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 Note:  Fiona Robyn now writes as Satya Robyn.
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Living Things               Apples, pine, mint

         Red Tree           Circle Line


Living Things


I have carried living things in my hands all week, sneaked up on

daddy-long-legs, pulled them off painted walls and held their brittle bodies.

Iíve picked up blue-black beetles like shiny stones, moved them

from inside rooms to out; they stick to my thumb, they seem

happy enough to cling on. Best of all, the two young frogs

whoíd come onto the kitchen tiles to see what they could find.

I watched them bending their tiny legs, toothpick bones inside,

felt their rubbery skin against mine as they pushed away, they were amazing.

I have held living things in my hands all week, knowing

if I wanted I could close the space between my fingers.

And I think how it might have been for those two frogs, to be lifted up

so high, so fast: and when the light comes back they could be anywhere.


Fiona Robyn

published in The Interpreter's House, 2000




Apples, pine, mint


I snap my neck to see what hit my head.

Itís shining in the dirt; a perfect leaf,

the size of a dinner-plate. A few steps on

it pulls me back. I bend and pick it up,

hold it at the end of the long stem.

It moves along beside me like a wing.  

When I get to where Iím going to

I fold it up and slip it into my bag.


The next day I drive to a strange place

to meet a strange man in a grand hotel.

Afterwards the space inside my car

is filled with scent: apples, pine, mint.

I dig around and find my folded leaf,

shrunken, brown, it doesnít want to open

out, it cracks and splits. I wind the window,

throw it onto the soil and I am happy.


Fiona Robyn

published in Aesthetica, 2005





Red Tree


Itís just a tree most of the year

but in October it cracks open like an egg,

becomes the colour of fights, of lips

men would kill to kiss.


The leaves are lit up from within

and bursting with banquets,

chandeliers, all-night dancing.

Unable to bear their own brightness


they let go of their twigs too soon.

The tree can hardly wait to be red again.


Fiona Robyn

published in Poetry and Audience, 2005





Circle Line


The pint heís cupped and savoured all afternoon

mixes with the chattering track and warm, used air.

He leans back, lets his eyes close and his mouth open.


Thereís a mug of sweet tea waiting for him at home,

and a small grey dog called Charlie.

He dies quietly between Blackfriars and Temple.


Itís fourteen hours before heís found.

He is thin under his clothes, the men who lift him

put too much strength into their arms.


Fiona Robyn

published on-line, nth position, 2006


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