Polly

Writings and Witterings


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Advantage

I took advantage of everywhere being in chaos as the new kitchen is fitted and also of the unseasonable weather. Out to do some work in the garden. I got prepared:

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and then started on a sorry looking lonicera…

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Happy days 😆

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Lamb

My favourite springtime poem, published in Girl’s Got Rhythm: Lamb

Lamb

At the start of spring sunshine
in May, a clamour occurs,
an ignominious din.

She sees the lambs born
on a cool summer 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 © 2012

For those interested in form in poetry, this is a Triversen which is described as:

The rhythm of normal speech, employing 1 to 4 strong stresses per line.

Stanzaic  Written in any number of tercets. Each tercet is one sentence, a kind of natural breath.

Grammatical  There should be 3 lines. L1 is a statement of fact or observation, L2 and L3 should set the tone, imply a condition or associated idea, or carry a metaphor for the original statement.

Alliteration contributes to stress.

Other ‘rules’ found on the internet:

Triversen:

Each stanza equals one sentence.

Each sentence/stanza breaks into 3 lines (each line is a separate phrase in the sentence).

There is a variable foot of 2-4 beats per line.

The poem as a whole should add up to 18 lines (or 6 stanzas). As you’ll see, I did not heed this rule, the poem seemed complete to me after just 4 stanzas 🙂


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The Poacher And The Hare


A witch astride her besom
is flying wide and high,
her cape flaps all about her
as she travels through the sky.
Her hair is black as coal dust,
she peers through one good eye,
as people far below her
look up, stupefied.

The final day of February,
beneath a wintery sky,
we find the local poacher
catching rabbits on the fly.
He is no big brave soldier
just needs some food to eat
before the world gets colder,
a stew will be a treat.

The witch sees him beneath her,
his gun slung o’er his arm,
she takes her eye out, polishes,
puts it back, still warm.
With clarity of vision
she sees a running hare
close enough for him to shoot,
she shouts out, ‘Run! Beware!’

The poacher takes exception
‘My supper’ he exclaims,
‘You’ve done me out of meat tonight,
‘for shame, old witch, for shame.’
‘Don’t you shame me, soldier,’
the witch forthright declaims,
‘That hare is running wild and free
’tis you should feel the shame.’

Polly Stretton © 2019



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This is the state…

…of my kitchen. It’s a galley kitchen, so you’d think it wouldn’t take much ‘designing’, but, because of alcoves, butchers block etc, it has taken some arranging. The new one should arrive in February. I – can’t – wait. 😄🤣

Kitchen January 2019


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No Small Trifle

T’was the night before Christmas
and, in our house
nothing was stirring,
no rat, bat or mouse,
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
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.
Christmas memories of bygone years,
look to the future,
enjoy a few beers.

Polly Stretton © 2018


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Finger Lickin’ Hallowe’en

Old-fashioned sweets

Finger Lickin’ Hallowe’en

My favourites came in cubes:
Pineapple, Kola,
and other boiled sweets
like toffee crunch
loose in quarters,
weighed out from glass jars
lining the sweet shop shelves.
Square quarter bags
and two ounce triangular paper cones;
right at the base,
where small fingers could firkle,
there lay the sugar
and slivers of sweets,
a delight on the fingertip,
on the tongue.
A memory so sweet
it makes the mouth water,
has lasted as long
as sherbet fountains
and liquorice sticks,
gob stoppers and bubble gum.
And Hallowe’en
brought cinder toffee
and Blackjacks
to stain your tongue.

Polly Stretton © 2013

Published by Silver Birch Press ‘MY SWEET WORD’ Series: Halloween Edition (2013)


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The Black Bridge—Coeur Noir

Coeur Noir

Shabby pile of bones
under a black bridge.
You were found out;
talked to the hawk,
or a murder of crows.

The shapes in white body suits,
blue overshoes,
said ‘unmistakable odour,’
‘caustic’ was overheard;
forensics disclosed
burned flesh.

Maybe your first,
who found you
in flagrante,
set you up,
or the second, the witness,
incredulous,
who could not bear
to believe.

Selfish, faithless,
you are alone.
The black bridge won’t help,
it mocks;
celebrates bones,
Coeur Noir,
parched bones,
bones never to be grieved,
beneath the bridge.

Polly Stretton © 2018