Polly

Writings and Witterings


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Kyrielle ~ Tartiflette

English: Reblochon is a French cow's-milk labe...

English: Reblochon is a French cow’s-milk labelled Protected Designation of Origin (PDO) cheese, made in the Alps region of Haute-Savoie and Savoie.

He can get but one Reblochon,
(I’d better not go on and on),
We really need two. But you know
How it is, I must adapt so …

An extra recipe, I read,
So our guests won’t be underfed (!)
He can get but one Reblochon
And we really need at least two.

He can get but one Reblochon
And we really need at least two
A hasty casserole will fill
Up the hole. Inspiration, phew!

An evening of expectation,
Thank goodness for inspiration.
He could get but one Reblochon
And we really need at least two.

Casserole

Casserole (Photo credit: el_floz)

Tartiflette, a french dish with a cheese named...

Tartiflette, a french dish with a cheese named Reblochon. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

According to Catherine Wilson, writing in 2003, ‘The Kyrielle was once a very popular poetic form originating in France and dating back to the Middle Ages. In this poetry form, couplets are often paired in quatrains and are characterised by a refrain that is sometimes a single word and sometimes the full second line of the couplet or the full fourth line of the quatrain. Each line within the poem consists of only eight syllables. There is no limit to the number of stanzas a Kyrielle may have, but three is considered the accepted minimum.The name kyrielle derives from the Kýrie. Gay Reiser Cannon at dVerse poets agrees with this description and sums it up in this way:

‘So to sum up:

1. the form can be written a number of ways usually as a quatrain.
2. the form ends in a refrain which is repeated as the last line or after every stanza.
3. the lines should be written in tetrameter (in iambs or trochees) or a count of eight syllables.
4. the original form addressed spiritual topics but that usage has somewhat disappeared.’ (dVerse FormForAll, December, 2012)


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The Still of Daybreak

Still
Silent
Wordless
Blanket wrapped
Waiting …

Birdsong breaks camomile air
Calm
Rustle, shuffle,
Muffle, scuffle,
Under the eaves

Hedgehog bristles then
Still, silent, waits
Scents the morn
Trails through dew
Birds, again

Wind chimes and watery sunlight
Drift
Echo
Sense the peace
A day begins

Polly Robinson © 2012

English: A simple wind chime


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Timeless River

A summer evening by the River Severn in Worcester

Five past six, a light, bright eve,
Down by the river, not far from town.

Currents cross eddies and sunlit shadows cast
Under a bridge arc dipple dapple age-worn brick.

Busy bridge, shades and silhouettes:
Lorries, buses, cars, like dumpy insects, see the workers back home.

Swan cornets to mate, glides against the flow;
Muzzy, scuzzy surface conceals Cathedral far below.

Fish chobble chunky bread, nibble, plop, plink;
Ripples swirl and shine on scales, flashy fishy silver tails.

Crickets whisper leg-to-leg through the scent of mown grass;
A slick of greeny bluey purple drifts past.

Twilight stealths in dusky summer scents;
Down by the river, not far from town.

Polly Robinson © 2012

 


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Rewrite History

In my head
I
Tell it like it is,
Do it like it’s done,
Think it like it’s thought.
Don’t I?

Though, probably, I
Digress, dissemble,
Become discursive,
Democratic,
Empathetic,
Indirect.

Do you
Tell it like it is?
Say what you see?
See what you saw?
Or,
In memory, rewrite history?

Polly Robinson © 2011


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Birthday Eras

This poem was written in my third decade when my birthday was a non-event.  It made me think about what birthdays are like as we travel through life … and, by the bye, I’m nowhere near 71!

Birthday party,
Cake and jelly,
Pass the parcel too,
Mum lights candles,
‘Thanks for having me,’
Sick, into the loo.

Out with girlfriends,
Local wine bar,
Happy, happy day,
Meet the boys and
Down the disco,
Dance the night away.

Wake in morning,
Toast and coffee,
TV AM blares,
Open pressies,
Children’s kisses,
Showing that they care.

Lovely perfume,
Box of choccies,
Favourite book to read,
Flowers arriving,
Out to dinner,
Special treats indeed.

