Writings and Witterings



They hum in my head
I snatch to catch winging words
Bumblebees buzzing



To celebrate a blogging friend’s 500 followers in just one year – here is a short poem for the highly recommended ‘Through My Eyes.’


Surfers Paradise on the Gold Coast
an hour away from Brisbane at most,
where buildings pictured from the 19th floor
shine sapphire, emerald, topaz and more,
like they’re bedecked with jewels.
And Norma, good pupil,
practises night photography.

Polly Robinson © 2014



Living Library

Thought you might like to see a couple of the letters I received from young people I spent time with in a Living Library; so thrilling to receive – such polite youngsters, great to talk to and a credit to their school.

I especially like that they felt inspired to write a lovely poem, how humbling, and what a smashing poem. It’s good to see that they found new words. And don’t you just love the way the one says ‘ you may or may not have heard of this book’: The Odyssey :)

Letter Living Lib 1 Letter Living Lib 2Polly at Living Library


He Calls – Hunter’s Moon

Tomorrow, Tuesday 15 April, is a full moon. It may present as a Blood Moon otherwise called the Hunter’s Moon. Worth taking a look..?

He Calls – Hunter’s Moon

The temperature rises,
crows caw, ground thaws, the moon is full.
The Blood Moon of spring.

A bark.
He calls.

Filthy, dripping teeth.
Werewolves change form beneath
the Hunter’s Moon of spring.

Eyebrows meet at the bridge of his nose,
he grows bristles under his tongue.
No tail, swinging stride, a gaze to paralyse.

He strips off his clothes, his man clothes,
piles them by the roadside,
pees around them in a circle,
satisfied, he turns, howls, bounds to the woods.
Tears the flesh from recently interred cadavers,
drinks the blood of wounded soldiers.

He’s a corpse returned
from the grave
to fornicate.

She’s out all night. Doors and locks
spring open at her approach.
Wolf-women acquire

a dreadful desire for human flesh,
devour their own children
and those of others.

Strength, speed, stealth… shy, sly killers,
cochineal eyes,
bloodied teeth.

Watch out!
Silver tipped canes
create bubbling burns,
that make them yearn
for the silver bullet to the brain.

It’s merely a myth, simply a shape shift,
a bite, a scratch,
from one transformed…

A bark.
He calls.

Hide your babies,
Lycaon serves human flesh
To Zeus.

Polly Robinson © 2014

‘Experts predict that the moon will glow an eerie red-orange shade, a phenomenon astronomers call a “blood moon” or “hunter’s moon.”

‘The colour is caused by the light from sunsets and sunrises glinting off the surface of the Earth. As sun light bends around outer edges of the planet, the light beams into the Earth’s shadow, transforming the Moon into a rust-coloured orb. The effect is similar to that of the sun turning the clouds red or pink during a sunrise or sunset.’




The twisted old tree
at the foot
of the garden
is really my grandfather.

His timepiece in the hall
ticks off the days,
clay pipe on the mantle shelf
mouths his ways.

Boots on the gravel
lead to the door,
stamp on the doormat
same as before,

rocking chair creaks
in time with soft chimes,
wisps of smoke
evoke, cloak, smile at the joke.

Polly Robinson © 2014


No Creosote

In the potting shed
the scent of ancient creosote
wafts in heavy summer heat.
Years of grandpa, pipe in mouth,
leaning against the wall as
grandma wielded the black
brush and yelled,

‘get back you

followed by her gap-tooth grin.
She lives within the still-
standing walls …
no creosote


Polly Robinson © 2014

Potting shed