Do visit this exhibition in June if you can – my poem ‘Breathe’ will be there – thank you to the organisers.
Tag Archives: poetry
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
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)
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
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
Spring Haiku
First anemone
celandine and primrose peek
woodland walk flashes
© Polly Stretton 2023
Older
Less able, less worthy, less useful,
more vulnerable, weak, he needs care.
There’s life left in the old boy yet, you know,
they can cope with a lack of hair.
It’s true, that hair’s become thinner
and there are lines on show,
eyebrows are thicker and coarse
and ears continue to grow.
The bones in the face are like carved masks,
etchings splay around the mouth
wrinkles run off lips now lax
and the chin, the chin makes a point, goes south.
Plus, a neck of crepe doesn’t look so great.
A comfort is that so many relate,
and only the lucky get old.
Yes, only the lucky get old.
© Polly Stretton rewritten 2023
Original poem was published in Re-imagining Ageing Lab4Living & Sheffield Library (2022)
Echoes
With acknowledgement to Alan Nicholls
Talking to Alan today in our writing group, we recalled this photo and the poem. It seems incredible that it first made it online in 2016.
Echoes
In the present, from the past,
a voice that echoes,
sayings that last.
Even when the body has gone
what was said will linger on.
‘My mum used to say…’
‘My grannie too…’
‘My dad would have something to say to you.’
In the present, from the past,
a voice that echoes,
echoes last.
Polly Stretton © 2016
Iris
You are a rainbow, a gilded-winged messenger,
a fresh-faced goddess
refilling rain clouds with seawater.
Speed of the wind,
Zephyrus
by your side.
Plunge
into the ocean, dark underworld,
unhindered by the caduceus,
unchecked before sea serpents.
Harpy sister
bring to Zeus the great oath of gods,
Iris, take him your ewer
sweet syrup of nectar.
Swift-footed, sure, storm-like rage
of the messenger bent on your twin.
Your joy flowing from Arke’s wings on Achilles’ heels.
Harbinger of light in a gossamer gown:
ruby red;
organza orange;
yarrow yellow;
gecko green;
byzantine blue;
important indigo;
virtuous violet
—the realm of the rainbow is yours—
always beyond reach.
Growing Places, (Black Pear Press, 2021)
Up the Bridle Path
On my walk today…
empty crushed cartons line the lane,
the wind brings them here to irritate,
drive residents insane.
Cold chip wrappings,
crumpled plastic bottles, soiled crisp bags,
coloured foil, grubby and flapping.
But further on, up the bridle path,
through the crooked gate away from the road,
here are newts, grass snakes, a toad.
Past the marsh bog a vixen appears,
over the mead, to the hedgerow she jogs.
And in the hedge, once the danger has gone,
a rabbit comes nibbling; lollops along.
Buzzards overhead, a pair, no three,
they look at the pheasant,
the rabbit, and me.
The pheasant croaks, cries, as if to warn
the rabbit, who runs through wet grass.
Escape!
A buzzard dives.
© Polly Stretton 2022
Autumn
Winter comes stealthing…it’s 5am dark,
silent and chill; August hangs her red head.
A wet summer trails to an autumn, stark,
the seasons have become confused, misled.
In lightening sky, dark sunfree clouds leer,
the pensive garden, still, holds its slow breath
in blowsy brash overblown garb this year.
Scents of autumn waft a whispered caress,
as songbirds want to wake us earlier
the moon sets in the black night to stir us.
Morning dew drenches noble courtiers,
who with the sovereign sun will shake us.
Cool autumn day you stretch, yawn, sleepy grey,
and we must get up and join in the fray.
© Polly Stretton 2022
Girl’s Got Rhythm, (Black Pear Press, 2012)
Haunting
A gothic tale from ‘The Alchemy of 42’
A Transylvanian melody chimes through the night.
The air is still and warm, there is no trace of light.
He haunts the forest glades and the castle where she lies,
she strains to hear his footsteps, her hopes can’t be disguised,
she knows he’s coming for her, yet no fear shows in her eyes.
She wants to keep this castle, comprehends he can’t resist,
knew it from All Hallows’ when he stole a hard-pressed kiss,
knew it by her father’s pale and trembling lips,
knew it from her mother’s stark forbidding hiss.
She enjoys his sense of style, his dark and brooding brow,
his high and sculpted cheekbones, his skin white-cold, ice-sallow;
in his cape of burnished black, he is the maniac
the villagers with their garlic fear and dread.
She smiles at the thought of the crosses they have wrought
to stop him ascending to her bed.
She discerns her soul will wince when she hears the chimes, since,
when discord climbs the stairs, he’ll try to claim her for his own.
The scent of juniper, aromatic, spiced, sincere,
is the harbinger she’s counted on; dreamt about for years.
A rap upon her door, her pulse races, her mind roars,
she plans to keep this castle and will do evermore.
He leans in close towards her, his cape as soft as zephyrs,
it sweeps her pure white nightgown as he slowly travels down;
his breath, a mist of insight, strokes her furrowed frown.
His teeth glint in the moonlight, from her, he’ll get no swift flight,
she arches, plunges in the knife…
He’ll not take the castle from her, not deny her of her home,
but of one thing she is certain, it won’t be far he’ll roam.
The haunting now commences and continues till the dawn,
she licks her lips: a killing, and legends to be spawned.
Shared with dVerse Poets (2015)
The Alchemy of 42, Black Pear Press (2020)
journalread 