All alone now,
Worthless being,
– Perspective’s gone away –
Broken-hearted,
No-one loves me,
Celebrate the day.

‘Granny, Granny,
Happy Birthday,’
Voices on the phone,
In with sandwich,
Glass of beer,
Only me at home.

Who’s that calling?
Next-door neighbour,
‘Some cake for you my dear’
Schooner of sherry,
Who’d have thought it?
Seventy-one this year.

Polly Robinson © 2011


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Gracie Waits

At the station Gracie waits
Not the first of her regular dates
The blue light glowers
The sergeant towers
Behind the desk
There’s an arrest
They book him in
No hair on chin
What’s he done?
Someone’s son.
Why at this small age
Is he centre stage?
Who can help him now?
His name is noted
His future mapped
For a moment’s lapse
At the station Gracie waits
Not the first of her regular dates

Polly Robinson © 2011


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Time, Fire, and War-thieves


Up the gravel-crusted drive
In amongst the trees
Rhododendrons, magenta reds
Heads bowing in the breeze.
Could it be better from an open carriage?
That one rather doubts.
Wrapt with love that led to marriage,
Waiting,
Anticipating …
Witley Court.

It rose to the left
Like a faery castle
Not in a mist
Save a mist of trees
Casting lime light dappled bright.
There! See? A faery castle … going
Derelict.
Crumbling, collapsing warm and dusty walls,
Beauty ravished by time, fire, and war-thieves
Who wanted the lead.  She calls …
A faery castle raped of her innards, and
Allowed to fall away from her bones
But left …
A beauteous shell, a wondrous shell
A shell crying out to us:
‘Do not let me die,’ she begged,
‘Come and see my church.’
Bodies close, we entered

And inside the huge double oak doors
A porch, and more doors
And inside the double oak doors …
What to look at first?
The font with warm wooden carvings
Where stone angels kneel in supplication?
The beautiful Bellucci ceiling, as close to Michelangelo ever seen?
A feast to confuse feeding eyes.
Would that we had been born to this
T’would not have happened.
No need to say, she knew
And wrapped her arms around us, like a magic cloak.

The Court
Allowed access, sweeping grass paths inviting
‘Come pace, sit on benches, adore’
And so we did.
Damp manicured green, green lawns before
Verdant slopes.
The clock tower, gracious Grecian columns;
Onwards to the central wooden bench
Overlooking the magnificent statue of St George.
St George infinitely slaying the dragon –
Lanceless, they’d taken that too –
Time, fire, or war-thieves.

A beauteous place, a wondrous place,
Company perfect;
Time and place remain
A memory forever,
Time, fire and war-thieves
Are never
Inconsequent.

Polly Robinson © 2011


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Love Bites

I’ve got to be an optimist
Happy through and through
To perpetually smile
And swing along with you
What times we have
Such good times glowing bright and new
Remnant embers shining
With sultry amber hue.

Remember the embers?
The soft and sultry glow?
Now crunch along life’s ashy path
Mind how the cinders blow
They’ll cut your eyes and make them bleed
For love has teeth that bite
These wounds will never ever heal
There are no words to help congeal
Or close those cold love bites.

 

Polly Robinson © 2011


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Michelangelo

First line from ‘The Munich Mannequins’ by Sylvia Plath

Michelangelo

‘Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children’
Sterile, frustrated, it comes to decay
Michelangelo wept when he found perfection
Took up his hammer to do it away.
None stayed his hand as he lunged at his David
Breaking his heart on that cool summer day
Birthing his talent
The last chip was chipped off
The warm marble block with its dust sweet bouquet.
Perfection,
Deception,
Confection of lies.
Conception of lies.
He did it away.

Polly Robinson © 1988

Shared with dVerse poets on the Open Link Night – week 63


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Twisted Wisps

The twisted old tree
At the foot
Of the garden
Is really my grandfather.

His timepiece in the hall
Ticks off the days,
Clay pipe on the mantle shelf
Mouthes his presence.

Boots on the gravel
Lead to the door,
Stamp on the doormat
Same as before,

Rocking chair creaks
In time with soft chimes,
Wisps of smoke
Evoke, cloak, smile at the joke.

Polly Robinson © 1988