She came to see me

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

red astronaut

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Angels and salamanders

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…..

Friday Poem: Epitaph on an army of Mercenaries

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.

A Cheesy Rhyme

As the Cheesesellers Wife, I cannot resist sharing a wonderful Cheese poem with you, all in rhyme, by Kunal Thakore in Bombay. Enjoy:

random rants ruminations ramblings

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…

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Friday Poem: The Taxi

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

 

Poetry versus Fiction

“….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……

Coming of Age

Another great poem from Betty, and time I shared one with you…

Seasonings

.

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

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