Morning Town Ride

This is the poem I submitted to dVerse for the anniversary celebrations and it was entered for the Nain Rouge contest.  Mark Durfee of Nain Rouge emailed some weeks later to say:

Your poem MORNING TOWN RIDE made the cut not only to be published in Vol 1 Issue 1 of Nain Rouge, it was also selected by a very qualified group of writers as 1 of the top 6.

I am delighted.

*****

It was grim on the tube this morning in London, so hot and humid, stinky – this came out of it …

chackety chack
chackety chack
chackety chack

like a
toothpaste
tube of the
hunched up,
bunched up,
crunched up,
swilled and
SPIT at
station
drain.

chackety chack
chackety chack
chackety chack

oh oh,
get some
mouthwash,
don’t breathe
on me
please;
last night’s
garlic
was good,
last night.

chackety chack
chackety chack
chackety chack

finger phones;
manipulate
mobiles
for mails,
thumb apps,
angry birds,
twitter,
overheat,
a mass,
morass

chackety chack
chackety chack
chackety chack

of smells,
standing
room only,
read ‘Free
Metro’, or
‘Kindle’,
hang from
bars like
sensible
apes.

chackety chack
chackety chack
chackety chack

save
yourself!
bump,
lurch,
sway,
sway,
hear
wheels,
tracks,
screech.

chackety chack
chackety chack
chackety chack

iPod,
earbuds,
jiggle,
bleeding tracks,
fan face,
cool down,
heat up,
moist hot
heaps of
humanity …
ride on
morning
town ride.

chackety chack
chackety chack
chackety chack

Polly Robinson © 2012

‘Rising Slowly’ to be published

Thought you’d like to hear my latest news – Holly told me off for not telling you all about it – so here it is …

The news is that ‘Rising Slowly’ is to be published in the USA arts and entertainment magazine ‘The Eerie Digest’ so, let’s celebrate with special thanks to Glenn James for encouraging me to send it in.

Rising Slowly

He takes his brain out every night
And puts it in a bucket,
Each yellow ochre coloured cell
Emits a foul and fetid smell and starts to pound
Then starts to swell,
Rising slowly.

They’re locked by night and locked by day
Each thought in every cell,
But each one can be clearly seen,
With viscous matter in between, visible threading
Patterned, mean,
Rising slowly.

He finds the lock and turns the key,
His tendencies concealed,
His stares are made of wooden looks.
Logic soaking; bubbles rising; instinct reigns sublime,
His intellect,
Rising slowly.

Polly Robinson © 2012

Compo he Stomp-o

A daft poem especially for Holly

Compo he stomp-o

Up hill-o,

Down vale-o,

He smell-o

Like poo-o;

Loves Nora Batty-o

In her baggy stockings-o.

He wears a grungy knitted hat and old wellies.

Polly Robinson © 2012

Rising Slowly

He takes his brain out every night
And puts it in a bucket
Each yellow ochre coloured cell
Emits a foul and fetid smell and starts to pound
Then starts to swell
Rising slowly

They’re locked by night and locked by day
Each thought in every cell
But each one can be clearly seen
With viscous matter in between, visible threading
Patterned, mean
Rising slowly

He finds the lock and turns the key
His tendencies concealed
His stares are made of wooden looks.
Logic soaking; bubbles rising; instinct reigns sublime
His intellect
Rising slowly

Polly Robinson © 1988