Category Archives: Poetry

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

We will be seeing Macbeth at Stratford this week!

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There are never enough photos of Pico

There are never enough photos of Pico
Says he, as he takes yet one more
The light has changed again
And the mountain looks about to roar
We’ve flown over and around her
Driven along her lower slopes
But the best view is away from her
From little Horta’s shore

The mountain slumbers on
Fuji slopes gracefully curving down
She glows rose in the dawns light
By midday she can glower and frown
Clouds drape her and embrace her
Shadowing scree and walled in grapevine
However far we travel away from her
Somehow that volcano is always mine

Copyright © 2015 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Re-blogged from 2015

Road to Nowhere

We stumble along, believing we hold the map
Believing we guide our path or someone does somewhere
From the darkness to the light and back
The bird flies through the drinking hall and is gone
Leaving memories, echoes and silence
All we are is memories and echoes
All we can do is try to fracture the silence.
 

Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond

 

Re-blogged from 2016

Photographs by Ivor Gurney

Lying in dug-outs, joking idly, wearily;
   Watching the candle guttering in the draught;
Hearing the great shells go high over us, eerily
   Singing; how often have I turned over, and laughed
With pity and pride, photographs of all colours,
   All sizes, subjects: khaki brothers in France;
Or mother’s faces worn with countless dolours;
   Or girls whose eyes were challenging and must dance,
Though in a picture only, a common cheap
   Ill-taken card; and children—frozen, some
(Babies) waiting on Dicky-bird to peep
   Out of the handkerchief that is his home
(But he’s so shy!). And some with bright looks, calling
   Delight across the miles of land and sea,
That not the dread of barrage suddenly falling
   Could quite blot out—not mud nor lethargy.
Smiles and triumphant careless laughter. O
   The pain of them, wide Earth’s most sacred things!
Lying in dug-outs, hearing the great shells slow
   Sailing mile-high, the heart mounts higher and sings.
But once—O why did he keep that bitter token
   Of a dead Love?—that boy, who, suddenly moved,
Showed me, his eyes wet, his low talk broken,
   A girl who better had not been beloved.
       one of my favourite poets.

Cave

Deep in a volcanic sea cave
crimson crabs hang from the ceiling
scuttle along walls, clattering  pincers
gather in their hundreds
in affront
as our boat noses in,
engine stilled.

We have raced across open ocean
slamming over waves
to be claustrophobically  enclosed
looked down upon by crustaceans
never before have I felt
such an visitor to my own planet
insignificant in the face of the whale and the dolphin
and now these outraged crabs.

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond