Polly

Writings and Witterings


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Tonight! A Perigee Moon – third

For the third time this summer…

Perigee Moon

Fulsome, blowsy
supermoon,
closer to earth,
closer to man,
fuller and fatter
than the seas.

See her grave face
through the lens
of perigee,
think of the aeons
of this moon
and gravity
pulling higher tides.
The aim: diversity.
As the community
makes moon water
an illusury
silver moon hangs.

Polly Robinson © 2014

How to make moon water:

Fill a glass bottle with a sealable lid with pure water on a full moon, new moon, or a moon that looks really different
Bless it with sage leaves to get rid of negative energy
Place it outside for the whole night
Bring it indoors before the sun comes up
Drink it! You could use it for your morning cuppa :)

With acknowledgement to: http://smokinchoices.wordpress.com

With acknowledgement to: http://smokinchoices.wordpress.com


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Volunteers

The Burghers of Calais by Auguste Rodin
The Burghers of Calais by Auguste Rodin

 

Today’s the day,
today’s the day they die.
In every line,
carved anguish
on fine-boned faces,
in bowed heads,
starved slump of shoulders,
nooses around necks,
the way city keys
—clutched—
in hot hands
held against hurting head,
today’s the day.
Today’s the day they die.

Calais besieged,
the envoys’ walk,
sandals tied with string
shuffling through dust,
as grit cuts;
rope pares skin.

Death imminent,
they stumble to the square
as yet unaware,
today, they’ll be saved
by a claim,
an omen,
an infant yet to be born.

Polly Robinson © 2014

For dVerse poets prompt: Rilke was influenced by Rodin when Rilke served as secretary to him. The artist greatly influenced the young poet. Check out Rodin sculptures on the Internet – find one that inspires you and write to it in the above way


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I Have A Lust

Polly:

A new poet to me, here’s a recent post by Tokoni Uti.

Originally posted on Beautiful Insanity:

I have a lust for summer breeze, i have a holiday mind.

Maybe I’m clinging to broken seams, maybe I’m one of a kind.

I can’t tell if this is fates withered hand.

And somewhere beneath the broken trees, i have a paradise land.

View original


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Tablet

You put your name on the tablet of time
and wonder where the 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
the weight is on your head.

Polly Robinson © 2014
image


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Another Harvest

That very same field
where the field mice play,
dry scent that itches
nose and face.
That very same field
abundant with hay
that the harvester
primly rolls…
discarding mice and voles
who run hither and thither,
a panic of pink paws.
Sharp noses twitch
in a scrabble 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.


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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.