Polly

Writings and Witterings


18 Comments

Persephone

This is the latest version of my ekphrastic poem about Persephone.

My Sweet Rose (or The Soul of the Rose) John William Waterhouse

My Sweet Rose (or The Soul of the Rose)
John William Waterhouse

Persephone

Radiant beauty,
goddess of the spring,
scent of the rose
against your brow’s wing;
fertile maid of life…and death.

Seeds of the fruits
of the field.

She meanders in meadows
of fragrant flowers,
roses, violets, hyacinths in bowers.
She’s seized, snatched,
carried off;
stolen by Hades
in a golden
four-horsed
chariot.

And Demeter weeps.

Odysseus at the House of Death
sees a wraith
to make one ache.

Persephone
becomes the curse of dead souls.
Men distrust her six months here,
six months there.

It is said:
“This is no deception sent by Queen Persephone,
this is the way of mortals when we die.”

Feel the horror queen’s light breath.

But wait!
A kindness yet,
to let the souls return.

Springtime Goddess of Rebirth -
mystery initiations -
sudden depressions give way to the mysteries,
a better life,
a different fate after death.

Repeat to the beginning,
seeds of the fruits
of the field.
All shall return.

She is the painted winecup,
she is: life and death,
wife, daughter,
innocence, wisdom,
death and rebirth.

And she stole the beautiful Adonis!
Oh yes!  A psychopomp…
with pomegranate seeds

and blessings
for wisdom and tranquillity.

Death
is not evil
’tis a cycle
for good.

Repeat to the beginning,
seeds of the fruits
of the field.
All shall return.

Polly Robinson © 2014


12 Comments

No Creosote

In the potting shed
the scent of ancient creosote
wafts in heavy summer heat.
Years of grandpa, pipe in mouth,
leaning against the wall as
grandma wielded the black
brush and yelled,

‘Get back you
kids,’

followed by her gap-tooth grin.
She lives within the still-
standing walls …
no creosote
now.

 

Polly Robinson © 2014

Potting shed


8 Comments

Spring

Frost surprises
on fewer mornings
beneath the clearest blue sky.
A mirror to springtime
in a slew of white
feathered streaks.

The birds cheep, excited,
trees are in bud; sticky buds
give way to unfurling green.
Cyclamen leaves peek.

The lambs shout to their ma’s,
and soft, soft, the
wood pigeon coos.

Oh, and the daffodils,
the daffodils,
the glorious yellow trumpeting
daffodils.

As my tea steams
in the chill morning air,
I look around
and beam,
at work
waiting
to begin.

 

Polly Robinson © 2014

Photo from imagerail.com

Photo from imagerail.com


12 Comments

Flaxy Wings

Sprout wings, flaxy wings,
sparkle in the sunshine wings,
taut tensile gossamer
gentle and edged in springtime green.

Then, fly from hilltop
to hilltop marking
wayside stones and bones;
flit through tall and towering trees,
as a fresh damply morning
chuckles the nose.

The dew glints
as we skim archaic tracks.

Polly Robinson © 2014

dewy grass


24 Comments

Love Bites

I had to be an optimist
happy through and through
to perpetually smile
and swing along with you
what times we had
some 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 © 1989

Published in On the Words of Love (Brian Wrixton & Poets with Voices Strong, 2012)