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Polly Richardson – Gorse

P Polly Richardson LE P&W Vol 1 2019

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Poems by Polly Richardson

Polly Richardson (Munnelly) is a Dublin born poet now living and writing in Meath. She has been published both nationally and internationally in many anthologies and e-zines – (The Blue Nib, Lotus Eater, Mad Swirl, Nixes Mate, Porter Gulch Review(coming soon).  She is member of Navan writers’ group: The Bulls Arse. Polly has been heard reading at open mic nights, on local radio and at poetry festivals throughout Ireland, on live links broadcasting internationally 2013 – 2019. In 2017 she travelled to Amsterdam, was heard reading in Harrlem alongside Frisian poet laureate of Netherlands Tsead Brunja & musicians. Her poems have featured on various poetry trails in 2014 – 2018 (Blackwater poetry festival) & (Fleadh Ceoil Drogheda) has had honourable commendation in Blue Nibs second chap book contest by judge Kevin Higgins 2018. In March 2019 she was heard at Trim poetry festival in Meath. Some of her work was used to inspire young artists and turned into sculptures in Dallas US. She is currently working on her first collection.


Gorse

He plucked them. Carful lip
curve around yellow head,

teeth displayed barely years –
full clasp in- between nips.

This giant, delicate touch to ingest
despite thorning tongue,

muzzle-pout part, curling upper lip
to intoxicate senses,

revealing unblemished inner pinkness,
untouched, as new-born,

I injest.

They twitch . Creasing mouth corners
like  crescent moon.  A smile,penetrates
light even into the darkest of crevices,

that  drool pools soaking
chin – grove wobble.
Almost clownish.
Almost childish.

Each damp whisker ; receptor, whiter than snow
sense euphoria, matches

that eye rarer than *painite gem fused
with *taaefite catch reflections of

summer, blink to flutter-flick forward
mane over *forelock out of sight, yet,

that  sigh inhales July’s nectar. Silking
nostrils, snorts out complete content,

as ear rotations pause turn, tune to
hums of nature’s hymn.

That  hind leg, shifts a rest from right to left.
Feathers dance in still air, frame balancing hoof,
toe tip brush- kiss to earth,
dust swirls dance to swarm the dung flies.

That rump whiting, pinked under hair ,
glisten. Fuse. Flecking black patches
as if perfect jigsaw pieces placed precisely ,
roasted greenish from baking grass roll
despite swishing  tail- swats to nagging gnats,sleep.

That neck muscle toned. Sturdy. Purer than virgins basking, holds
his head precisely poised at gorse blooming.

White star on ebony forehead runs cosmic nova flare to
his own signature and stance , this Apollo. Mine.

I ingested, drank him in for this consumption.
Painted each hooving prance pirouette on inner canvas
to still itself ,not quiet master piece , yet

for   this   consumption. Gorse.

I part lip to pluck. Carful curl around yellow head,
sweetness bites,

prefect calm whispering these whinnies to wind song – carry’s of you,
this ear turns to tune ,your calls, Apollo ,

I lay a lean.  This listening shoulder – my eyes trace, follow in
shift hind to hind, hoof rests my weighted weightless

far removed from fearing fear, those beatings
 till bursting red rivers soaked
my skeleton, dragging scalded skin.

 This trust eventually – my head, these ears,
your lap, years and gorse.

I sit with river  . Hear those distant
ghosting  echoes,
that  gallop now with wind,
That  consumption – his  head , my lap
each time gorse blooms.
I ingested,
painted him on inner canvas. Almost.

 

Authors note :
*
Painite rarest gem, dark chocolate red hues, founded in 1951 by Arthur Charles Davy Pain.
*Taaefite : Flecks of Mauve, glass like. Accidentally discovered by Dubliner jeweller in 1940 when he thought he had a collection of spinel’s.
*Forelock – fringe like, part of mane that grows down over horses forehead, in between ears.
*Feathers – thick horse hair that grows out from and down on back of horses lower legs or all over same area semi- covering hooves depending on breed .

Birth

Delicate web hang from laborious night,
catch dew-glistens ,
as if that first  hand- curl- grip
around index finger caress.
Birthing dreams burst vigorously
as primal pant produce uniquely silk.

As if knowing  his
newfangled strength survived
that last dewy push,
when  you arrived,

becoming something
only mothers know
Birthing your self.

For every, for each ripping
Contraction force-gripping,  taunt  pushes  beyond
frequency’s of pain no thresholds hold, surging
urge  beyond, beyond this body’s knowing or control
tearing  to depths no man dare go for fear death.

You’re split.

Woman, mother ,
somebody’s child still ,
stitching bewildered wonder,

skin flaps sag, ribboned rugged  ,

as if  web swatted by novel  frumpy fingers
flays in wind.

Yet only

waves- warmth of suckle
eyes to eyes  felt ,
bursting breasted dams call.
Each nipple drenches  sustenance ,
as that silken thread woven weaves its way
comforting  infinity.

I leave sapling self amongst the fluid -soaked linen.
Lioness now , ready to defend till end of ends
as fierce to savagery.
Even when he’s
swaddled  or
forever sleeping,
still  I clasp hand
in hand, in  each breath birthed.
As if delicate web hanging
to catch dew- glistens.
As if she’s  chasing shadows
as  if birthed.


For the love of Saturday socks and ponder

To butter toast is an art form,
the enchantress luring, purrs
as it spreads it’s self ,

never quiet reaches corners.
never quiet done.
Solidified solidarity lump till toast touches

or touches toast and bagel let’s not go there.
Sitting in corners of sun slowly leathering
it’s weekending .

Does it wait to Mumba  marmalade, quiver
at the sight of marmite moulding it’s self  fuzzy ?
while B52s bang out Love shack come

Saturday’s throw back and
knife suddenly microphone – this   is   it – your moment ..
You ,sock- strut gangster style , splatter  buttery

scoop  matrix like , it flys , evolution!
Or does it scream excited glees when sausage
rolls in breaded blanket  as much as belly dances

knowing what’s coming ?
Give a slight squeal before
head-banged upside down  into yellow?

as egg -yolk drips sunrises and fingers sigh glistening
it’s residue from the morning mosh .
Does it silent protest if just Blueberries preferred, consumed?

as it  calls   karma  on Monday morning madness
testing your mindfulness,
as it refuses  to budge next time  you think toast ?
Borrows a hole to match moon, ripping precious

as it yogas itself into swirl -clamp  –  holds pose
taking each baked crevice with it
while  4 non blondes belt out What’s going on

synchronizing your own mouth blasts

The art form.  Buttering.
Pleading  spread,
best left severed  on Sunday
warming Monday’s melt
and matching socks.


© Polly Richardson