Polly

Writings and Witterings


14 Comments

Detective – Noir

Hardboiled, cynical,
the dick
believes
in love.
His slinky girl
—in sequins
and seed pearls—
sees
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
tarnished
by what she thinks,
becomes
what he
—has not detected—
suspicious.

Polly Robinson © 2014


25 Comments

Re-titled ‘The Making’ (originally ‘Mote’)

You watch me a while
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, whirr—

Polly Robinson © 2014

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


40 Comments

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…
half-siblings.

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

Polly Robinson © 2014

Written with dVerse poets in mind.


12 Comments

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.

See?
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


22 Comments

Tonight! A Perigee Moon – second

For the second time this summer …

Perigee Moon

Fulsome, blowsy
supermoon,
closer to earth,
closer to man,
fuller and fatter
than the seas.
See her grave face
through the lens
of perigee,
think of the aeons
of this moon
and gravity
pulling higher tides.
The aim: diversity,
as the community
makes moon water.
All an illusion
as the silver moon hangs.

Polly Robinson © 2014

 

With acknowledgement to: http://beforeitsnews.com

With acknowledgement to: http://beforeitsnews.com


47 Comments

This Morning

…there’s almost a hint
of autumn,
a mist of fresh
damply taste,
a touch
painting skin
with what’s to come.

Polly Robinson © 2014

A second offering for the dVerse ‘Let’s LIMBO’ prompt to write a line in forty words or fewer – I love short poems – this one has twenty words.


26 Comments

Moonlight In Jars

On the Malverns
under the stars
where faerie folk catch
moonlight in jars
for the jaded witch
along Shire Ditch
and only the brave
pass the giant’s cave
home

Polly Robinson © 2014

Moonlight in a jar - photo by www.etsy.com

Moonlight in a jar – photo by http://www.etsy.com


10 Comments

Flick The Vees

A bit of a ‘larf’ to the tune of ‘Ere We Go’ heh-heh :)

Flick The Vees

Flick the vees, flick the vees, flick the vees.
Flick the vees, flick the vees,
flick the vee-eees.
Flick the vees, flick the vees, flick the vees,
flick the vee-eeess, flick the vees.

Do it after you’ve shut the front door,
when he’s gone for a moan to his mother.
Flick the vees, flick the vees, flick the vees,
flick the vee-eeess, flick the vees.

Do it behind the back of the one
who is driving you to deep distraction.
Flick the vees, flick the vees, flick the vees,
flick the vee-eeess, flick the vees.

The emphasis placed on each flick
is what gives you the best satisfaction.
Flick the vees, flick the vees, flick the vees,
flick the vee-eeess, flick the vees.

Flick the vees, flick the vees, flick the vees.
Flick the vees, flick the vees,
flick the vee-eees.
Flick the vees, flick the vees, flick the vees,
flick the vee-eeess, flick the vees.

Polly Robinson © 2014


14 Comments

Night Walk on British Camp

With acknowledgement to sunset-british-camp-www.amazingview.co.uk

With acknowledgement to sunset-british-camp-www.amazingview.co.uk

Night Walk

In the depths of night the sky is sulky,
walkers set out for the brow of the hill.
Around British Camp and down, down Shire Ditch
where ill-willed faeries live, love, fly and dance.
They avoid Waum’s Cave for fear of the witch
who lives alone, low down deep, far away.

A crossroads appears, with pointing way stones,
to north, to south, to direct the unwary,
no one can vouchsafe their accuracy.
Do the walkers’ know it pays to be chary?
The ill-willed fae move the markers
so the wenders’ and walkers’ strong boots go astray.

The witch steps on twigs and rattles old leaves
and the sky darkens more, charcoals to grey,
turns to pitch black as torch batteries run out
the walkers now feeling, stealing their way
over hillocks and humps, bracken and bumps,
in the depths of the night at the end of the day.

Polly Robinson © 2014


44 Comments

Paradelle Of Prague

The wonderful city of Prague in the spring

The wonderful city of Prague in the spring – with acknowledgement to http://www.pragueproteinspring.org

 

Oh my…the things I do for dVerse and Brian Miller specifically…he’s challenged us to write a paradelle, so here’s my attempt.

Paradelle Of Prague

You will never visit Prague with me,
you will never visit Prague with me,
no matter what you do or how long you live,
no matter what you do or how long you live,
what you do – no matter – or how long you live,
Prague, you will never visit with me.

