She came to see me
Resplendent in red
Glittering with dust
Her elegant bone structure evident more than ever
Desiccated and dead
Spacesuit blown
Floating past the view screen
When I know we retrieved her from orbit yesterday
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
First published in the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Associations print journal Star*Line 40.4
“Most people prefer angels to salamanders as symbols of the inspirational, although one is surely as wondrous as the other.”
Margaret Atwood
http://movies2.nytimes.com/books/97/05/18/bookend/bookend.html
I’m sure there’s a poem in here somewhere, waiting to get out…..
Where do the deer go in the day?
Empty fields, busy lanes
shady woods — all the same
No deer.
Walk in the evening
there they flit
in the shadows.
Where do the deer go in the night?
Same as the day — out of sight.
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
These, in the day when heaven was falling,
The hour when earth’s foundations fled,
Follow’d their mercenary calling
And took their wages and are dead.
Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
They stood, and earth’s foundations stay;
What God abandon’d, these defended,
And saved the sum of things for pay.
by A.E. Housman (1860-1936)
To me, this poem is evocative of all those who do the dirty work for the rest of us. It is a WW1 poem, but also applies, I feel, to all those who fought in WW2, specifically to my Grandfather who fought in both world wars and his children: my Uncle who defended India, my Godmother who repaired Spitfires under enemy fire and her sister who manned (womanned?) the Barrage Balloons during the London Blitz. Plus my other Aunt’s American fiance who died at D-Day and all the young American boys my teenage mother danced with during the long wait for D-Day, and who she cried for as they left one night to take back Europe.
The mercenaries in this poem are actually the ‘Old Contemptibles’, the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) of 1914— the professional British army before the rush of volunteers. The BEF was sent to France in 1914 to fight against the Germans.
Slender bones, delicately traced
staring grinning skulls.
No skin, no muscle,
no eyes, no heart or other parts.
Yet they tell a knowing eye many tales
of wounds healed, muscle strengths,
diseases and battles fought.
Indications of the life lived
And sometimes the death faced.
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
As the Cheesesellers Wife, I cannot resist sharing a wonderful Cheese poem with you, all in rhyme, by Kunal Thakore in Bombay. Enjoy:
From French or English or Dutch
To American or Danish or Swiss
Whether from cow or sheep or goat
Can anyone give cheese a miss
Think of it, cheese should be yuck
Cultured as it is with bacteria and mould
Sounds downright disgusting for sure
But completely worth having, if truth be told
Mild or sharp, with wine or with bread
Sliced, cubed, diced, or as a spread
With crackers, cucumber sticks, or with jam
Or then with olives, grapes, or even ham
With nachos, as chips & dip, in burgers
Melted in a fondue, as part of a platter
It’s fattening but tasty as hell
So it really doesn’t matter
Honey, mustard or a salad
Philadelphia, Boursin or Cheez Whiz
Can you really go wrong
With a slather of any of these
There’s Camembert and Emmental
Cheddar, Gouda and Brie
But many hundreds of others
From all over, as…
View original post 184 more words
High on hilly plateau
nestled in sheep fields
wind ruffled lonely lake
unexpected broken boat
pulled up onto
sheep stained rocks
bright paint splinters
blue into chilly green waters
aground amongst sheep
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
When I go away from you
The world beats dead
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.
Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?
by Amy Lowell, 1874 – 1925
This is the first of a Friday series of poems selected from my poetry shelf
“….with a lyric poem, you look, and meditate, and put the rock back. With fiction you poke things with a stick to see what will happen.”
Margaret Atwood
http://movies2.nytimes.com/books/97/05/18/bookend/bookend.html
…although I would argue that good Speculative Poetry does poke about with a stick……
Another great poem from Betty, and time I shared one with you…
.
He says she’s over the hill,
that she’s dancing
with entropy
toward the valley below
.
but she hears the call
of flickers, and the chitter
of squirrels,
and she sees ahead
.
lush meadows, tall trees,
and moss-covered stones
on the path
by a sapphire river.
.
There, she’ll follow the scent
of her own deep roots
to a range of mountains,
their tops hidden
.
in the subtleties he missed
between the lines
on her face
when e’er she smiled.
.
.
(c) 2018 Betty Hayes Albright
.
