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14th Anniversary Edition, Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Volume Four Nov-Dec 2023.
Dingle Wilds, poems by Polly Richardson.
Dingle Wilds 43 Platt
I’ve nurtured bulbs in darkness for longer
than sunrises climb over cliffs. Felt their
oblong nudge against these fibres laying
across my skin. Crossing into my obscurities,
land uninvited in peculiar ways
I often ask moons disappearing face
to come see,
hear ditties weighted down
in dreams end. Groom clouds
so they whip up, decorate blueness that
often visits this coastline, divine in all
its offerings. Shutters of grey breaks.
Damp clay clings in-between these fingers,
rich coldness
deliciously bites
limpet of land almost,
as it hangs on to flesh clumping
soothes longing,
inner shudders birth themselves
tingling to each outer bare part
lulled into gorgeousness as sea laps
acoustically draws in serene. I place myself.
The sleeping unaware, secrets of spring suddenly
burst from bulbs conversations with sod and worms.
I take my place before dinning on all possibilities
of life coming to surface, witness each tidal turn
And perhaps whisper to grasses gracefully watching
Oddities of humanity.
Seeking
Inspired by visiting Sylvia Plath’s grave
I seek flowers beyond ups ups and dips
of these valleys going deeper on decline
than roots to core before singeing,
begging silence of newly filled
womb. Its humble presence acquiring
its bounty full, doing what its predisposed
to do, living in succulence,
I often think what pure delight that must be,
doing what I am predisposed to do.
I meander these thoughts, they heckle
me sometimes in the thickest bracken of my mind
I image great big mound full of green, its breath
rises like its lungs have decided to expand
And fall back down quiet rhythmically as its buries
me, dressing me for eternities.
I seek shells that bring solace to these palms
fingering each little grove crusting’s
tracing erosions of seas wonderful harshness,
I turn over in moments like this held forever
in timeless nuances, I feel death of flower-head
as it weeps into it former ideology,
I seek beyond boundaries sewn in from
conversations between stars and
their disappearing light
and plop into waves retrieving itself as it moves
from full swell to merry little horses prancing.
And there I dive, as Shag in seek plumage to fish,
arrow like straight from skies
never quiet hitting kelp bed, re-surfing full blackness
all plume momentarily satisfied, cocking one eye up
every so boldly to wink my brief success at sun
and her brazen illumine intrusions into my darkness.
I’m braver now. Seen freedom offerings
despite its brief display behind silence
of closed lids seeking.
Dingle Wilds 44 – Silent Melodies
I am buried here beneath these lullabies
that come with each owl hoot,
where water flows with neither rush
nor agenda, I am white heron –
feet yarn to pad in muddy
realm surrounds, send ripples to moon’s
smile gentle shimmer framed by overhead
budding trees steaming, grasses silently part
with each earthen inhale.
I thread each morsel to feed years ache
for sun dance
far off baying signifies
it’s time to claim reclaim instinctual
rites, ruts rebound between
the call of night-time narratives
softly tongued between forming cloud
and star melodies. Dampness falls
kissing politely as it moves from
face to hands inward chants evoke
it all
I bang out my drum invoking
all to grace these footfalls
and sea comes
galloping
to
bind
herself and I
as first taste of
submerge greets
these parched toes.
© Polly Richardson