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, 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.