Keeper of Keys – Brooke Shaden
The keeper of the keys
to worlds we wish to live in,
where secrets float
and the impossible becomes possible.
We have a story to tell,
something on our mind.
There’s a light
to show the way,
a seaweed dress
against the lamp’s sway,
on the bleak bare shore.
Polly Stretton © 2014
Written to dVerse poets prompt by Grace, who features the photography of Brooke Shaden
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 about Croome and indexed 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.
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
He loathed his ma
when growing up,
could not believe her words,
which fluttered all around him
like so many angry birds.
Polly Stretton © 2016
Thought you’d like to know that my poems ‘Bittersweet,’ which made the short list, and ‘Farewell’ and ‘If You Didn’t Get This Message Call Me,’ selected as ‘Paragram Picks,’ will be included in the anthology later in the year. The theme was ‘Paradox’. See more info here: Paragram Poetry Prize. More details as they come through 🙂
Sunset – with acknowledgement to ebsheehy.wordpress.com
Top of the
evening, sunset:
Spirito Italiano,
golden yellow,
tapering, elegant,
lidded, etched in purple.
Olive leaf quill in
a “‘G’, please Bob”.
Gold rush glory,
voluptuous vanilla
scented by subtle spice,
infused with herbs,
thirty per cent
smoooooth.
Polly Stretton © 2016
With acknowledgement to galliano.com
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:
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
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.
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.
Poetry about poetry, or Ars Poetica.
Writers in attics,
finders of words,
capturing moments
that flutter with birds
away in the skies,
intense butterflies
gasping at sunbeams,
telling no lies,
wanting the essence,
of how things might be:
form, rhythm, lyrics,
formal or free;
the significance,
the elements,
of poetry.
Polly Stretton © 2022
Because it’s spring time…a Triversen poem
At the start of spring sunshine
in March, a clamour occurs,
an ignominious din.
She sees the lambs born
on a cool sunny morn, stumble;
bumble, late in the daylight.
The sun rises at four,
red, ruby, gold glows up high
and christens the new-born babes.
It comes round, it goes around,
it returns on this morning
of joy, of hope, of new lives.
Polly Stretton © 2016
Lamb was first published in my debut collection Girl’s Got Rhythm, available from Black Pear Press at £7.00 +P&P
This poem was short listed for the Paragram Poetry Prize in 2013. I was invited to Covent Garden to read both this and the long listed ‘Hobgoblin Trees.’ Tonight I’m posting it for dVerse, where we have Kelly behind the bar. Kelly’s asked us about scents that linger, ‘Latent’ fits the criteria.
Grey, receding,
the fragrance of his shaving gel.
He carries an iPad.
The first thing to leave
is the light of his eyes.
I touch his absence;
a disembodied voice, ‘see you later.’
There are magical contortions
made by dust motes,
they swirl in the sunbeams that
pour through the east window,
and echo, ‘later, later.’
I still feel the tweed jacket,
rough against my fingers,
it lingers with his shadow in the room.
Polly Stretton © 2016
Happy reading for me 🙂
‘Eating Bull’ by Carrie Rubin
The first fantastic issue of ‘Poems to Survive in’ at The Fat Damsel, a new UK poetry zine. Take a look 🙂
An email from Michael Doble of the Chatterton Society, says that Brian May’s uploaded ‘Thomas Chatterton, Myth of the Doomed Poet’ to YouTube you’ll find a copy / link below.
Michael added:
‘For how long it is on YouTube remains to be seen. Enjoy it whilst you can.
It was good to see Chatterton, the Poet and Writer, shown in a more favourable light. As it says on our (The Chatterton Society) website ‘Press Release’ page: “History has been unfair to Chatterton…”.
This is wonderful news – now my friends who were unable to see it via BBC can watch and enjoy – many thanks to Michael.
Poems To Survive In. A new poetry blog seeking submissions 🙂
Good to see one of my poems featured on the VerseWrights website and Facebook page
‘Volunteers’ was inspired by Rodin’s fabulous sculpture in Calais from 1889 – according to Linduff et al[1] it serves as a monument to an occurrence in 1347 during the Hundred Years’ War, when Calais, an important French port on the English Channel, was under siege by the English for over a year. Calais commissioned Rodin to create the sculpture in 1884.
The Burghers of Calais by Auguste Rodin
[1] Linduff, David G. Wilkins, Bernard Schultz, Katheryn M. (1994). Art past, art present (2nd ed. ed.). Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall. p. 454. ISBN 0-13-062084-X.
Image by lucapost via Flickr
Six Foot Four – Sunflower
What could be
more
outrageous
than
a six foot four
sunflower?
Native
of the Americas.
Perhaps…
10 tonnes of Ai Weiwei’s
famous porcelain sunflower seeds!
10 tonnes,
a tenth of those
covered
Tate Modern’s
Turbine Hall.
The perfect sunshine
yellow, fiery and proud,
stunning spirals
typically loud,
typically
times thirty-four inside,
fifty-five outside,
spirals.
Helianthus annuus
for birds,
for bread, medicine,
dyes, body paints,
sunflower oil,
livestock feed, latex
–yes, latex–
six foot four!
Polly Stretton © 2015
To cheer up a miserable and overcast February afternoon, a rewrite of my 2012 poem about sunflowers, surely the most cheery of all 🙂
Last minute gifts? Girl’s Got Rhythm is available direct from Black Pear Press, get yours via PayPal, if you’re in the UK:
for those overseas:
Chatterton is available only as an eBook, click here. The first edition was limited to 50 copies…and they’re sold out—but watch this space, a second edition may be published one day.
A writing group friend has set up his first blog. You can find Peter’s blog here: https://esperluetterbox.wordpress.com
My copy of The Wait Poetry Anthology has arrived! I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to see poems from my friends and fave bloggers, Alex Malcolm-Carr and MarinaSofia plus 97 other wonderful poets. ‘Mrs Smithfield’ is rubbing shoulders with some ace poems.
George Sandifer-Smith has edited this collection of poems and the proceeds go to Cancer Research – a worthwhile cause that I’ve supported in many ways for a long time, as a member of the LitFest team, as an individual, and as a Rotarian. Starting with ‘A Crimson Smile’ by Faisal Al-Doori and moving though to finish with ‘How I know I need a biscuit in the afternoon’ by Katherine Stansfield, these, plus the ones in between, are more than worth a read.
One of my dearest friends is currently seeing oncologists because her cancer has returned. What can I say? I join with the Worcestershire Breast Unit Campaign and others: ‘Everyone knows someone’. We must keep helping and supporting. We just must.
Thank you, George and the team, for this compilation. I understand that an e-book will be available at some point, but for the time being, here is another link with information about how to purchase the book online.
Everyone should have a copy – brilliant poetry for a brilliant cause.
A poem that uses imagery and metaphor most effectively – enjoy this ace read from Christine.
The trick is to know when,
and for those who truly seek to bloom
their time will come.
There will be an urgency
like a rebirth,
the years of confinement over
and time to take a risk,
to burst through,
break loose from the safety
of the bud and say
Here I am.
This is true discernment,
a risking of good for better
and better for best.
Because a bud will eventually
outgrow its purpose
and if not broken
will droop, hang limp,
a withered head, brittle
and packed tight with
the crushed brown petals
of what could have been.
journalread 