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



I’ve revised one of my favourite poems, first written in 2011 this is the latest version.

My Sweet Rose (or The Soul of the Rose) John William Waterhouse

My Sweet Rose (or The Soul of the Rose)
John William Waterhouse


Radiant beauty,
goddess of the spring,
scent of the rose
against your brow’s wing;
fertile maid of life… and of death.

She meanders in meadows
of fragrant flowers,
roses, violets, hyacinths in bowers.
She’s seized, snatched,
carried off;
stolen by Hades
in a golden

And Demeter weeps.

Odysseus at the House of Death
sees a wraith
to make one ache.

becomes the curse of dead souls.
Men distrust her six months here,
six months there.

It is said:
“This is no deception sent by Queen Persephone,
this is the way of mortals when we die.”

Feel the horror queen’s light breath.

But wait!
A kindness yet,
to let the souls return.

Springtime Goddess of Rebirth -
mystery initiations -
sudden depressions give way to the mysteries,
a better life,
a different fate after death.

Repeat to the beginning,
seeds of the fruits
of the field.
All shall return.

She is the painted winecup,
she is: life and death,
wife, daughter,
innocence, wisdom,
death and rebirth.

And she stole the beautiful Adonis!
Oh yes!  A psychopomp…
with pomegranate seeds

and blessings
for wisdom and tranquillity.

is not evil
’tis a cycle
for good.

Polly Robinson © 2014



Frost surprises
on fewer mornings
beneath the clearest blue sky.
A mirror to springtime
in a slew of white
feathered streaks.

The birds cheep, excited,
trees are in bud; sticky buds
give way to unfurling green.
Cyclamen leaves peek.

The lambs shout to their ma’s,
and soft, soft, the
wood pigeon coos.

Oh, and the daffodils,
the daffodils,
the glorious yellow trumpeting

As my tea steams
in the chill morning air,
I look around
and beam,
at work
to begin.


Polly Robinson © 2014

Photo from imagerail.com

Photo from imagerail.com


Flaxy Wings

Sprout wings, flaxy wings,
sparkle in the sunshine wings,
taut tensile gossamer
gentle and edged in springtime green.

Then, fly from hilltop
to hilltop marking
wayside stones and bones;
flit through tall and towering trees,
as a fresh damply morning
chuckles the nose.

The dew glints
as we skim archaic tracks.

Polly Robinson © 2014

dewy grass


Love Bites

I had to be an optimist
happy through and through
to perpetually smile
and swing along with you
what times we had
some good times glowing bright and new
remnant embers shining
with sultry amber hue.

Remember the embers?
the soft and sultry glow?
Now crunch along life’s ashy path
mind how the cinders blow
they’ll cut your eyes and make them bleed
for love has teeth that bite
these wounds will never ever heal
there are no words to help congeal
or close those cold love bites.

Polly Robinson © 1989

Published in On the Words of Love (Brian Wrixton & Poets with Voices Strong, 2012)


Saint Patrick

On St Patrick’s Day – a poem for Mike and all my Irish friends.

shamrockSaint Patrick

Calpurnius and Conchessa
had a little boy
who was captured
aged just fourteen.
They took him to Ireland
to herd and tend sheep
in a land of Druids and pagans.

He prayed hundreds of prayers
’til a voice said to him,
‘Go to the coast, my son.’
He found sailors
who let him board their ship
a man returned
to his Scottish home.

But he dreamt of Ireland
the people there called,
‘We beg you to come back to us.’

Ordained a bishop
he went back to Slane,
travelled all Ireland,
did his best to explain
the trinity
through the shamrock.
His stick grew into a tree.
‘Tis said snakes were banished by he.

Polly Robinson © 2014


The Journey

Riding from far North they came
through snow and sleet and sheeting rain.
Ice formed behind them, frosted, cracked
red dragon scales, in parts, looked blacked.
On wings sheer clipped, their fire breath quenched,
onward, moving South, they went.

Flying ahead of the sunset West:
werewolves; sprites in fiery vests;
pixies pointing ears to learn
where coal black jackdaws crash and burn.
There is no place to hide.

Then from the sunrise in the East
the faerie queen on bounding beast
the size of which sees grown elves weep.
They hear her voice so light (though deep)
control the slavering ride.

Inch by inch from the dry drought South
carrying dead sheep in its mouth
the Kraken, skin scabbed, wracked and ripped
scouts for the havering hare who nips
at the frail fingers of sylvan wamblers.

Polly Robinson © 2014


Not Guilty

There are no guilty men in gaol,
they are misunderstood; we fail
to comprehend what they’re going through,
to see them as the same as me and you.
We can’t imagine why they strayed,
they say, quote, ‘I didn’t stray at all.’
No owning the error of their ways,
to them we live mid a cloudy pall.
These innocents have done no wrong
there are reasons for what they had to do.
We others are simply out of step,
all they wanted
was a room with a view.
There are no guilty men in gaol.

Polly Robinson © 2014

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Rotary District 1100 Conference 2014

District Governor Jan Harris held an outstanding conference in Bournemouth last weekend. I was privileged to be asked to co-host the ‘Oscars’ evening, when Jan acknowledged district members who have worked so hard with her throughout the Rotary year.

We had a fabulous evening, and as you can see, I was surrounded by handsome men – Oscar and Oliver ;)



Girl’s Got Rhythm – have you got yours yet?

Spring is here and my first collection of poetry, Girl’s Got Rhythm, starts with a Triversan about lambs, they’re so lovely.

It’s even easier to get your copy now. Just use the PayPal button and it will be put in the post the very next day. Hope you enjoy it.

btn_buynowCC_LGAlso available via Amazon. Print version. eBook.

Girl's Got Rhythm Front Cover



I am solo
yet one of two
I am separate
yet one of four
I am individual
yet one of sixty-three
I am unique
yet one of ninety-four thousand
I am different
yet one of sixty-two million three hundred thousand
I am inimitable
yet one of seven billion
‘No man is an island’*
I am me

*John Donne (1572-1631)


Polly Robinson © 2014