I once had a book called, ‘The Face’.
It was when interest in body language was growing,
and described how we see ourselves,
how we see others,
how others see us.
All dependent on who was doing the seeing.
Look in the mirror and what do you see?
Does it depend on your mood?
Do we see deeper lines,
more wrinkles or more beauty
than others perceive?
Does it matter?
2023 © Polly Stretton
I like the impact that the Stipa Gigantea aka ‘Golden Oats Grass’ has on my back garden border, it filters the roses and helianthus in the background, there’s alstroemeria alongside, and the second flowering of the delphinium with agapanthus in the foreground add that splash of blue. What other plants can you spot? 
Look out for the BBC ‘Contains Strong Language’ talent development scheme – they want to find the best emerging spoken word talent in the UK. If you’re influenced by poetry, lyricism, rap or hop hop, they want to know about you!
I can’t put the link here, but you can find it via a search engine. Looks good 😄
Voltaire neither put up nor shut up, Let us read…let us dance... François-Marie Arouet, imprisoned twice in the Bastille; his delight at the fall of the smoking Bastille would have seen singing and dancing in the street, had he been around for the smoke. Fast forward to… Gauloises Disque Bleu, elegant, cool, show-off smoking. Gauloises Disque Bleu. Cough your way through them prisoners of nicotine, echo Voltaire in the Bastille, Bruce Willis in Die Hard neither put up nor shut up. Hooked. It is said that Alain Bashung enjoyed chemotherapy smoking Gauloises Disque Bleu. © 2013 Polly Stretton Famous French singer, Alain Bashung, was such a fan of Gauloises Disque Bleu, it is said he refused to quit even during his chemotherapy. This poem is written for Bastille Day—the day that gives the perfect excuse to eat much cheese or smoke yourself silly (if that’s your bag).
Two stars for Venus, evening, morning,
pearls on a naked neck.
Two twisted reeds stand on two lions;
maces frame her showing some leg,
black silk stockings with a lacy edge,
her fingers pull to their plump eclipse.
Lady of heaven, shrines, temples,
rosette of fertility, children, war.
The earliest deity known and adored*.
Love conquers men,
she conquered all.
© 2015 Polly Stretton
*circa 4000–3100 BC – Mesopotamia (Iraq–also parts of modern-day Iran, Syria and Turkey)
Handkerchiefs, white twisted prayer,
sobs breach and break the mourning air,
death takes, will not be second-guessed,
a shroud beneath the lychgate rests.
The shelter with its angled roof
hears clattering of horses' hooves,
covers the dear departed, blessed;
her shroud beneath the lychgate rests.
The bearers seated by the corpse
know flesh, bones, come to nothing, naught
to ponder, but in time accept,
a shroud beneath the lychgate rests.
From lych to church seems overlong,
they pause, they pray, they chant their song,
to see her pass this way—none guessed
a shroud around the lych would rest.
A hot ague shook her life away,
the children sobbed, begged her to stay,
but death took life, imbibed her breath,
a shroud beneath the lychgate rests.
Yet that was then and this is now,
time changes, untracked: marriage vow,
photo backdrop, bride with guests,
a shroud beneath the lychgate rests.
Spectres, spirits of the passed,
plague actors in the wedding cast,
this shady place, does it oppress
if shrouds beneath the lychgate rest?
'Death is the only deathless one',*
time lingers brief, they've just begun,
this is for life, no trial or test,
a shroud beneath the lychgate rests.
Fading out the nuptial glitter,
shadows cast by bygone sitters,
carnation wilts upon his breast,
and shrouds beneath the lychgate rest.
The charm of years, a pretty place.
He gazes down on her sweet face.
Craves togetherness, wedded, yes.
A shroud beneath the lychgate rests.
* From 'Kyrielle' by John Payne (1842–1916)
Growing Places (Black Pear Press, 2021)
I love lychgates—those structures at the entrance of some churches where
brides and grooms are often photographed—there are many such churches
in Worcestershire. This led to me looking into their history. At the
same time, I was fascinated by the poetry form of the Kyrielle, based
on the Kyrie, a church liturgy. This poem is the outcome.
Hardboiled, cynical,
the dick
believes
in love.
His slinky girl
—in sequins
and seed pearls—
sees ‘Hardboiled’ is playing away;
the scent of aftershave
is a dead giveaway.
Fresh shirt;
new jeans;
shaved clean.
She can tell
by the smirk
he’s got a bit of skirt.
Who is she?
Slinky, glitter tarnished
by what she thinks,
becomes what he has not detected…
suspicious.
© 2014 Polly Stretton
There’s a new British historical drama series coming to TV soon: Ten Pound Poms. Here is a poem I wrote a long time ago, updated. I’m intrigued to see how it stacks up against the coming drama 😄 My birth mother and half-sister were ten pound poms.
Crowds line the docks in the nineteen fifties,
waiting to sail to a new land, they’re thrifty;
they’ve paid just a tenner to get on the ship
and want a lot more than just a round trip.
