In the pen
They stroll and gossip
Argue and hustle
Murmur and call
Huddle together for companionship
In the pen
They bathe in the dust
Stretch their wings
Stand longingly by the door
Waiting to leave
In the pen
Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond
She’s a rescue chicken
no rest for her
half her feathers missing
she’s one tough bird
Small, brown, determined
she plans to sneak back in
wirecutters in beak
to cut free the other chickens
Who says a rescue chicken
needs tender care?
This one’s for the liberation
of battery hens everywhere
Copyright © 2021 Kim Whysall-Hammond
This poem sprung into my head upon reading Jim Feeneys wonderful poem Oprah Among the Chickens, where he asks:
Is a rescue chicken
a chicken that has been rescued by people
or is it a chicken that rescues people?
Well, I had a different idea………
The photo comes from the excellent British Hens Welfare Trust.
He talks to chickens
Sometimes with their own sounds
Otherwise in English
Discussing the state of the hen house
The undesirability of chickens entering the house
And pooping on our elderly carpet
They themselves have their own opinions
Apparently
The availability of fresh greens in their diet
The joy of scratching about on the shingle path
The delightful crunchiness of dried meal worms
When I suggest that the girls take part in family decisions
In order to address the gender imbalance
I am rejected
They have their own forum
Talking with my husband each day
True husbandry
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
They comment as they watch me weed
and as I go, they start to plead
for freedom from their boring pen
restrictive to a busy hen.
Now free, they root, scratch and dig
As efficient as any pig
Rustling through every flower
I watch to while away the hours
Later, the washing that I carry
Commands attention, so they tarry
Weaving about by my feet
Hoping it’s something they can eat
Finally it is time to end their roam
I need to get these chickens home
A line of treats upon the grass
Leads them back to the pen at last.
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
A painting of our oldest hen, called Dave. I’ve tried to indicate movement:
Dave belongs to my youngest son, who is 17 today.
He talks to chickens
Sometimes with their own sounds
Otherwise in English
Discussing the state of the hen house
The undesirability of chickens entering the house
And pooping on our elderly carpet
They themselves have their own opinions
Apparently
The availability of fresh greens in their diet
The joy of scratching about on the shingle path
The delightful crunchiness of dried meal worms
When I suggest that the girls take part in family decisions
In order to address the gender imbalance
I am rejected
They have their own forum
Talking with my husband each day
True husbandry
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
For Tony….
Ghosts of little lives follow me
Today I held my hand out to a hen
She didn’t peck at my sparkly ring
As her predecessor always did
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
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
Robin in the fig tree
What are the words?
Bright, cheery red, bob-bob-bobbing?
My Robin has read Ted Hughes
He pulls worms fighting from the stiff soil
Terrorises chickens, birds a hundred times his size
Fights to the death for territory
He is now lurking in our small unproductive Fig tree
That leans awkwardly out of a fake ceramic tub
The pigeons by the pond look uneasy
Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond
In the pen
In the pen
They stroll and gossip
Argue and hustle
Murmur and call
Huddle together for companionship
In the pen
They bathe in the dust
Stretch their wings
Stand longingly by the door
Waiting to leave
In the pen
Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond
