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Writings and Witterings

Category Archives: Writings & Witterings


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Croome Court Projects

It seems incredible to me that the first post I wrote for the various Croome Court projects I was involved in is dated 22 May 2014 – was it really so many years ago? The evidence is online at Polly at Croome where you’ll find a record of what happened as the project unfolded, and the poems that came out of it.

I hope you’ll enjoy looking through my memories of working with people at Croome Court.

Here’s a photo of the ‘William’s Footprint’ installation and the poem, one of my favourites from that time.

You can just see the poem imprinted onto the soles. I took the photo 🙂

William’s Footprint is a poem about William Dean, who arrived at Croome in about 1796 and was Head Gardener to the 6th and 7th Earls of Coventry for nearly 40 years looking after the walled kitchen garden and the park. He wrote a book, an historical account of Croome that includes a plant and tree index gloriously referred to as ‘Hortus Croomensis’; a magnificent index of every plant and tree. This poem was written as part of the Soul-to-Sole project and is shown on the sole of William’s shoe in the shoe rack in the basement.

William’s Footprint

If soles could talk
what tales they’d tell
of statues—alive!—
hot walls and wishing wells;
of a serpentine river
and a man-made lake,
of Quercus ilex
and poison Mandrake.

If soles could talk
what tales they’d tell,
of the walled kitchen garden
and glass cloche bells,
of boys of seven
who stoke the heated wall,
while the dipping pond
is their longed for call.

If soles could talk
what tales they’d tell,
of the Druid and Sabrina’s
trysts in the dell;
of mischievous Pan
piping high and sweet,
the goat-god spies on them
in the grotto where they meet.

If soles could talk
what tales they’d tell,
of the nymphs at Croome
and wooded islands where they dwell.
Here’s head gardener Will
wielding spade and pruning hook;
he is grounded and ready
to write his book.

Polly Stretton © 2014

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Growing Places

I said I’d let you know the date for the launch of ‘Growing Places’. It’s now been confirmed as Sunday 22 August 2021 starting at 4pm. I’m delighted to let you know that my new poetry collection is available for pre-order from Black Pear Press and here’s a photo of the cover, read the poem ‘Walk’ to see one of the connections 😁

Growing Places - front cover


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A taster…

From my soon to be published collection ‘Growing Places’—here’s a taster—I’ll let you know when there’s a definite launch date. This poem was written as part of a project run by Nina Lewis, former Worcestershire Poet Laureate, when she ran a workshop at the Jinney Ring Sculpure Trail, one of the exhibits was a huge head carved from limestone.

Head—Alone

I am ancient art or the apocalypse,
I don't see your footsteps 
I hear the disturbed gravel.
You breathe your bumbling tones,
wonder if I'm sleeping or dead.
You say I look soft-boiled

I feel your fingertip 
bones on my rumpled skin
as if touching parchment
—serenity—
yet...not skin, but limestone

Bees and bugs my bedfellows, 
my egg of a head lies alongside
the fragrance of lavender
and fresh,
pitiless,
spikes of grass.

Polly Stretton © 2021


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Smoking Bastille

Alain Bashung, a famous French singer, was such a fan of Gauloises Disque Bleu, it is said he refused to quit even during his chemotherapy. This poem was written for Bastille Day, 14th July—the day that gives the perfect excuse to eat much cheese or smoke yourself silly (if that’s your bag). It’s been updated this year.

Smoking Bastille

Voltaire could neither put up nor shut up,

he famously said, ‘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 major celebrations,
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;
Bashung, so hooked that
chemotherapy was enjoyed

smoking Gauloises Disque Bleu.

Polly Stretton © 2021


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Midsummer Eve

She is Sabrina, wending through Worcester,
gestures: splashes rock
in moonlight on windborne scents
of cow parsley and whispering waters,
her shadow caught by the clan.
Paths millions of years old
age around smooth muds
trodden by man.
She snakes through four counties,
visits the fairest cities,
leaves her sister to landscape
purple hills and golden valleys,
but she never strays far
from the haunts of men.
All this we know as we hear of rivers
swooping and dancing, see eyes close
romancing and glancing at words
to celebrate the place in which we stay.
It’s midsummer – midsummer eve.

Polly Stretton © 2015

I’m a little late posting this as it was written to celebrate the River Severn on Midsummer Eve. Nevertheless, I thought I’d share it, even if four days late 😄


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Congratulations Ade Couper – the new Worcestershire Poet Laureate

Four finalists battled for the laureateship yesterday and the judges reported a tough decision, but the one they made was fitting. Ade Couper delivered two splendid poems which set him up for a year as Worcestershire Poet Laureate 2021-2022.

Many congratulations, Ade.

Also, congratulations to all the successful Young Writers who entered the WLF Young Writer competition – many of their stories were read out and enjoyed by so many. They were lucky to have the good offices of Kevin Brooke, the Worcestershire LitFest & Fringe Youth Ambassador to introduce them to the competition and support them while entering.

Ade Couper


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Formication…Itch

Yuputka (Ulwa) A word made for walking in the woods at night, it’s the phantom sensation of something crawling on your skin.

Au contraire!
Be aware
of an English word for yuputka,
an Ulwa word meaning the phantom sensation of some…thing,
crawl…ing,
on your skin.
Some…thing,
creep…ing,
crawl…ing,
on your skin.

Ulwa? You ask…
The language of around 400 people of Karawala,
in Nicaragua,
where snakes and lakes abound,
in the forest,

and Karawala means ‘dry fish.’

But what of the English?
The word is, formication.
OK, so,
the Ulwa word somehow includes
reference to walking in the woods at night
in the pitch black darkness.
Whereas, the English, oh, the English word is clear as daylight,
defined,
refined,
assigned,
aligned,
confined to
that feeling of some…thing,
crawl…ing,
on or under your skin.
Some…thing,
creep…ing,
crawl…ing,
on or under your skin.

A medical term, specific to a set of sensations called
Paresthesia.
Tactile hallucinations, of insects or bugs

creep…ing,
crawl…ing,
sprawl…ing,
on or under your skin.

Feel the itch.

A tingling, burning, pins and needles, kind of itchiness;
leads to twitchiness,
tickly,
wriggly,
squiggly,
makes you sickly,
itchiness.
Caused, they say, by use of cocaine, amphetamines,
crystal meth, aka,
“Ice,”
“Glass,”
“Chalk,”
“Crank,”
and a side effect of prescription drugs.
Suffered by some during “power surges”,
(that’s to say, menopause;)
the list goes on, diabetic neuropathy,
diseases of the spinal cord and peripheral nerves, and
extreme alcohol withdrawal …
it’s a common yet illusory complaint,
which leads some to cut out the ‘worms’ with scissors.

Derived from formica, (Latin for ant,)
this word is
extant,
present,
surviving,
existing.
sufferers often get delusional parasitosis.
in extremis, people have ‘gathered’ the bugs
in matchboxes and demanded investigation.

Not to be confused with the English word in which ‘n’
is the fourth character.
the word is, formication.

Some…thing,
crawl…ing,
on or under your skin.
some…thing,
creep…ing,
crawl…ing,
on or under your skin.
Some…thing,
creep…ing, creeping,
crawl…ing, crawling,
sprawl…ing, sprawling,
slimy slithering,
wriggling, wiggling, squiggling, tickling,
sickening,
on or under your skin.

Polly Stretton © 2012

This poem first appeared in ‘Girl’s Got Rhythm’ (Black Pear Press, 2012)


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OU Poet shortlisted for Saboteur Award, 2021

A well-deserved nomination for OU poet Nigel Kent

OU Poets

Congratulations to OUPS member, Nigel Kent, who has made the shortlist for the Saboteur Awards 2021. His weekly blog promoting the work of up-and-coming poets has earned him a place on the shortlist for the prestigious Reviewer of Literature Award.

In his blog Nigel publishes a fortnightly cycle of drop-ins and reviews. In week one he invites a poet to reflect upon one of the poems from their recently published collections and in week two he writes an in-depth review of the poet’s work.

He started this feature to help new writers publicise their poetry, though occasionally he does review the work of more established writers.

Since starting the project in August 2020 it has attracted over 1,300 visitors to the website.

For more information about the Saboteur Awards click here. To checkout the feature click here.

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Spring Morning Steps

A walk in the morning, a fine spring day,
eight little legs prance through dew in wet grass,
they ignore drops and drips, they run and play,
Mexican stand off, bow to each other,
chase round the meadow, chase birds and squirrels,
sniff at March scents, searching for who knows what?
Walking small dogs on a fine spring day.

Polly Stretton © 2021

L-R Tilly and Mabel in the meadow


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Mothering Sunday 2021

The kids flew the nest long ago
their chicks are grown
and have chicks of their own.
All send something–
a text with a kissing emoji,
‘There’s a bag by the gate.’

Lockdown.
Mum texts, ‘Thank you,’
adds a hug, sends love,
collects the bag before it gets damp.

A tear
trails through blusher,
marks make up
that no one will see,
splashes onto her best blouse.
She thinks of other mums,
fingers tremble,
she puts the TV on,
switches it off.

A cup of tea and sit on the sofa
surrounded by gifts and cards,
she opens the cards, alone,
reads,
misses faces,
misses hugs,
will open the packages later.

Polly Stretton © 2021

😘


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Brown and Blue

We live in canvas bells for five days’
sweat-clammy shelter,
hot in fields of hay,
as a great war rages.
Anne and I become snake
and snake charmer around a smoky campfire.
The menfolk ‘on the front’
– some of our dads –
kill.
My dad’s a Local Defence Volunteer. He has a gun.
We have a singsong, Pack Up Your Troubles for wide-eyed mothers,
nurses, head-scarved land girls,
and munitions factory workers, canary-faced women
who feast on fat pork spitting
splitting sausages that stay
on the tongue with charred onion breath, for hours.

We wonder what it’s like
on the bloody muddy Western front.
Will jam jars and cotton reels really help?
If You Were The Only Girl In The World…
our mothers’ eyes shine.
Big blue-garbed Girl Guides
tease us because we’re brown
– few gongs yet –
Me, arms akimbo, in a khaki sleeping bag;
writhing, serpentine, up and down,
side to side,
while Anne tootles, fluting on her recorder,
face dark with gravy browning.
In the trenches guns shatter eardrums, pop eyeballs, make mush of bones.

The big girls give out rubbery gas masks
– hard to breathe –
they send messages using small flags;
wrinkle soapy fingers in hospitals; lather and launder dressings;
roll bandages; prep stretchers for bleeding bodies.

We collect warm hens’ eggs, harvest cabbages and keep our chins up,
knit socks and scarves for the Tommies,
and hope our mums don’t get a telegram.

Polly Stretton © 2014

This poem was published in Remember, the Paragram Poetry Anthology 2014, I mentioned this in conversation with my friend, Mike Alma, who has sent me the photo below to show what the Girl Guides looked like in the early 20th century. Many thanks Mike. Here is Mike’s photo of Doris and Peg, bet they loved camping.

Mike's mum as a Guide circa 1920

Mike’s mum as a Guide circa 1920


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A Flower Growing in the Wrong Place

A soothing blue cumulus of cranesbill clusters beneath laurel, the petals grey veined, stretching for sky under a leaf green canopy. Pecking flowers clamber up tangled with a sweet clingy weed, you know the one, with sticky burrs later in the year. There’s an empty bed with last year’s faded, crumbling woodchips; the scent lingers still. Look again, the bed is not so empty—a crumpled weed control membrane lurks partly hidden by compost, held down by terracotta bricks butted up to decking. Silverly shining, a meshed pit shows off yellow ragwort; a flower growing in the wrong place addresses the buzz and clatter of a chainsaw in the park.

Polly Stretton © 2021


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Dear Reader…

I am delighted to say that my poem ‘The Seasons Turn’ is featured in the February online ezine ‘Dear Reader’. I really liked the picture prompt that they provided, saying that it wasn’t mandatory to write to the prompt. I found the image inspiring, wrote an ekphrastic poem, and…well…they liked it! You can read it by clicking here 😄 And here’s the gorgeous picture (with acknowledgement to Dear Reader):


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Spring in Rectory Wood

Last November, 4 November to be precise, I joined some committee members of Leigh and Bransford Parish Council to plant bulbs in the newly managed Rectory Wood. Imagine my delight this morning, out walking the dogs, to find these beautiful snowdrops and winter aconites in full bloom. The pretty flowers made me smile—so happy—hope they make you smile too 😊


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Under the Cloak of Winter

‘…under the cloak of winter lies a miracle’ Barbara Winkler

Beneath elegant beech trees,
pause at pillows of moss
until a coracle’s in view.

