Polly

Writings and Witterings


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'Blue Tit'  photo by Mike Boyes

‘Blue Tit’
photo by Mike Boyes

‘T·see, t·see, t·see.’
With his blue cap
and proud yellow chest,
on his back
a bright green vest,
upside down
on round bird feeder
–acrobatic little tweeter–

Polly Robinson 2014

 

This gorgeous photo by Mike Boyes reminded me of my poem – originally published in 2012 – it’s had a bit of a polish since then ;)


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Have you got yours yet?

Last minute gifts? Girl’s Got Rhythm is available direct from Black Pear Press, get yours via PayPal, if you’re in the UK:

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for those overseas:

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or from Amazon

There are just two copies of Chatterton left—only available direct from Black Pear Press–this could be your last chance…

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GGR BPP Front Cover

Chatterton Front Cover


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All The Girls And Boys

Lips to lips, smooth as satin,
squash against teeth;
mouths open
tentative tongues touch and retreat.
Hands cup and curl on earlobes, creep
to cradle napes of necks;
that feeling spirals upwards like smoke.
Eye to eye: should they be closed?
Hair is stroked, soft curls spring
under searching fingers.
‘Morningtown Ride,’
—innocence and sunshine.
Train whistles,
not beneath blankets
but on the sofa.
Mum and Dad are out.

Polly Robinson © 2014


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Candles And Splinters

Apples stacked
on racks Father made;
wooden, tough, splintery, like Mother.

The cellar doors creak,
a cast latch speaks
with a clatter as the doors shut fast.

My hands search for matches–forbidden matches–
and candles–forbidden candles–
a saucer to catch the wax.

The scent of apples, gift-wrapped in old newspaper,
blend with candle cologne.
I breathe the clagging coal dust

in the darkness of the cellar.
A dozen steps down
from the sliver of a frown,

on the brow of a peevish mother,
her ire aimed at me
for climbing the ancient oak tree.

‘Not ladylike,’ she said,
–raised her arm–I ran–
‘Come back!’

I’m caught in a soft candle glow.

Polly Robinson © 2014


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Oi!

‘Oi! You! Stop right there!’
Sunday shoppers stop and stare
at a white-haired chap
with a ruddy red face
trotting down the car park
making haste.
‘You’re stressed mate,’
slurs a long-haired yob, sipping
from a bottle
– no wine glass, no job –
totally indifferent
to a coming heart attack,
as the old guy gets redder
and the woman shouted at
opens up her car
to ‘…mine, give it back!’
The old guy’s nearly caught her,
still everybody stares,
she’s now moving bags,
gives the old bloke a glare.
He’s heaving breaths in whistling whoops,
pointing at a gold thing, trying to regroup;
with his finger he indicates
the supermarket trolley
‘I asked you to stop,’ he wheezes
‘That’s my Yale key!’

Polly Robinson © 2014

At writing group today we were asked to write about a: Yale key / supermarket trolley / bad-tempered senior citizen / stress / wine glass / indifference – funny what you get from a prompt ;)