Polly

Writings and Witterings


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Trading On The Silk Road

A recent documentary told of the trade route from East to West, ancient, modern, the wares sold and transported, the towns, villages and people along the way, yet I observed a side of this road not often seen, and rarely televised.

Trading On The Silk Road

At the side of the road,
the great Silk Road:
skulls.
Goat skulls,
mule skulls,
skeletons of sheep,
ravaged bones of rats;
on the outskirts of vision
a flash of mountain lion,
the whip of a sand snake,
dust rises, coughing;
old age,
overwork.

Polly Stretton 2017

 

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Merry Christmas

Lovely selection of Christmassy poems from Worcestershire Poet Laureate Nina Lewis 😄

Poet Laureate

merry-christmas-2930882_1920May your holiday season be filled with friends, family, happiness and love. 

Create a quiet moment with a poem. Go on, treat yourself… it is Christmas after all! I have posted some to listen to from Soundcloud for the super busy.

https://www.poemhunter.com/poems/christmas/

A Child’s Christmas In Wales – Dylan Thomas

http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/sylviaplath/1377

Balloons – Sylvia Plath

http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/lucy_maud_montgomery/poems/3529.html

The Christmas Night – Lucy Maud Montgomery

http://www.southerncrossreview.org/44/auden-oratio.htm

Christmas Oratio – W.H. Auden

http://www.poetry-archive.com/c/little_tree.html

little tree – e.e. cummings

Merry Christmas! 

Peace on Earth. 

Nina Lewis x

Worcestershire Poet Laureate

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He Sits And Waits

I was privileged to be the first headliner at a new spoken word event in Worcester, ‘Dear Listener’, organised by Charley Barnes. I finished my set with ‘He Sits And Waits‘. When the first version of this poem was written, I was thinking about my father, who had Alzheimer’s. I was particularly thinking about how his final two years of life had been for him.
Whilst ‘He Sits And Waits‘ is about my father’s dying days this poem is not only about capturing a moment, it reflects on our wider concerns.
At the time, I was studying form in poetry and wanted to create a Kyrielle.
It was the most commented upon poem in my entire set. Difficult to perform, this rendering made it ‘worth it’.

He Sits And Waits

He sits and waits, he is hungry.
He ponders what he was thinking,
for a moment, a rare inkling.
Do all things end as they begin?

The hanky from the laundry room,
his daughter, bound to be here soon.
His eyes tear up as he reaches.
Do all things end as they begin?

He ponders what he was thinking,
just one moment ago, sinking…
I am hungry, he thinks, then smiles.
Do all things end as they begin?

He waits, he sits, he is hungry,
food appears, it’s here, it’s too soon,
it’s before him, from where, from whom?
Do all things end as they begin?

He blinks, looks for a fork, a spoon.
He peers beneath the platter, croons,
he sees it, a new full blue moon.
Do all things end as they begin?

But arm does not go where he wants,
and hand will not go where he wants,
when he tells it to grip the spoon.
Do all things end as they begin?

He is hungry, sits with repast,
‘Lord have mercy, I could eat fast,
if only I could grip and grasp.’
Do all things end as they begin?

It smells here, he sniffs and snivels.
‘Help Lord, have mercy,’ he dribbles.
Anytime now—surely—to eat.
Do all things end as they begin?

Wet blue glance just reaches once more,
the white handkerchief laundered for…
who was it? A girl. Girl no more.
Do all things end as they begin?

The spoon, is it where it ought’er?
Something about food, his daughter.
The spoon could be up on the moon.
Do all things end as they begin?

Blue eyes mist up with dismay
,
see the world dimly, far away.
The spoon or the moon or my girl?
Do all things end as they begin?

He sits and waits, he is hungry.
He ponders what he was thinking,
just moments ago, an inkling.
Do all things end as they begin?

Polly Stretton © 2012

First published in ‘Girl’s Got Rhythm’, Black Pear Press, 2012.


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Snow – Anne Milton

How appealing the thought that we might rewrite history 🙂

Snow

If you were here I’d say,
‘Lean on the window sill
with me and see how clean
the world looks.’
And you’d reply,
‘It’s a fresh start.’

On a new page
we would rewrite our story,
leaving out the parts
where voices rise
and anger
spews out words
that can’t be taken back;

then I would never hear
my mean voice say,
‘I hate you,’
or see you crying
as you walk away.

Anne Milton lives on the outskirts of Worcester with a large collection of books and several well-read cats. She is a member of Worcestershire Stanza and enjoys Worcester LitFest Speakeasy.

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