All posts by The Cheesesellers Wife

About The Cheesesellers Wife

Hello, I’m Kim. I have always written poetry, long before I found books of the wonderful stuff. I have never shared any of it before I set up my Cheesesellers Wife blog where you will find my poems and others I feel the need to share with you (but mostly my poems). There will also be the occasional post about other things, but as the tag line says it’s “mostly poetry”. And, yes, my husband sells cheese. Sometimes I help…….

Dragon in Amsterdam

To celebrate friendship and another visit to Amsterdam, here is a dragon lurking on some Amsterdam rooftops….

amsterdam dragon cropped

It is based on the blue Dragon I shared last week.

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Autumnal Slide

Autumn leaves colour lawns orange
Litter roads red
The long slide into the cold begins
Advent madness beckons
Like a siren
Calling us onto the rocks
Of family festivities, hidden lonelinesses, retail greed and envy
Soon rooftops will grow neon reindeer
Tinsel will be worn around necks at office parties
All too soon
It will be Christmas

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

 

I’m in Amsterdam this week, and so have left you this poem which rather captures my feeling about the next few months I’m afraid!

Translation

Lost between the words
is true meaning
the real message
perhaps the marriage
perhaps the correct diagnosis.
We all use metaphors
similes
when describing emotions and pains.
Doctors and spouses
should by rights be poets
for poetry conveys what is lost in translation.

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

A poem inspired by the quote:

Poetry is what gets lost in translation.
Robert Frost

Ophelia’s Gift

Rust red sun
Burns through yellow grey clouds
So dark at Noon
That street lights flicker
The silence of the birds
Is telling

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

 

Storm Ophelia (once a category 3 hurricane) has today brought dust from the Azores and from Portugal. In the west of England, people can smell burning too………..rather apocalyptic.

Scrabbling

I am scrabbling for a word
To describe the noise of chickens
Scrabbling in the garden

It isn’t rustling
The leaves above are doing that
Rustle is a high pitched word
I need a lower pitich
Mustle, grustle
Tustle is what one hen is doing with a worm

Now there’s a sudden outbreak of snail football
The snail always loses

It’s life

On this sunny late October afternoon
Maybe its scrabbling after all

 

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Storm

The storm shouts through tree limbs
Cracks and breaks
Whips branches to  frenzied tossing
Blows and whistles
Hammers  against windows and doors
Shrieks and groans
Pries open roofs, flings tiles to the sky
Never lessens to a moan
But instead increases its relentless noise
Until, astonishingly, we are forced to cover our ears
In our shelter at the buildings centre
Huddling

A barrage of artillery scatalogically fires
Bangs resound around
Items sharply spatter  the window
Cracking and splintering
Words struggle to encompass what we now hear
Howling winds crescendo
Tortured wood explodes into fragments
Breaking glass like sugar
The Nissan hut shudders creaks shifts
Exhales sobs sighs
Would weep we feel as we weep
Fearing the storms ferocity

Staccato thrumming is in fact the rain
Finally gentling
Light begins to filter between thrashing trees
The loud dark recedes
Easing ourselves from our shelter at the huts centre
To the shattered doors
To the belated soggy dawn
To the ruin without
Scrambling through huge debris
Living trees churned to matchsticks
English Oaks cut off at two foot high
By the mighty hand of the storm

 

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Written about my experience during the Great Storm of 1987. Thirty years ago, this storm hit Southern England like a hurricane — felling millions of trees.

Ironically, I was training to be a Weather Forecaster at the time (the storm was not forecast correctly), and I was living through the storm during the night of October 15th in a Nissan Hut at the UK Meteorological Office College.

Poem previously published on In Between Hangovers

Exmoor Soundscape

Wild ponies snorting in the shade of a thorn tree
The kee of a buzzard soaring overhead
A ragged baa from a startled ewe
All underlaid by the irregular rumble of falling tumbling water

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

A note to readers from America: An English buzzard is not a vulture, but catches live prey.

night into early morn’

A poem I’d like to share with you, from Eliot Dybden:

along the interstice

duck in the pond behind the flat
pontificating to whatever audience he thinks he has
proclaiming his territory
or maybe he’s just saying hey

hey! hey! hey!
(pause)
hey!
(pause)
hey!

the acoustics are just right
so that sometimes i believe among the cattails
roams a talkative, minature moose

at first he was a leaky tap
the squeak of a ceiling fan
but now he is the consistency of being

resistance against the dark undertown
refusing to be stifled or quelled

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