Careful!

I have to carry myself carefully
as I did when a small child prone to tripping
carrying flowers for Grandma
held tight in both hands
all along the road, almost to the moon
it felt, admonished to be careful
continually.
Clumsy they called me, lackadaisical
cack-handed
but my feet turned in
and a treatment had been refused

I have returned to my start it seems
after a fall in the dark
and a crack to the head
this wavering shaky plod
rather than that old vivid
stumbling run
makes me clumsy again

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Friday Poem: Everything is Going to be All Right

How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.

by Derek Mahon,from Selected Poems

Dereck died on 1st October 2020.

This poem was a consolation and an inspiration to me at the beginning of the UK lockdown.

Creating Truth Like Glass From Inspiration’s Furnace

In truth we never wholly translate
These thoughts we have into words which are
Stones weighted down and sinking into a pond
Horizons, thoughts and words need to be boundless and
Sing our intentions to the Universe

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

The Wales Millennium Centre in Cardiff is the home of Welsh National Opera and stages many musicals and bands (in more normal times that is). It has two huge inscriptions across the front of the building, one in Welsh. The English words are In These Stones Horizons Sing , but the Welsh words say something different – Creating Truth Like Glass From Inspiration’s Furnace.

Friday Poem: Winter In America

From the Indians who welcomed the pilgrims
And to the buffalo who once ruled the plains
Like the vultures circling beneath the dark clouds
Looking for the rain
Looking for the rain


Just like the cities staggered on the coastline
Living in a nation that just can’t stand much more
Like the forest buried beneath the highway
Never had a chance to grow
Never had a chance to grow


And now it’s winter
Winter in America
Yes and all of the healers have been killed
Or sent away, yeah
But the people know, the people know
It’s winter
Winter in America
And ain’t nobody fighting
‘Cause nobody knows what to say
Save your soul, Lord knows
From Winter in America


The Constitution
A noble piece of paper
With free society
Struggled but it died in vain
And now Democracy is ragtime on the corner
Hoping for some rain
Looks like it’s hoping
Hoping for some rain


And I see the robins
Perched in barren treetops
Watching last-ditch racists marching across the floor
But just like the peace sign that vanished in our dreams
Never had a chance to grow
Never had a chance to grow


And now it’s winter
It’s winter in America
And all of the healers have been killed
Or been betrayed
Yeah, but the people know, people know
It’s winter, Lord knows
It’s winter in America
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows what to save
Save your souls
From Winter in America


And now it’s winter
Winter in America
And all of the healers done been killed or sent away
Yeah, and the people know, people know
It’s winter
Winter in America
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows what to save
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows, nobody knows
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows what to save

Written by Gil Scott-Heron (1949–2011)

An old poem that is now very timely. A lot of this poem also now applies to Britain too, sadly.

Pony Lad

Deep along and under
coal damp flared, blew
took out men and rocks.
The pony knew it, that fetid puff
and bolted, taking his boy,
tightly clutching the harness, with him

Deep under and along
men scrambled, suffocated
wordless in the dark
never to see the green again.
But the pony boy was out
as the shaft tumbled and crushed
thanking God for his pony

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Wilfred Whysall, my grandfather was that pony lad….