I have been to Spain with you,
I have been to Spain with you,
I have been in pain with you,
I have been in pain with you,
I have been to Spain in pain with you,
In pain I have been to Spain with you.

I went to Lanzarote with you,
I went to Lanzarote with you,
Lanzarote has a pretty Old Town
Lanzarote has a pretty Old Town
I went to Lanzarote.
Pretty was Lanzarote Old Town, with you.

I have been to Spain in pain with you,
In pain I have been to Spain with you.
I went to Lanzarote.
A pretty Old Town was Lanzarote, with you.
What you do – no matter – or how long you live,
You will never visit Prague with me.

Polly Robinson © 2014

Take a look at dVerse Poets Meeting The Bar – Form For All and join in!

Brian advised that the paradelle is a 4-stanza poem, where each stanza consists of 6 lines.

For the first 3 stanzas, the 1st and 2nd lines should be the same; the 3rd and 4th lines should also be the same; and the 5th and 6th lines should be composed of all the words from the 1st and 3rd lines and only the words from the 1st and 3rd lines.

The final stanza should be composed of all the words in the 5th and 6th lines of the first three stanzas and only the words from the 5th and 6th lines of the first three stanzas.

The paradelle is one of the more demanding French fixed forms, first appearing in the langue d’oc love poetry of the eleventh century. It is a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. Similarly, the final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only those words.


18 Comments

The Paper Maker

The Paper Maker with acknowledgement to www.theglasgowstory.com

The Paper Maker with
acknowledgement to http://www.theglasgowstory.com

Left, right,
quick march,
reams of paper,
white and starched.
Order restored,
all in place,
a gross for Mr Johnson
at the Poetry Place.

My name’s Charley,
Charley Waite,
‘course, they call me
Paper Waite
the bloody kids
who want a job,
all through the summer.

They should be me,
left school at fifteen,
did me no harm, as you can see.
Conscription stopped
in nineteen sixty:
the worst thing
for our kids.

Little shits,
graffiti-ing the mill.
I’ll give ‘em ‘summer job,’
they’ll get bugger all.
They’ll scrub
and clean
‘til those bricks
are pristine,
again.

Left, right,
quick march,
reams of paper,
white and starched.
Order restored,
all in place,
a gross for Miss Chard
at the Post Office.

Polly Robinson © 2014


46 Comments

Thanks

For dVerse and from an exercise in which the first line is selected from the work of another poet, comes ‘Thanks’.

Thanks

This is my second parking ticket since her affair;*
they belong to her,
I’ll send them with my thanks.

She will pay
in many ways,
as will he.

Polly Robinson © 2014

*From ‘Notice’ by Jackie Kay

For the dVerse ‘Let’s LIMBO’ prompt to write a line in forty words or fewer – mine has twenty-eight – have a go!


17 Comments

Arvon ‘The Story Line’ at The Hurst

A great week in Shropshire focussed on poetry – what a way to spend time. Wonderful surroundings, no internet or service for mobile phones, so a totally ‘cut off’ few days – very restful – and I even got some poems written! The Paper Maker appears in the post before this one :) But without further ado…the photos, by me unless otherwise stated. Click on an image to see larger photos in the gallery:

 


25 Comments

Here I Am…

…did you miss me? ;)

I’ve been away at The Hurst, on a wonderful Arvon course with ace poet Holly Magill. We had a fab time with tutors Patience Agbabi and Luke Kennard, and guest poet Katrina Naomi.
Here is a poem that came out of one of the sessions during which we discussed characters in poetry :)

The Paper Maker

Left, right, left, right,
quick march,
reams of paper,
white and starched.
Order restored,
all in place,
a gross for Mr Johnson
at the Poetry Place.

My name’s Charley,
Charley Waite,
‘course, they call me
Paper Waite,
the bloody kids
who want a job,
all through the summer.

They should be like me,
left school at fifteen,
did me no harm as you can see.
Stopping conscription
in nineteen sixty:
the worst thing that happened
for our kids.

Little shits,
graffiti-ing the mill.
I’ll give ‘em ‘summer job,’
they’ll get bugger all.
They can scrub
and clean
‘til those bricks
are pristine,
again.

Left, right, left, right,
quick march,
reams of paper,
white and starched.
Order restored,
all in place,
a gross for Miss Chard
at the Post Office.

