Chilled window glass
frozen grass
glitter in the aftermath
a smatter of snowy crush
ice sparkle blossom blush
in the dawn a silver flush
of sequin stars on blades in yards
cobwebbed bushes on boulevards
listen to the birds.
Polly Stretton © 2021
Acknowledgement to http://www.deviantart.com
A fascinating and fun hour on Brum Radio with Rick Sanders aka Willis the Poet, and Sam J. Grudgings 😄
I’m sure there’s a better way to do this (!) but click on an audio file by MixCloud here.
Pale Horse was one of two poems that were part of the Worcestershire Poet Laureate Nina Lewis’s project back in 2018 when she asked poets in Worcester UK and Worcester USA to collaborate in a Call and Response project. To see the poems that were published, click on the image below:
I was lucky to have been paired with Beth Sweeney from the States. We got on well and came up with four poems that we were both proud of 😄
NB: The Next of Kin Memorial Plaque is a bronze plaque known as the dead man’s penny. They were issued to the next of kin of those who died serving in WWI, nearly a million individuals. Only 600 if those plaques were issued to women who died.
Heels down. Head up. Look
where you’re going.
Go to a place
where you can hear your heart;
listen to the beat,
forget the drub of a thousand pale hooves
and the horsemen of the apocalypse.
We rise and fall together.
Grandma had a penny to remember you,
a bronze memory she Brassoed weekly,
cast in physical prowess, spiritual power,
in devotion to the triumph of good,
Britannia faces left, holds a laurel wreath,
there’s a box beneath, holding your name in raised relief,
and you, a man of miracles.
We rise and fall together.
A circular coin made whole, inscribed:
‘He died for freedom and honour’.
You are a man, who has gone,
yet nonetheless lives.
Your Penelope still waits.
Put the littered marshy slew behind you,
put it behind you.
We will start again.
Go to a place
where you can hear your heart;
listen to the beat.
No pale horse snickers,
no harbinger rides quicker,
no more horseshoes, trench fever, heat.
We sleep.
We rise and fall together.
Polly Stretton © 2018
Published in Contour WPL Magazine Issue 3 https://issuu.com/ninalewis3/docs/special_edition_contour_atotc_issue by
the 2017-2018 Worcestershire Poet Laureate Nina Lewis for her call and response project: A Tale of Two Cities
in Openings 36 the annual anthology of the Open University Poetry Society
and in Growing Places (Black Pear Press, 2021)
Here is an audio recording of the poem.
On a bleak November day, here’s an Englyn–a Welsh poetry form–from my very first collection of poetry Girls Got Rhythm to remind us that spring will come along soon…😄
Boxing, racy, hatted hare, mad in March, much startled air. Take care! Long ears and nostrils full flare, strong limbs, swift, free, outrun scare. Polly Stretton © (Girl's Got Rhythm, Black Pear Press, 2012)
Just to clarify, for the purists out there, this is an Englyn unodl union. The straight one-rhymed englyn. This englyn form (there are at least eight different versions) consists of four lines of ten, six, seven and seven syllables. The seventh, eighth or ninth syllable of the first line introduces the rhyme and this is repeated on the last syllable of the other three lines. The last syllable of the first line is rhymed with a syllable early in the second.
I drift, a dandelion clock
breathing through sunlight,
waving to daisies,
my elderflower years have begun.
Once, there were duster yellow petals,
green leaves shiny and new,
when I had you.
Seasons change.
Polly Stretton © 2021
For National Poetry Day 2021, a poem from my recent collection.
‘Letter Writing in the Moonlight’ was written for the Worcestershire Poet Laureate Nina Lewis’s 2017 project ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ in which Worcester UK poets were matched with Worcester USA poets and created ‘call and response’ poems.
Letter Writing in the Moonlight
Beneath the apple tree
all is still.
Night, as dark as her lover,
veils the lush grass;
bramble and thistle
scratch, inscribe the ground.
A mist hovers,
loathe to leave the river,
low down in the depths of the garden
where mud oozes
and the odour of damp
settles.
The bench is warm,
as graffitied as her heart.
Love holds her
like the mist—all pervasive—
toads and crickets mock,
‘Write’.
A moonbeam strikes
through cloud.
Clouds steal onwards
and soon the lawn
is shown in a puddle of silver light.
She puts pen to paper.
From Growing Places (Black Pear Press, 2021)
It’s always good to see a review from over the pond, and extra special when it’s a friend well met years ago when I first started posting my poetry online. This review for Growing Places is from Carrie Rubin, who’s just published the third in her Benjamin Oris series about a man of science who faces otherworldly situations, The Bone Elixir, read all three, they’re great reads.
So good to see other reviews of Growing Places coming through, the latest from “Mad Hatter Reviews” written by Beth O’Brien, you can see it below.
Hot on the heels of Carrie’s review came another, this one from the fabulous Beth O’Brien for Mad Hatter Reviews. Here’s an extract from Beth’s review of Growing Places:
“From the child’s understanding of her parents, to the closeness of two sisters, the poems establish a firm ground of loyalty. ‘Her girls’ is one of my favourite poems of the collection, which opens with the lines ‘We do not share blood, / we share memories’. These memories are of an inseparable nature, of makeup experiments and the ‘hottest, burniest’ holidays. Stretton’s poetry seems to speak delight from the page, the short lines and rhymes making it a joy to read as well as feel.
“Of course, place is very important in this collection, which is divided into sections accordingly. As part one, ‘Malvern’ moves to part two, ‘Malvern Hills’ we escape into nature, silence, slopes, and echoes. The short poems in this section are like bursts of memory, contained like ‘Moonlight in Jars’, held up one by one to show off something else that is beautiful.” Read Beth’s full review here.
Many thanks to all who came along to the Zoom launch of Growing Places. It was a delightful afternoon with Tony Judge also launching his children’s book Lost.
Growing Places is finding its own place in the world and it’s been wonderful to receive comments and reviews. The latest to arrive is from Neil Leadbeater on behalf of Write Out Loud.
As one with complete belief in life long learning, I’m thrilled to sixpence with Neil’s review, he read and understood the poems—total comprehension that is a joy to see. He says, “Stretton writes that this collection is a sequence of poems where she grew. Interestingly, she chooses to settle for “grew” rather than “grew up” because these are not only the places where she grew up but they are also turning points, places real or imaginary, where the process of growing never ends.” He concludes, “Reading this collection I was struck by Stretton’s lightness of touch, rhythmic vitality, sense of humour, and ability to make even the most domestic of scenes come to life. Her subjects are imbued with a magical quality—“faerie folk” catching “moonlight in jars”, goddesses like Amphitrite, the majesty of the Malverns and the wisdom of trees. This is a collection that really sings. Fully recommended.” The full review can be read here.
A huge thank you to Neil. I hope that you will read his review and get your own copy of Growing Places from Black Pear Press.
I’m getting more apprehensive / excited with each passing day! It’s the launch of ‘Growing Places’ at 4pm GMT on Sunday 22 August, a joint book launch with Tony Judge who’s launching his children’s book ‘Lost’. You’re invited to come along and can find the link to the online event by clicking here on the day.
I’m delighted to say that Charley Barnes and Nigel Kent will be my guests and Tony has guests too, plus there will be Q&A sessions.
If you’d like to pre-order one or both of these beautiful books, go to: Black Pear Press where you can save a little on P&P by ordering both books together.
Hope to see you on Sunday 😄
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.
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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 😄
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)
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
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
😘
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
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
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
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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