Polly Richardson (Munnelly) Polly is a Dublin born poet now living and writing on the Dingle Peninsula, Kerry, Ireland. 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. Her debut collection Winters Breath was launched with Impspired early September 2020 and is available on Amazon . She’s currently working on her second collection

Dingle Wilds 10 – Radom Hideouts

 Swim Free Fungie
 Robin’s song buried itself. Perhaps
 Synchronizing with Dolphin Atlantic spin 
 somewhere in mist obliviously harmonizing 
 were wild things
 go,
  vast as universal pockets happily 
 twinkling own evolution
 undiscovered, 
 unawares  
 yet knowing their beauty 
 lives behind yesterday’s discoveries of loan fin slicing
 sea-slicks braking surface, eyeing bows, 
 their quakes
  this bay 
 gifting years of wonder of themselves
 knowing, all knowing 
 stories will be told of solitary 
 bottlenose gracing these seas
 till tides turned                  
                       
      bringing him completely free 
 to birds song
 constellations 
 unawares obliviously harmonizing 
 were wild things
 go. 

 
 Note Fungie -(/ˈfʊŋɡi/), also known as the Dingle Dolphin,[2] was a male solitary common bottlenose dolphin. He lived in very close contact with humans in Dingle on the southwest coast Kerry of Ireland for some 37 years, coming into the bay regularly throughout the day to feed  until his disappearance in  late  2020.  

Dingle Wilds 11 – Slice

 I dove with sea, sliced light, danced with kelp moans 
                             in depths far beyond this deep,
                                       moored essences of ancestral chants
                                               longing for moons tango-merge with sun.
                                                      Her song mellowed my bones                                                                                                         
       the holly birthing reds own nature beckons,beckons inner hymn and
 eye flicks - skimming glassy surface slick- laps baiting, baiting to
       catch sky ember’s amber lowering soft glow romancing mountains in     R.E.M.  I’m born.  Wetted as spring lamb spluttering December crisp air,
 instinctual straddle grasp of sod as if first fresh touch to poise greet 
 and bow, bow to sun slivers soaked in dewy droplets in waiting
                                    weave flaying strands to felt - knit into wilds
                                                  its licks residue seep,seep into porous flesh
                                       birthed from roughed womb roars, inner beats
                              matching hooves past rhythms echoing true core
                   and splays
  each fibre, open. Latch colostrum’s and gorge                                                                                                             
 Pluck nova’s from on looking constellations already bathed in chants
                                          Consuming slices generously. 

 Dingle Wilds 12  Annascaul –    The envy of blue skies

 Where rain meets sky and sheep cry out to hawthrorn,
 woolly dotted specks decorate, like after pearl- sprawl- bounce
        from her unhinged grip across green peaks, 
           swallowed up by mist drapes falling 
                    falling as if cloud carousel 
  the envy of blue clear skies. They, mere observer 
              cannot dance nor kiss the rain
                   I’m drawn, as dawn to sun,
     almost paused like hawthorn permanent state of still and
  it’s loan inky etches askew mid sway with wind 
  and aged gnarly bark - the holding place of wish-whisper deposits 
     as they bank themselves with longings.
  
   And desolations sit pretending they are fine things
  And the song of wonder plays aloud matching music 
      carved out in hallows high above 
  
        with hawthorn whispers needs of unburden 
      each step, each swash and splosh on, from sodden soil
   where rain feeds trickle splutters minding theirs,
  meandering bending rocks 
  I tried to bend moon, pull it home with night,
  and grass cries great big gulps from the depths of earths own marrow
   and unseen rhythm finds it flow buried beneath green fringes 
      where brilliant yellow blooms and rich red pushes up adding
  maybe magic, definite boldness and dare to thrive amongst perfectly 
  sculpted spheres of sheep shite, undisturbed bar
    those consuming such delicacies. This November rain,
       where I whisper *bandraíodóir, bandraíodóir sigh out to hawthorns  

 
   note * bandraíodóir ( pronounced band- dree-adore )Irish for Enchantress.