Polly Robinson © 2014

…and here are some marvellous photos courtesy of Richard Stephenson, all having a great time – click on the images to enlarge :)

Arvon poets at The Hurst 2014 - by Richard Stephenson

Arvon poets at The Hurst 2014 – by Richard Stephenson

Fun on the final night - by Richard Stephenson

Fun on the final night – by Richard Stephenson

 


18 Comments

Smoking Bastille

14th July – it’s Bastille Day. The perfect excuse – should you need one – to celebrate!

Smoking Bastille

The enlightened Voltaire
would have feasted, during
the storming of the Bastille,
he said, ‘Let us read…let us dance…’
Imprisoned twice,
he would delight,
eyes bright,
in the fall
of the smoking Bastille.
‘Storm the Bastille. Revolt!’

Fast forward to…
Gauloises Disque Bleu,
elegant,
cool,
sophisticated,
show-off smoking.
Gauloises Disque Bleu.
Prisoners of nicotine
storm their way through…
Revolt!

Echo Voltaire
in the Bastille,
Bruce Willis
in Die Hard.
Revolt!
Alain* so hooked
he enjoyed chemo
smoking Gauloises Disque Bleu.
Smoking Bastille.
Candid clouds of change.

Polly Robinson © 2014

 

The video is *Alain Bashung with the Pogues. Bashung is a famous French singer who was such a fan of Gauloises Disque Bleu, it’s said he refused to quit even during his chemotherapy.


16 Comments

Tonight! A Perigee Moon

Perigee Moon

Fulsome, blowsy
supermoon,
closer to earth,
closer to man,
fuller and fatter
than the seas.
See her grave face
through the lens
of perigee,
think of the aeons
of this moon
and gravity
pulling higher tides,
the aim: diversity,
as the community
makes moon water.

Polly Robinson © 2014

With acknowledgement to: http://beforeitsnews.com

With acknowledgement to: http://beforeitsnews.com


13 Comments

Worcester’s Spider Bridge

A bridge revisited…

Worcester’s Spider Bridge

Summer walking, Worcester bridge,
we see a sight that makes us twitch.
Others stop and stand and stare
at spiders dancing. We’re not scared,
as they spin webs to catch insects
we watch and wonder, pay respects.

Hundreds, thousands, what a show,
our amazement grows and grows,
they cluster, muster round the lamps
busy making spider camps
on lights and pillars of river bridge
lined by trapped moth, fly and midge.

And big fat spiders.

We’ve never seen the like before,
not on hedge, hill, path or shore,
Did Charles see them when he was here?
Or Elgar get inspired by fear
of creepy critters spinning pretty
silvery webs in our city?

They not all fat, some are tiny
with stripy legs, they all look grimy;
weaving, weaving through the day.
We continue on our way
with photos for the memory.

Polly Robinson © 2014

Click on the images to see them full size :)


52 Comments

At The Well

Hylas and the Water Nymphs (Naiads), J. W. Waterhouse

Hylas and the Water Nymphs (Naiads), J. W. Waterhouse

Water nymphs we find at fountains,
bearded gods look down from mountains,
tales are told by ploughmen, townsmen,
cowmen talk of the stolen boy;
the gorgeous gilded golden boy,
at the well.

Roman naiads, water sprites,
approach the sleeping Hylas,
son of Heracles.
Nymph-like tresses fine as a frieze,
flow like water to the well,
they comb and primp to no avail,
we hear them cry, again they fail
and no waves swell.

They see the boy and speculate,
his crowning glory seals his fate.
He’s grasped by nymphs desirous,
made breathless by his shyness,
at the brightness
of the well.

The water sprites soliloquise:
‘What beauty in his hair and eyes.’
Entranced, they see and glorify
his unusual swirling curls.
Hylas falls fast in love,
at the well.

Heracles sought his special boy, or so the townsmen tell;
missed him, search after fruitless search, up hill, in dale and dell,
while the boy shares naiad power in the joy of love’s sweet spell,
the gods come down from the mountain
draw fresh cool water at the fountain,
at the well.

Polly Robinson © 2014

Posting this for dVerse ‘The Dog Days of Summer’ – poet behind the bar is Victoria Slotto – join in with the fun!


18 Comments

Amazing Haze

Shimmering, shivering, a fast-flowing river
of seedheads shine silver, purple;
the breeze blows hither and thither,
on seeds like souls who think they’ll go through purgatory
travelling from life to heaven or hell.
Be good, be extraordinary.

Polly Robinson © 2014

By uphilldowndale.wordpress.com

By uphilldowndale.wordpress.com