had a book called, ‘The Face’.
It was when interest in body language was growing,
and described how we see ourselves,
how we see others,
how others see us.
All dependent on who was doing the seeing.
Look in the mirror and what do you see?
Does it depend on your mood?
Do we see deeper lines,
more wrinkles or more beauty
than others perceive?
Does it matter?
2023 © Polly Stretton
Back garden border
I like the impact that the Stipa Gigantea aka ‘Golden Oats Grass’ has on my back garden border, it filters the roses and helianthus in the background, there’s alstroemeria alongside, and the second flowering of the delphinium with agapanthus in the foreground add that splash of blue. What other plants can you spot?
Contains Strong Language
Look out for the BBC ‘Contains Strong Language’ talent development scheme – they want to find the best emerging spoken word talent in the UK. If you’re influenced by poetry, lyricism, rap or hop hop, they want to know about you!
I can’t put the link here, but you can find it via a search engine. Looks good 😄
Smoking Bastille
Voltaire neither put up nor shut up, Let us read…let us dance... François-Marie Arouet, imprisoned twice in the Bastille; his delight at the fall of the smoking Bastille would have seen singing and dancing in the street, had he been around for the smoke. Fast forward to… Gauloises Disque Bleu, elegant, cool, show-off smoking. Gauloises Disque Bleu. Cough your way through them prisoners of nicotine, echo Voltaire in the Bastille, Bruce Willis in Die Hard neither put up nor shut up. Hooked. It is said that Alain Bashung enjoyed chemotherapy smoking Gauloises Disque Bleu. © 2013 Polly Stretton Famous French singer, Alain Bashung, was such a fan of Gauloises Disque Bleu, it is said he refused to quit even during his chemotherapy. This poem is written for Bastille Day—the day that gives the perfect excuse to eat much cheese or smoke yourself silly (if that’s your bag).
Inanna
Two stars for Venus, evening, morning,
pearls on a naked neck.
Two twisted reeds stand on two lions;
maces frame her showing some leg,
black silk stockings with a lacy edge,
her fingers pull to their plump eclipse.
Lady of heaven, shrines, temples,
rosette of fertility, children, war.
The earliest deity known and adored*.
Love conquers men,
she conquered all.
© 2015 Polly Stretton
*circa 4000–3100 BC – Mesopotamia (Iraq–also parts of modern-day Iran, Syria and Turkey)
Beyond the Veil
Handkerchiefs, white twisted prayer, sobs breach and break the mourning air, death takes, will not be second-guessed, a shroud beneath the lychgate rests. The shelter with its angled roof hears clattering of horses' hooves, covers the dear departed, blessed; her shroud beneath the lychgate rests. The bearers seated by the corpse know flesh, bones, come to nothing, naught to ponder, but in time accept, a shroud beneath the lychgate rests. From lych to church seems overlong, they pause, they pray, they chant their song, to see her pass this way—none guessed a shroud around the lych would rest. A hot ague shook her life away, the children sobbed, begged her to stay, but death took life, imbibed her breath, a shroud beneath the lychgate rests. Yet that was then and this is now, time changes, untracked: marriage vow, photo backdrop, bride with guests, a shroud beneath the lychgate rests. Spectres, spirits of the passed, plague actors in the wedding cast, this shady place, does it oppress if shrouds beneath the lychgate rest? 'Death is the only deathless one',* time lingers brief, they've just begun, this is for life, no trial or test, a shroud beneath the lychgate rests. Fading out the nuptial glitter, shadows cast by bygone sitters, carnation wilts upon his breast, and shrouds beneath the lychgate rest. The charm of years, a pretty place. He gazes down on her sweet face. Craves togetherness, wedded, yes. A shroud beneath the lychgate rests. * From 'Kyrielle' by John Payne (1842–1916) Growing Places (Black Pear Press, 2021) I love lychgates—those structures at the entrance of some churches where brides and grooms are often photographed—there are many such churches in Worcestershire. This led to me looking into their history. At the same time, I was fascinated by the poetry form of the Kyrielle, based on the Kyrie, a church liturgy. This poem is the outcome.
Detective Noir
Hardboiled, cynical,
the dick
believes
in love.
His slinky girl
—in sequins
and seed pearls—
sees ‘Hardboiled’ is playing away;
the scent of aftershave
is a dead giveaway.
Fresh shirt;
new jeans;
shaved clean.
She can tell
by the smirk
he’s got a bit of skirt.
Who is she?
Slinky, glitter tarnished
by what she thinks,
becomes what he has not detected…
suspicious.
© 2014 Polly Stretton
Ten Pound Poms
There’s a new British historical drama series coming to TV soon: Ten Pound Poms. Here is a poem I wrote a long time ago, updated. I’m intrigued to see how it stacks up against the coming drama 😄 My birth mother and half-sister were ten pound poms.
Ten Pound Poms
Crowds line the docks in the nineteen fifties,
waiting to sail to a new land, they’re thrifty;
they’ve paid just a tenner to get on the ship
and want a lot more than just a round trip.
A land called Australia arouses their dreams,
they think with nostalgia of Britain, it seems.
Passports in hands, papers in luggage,
they yearn for the new world, new life, new mortgage.
They spurn the old world, the doled world, the cold world,
they are excited, celebrating,
migrating.
Citizenship promised after only one year,
and warmth, their skin, bones, eyes become clear,
some will be famous in due course perhaps,
the new life that beckons is free of all traps,
and they dream of fame on the stage or in government,
the future is bright and there will be betterment.
The scheme extends to other nations,
many, it seems, seek a change of location,
“Please stay for two years or refund the money,”
this is the land of milk and honey.
Going to work in a new place,
they’re a new face,
without trace,
Australia.
Girl’s Got Rhythm (Black Pear Press, 2012 and 2016) rewritten 2023
ClearView at Covent Garden
193 steps,
Covent Garden tube,
waiting for a lift…
and there’s a ClearView poster
asking One Line Or Two?
It would have been wonderful
had there been ClearView
when we planned babies.
Imagine the waiting
endless waiting,
waiting for missing,
missing the month.
Two days late, three, four,
five, six?
Day seven—blood.
For sure, today
there’s the same flood
of disappointment,
sadness
for a child who will never be.
A baby so real, that he or she
with a mop of dark hair
on a small, neat head
is more than a line on a ClearView test.
193 steps
Covent Garden tube,
waiting for a lift.
‘Life’s Wonders’ (Black Pear Press, 2023)
Voices for Angela
Photo by Terry S. Amstutz, a.k.a. mobius faith: https://dversepoets.com/2012/11/17/poetics-photography-by-terry-s-amstutz/
This ekphrastic poem was written in response to a prompt by d’Verse a long time ago when they asked us to look at the Mobius Faith image, above, and respond to it. I read it at the Worcestershire Libraries Poetry Bubble last night, so thought I’d share it with you.
Voices for Angela
He heard the boyfriend say her name,
‘Angie.’ Angie.
Saw them embrace as she stepped from the train.
Angie. Angie.
She had some news, that much was clear
from the way she beamed at the boyfriend, ‘Here,
see our scan.’
Her hand fluttered over her still thin front.
Angie. Angie.
The boyfriend gave her belly a rub.
Angie. Angie.
Arm in arm they walked up the steps
oblivious to the follower with voices in his head.
Angie. Angie.
He sprayed her name across the door,
on rusting containers on the floor.
Angie. Angie.
She had nothing to do with him at all,
knew nothing of his voices sepulchral.
Angie. Angie.
Except he killed her that foul day
as the evil voices echoed, played
inside his head, they stayed and stayed.
Angie. Angie.
Polly Stretton © 2012