Polly

Writings and Witterings


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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!


38 Comments

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


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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!


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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


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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


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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