Polly

Writings and Witterings


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Sunlit Still

In response to the sepia photograph prompt at The Mag which was a new find for me in 2012 – now taking a bit of a break – this ekphrastic poem:

Sunlit Still

Captured for
all time
in the silent
shadows.

A sunlit room,
snapshots
in time
in a snapshot of time.

Unlit candles
cast darkness on sills.
A frozen head
observes
time stands still.

It is 10:30.
It remains 10:30.
It will never be other
than 10:30.

Polly Stretton © 2016


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The Hole Is Filled…

…but the project continues.

Here’s the latest photo of the pond hole that was…one broken finger and a couple of months later, thanks to good weather, progress has been made.

Nearly full

This is the rock that got my finger:

The guilty one!

…and here is a photo of a confused Clematis Alpina…they’re supposed to flower in the spring, this photo was taken a couple of days ago:

Clematis Alpina

Isn’t it beautiful?


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The Mother

DAE-10371367 - © - De Agostini Picture L

The Death of Chatterton – Henry Wallis 1856 – original painting at The Tate Britain

Thomas Chatterton was only 17 years old when he died, (1752-1770), the original starving poet in a garret. It’s a mystery, still not certain, whether he committed suicide or if it was an accidental death.

Most of us know the pre-Raph painting of Chatterton on his deathbed by Henry Wallis, shown above. I’ve always loved the painting, it’s so beautifully detailed depicting Chatterton’s beauty even in death.

The poem below is just one from the pamphlet I published in 2014: in a series of poems we imagine friends, relatives and others of influence in Chatterton’s life gathered around the foot of his deathbed, remembering and commenting on his life. This poem is from his mother’s point of view.

The pamphlet is an ekphrastic* collection with mention made of each part of the painting, and at the back of the pamphlet there’s a potted history of Chatterton. Available as an eBook, details can be found here.

 

Chatterton

The Mother

Geranium scents the pale garret
breeze ruffling his hair, his dead hair,
hair I’ve brushed so many times.
My brilliant boy, he lies there still,
blue as his breeches,
blue as the mourning sky.
I will go mad. See his lifeless hand.

‘Ssssuicide,’ whisper shreds of papers.

My dear would not choose to
leave this way.
‘No suicide embrace for me,’ he wrote,
‘A poet’s penance is to live.’
Oh, my boy. My life.
Where was the time to put things right?
My ice blue son.

Polly Stretton © 2014

 

 

*poetry about another form of art.