Polly

Writings and Witterings


18 Comments

Amazing Haze

Shimmering, shivering, a fast-flowing river
of seedheads shine silver, purple;
the breeze blows hither and thither,
on seeds like souls who think they’ll go through purgatory
travelling from life to heaven or hell.
Be good, be extraordinary.

Polly Robinson © 2014

By uphilldowndale.wordpress.com

By uphilldowndale.wordpress.com


23 Comments

Mañana Seaside Days

An Anaphoric and Ekphrastic poem – painting by contemporary impressionist artist Leslie Stones.

 

Searching the Rock Pools Leslie Stones (www.lesliestones.co.uk)

Searching the Rock Pools Leslie Stones (www.lesliestones.co.uk)

Mañana Seaside Days

Seaside siblings and a crèche of cousins,
deckchair damsels dashing hopes of dozens,
countless crabby tickled toes a’paddling,

rock pools – splash! – soft sands in sunlight dazzling.
Scabby shins sprawl sandily, stickily,
toes touch, tease towel tents, torment trickily,

lulling listening, laughs linger lacily,
sunshine shimmers on sunhats racily,
gulls’ wings sigh while seashells gleam and glitter.

Seaside sunny days, hot, sparkling sitters.
Slosh, slosh shallows; shush shushing shingle hosts
mañana seaside days at Cornish coast.

 

Polly Robinson © 2012

Published in Girl’s Got Rhythm 2012 and 2014


13 Comments

Midsummer Solstice

by Io Osborn

by Io Osborn

She is Thalia, reads to Gaia, gestures,
rests on rock in sun on the windborne scent
of wild thyme, her shadow caught by Io.
Crags millions of years old
age around a smooth edged cave
carved out by man.
There was once a hawthorn tree called
‘Wishing Tree’ where the children danced
as a hermit bathed in a well to cure
his sore eyes.
A ravine, against the roots of an old
crabapple, holds a huge block of syenite,
said to be a site of rites.
All this she knows as she reads of swifts
swooping and dancing, sees eyes close
romancing and glancing at words
to celebrate the place in which they stay.
It’s midsummer – summer solstice.

Polly Robinson © 2013

This poem celebrates the solstice and was written following the Malvern Hills Midsummer Walk last year. This year we had a fabulous Midnight Moonlight Solstice Walk. In good company, we heard what we think were probably tawny owlets calling, saw glow worms, saw stars and were advised on the constellations by an expert in our midst (!) welcomed the solstice, drank wine, heard poetry and had a lovely time.


9 Comments

Mechanic Leigh Print Version on Amazon

Originally posted on Written Words Never Die:

I’m happy to announce that Mechanic Leigh, paperback, is now available from Amazon. Please click on image for Amazon USA:

Mechanic Leigh full cover_JPEG

Click here for Amazon UK

The back cover contains eight (8) comments, a small selection from the many supporters of Mechanic Leigh. I reproduce these comments below:

I enjoy your Mechanic Leigh stories. The info on Singapore, the language and the cultural info wrapped in a clever and enjoyable prose – Stephen Baum, California, USA

Loved it as it took me back to my evil teen years – Ian Grice, Queensland, Australia

This whole saga of Mechanic Leigh is so beautifully written – Soma Mukherjee, New Delhi, India

I really enjoyed these Mechanic Leigh stories – Melissa Perera, Maryland, USA

Eric is a living testimony to the belief that if we write from the heart, we will touch other hearts – Jane Thorne, Buckinghamshire, UK

The characters are funny and…

View original 116 more words


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The Tale of the 6th Earl’s Wife

After Francis Cotes (1726-1770) Portrait of Maria Gunning, Countess of Coventry (1733-1760), Wife of the 6th Earl, after 1751

After Francis Cotes (1726-1770)
Portrait of Maria Gunning, Countess of Coventry (1733-1760), Wife of the 6th Earl, after 1751

The Tale of the 6th Earl’s Wife

Fragile rose silk, dainty,
pirouetted the ballroom floor,
her dance card was full and busy
the instant she walked through the door.

One, named George, paid attention,
thought her beauty beyond compare.
She blushed, her eyes on her pink ribboned shoes.
He swore that all dances they’d share.

The chandeliers shone and glittered,
brave smiling faces glowed,
young men in scarlet jackets and wigs,
young women’s dreams overflowed.

Croome, the seat of the Coventry’s
basked in the afternoon sun,
as Maria arrived in a carriage,
before the ball had begun.

Her dancing slippers were wrapped
in tissue, held in a frame,
she removed them from her valise.
Maria Gunning was her name.

The chandeliers shone and glittered,
brave smiling faces glowed,
young men in scarlet jackets and wigs,
young women’s dreams overflowed.

Her heart skipped and leapt
as she thought of her Earl;
of scarlet and black velvet bows.
He was darkly handsome, she a vain young girl.

When he came her way, she was queen for a day,
to become his Countess before long.
Pearls in hair, rose pink shoes on feet,
her celebrity fêted in song.

The chandeliers shone and glittered,
brave smiling faces glowed,
young men in scarlet jackets and wigs,
young women’s dreams overflowed.

At the height of the Georgian era
a lucent, whirlwind romance,
they were together for only 8 years,
that ball was a grand place to dance.

His black buckled shoes on the marbled floor
with the pink, the two made one whole.
‘Tis said it was all in the detail,
and they were soul to sole.

Why together no longer?
The tale is tragic to tell,
a lead based white face powder
sounded Maria’s death knell.

The chandeliers shone and glittered,
brave smiling faces glowed,
young men in scarlet jackets and wigs,
young women’s dreams overflowed.

Polly Robinson © 2014

For those who are interested in finding out more about Maria Gunning and her life, here’s a link to the main Croome site: Croome Court, Worcestershire

Adiós for now, dear friends, I’m off to help with Worcestershire Literary Festival for the next 10 days. Hope to see some of you there. If you’ve not heard about it, click the link: LitFest and get in the know!

Posted on dVerse Poets ‘Meeting the Bar’


60 Comments

Dream On

Oh! I dream of the day I have my own home
maybe thatched, with roses around the door.
It’s up a sandy, sheltered lane, with a path of loam
soft under my naked feet: a yielding, moving floor.

I have time to write, I have time to stare,
no demands and no choices to make.
Time for nothing, to go nowhere.
No emails, no letters, no time for fakes.

I think of what I have now,
and will let go for my dreams of the future.
A home of my own, a salve to my brow.
It’s a long time coming; I’m not a trooper.
I’m waiting to move, and how.

I don’t wish to journey my life away,
to a place I see in my dreams.
The place I’ll call home is where friends can stay.
It’s the place I’ll return to wherever I roam.
My home, my soon to be, home.

Polly Robinson © 2014

In response to Abhra’s prompt in dVerse poets today – visit them, you will be glad you have.