profile image

Polly Oliver

Updated: Mon, 11 Jul 2016 12:38 am

Contact via WOL logo


'Writer'...'poet'.... I feel a bit pretentious still calling myself these; late 30s and the inner critic has grown even more poisonous. But in a nutshell, I'm Polly Oliver, born in Cornwall, living in Wales, inspired by both. Also by love, nature, kids, friends. All of it. I have performed at open mic sessions such as First Thursday at Chapter Arts Centre in Cardiff. We roll words around our head, then cast them, hopeful, onto page or screen, seeking shape in our layered moments and fast-flowing years, longing to leave an echo.


Wine with Friends: Bring your cracked smiles and tall tales To my patient table; Purple rings stain the grain. Life leaves marks. Let fly your cackles that snap and spark In the dark corners, Urging a sluggish grub to quickness, To feel her still-sheathed wings. Wine flows like talk, Easing the hinges of doors to past selves And windows catches to new views, Fresh air. Word-weaving, we bind together The magenta warp of deep laughter, The soft pastel weft of mundane sorrows To magic cloth, that wraps and warms Souls gone grey with routines we never dreamed And gone-over loves. Blurting secrets in a jolt, Like a wine bottle knocked. Red-spreading pool blotted, but indelibly inked Into the Rorsach of maturing friendship. In the hiatus eyes meet, And Judgement's place in the cold Is sealed with a re-filled glass. Via Appia: Her blood sings through The vessels of his heart, Which beats out love's time Sweetly uncovered in her cool hands. They rest together, unravelled Against the scented bark, Amidst the Roman silence And the ruins of ancient lives. The pines whisper: 'Time is short lovers". They unfold into their ageless moment, Breathing in millennia. Green and pink floor shards Still fresh as sweets, burn her bare feet; Heated under the searing sky Peering into their villa of peace. Amphitheatre and circus are time's betrothal rings Promises shattered in bliss as the grasses hiss: 'You were always here'. The unseeing eyes on the roadside tombs read: 'There is no joy but this'.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Favourite Profiles

Profile image Ian Whiteley

Do you want to be featured here? Submit your profile.


No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message