Writings and Witterings



‘Oi! You! Stop right there!’
Sunday shoppers stop and stare
at a white-haired chap
with a ruddy red face
trotting down the car park
making haste.
‘You’re stressed mate,’
slurs a long-haired yob, sipping
from a bottle
– no wine glass, no job –
totally indifferent
to a coming heart attack,
as the old guy gets redder
and the woman shouted at
opens up her car
to ‘…mine, give it back!’
The old guy’s nearly caught her,
still everybody stares,
she’s now moving bags,
gives the old bloke a glare.
He’s heaving breaths in whistling whoops,
pointing at a gold thing, trying to regroup;
with his finger he indicates
the supermarket trolley
‘I asked you to stop,’ he wheezes
‘That’s my Yale key!’

Polly Robinson © 2014

At writing group today we were asked to write about a: Yale key / supermarket trolley / bad-tempered senior citizen / stress / wine glass / indifference – funny what you get from a prompt ;)


Downcast In Rain

Outcast by default
downcast in rain
outlasts the downdraft
’til sun comes again
seeking somersaults
thunderbolts insane.
A waft, a massed draught
from underground drains
pine edges a sniff, exhorts
droplets of veins
that are caught
‘twixt a mane of hair and a skein
twisting thither, shares vaults
sips dry champagne.

Polly Robinson © 2014

To a prompt from my writing group – a touch of the surreal never goes amiss!


The Bruised and Quiet Wardrobe

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, MarinaSofia is urging fellow poets to let go of abstract concepts and describe things as concretely as possible in a poem combining household objects and adjectives describing emotions or feelings.

The Bruised and Quiet Wardrobe

She comes in the morning,
gives me no warning,
flings my doors forward,
flicks through my frocks.
I’m black and blue
by the time
she has finished
grabbing at garments,
cussing my locks.
I stand here, static,
utterly frozen,
quite unable to rage or rant.
Soon she’s beaming,
happy she’s chosen,
at long last, a woven shirt
brief and scant.
I’ll sit here, static,
’til she needs me again,
looks in my mirror
head cocked and then
gets out a million and one
different outfits,
bed and floor strewn
’til the room is shrouded
with dresses and dirndl skirts,
trousers and blouses.
I’m bruised but quiet,
I am black,
I am blue,
but I’m good,
I am wood
and I know what I do.

Polly Robinson © 2014


Old Woman

With acknowledgement to Alan Nicholls

Acknowledgements to Alan Nicholls

Old Woman

We look at the photo and what do we see?
Pale faded blue eyes staring back vapidly.
Who are you old woman and why do you stare?
What book do you read propped on table so fair?
Your dark gown and bolero, white lace ‘neath your chin
are good clues for us of the times you lived in.
The tapestry chair with dark criss-crossed legs
contrasts with the net ribboned hat on your head.
Who are you old woman and why do you stare?

Polly Robinson © 2014

At one of my regular writing groups, Alan Nicholls, the group leader, brought in a pile of old photographs and challenged us to write something about one of them – this poem is the resulting ekphrastic piece. Evidently, the answer to the question is that it took so long in those days to take the photo that she’d probably been holding the pose for quite a while!


Stockings In The Larder

I’m stocking up the larder
I’m stocking up with food
I’m stocking up for winter
and that’s my attitude!

Whatever I am stocking
with Christmas on the way,
don’t you lot start a’mocking
I’ll be ready for the day!

Polly Robinson © 2014

Christmas pud_edited-1


Bear – A Found Poem

Rancid bear lingers
with Woodbine’s glow,
the ginnels of grim,
a guess, a no show.

The stink of cheap scent,
acrid smoke stains the ceiling,
mortal man shuffles bent
from six summer’s tunnelling.

Foundations rock
to their weighted layers,
our hero, stunned, shocked
a reluctant nay-sayer.

Pissed again on unoaked whiskey
still warm from the last roaring day.
No sleep, no bedrock, all too risky.
Fail as the sun fades away
to butter on the tongue.

Polly Robinson © 2014

This poem was found during a workshop exercise where we worked on descent and dissent at the OU Poets weekend in Devon. I think it fits well with the prompt from Anthony Desmond over at dVerse poets – take a look and join in…


My Gift

Jenny gave it to me in ’73,
Lauder’s parfum solidifié,
a cameo lid, carved and proud,
a Grecian face, raised, endowed
with curls and plaits in ivory,
on terracotta,
scent set in finely-etched gold.
Jenny gave it to me.

Fast forward to 2013, a bad year,
when that thing happened
that all of us fear,
Jenny, my friend,
she lost, she went.
I don’t forget her,
still use
the same scent.

Polly Robinson © 2014