Writings and Witterings


Floral—A Homophonic Translation

This poem is a homophonic translation of the Romanian poem shown below.
hom·o·phon·ic (hm-fnk, hm-)
1. Having the same sound.
2. Having or characterized by a single melodic line with accompaniment.
(http://www.thefreedictionary.com/homophonic retrieved August 2014)


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.


Detective – Noir

Hardboiled, cynical,
the dick
in love.
His slinky girl
—in sequins
and seed pearls—
Hardboiled’s away
with the fairies;
the scent
of aftershave
is a dead giveaway.
Fresh shirt;
new jeans;
shaved clean.
She can tell
by the smirk
he’s got another skirt.
Who is she?
Slinky, glitter
by what she thinks,
what he
—has not detected—

Polly Robinson © 2014


The Making

You watch me awhile,
fascinated by the up
down silver flash,
blinking at
the clatter dash
of levers and pulleys
—applied force—
wheel circling,
my foot depressed
to create,
whirring away.
Now you play
with reels building
a tower or making a snake.
Your brothers, all rough
and tumble, disrupt
dust motes of cotton. The snake
becomes a chuffing train
circling the lino at speed
until it breaks apart
and interest is lost.
They go, to leave
just you with me
again, as I
cut, shape, and start
to finish—
whirr, whirr—

Polly Robinson © 2014

At dVerse, Gay asked for a poem to our own beat, a poem to represent our personal voice. The Making has been written both for Jo Bell’s 52 and for Gay’s prompt.


I Will Go Home

I will go home
if I can find the place
that is home to me.
Two mothers,
two fathers,
one sister
five siblings…

Home is Hampshire
with my father.
with my mother.
with those I call
Mum and Dad.
I belong somewhere.
I belong somewhere.
Called home.

Polly Robinson © 2014

Written with dVerse poets in mind.


The Promise Of The Watchers

I promise,
I know your darkest fears,
your deepest desires,
and I will use them against you.

I’ve been watching you.

Don’t look behind
as you climb the stairs
there’s nothing to catch you
all unawares.

I’m watching you.

Nails finger lightly
sketching your cheek
your blood slowly seeps.
Lightning seeks the shadows
the creeping shadows.
Thunder echoes
the church bells.
Night time chitters and skitters
rise to crowd you.

They’re watching you.

I promise
you’ll feel no pain.
You’re running, running.
The ground chasms,
you fall, fall
into the pit
and you run,
burning, burning.
I smell you.

I’m watching you.

The devil’s choir
soars higher and higher,
blood flows from ears,
eyes fall to bones,
withered petals from a rose.
Your neck prickles
with fickle fear,
phantoms leave as you breathe,
ghost shades sneer,
steer you to the abyss.
I see them.

They’re watching you.

You worry you’re dead
and don’t know it yet
I see your heart weep
with fathomless desire
and the pain, the pain.

I watch your pain
and smile.

I promise…
I promise you’ll know
when you’re gone.

Polly Robinson © 2014