Tag Archives: azores

Dreaming

Large green leaves lean lushly
against crater walls
palm trees and pines jostle for space

Flowery grasses spotted with inevitable hydrangeas
(blue invaders of our hearts)
line the dirt road  to the vent

At the carved curving stairs
our descent into a dreaming volcano
begins

Fumes fill noses and heads
Hades once writhed here
and scents it’s promise of return

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Another poem inspired by a visit to Furna do Enxofre, an empty magma chamber on Graciosa island in the Azores. Empty of magma, not fumes….

…the painting is my own, and one of several of the vent….

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Magma Cave

Shards of rock lie  silent
as ferns lean toward the sun
along the sides of the great vent
cut into a perfect dome above
sulphur from a tepid celadon lake
fills the air

Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond

From a visit to Furna do Enxofre, an empty magma chamber on Graciosa island in the Azores. Empty of magma, not fumes….

…the painting is my own, and one of several of the vent….

Whaling Boat

Cleaving through the waves
Slender, fragile
A wooden sailing boat
Races its kindred
In the regatta
Brought back to life and beauty
Restored to some use
But not the original fatal one
Man against beast
Hand launched harpoon
Against the deep diving leviathan
A dreadful trade
Forged in harsh necessity
Killing Whales and men
In this isolated archipelago
As the boat  turns into the wind
A bright Orange speeder passes close
Bouncing from wave to wave
Full of tourists
Out to hunt whales
With their cameras

Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Dark heat

This clump of small trees conceals a secret,
steep rock scattered slope sliding into black
amongst long tangled roots.
A high tunnel, arching roof, sharp cutting surfaces,
rock drips hanging,
umbilical cord sinuously writhing down
into volcanic depths now empty
silent and still.
Liquid rock ran here once,
the rock around us the scum that floated
on a glowing river extruding into up above
reaching out with fiery devils fingers
grasping at fields and lives.

Night is a cavern, a tunnel to the depths,
it can be littered with fears
haunted by worries, swamped by unslept sleep.
This primordial dark, this barren silence
is filled by the hammering of our hearts.
An apocalypse that is long gone into history,
still we feel the presence of subterranean death
hear disaster echoing across time.

 

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Published at Fourth and Sycamore in July 2018.

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

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