A mother to her son

A mother to her son

When I look at you, I need to look further up
Each time I come home from work you seem to have changed
My eyes devour you
I hug and hold you to discover your changing frame

 Copyright © 2015 Kim Whysall-Hammond

 

…re-blogged from 2015….and yes, hes even taller now and still growing. These days I have to tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

Avebury Stone

One of my interests (my sons may term it an obsession) is prehistory – which was born from childhood visits to ancient sites in or near the Vale of Pewsey in Wiltshire. Not so far from the end of the Vale is Avebury stone circle, arguably more spectacular than Stonehenge.  Here is a sketch of one particular stone in the Avebury circle, and a rather colourful watercolour interpretation.

 

 

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At Stratford with William

At Stratford with William

From above I watch the story unfold
Bask in dense poetry
The pleasure of  words and phrasing
So pertinent to the action
To the people laying out their very lives in front of us
I laugh uproariously then
Gasp as the knife plunges
Hold my breath
Knowing from schooldays the inevitable end
But hoping this time, here, now
That tragedy can somehow not play out on this stage
That all must come right even for this poor foolish reprobate
Sit shaken, still, grieving
Then
Stand and  roar my appreciation
My hands clap fast and hard  above my head
I grin in sheer pleasure at the craft and art
That has been spun out this evening
As the story concludes and the players bow

Copyright © 2017  Kim Whysall-Hammond

For William Shakespeare’s Birthday…

Sleep takes you

Sleep takes you

Sleep takes you and whirls you around,
Swirling you along over the ground.
Then the ground looms and you veer away, desperately climbing up towards day.
Head over heels you tumble and fall,
Speeding down like a plane caught in a stall.
Loud ringing sounds out and you wake with a start,
Lying in bed with a hammering heart.

Copyright © 2015  Kim Whysall-Hammond

 

….re-blogged from 2015….

Poetry makes nothing happen

Poetry makes nothing happen

Poetry may make nothing happen, but poetry happens to me
Announces its first line as others worm into my brain
Poetry flows stuttering from head to fingers to paper or screen
Words arrive and force themselves out
Typed frantically into the phone at the roadside, scribbled on random sheets
Telling stories, painting pictures, crying love or grief
It is mine in so much as I capture and tidy it
In so much as the stories, pictures, loves and grief’s are mine
Sometimes I can pull the inspiration to me
Make it give me the means for what I need or want to express
Make it work for me (like now)
But mostly it is a response

Poetry happens

To me

Copyright © 2017  Kim Whysall-Hammond

The picture quotes Leonard Cohen

Inspired by:

For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

WH Auden

Graveyard shift

Graveyard shift

In old Malay, draped in forest, lies heat swamped George Town
Where abandoned colonial mansions rot in new technological haze
Forsaken, cracked, diminished, atrophied
Yet evening jazz drifts from broken windows, lights flicker, shadows dance
New tenants, just for the graveyard shift

Old hotel, four square and white, now has modern facilities, pools, spa
The private beach, golden, secluded, is a long walk but a short drive
Courtesy coaches ply the mountain road past decaying  tombs
Extra guests take the last ride of the day, leaving the driver fevered
New passengers, starting the graveyard shift

Copyright © 2017  Kim Whysall-Hammond

 

….retold from anecdotes told to me by Nesa………. thank you……….