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 under the surname of Munnelly and more recently Richardson. A contributing poet to US-based poetry forum Mad Swirl and Europe’s Live Encounters digi mag with poems featuring in  Boston’s Nixes Mate review, Porter Gulch Review Cabrillo college US, Italian based Lotus Eater mag and member of and co-runs Navan creative writers group: The Bulls Arse. She has been heard reading at national and international poetry festivals from 2013 to 2019 including Trim’s (Meath Ireland) first poetry festival in 2019. She also has been heard at open mic nights all over Ireland and via Skype for the second time to Dallas when Mad Swirl went live launching their best of anthology 2018 in 2019. In 2017 she worked with Frisian poet and the now Netherlands Laureate Teasd Brunja in Harrlem in Amsterdam. 

Dingle Wilds 2 – Held

To move within beyond boundaries to silence,

 desolation of normality gifting isolations

so lone lamb – bleats becomes king of spring.

 A reminder of life’s nurturing nature thrives,

 yet louder, somehow fleeces moving freer,

 glistening whiter despite damp boggy moss

 holding moisture, oblivious to chaos, sensing

maybe not Easter slaughter,

as if dancing to far winds, attuned to vigorous dawn’s chorus bellowing triumphs, finally theirs to claim.

The gorse blooming thicker, seasoned from Atlantic sea-spray, its almighty yellow as if catching those glorious sun beams, delighting in its own isolated conversations.

And the mountain’s wind-whips up its hum to a higher octave.

Feet already rooting appear stagnant, loaning ears to natures whispers, as if rewind-pause hearing the ghosts of shepherd’s calls through remains of dotted scattered stone walls old roads reclaimed by the sod lead to somewhere,

held the spud, spat out fish from those very streams that weave its way to salting shores.

Fleece felted, spooled to keep wintering bearable enthralled by those very mountains that births isolations slow, wet as lamb still spluttering amniotic first breaths.

And lungs fill its own weight in essence, a new purity, as humanity hibernate their own doing, once fearless, now cower as those waves keep eroding, 

 The minds absorptions of tidal turning hold too far off sand banks,

held in natures palm, offering herself to lead in mist whispers curling themselves at tips of rugged peaks birthing slowing wet as lamb still spluttering amniotic first breaths.

Dingle Wilds 3 – Invisibility 

Invisibility wears itself like the gown from garden of Eden, weighted down as sea drags the clothed sub-merged.

That sense engulfs each subtle fibre, snuggly fitting. Perfectly matched, no hourglass figure need.

Standing in revolving rooms the gown curtseys, far be it to gift unmannerly in shadows tightening itself,

as if corset awaiting its que to restrict – this dance moves to full dynamic, spinningspinning snatching breath,

like butterfly netted – eventually flutters exhaust.

 Almost asphyxiate,

fleeting moments feel that jolt as if whiplash of stingray plunging, lifetime shards embedding themselves all at once.

Each footfall moves pulling forward, stepping towards higher heights, knowing the breeze circulates freer, where birds play.

For every earthen indentation, brushing jagged rocks kissing boulders, another thread snags, unravelling birthing gapes

as new bareness almost gasps tasting salted sea spray as summer rain kisses onto flesh.

Dingle Wilds 4 – Contemplation

To stand on pebbles perfectly smooth

                                perfectly moulded,

to sink into depths that came before,

  see full strength

 feel full weakness

to know insignificant,

yet to breathe in completion, the pull of rolling wave force,

fringing on the edge of living, thankful to never ingest just existing. Bow to the shorelines,

 uninhibited, thriving in every crevasse, undisturbed.

To take steps unknowing of their landing, yet to place in front sure of the journey leading a head, exquisitely held up by the ruggedness in between spongy blackened marsh – pockets only sheep dare imprint.

 Atlantic vastness churning surrounds like loaning it’s coastal strength, enveloping nurturing nature,

Accompanying pairing gannets, as they synch basking sun their blackness matching roughed jagged perch, jutting up from sea swells wave- slapped, quenching barnacles, mirroring Skellig.  

eyes cast out to turquoise waters bleeding to green

Taking. Renewing. Taking.

awash with brightest of blues rolling outs and ins 

probabilities of catch, offspring surge up from instinctual mappings beneath plumage, already salted.

Note : Dingle – One of Ireland’s treasures on the west coast – the Dingle Peninsula , Kerry .One  rural town with a big heart surrounded by its many majestic mountains, iconic cliff walks, coupled with the beautiful Slea head drive that takes in more beauty in a blink as its navigated, bursting with wild life in sea and land on the Wild Atlantic Way route. Looked on by Skellig Michael and the Blasket Islands. Under what was normal circumstances one of Ireland’s busiest tourist spots on the west coast. Now quietly beating its own beauty awaiting the unknown.

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