Tag Archives: Fantasy

‘As Slow as Starlight’ now published in Frozen Wavelets

I’m absolutely delighted to announce that my poem ‘As Slow as Starlight‘ has been published in Issue 7 of the excellent magazine, Frozen Wavelets.

Thank you Steph Bianchini for taking my poem.

The issue is available online at:

Science and Science Fiction poetry: Reprobate Creature

The digital whale will still call through the waters
but now is linked in to the world wide wet
streaming her songs to land bound followers
and the digital dolphin has claimed the podcast
as her own, working with the other
members of her pod

Meanwhile, the digital octopus
undercover of the more famous mammals
has taken residence in your inner ear
whispers her incandescent mantras
and solutions to all your woes
direct to your subconscious
makes you her willing slave
will own the planet tomorrow

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

‘Reprobate Creature’ was first published in The Last Leaves  Issue 1:

https://www.lastleavesmag.com/last-leaves-issues

Mondays are Science and SF Mondays!

A poem each week which either has a science theme or is Science Fiction…..

Other recently published poems……

Oh dear, I was remiss. But keeping up with things has been difficult after Covid….

My poem, In shape no bigger than an Agate Stone, was published by Eternal Haunted Summer on the summer Solstice:

AND……

another poem, The Mourning of the Children, was published in the excellent Ink Drinkers Poetry, Issue 6:

Poem in Silver Blade Magazine

Because I was fighting off the lingering aftereffects of a bad bout of Covid-19, I neglected to tell you all that my poem, Wild Calling Moon, was published by Silver Blade in their Spring 2002 issue:

Yes, the audio version is me. I’m not sure that will do that again – I don’t like hearing myself read my poems!

Yes, I’m still fighting off the lingering aftereffects of Covid-19. I thought they were clearing away after a holiday in the Netherlands, but this week is pretty bad.

Friday Poem: Kracken

Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides: above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumbered and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages and will lie
Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Summer Queen

She makes grass into golden wheat
adorned in a stiff gold collarcape
walking, stroking,tending, sleeping with the crop
her brethren and children both
Her folk unforgiving of failure
poor cropping is catastrophe, starvation
Queens become then offerings
death awaits down that path

This summer is cold and wet
Wind flattened swollen heads remain green as harvest nears
she spends chill sodden desperate nights deep
in the fields, pleading the damp away
long days on the high hills
beseeching the sun for warmth to no avail
throat slitting awaits

The crop rustles, a manikin appears, barely wheat-high
Declares that he can help
can transmute wet straw to golden corn
at a price

She offers him her glistening arm-restricting collarcape
and the pleasures of her flesh
but he wants what she is loath to tender
any future child

She is doubly afraid, for herself
and for any child so forfeited
but dread convinces
of seeing her fathers eyes
as she is sacrificed
throat slit, body desecrated

So an agreement is made
and an unknowing village delights in late summer heat
glad harvesters sing of their queen
Autumnal marriage brings further abundance
made manifest in a swelling belly

Come a new spring, early skylarks soar
woodland paths are girded by fragrant blue
blossom bodes new abundance
yet the Queen is strangely reluctant to venture forth
to succour her new tilled fields
to leave her infant boy
with a village to raise him joyfully
this seems curious, inexplicable
yet she walks the encircling ramparts
staring out
waiting

He comes one night to her sleeping place
stares avidly at the child clasped close
she, however, has been considering
pondering the significance
of bargains well made
of names that control and command
of gifts freely given and so power won

What is the child that he so wants him,
what may he become?
What power will this child convey?

And she bargains once more
knowing that faery folk love so to do
and can be held to new deals made
the hobgoblin is silent impassive
until asked his own name
angry and proud he knows she can’t guess it
so the inbuilt weakness takes hold
“Tell me my name and you keep the child”
and he is gone

Long nights does she try
to divine the unknowable
the language of sprites and gods
is the language of the world around
shared with trees and rivers
rustling, thumping, creaking
a nonsense to human ears

Then the King tells her a story
whilst taking leave of his woodlands
his ice bearing hills
he spied on a little man dancing on mosses
singing a song of an ignorant woman
who will lose a child
to Rompanruoja the hobgoblin

So the father saves his son
from an uncanny fostering
for the Summer Queen she laughs
and at their next meeting
tells the old fellow his name
in pique and anger he leaves
not to be seen again

Here our tale ends with customary joy
The destiny of our Queen, her lovely boy
We cannot know
Lost in another story long ago

Copyright © 2021 Kim Whysall-Hammond

This poem was first published by Milk and Cake Press in  the  anthology  ‘Dead of Winter’, February 2021, available here.

The Colours of the Night

Not blackpurple or midnight blue
but rose from Betelgeuse
and the diamndsharp blue of Sirius

Ruby taillights on the move
those bright green leaves
lit up by streetlights, headlights

Nights colours are many and varied
as are those of its special creatures
now behind you, ready to feed

Copyright © 2022 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Something Follows

We walk in winterbare sunbright woods
a winding path that skirts fallen trees
sprawling bramble thickets
and forms its own linear ponds
where frogs protest our passage

I hear a clinking
high pitched, sharp, intermittent
and somewhere behind

Nothing in our gear is metallic and loose
I hear the noise, but he doesn’t
when I stop to listen, he is confused
stumbles into me
our path follows a millennium-old ditch
and I begin to suspect the noise comes from there
but the ditch contains only brown beech leaves

When we stop, the clinks stop
When we walk once more
clink clink clink after a small wait

Sun shafts through clawing branches
strange rustles lurk under leafdrifts
our pleasant walk reforms
mutates
into else and other

The clinks are always there
as long as we are beside the ditch
always
something follows

Copyright © 2022 Kim Whysall-Hammond

A real-life ghost story, shared for the open link weeked at Earthweal.