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-zine under the surname of Munnelly and more recently Richardson. She is member of Navan writers group: The Bulls Arse and Cork based group Blackwater Poetry. Polly has been heard reading at open mic nights and festivals throughout Ireland including The Blackwater International poetry festival and on live links broadcasting internationally as part of the festival 2013, 2014, 2015 and 2016. Her poems have featured on their poetry trail in 2014, 2016 and 2017. She has also been heard reading at; The sunflower sessions, The Collective and Dublin writer’s forum summer bash (2015) Good thyme Thursday sessions, Blackbird Books and 2016 she was part of the ‘Awaken Your Soul’ event that was short listed for a Sabator award in London 2017. Some of her work has been published and appeared in the following outlets; Irish based Solstice Initiative Poetry Journals; Connections in 2012, Aqueous 2013. US based Mad Swirl Poetry Forum 2013 to 2016 where she is now a contributing poet. Songs for Julia anthology, Italian based e-zine Lotus Eater, Blue max review, Poems for Fukushima anthology and Twenty Seven signs anthology in 2014. The Sea anthology 2015 and will have worked included the forth coming Boyne Berries Anthology celebrating poet Francis Ledwigs 100th centenary due out in September 2017. She is currently working on her first collection .http//www.madswirl.com/
Island Hop 7/7/17
Wading skin deep scooping sustenance,
Old friend wash over me
the Islands evolution
leaving smooth rock pools teeming,
under -watch by bobbing gull
waiting to chorus mine- mine.
And then hooves
Waves lap, bringing you in on tides
despite been cast out with new moon,
Only to return.
Hooves beat to my rhythm, chinking chasey drawing weightless
feathered to warm winds
Hugged to this – my bay.
Standing dangling blinkers, ready,
grooming strands sinking into myself,
catching shooting star, each inhalation filling
rising green canvas from sands glowing under promenade lights,
And then hooves chinking chasey drawing weightless
Waves lapping bringing just tides
Drunk on silence in mind.
Cohen serenades the breeze
blowing in tempo to swaying trees,
In the overgrowth, yaps in REM
And here it is.
Bukowski flutters- flaps bare
the dampness of butter cup
stretched open as palm
And here it is.