A land called Australia arouses their dreams,
they think with nostalgia of Britain, it seems.
Passports in hands, papers in luggage,
they yearn for the new world, new life, new mortgage.
They spurn the old world, the doled world, the cold world,
they are excited, celebrating,
migrating.
Citizenship promised after only one year,
and warmth, their skin, bones, eyes become clear,
some will be famous in due course perhaps,
the new life that beckons is free of all traps,
and they dream of fame on the stage or in government,
the future is bright and there will be betterment.
The scheme extends to other nations,
many, it seems, seek a change of location,
“Please stay for two years or refund the money,”
this is the land of milk and honey.
Going to work in a new place,
they’re a new face,
without trace,
Australia.
Girl’s Got Rhythm (Black Pear Press, 2012 and 2016) rewritten 2023
193 steps,
Covent Garden tube,
waiting for a lift…
and there’s a ClearView poster
asking One Line Or Two?
It would have been wonderful
had there been ClearView
when we planned babies.
Imagine the waiting
endless waiting,
waiting for missing,
missing the month.
Two days late, three, four,
five, six?
Day seven—blood.
For sure, today
there’s the same flood
of disappointment,
sadness
for a child who will never be.
A baby so real, that he or she
with a mop of dark hair
on a small, neat head
is more than a line on a ClearView test.
193 steps
Covent Garden tube,
waiting for a lift.
‘Life’s Wonders’ (Black Pear Press, 2023)
Photo by Terry S. Amstutz, a.k.a. mobius faith: https://dversepoets.com/2012/11/17/poetics-photography-by-terry-s-amstutz/
This ekphrastic poem was written in response to a prompt by d’Verse a long time ago when they asked us to look at the Mobius Faith image, above, and respond to it. I read it at the Worcestershire Libraries Poetry Bubble last night, so thought I’d share it with you.
Voices for Angela
He heard the boyfriend say her name,
‘Angie.’ Angie.
Saw them embrace as she stepped from the train.
Angie. Angie.
She had some news, that much was clear
from the way she beamed at the boyfriend, ‘Here,
see our scan.’
Her hand fluttered over her still thin front.
Angie. Angie.
The boyfriend gave her belly a rub.
Angie. Angie.
Arm in arm they walked up the steps
oblivious to the follower with voices in his head.
Angie. Angie.
He sprayed her name across the door,
on rusting containers on the floor.
Angie. Angie.
She had nothing to do with him at all,
knew nothing of his voices sepulchral.
Angie. Angie.
Except he killed her that foul day
as the evil voices echoed, played
inside his head, they stayed and stayed.
Angie. Angie.
Polly Stretton © 2012
First anemone
celandine and primrose peek
woodland walk flashes
© Polly Stretton 2023
One of my favourite photography blogs, photopaulm.com by Paul Militaru seems to have gone missing – anyone know where Paul’s gone? If you key the link in it takes you to a ‘parked free’ site…I miss him…
Less able, less worthy, less useful,
more vulnerable, weak, he needs care.
There’s life left in the old boy yet, you know,
they can cope with a lack of hair.
It’s true, that hair’s become thinner
and there are lines on show,
eyebrows are thicker and coarse
and ears continue to grow.
The bones in the face are like carved masks,
etchings splay around the mouth
wrinkles run off lips now lax
and the chin, the chin makes a point, goes south.
Plus, a neck of crepe doesn’t look so great.
A comfort is that so many relate,
and only the lucky get old.
Yes, only the lucky get old.
© Polly Stretton rewritten 2023
Original poem was published in Re-imagining Ageing Lab4Living & Sheffield Library (2022)
Here are the Worcestershire LitFest Competitions for 2023 – time to give it a go 🙂
I had to be an optimist
happy through and through
to perpetually smile
and swing along with you
what times we had
good times, laughter bright, loud, new
remnant embers shone
with sultry amber hue.
Remember the embers
the soft and sultry glow?
You’ll 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
such wounds will never ever heal
there are no words to help congeal
or close those cold love bites.
© Polly Stretton 2023
Published in On the Words of Love (Brian Wrixton & Poets with Voices Strong, 2012)
Girls Got Rhythm (Black Pear Press, 2016)
Rewritten 2023
The moon is in Aries today,
a First Quarter.
Sweet young luminary,
cool, never falters;
Selene’s silver shines
deep, a dark marker
of dynamic mass.
We calculate lives
as phases pass.
© Polly Stretton 2022
With acknowledgement to Alan Nicholls
Talking to Alan today in our writing group, we recalled this photo and the poem. It seems incredible that it first made it online in 2016.
In the present, from the past,
a voice that echoes,
sayings that last.
Even when the body has gone
what was said will linger on.
‘My mum used to say…’
‘My grannie too…’
‘My dad would have something to say to you.’
In the present, from the past,
a voice that echoes,
echoes last.
Polly Stretton © 2016
For National Poetry Day 6 October 2022, the theme this year is the environment, an updated version of my poem Trading on the Silk Road
journalread 