Writings and Witterings


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


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



‘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 ;)


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!


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