Not yet in the water,
the boat is waiting.

Step in
and settle
on striped animal hide.

Mist wraps and rises,
all else is still.

Peace falls.

No swallows, no lilies, no damselflies.
Nothing moves.

Silence stirs
and the fagus listen to a promise
heightening in the haze.

Under the cloak of winter
changes occur;
drift with the current.

You will row again,
energy restored,
as the season shifts.

Polly Stretton © 2020


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New Year’s Day

At New Year
we stood in the back garden
watched sparkles and flares,
listened to the bangs and screeches
of city and county fireworks.
No scent of cordite marred or jarred
the sweet rural air.
Nothing destroyed the calm of the countryside,
the homes of small animals and birds.
No sky lanterns polluted the night.

We reflected on 2020
—the Covid year—
we’re glad to see the back of it.
This brand new year will be better,
it can’t be worse, we decided.

We thought of dear friends and family,
of lost friends, and unhappy families,
of the marvellous NHS;
of sights previously unseen.
We thought of unthought-of happenings
and poor planning
that made last year dire.

Despite all, we are still human
and so, full of hope.
No breath of snow whispered past.
A touch of frost tweaked noses and toes,
confirmed life.

No matter what, the ceiling
of the country always celebrates
time, people, purpose.
We stood in the back garden
and sipped spiced hot wine.

Polly Stretton © 2021


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New Year

At New Years Eve
we’ll stand in the back garden
to watch sparkles and flares,
listen to the bangs and screeches
of city and county fireworks.

No scent of cordite will mar or jar
the sweet rural air.
Nothing shall destroy the calm of the countryside,
the homes of small animals and birds.
There’ll be no sky lanterns to pollute the night.

We’ll reflect on 2020
—the Covid year—
and be glad to see the back of it.
The coming year will be better,
it couldn’t be worse, we’ve decided.

We’ll think of lost friends,
unhappy families,
the marvellous NHS;
of sights previously unseen,
unthought-of happenings
and poor planning that made the year dire.

Despite all, we are still human
and so, full of hope.
Will a breath of snow whisper past?
Will frost tweak at nose and toes?
No matter what, the ceiling
of the country celebrates time,
people, purpose.
We’ll stand in the back garden
and sip spiced hot wine.

Polly Stretton © 2020


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First Love

piano

The piano is in need of tuning
so it can be played in key
music is my first love
rock opera symphony

I love music sheets tucked inside the seat
of piano stool beneath
music soft music loud music beautiful
uplifting and complete

Dissonance: off key
jangles discord—clang clang
the music chaotic bitter sharp
air disturbed—bang bang

Black keys and white keys
wait proud and still
for the piano tuner’s lever
(here he comes up the hill)

He plays sotto voce
presto forte staccato allegro
adagio tosto tutti vivace
tenerezza eco o o o o oh

A tonic in tune once more
affettuoso read the score
pianissimo dolcissimo
come play me piano implores

Published in Girl’s Got Rhythm by Black Pear Press 2012 and reprinted 2016. Reposted for Poetics – Under the Influence of Music, a prompt from Anthony Desmond, 2014, at dversepoets.

Sotto voce: in an undertone
Presto: very fast
Forte: loud; strong
Staccato: brief; detached
Allegro: fast
Adagio: slowly
Tosto: swift; rapid
Tutti: all; everyone
Vivace: lively
Tenerezza: tenderly
Eco: echo; an effect in which a group of notes is repeated


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No Small Trifle

T’was the night before Christmas
and, in our house,
nothing was stirring,
no rat, bat or grouse.
But mousse made appearance
and trifle with cream.
It’s Christmas Eve,
time to fantasise, dream.
The tree is waiting
for baubles and balls,
holly and ivy
to deck up the halls.
Home is so … homely
at Christmas
and neat,
with carpets fresh vacuumed
and dusting complete.
Parsnips, potatoes,
sprouts and fine wine,
sherry and cabbage
and walnuts sublime;
bacon and turkey,
pudding and snow,
pigs in their blankets,
tree lights all aglow.
I’ve laid the wreaths for the parents long gone;
yesterday’s garland a baby’s swan song.
Christmas memories of bygone years.
Now, look to the future,
enjoy a few beers.

Polly Stretton © 2013

Merry Christmas everyone 😘 🎄