Polly

Writings and Witterings


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Tight Bouquet

Autumn (1)

Now, as yesterday’s
tight bouquet
opens and fades,
we are present.

The autumn hips and haws,
once perfect red
almost orbs,
crinkle with small black daubs.

Tomorrow,
lines craze from crinkles,
daubs join in the blot
of relentless rot.

Even yesterday,
the bouquet
was not as tight
as we thought.

Polly Robinson © 2014

A bouquet seen in the corner of my eye put me in mind of yesterday, today and tomorrow, embracing all sorts of connotations—linking this to MarinaSofia’s fab prompt at dVerse poetics—head on over there and post one of your poems.


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Persephone

This is the latest version of my ekphrastic poem about Persephone.

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

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

Persephone

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

Seeds of the fruits
of the field.

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

And Demeter weeps.

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

Persephone
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.

Death
is not evil
’tis a cycle
for good.

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

Polly Robinson © 2014

Featured Image -- 11285


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30 Copies Sold On First Day? Sweet!

Polly:

Delighted to see that ‘The Wait’ anthology is out – one of my poems in this publication – for the best of causes, cancer research.

Originally posted on The Wait Poetry Anthology:

Extra extra, read all about it – the book of poems you wonderful poets or poetry enthusiasts bought or contributed to sold 30 copies on the first day. 

View original 101 more words


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Yummy Mummy

Yummy mummy sitting
in a traffic queue;
child’s hands over ears,
and tell me who
wouldn’t cover eardrums
when the car is jumpin’,
reverbs echoin’,
tyres and chassis bumpin’.
Poor little kid,
her ears bleedin’.
Poor, poor mama,
she’s not heedin’
the needs of her kid,
she wants to be funky
with her white blonde hair
and her music sundry.
Of course, it’s hip-hop,
or call it what they may,
this was what hit me
on a walk today.

Polly Robinson © 2014

Yummy Mummy car Acknowledgements to stevenjones.blogspot.com

Yummy Mummy car with acknowledgement to stevenjones.blogspot.com

Yummy Mummy www.iwantthatsign.com

Yummy Mummy with acknowledgement to www.iwantthatsign.com


60 Comments

Great

War…nothing great about it.
Great smokes. Great blokes
smile as they march to fight,
wave for the cameras;
excited, naive,
their stomachs heave.
Marching, marching.

War…nothing great about it.
Great coats, great jokes,
the loss of great folks.
Figures
on a sheet.
Telegrams neat.
Marching, marching.

War…nothing great about it.
Divide and conquer, divide the spoils,
divide the family, divide the nation.
Women thrust white feathers
at those who do not fight.
Boots unfit for purpose
—our boys’ plight.

Polly Robinson © 2014

For MarinaSofia’s prompt at dVerse Poets Open Link Night

Keeper of Keys – Brooke Shaden


55 Comments

Open Door

Keeper of Keys – Brooke Shaden

Keeper of Keys – Brooke Shaden

The keeper of the keys
to worlds we wish we could live in,
where secrets float,
where the impossible becomes possible.
Everyone has a story to tell,
something on their mind.
There’s a light
to show the way
on the bleak bare shore
of existence.

Polly Robinson © 2014

Written to dVerse poets prompt by Grace, who features the photography of Brooke Shaden


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Autumn Equinox

The Welsh God, Mabon, celebrates
when day is equal to night.
Days grow darker,
nights grow longer
the sun’s power dies away.
Vermillion leaves yellow and fade
to amber.
Soak the leaves with paraffin,
inscribe with runes
-set them alight-

Dusk burns
with meadowsweet and myrrh.
Heavy vines, hefted by marching men
soft through town.
The harvest moon illumines
the harvesters’ way
to plentiful bread
and wine, carmine red.

‘Here’s to us and times a’plenty’.

Apple cider cinnamon days,
icy grey pale whey days
to All Hallows’ plight
eating soul cake through the night.
November comes,
gives way to spring,
when young
replenishes old,
the moon will rise twice and more
before…

Polly Robinson © 2014