Polly

Writings and Witterings


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Tablet

You put your name on the tablet of time
and wonder where all those years went.
You remember the people you worked alongside
and remember the ones who were spent.
Those wonderful colleagues
who loved what they did,
whatever they did or not.
As good as the last decision they made
as good as their space in the lot.
That space held their name,
they knew they’d arrived,
a company car proved the case.
And the hierarchy said,
let it be known
that weight is on your head.

Polly Robinson © 2014
image


31 Comments

Another Harvest

That very same field
where the field mice played,
the dry scent that itches
nose and face.
That very same field
abundant with hay
that the harvester
primly rolls…
discarding mice and voles
running hither and thither,
a panic of pink paws,
sharp noses twitching,
scrabbling for life.
Freeze!
Watch the blades,
watch them scythe
death.
Scattering bones,
sinew and blood
to fertilise fields
for next year’s brood.

Polly Robinson © 2014

Björn Rudberg is in the chair at dVerse poets pub tonight, talking about harvests.


39 Comments

A Homophonic Translation

This poem is a homophonic translation of the Romanian poem shown below.
hom·o·phon·ic (hm-fnk, hm-)
adj.
1. Having the same sound.
2. Having or characterized by a single melodic line with accompaniment.
(http://www.thefreedictionary.com/homophonic retrieved August 2014)

Aster

Remember the candid face
of aster casual and simple,
white aster strives
near a fiery red temple.

The stamen and the sepal,
the white petal, a pure pearl
seed ready and ripe,
harvest of floral jewel.

Pollen showers over
a pride of triumvate yellow
soon to be finished.
The number one cell.

No sense of cowardice
but brave, courageous, proud.
No comparison,
no pretence, torment, advantage.

Remember the candid face
of aster casual and simple,
white aster strives
near a fiery red temple.

A vision, a longing
laid before auras;
forests of fire,
the flames cleanse.

Polly Robinson © 2014

________

A challenge from Marina Sophia this week at dVerse, she asks us to interpret the Romanian poem below. A little ironic for me as some of my poems were translated into Romanian recently. The one you see above is what occurred to me after trying to read it out loud and failing dismally. I went with what seemed to come out of the shape of the words, something to do with flowers (probably completely off the mark, but we’re promised a translation later!) this was fun — thanks Marina :)

Ne-om aminti cândva târziu
de-aceasta întâmplare simpla,
de-aceasta banca unde stam
tâmpla fierbinte lânga tâmpla.

De pe stamine de alun,
din plopii albi, se cerne jarul.
Orice-nceput se vrea fecund,
risipei se deda Florarul.

Polenul cade peste noi,
în preajma galbene troiene
alcatuieste-n aur fin.
Pe umeri cade-ne si-n gene.

Ne cade-n gura când vorbim,
si-n ochi, când nu gasim cuvântul.
Si nu stim ce pareri de rau
ne tulbura, piezis, avântul.

Ne-om aminti cândva târziu
de-aceasta întâmplare simpla,
de-aceasta banca unde stam
tâmpla fierbinte lânga tâmpla.

Visând, întrezarim prin doruri -
latente-n pulberi aurii –
paduri ce ar putea sa fie
si niciodatã nu vor fi.


23 Comments

Detective – Noir

Hardboiled, cynical,
the dick
believes
in love.
His slinky girl
—in sequins
and seed pearls—
sees
Hardboiled’s away
with the fairies;
the scent
of aftershave
is a dead giveaway.
Fresh shirt;
new jeans;
shaved clean.
She can tell
by the smirk
he’s got another skirt.
Who is she?
Slinky, glitter
tarnished
by what she thinks,
becomes
what he
—has not detected—
suspicious.

Polly Robinson © 2014


27 Comments

The Making

You watch me awhile,
fascinated by the up
down silver flash,
blinking at
the clatter dash
of levers and pulleys
—applied force—
wheel circling,
my foot depressed
to create,
whirring away.
Now you play
with reels building
a tower or making a snake.
Your brothers, all rough
and tumble, disrupt
dust motes of cotton. The snake
becomes a chuffing train
circling the lino at speed
until it breaks apart
and interest is lost.
They go, to leave
just you with me
again, as I
cut, shape, and start
to finish—
whirr,
whirr, whirr—

Polly Robinson © 2014

At dVerse, Gay asked for a poem to our own beat, a poem to represent our personal voice. The Making has been written both for Jo Bell’s 52 and for Gay’s prompt.