Writings and Witterings


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


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


Yummy Mummy

Yummy mummy sitting
in a traffic queue;
child’s hands over ears.
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 skunky.
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


In the Dark of the Moon

A reviewed version from the dark side for dVerse poets 2nd anniversary, where Tony Maude asked us to write to a previous prompt we missed. Sadly, I was too late to join in the dVerse fun … hey-ho! Here it is anyway:

A dark tale of the waning gibbous moon,
the one that lurks in the darkness tonight.
Brow louring, eyes glowering,
glittering red pinpricks emit from the pits;
the pity of the city wrapped in
the evanescence of the smile
it smirks
at those who lurk

They that shirk light on the earth,
in the shadow of moonshine,
that work to earn
a place in noir histoire.
They that taunt and haunt the
crooks of alleys, capes folded, who
lay in wait for those with stumbling gait,
who’ve imbibed a jar
or two …

They wait with needles,
keen sharp knives,
those who shiver and shrive themselves
to the priest
of the dark; who leave their mark,
a fusty tang, a taint of dung, blood-letters who
think of mortality only
as banality, forgetting that death
comes to all, and it’s only
a fall away.

Polly Robinson © 2013

20110718 Waning Gibbous Moon

20110718 Waning Gibbous Moon (Photo credit: Degilbo on flickr)