Tag Archives: Life

Translation

Lost between the words
is true meaning
the real message
perhaps the marriage
perhaps the correct diagnosis.
We all use metaphors
similes
when describing emotions and pains.
Doctors and spouses
should by rights be poets
for poetry conveys what is lost in translation.

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

A poem inspired by the quote:

Poetry is what gets lost in translation.
Robert Frost

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Scrabbling

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

Exmoor Soundscape

Wild ponies snorting in the shade of a thorn tree
The kee of a buzzard soaring overhead
A ragged baa from a startled ewe
All underlaid by the irregular rumble of falling tumbling water

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

A note to readers from America: An English buzzard is not a vulture, but catches live prey.

night into early morn’

A poem I’d like to share with you, from Eliot Dybden:

along the interstice

duck in the pond behind the flat
pontificating to whatever audience he thinks he has
proclaiming his territory
or maybe he’s just saying hey

hey! hey! hey!
(pause)
hey!
(pause)
hey!

the acoustics are just right
so that sometimes i believe among the cattails
roams a talkative, minature moose

at first he was a leaky tap
the squeak of a ceiling fan
but now he is the consistency of being

resistance against the dark undertown
refusing to be stifled or quelled

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Stretching

The big oaks at the corner
stretch their leaves to gather the evening sun.
A breeze lifts and turns them,
dark, bright, bright, dark.
Giving a green glitter effect
that entrances me
starting the long stretching walk along the lane.

As I walk, the sun lights overhead leaves,
creates broderie anglais shadows
where cars slowly trail only feet apart.
Above a lacy sheet of alto cumulus spreads
pierced by the setting suns laser rays
up to the stratosphere.

I pause to enjoy, then
move on past the McDonalds drive in.
Cars queue for their Friday night treat
around the roundabout and beyond.
Full of the bored and restless.

And I retrace my steps
on the sunlit stretching walk
back towards home.

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Guest Artist, Glenys Doull of New Zealand

A wonderful selection of poems from Glenys, otherwise known as ‘LifeCameos’ here on WordPress and a poet I always make time to read whenever she posts. Do visit and enjoy…..

Richard Rensberry, Author at QuickTurtle Books

It is my privilege to introduce Glenys as part of our Guest Artist Series.  I believe she is an important poet of our times and for the people.  Unencumbered by the literary judgements of intellectuals, she is part of the movement to return poetry to the people–where it rightfully belongs.  I hope you take the time to enjoy her wonderful skill of imagery and verse.

These poems are used by permission and copyrighted by Glenys Doull.

Sweet Peas

Heavily scented warm
summer air draws in
buzzing bees eagerly
seeking precious nectar.

Sweet peas swarm up
netting on the old shed wall
a perfumed rainbow
tapestry of many hues.

Pale pastels to bright
reds, purples, pinks,
blues and lilacs paint a
masterpiece on old timbers.

Rich pickings for the
school children’s flower show.

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Slow Dance

My land was carved in a slow dance
Glacier in, glacier out
Wind and rain overlies the slow dance
Smoothing smoothing
The rhythm of climate is our slow dance
Beat heats up, beat cools down
Industry changed the tempo of Earths slow dance
Faster faster, hotter hotter
We all move to the rhythm of this slow dance
Species come and species go
The way it has always been………..

 

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Hidden Freedoms

Child of Empire, he freely starved in Valetta
Free to resent the many fat priests
Free to go
Desperate, hoping

Stowaway to Istanbul
Free to be beaten by the Ottomans
Sent back to hunger
Not stopped yet

Stowaway to Britain
Set loose in Imperial London
Free to prosper
Free to work

Free-diver repairing Brighton’s Pier
Freely volunteered in 1914’s Expeditionary Force
Free to marry, to be British
Free to stay

Forty descendants, freely British
Freely given gifts of a Maltese boy
Seven fought in British wars
Immigration can be a free gift

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Written for Today’s National Poetry Day, which this year has the theme of Freedom.

As usual, when given a prompt or theme, my mind heads off slightly askew. This poem tells some of the story of my Maltese Grandfather. He came to Britain as a stowaway with nothing, found welcome and work. We need to remember how many of us are descended from people like him — and to remember to allow others similar freedoms.

Autumn clothes

Cant remember where
Or when.
But in the busy travellings of last week,
alone in a lane of green leaves,
Stood a single tree.
Clad in oranges and crimsons,
lighted with brief yellows.
Spectacular.

These days,
I have just two seasons clothes,
Summer and Winter.
‘Layering’ is supposed to fill the gap
And so, I sit here
Jeans, T-shirt, hoodie,
slightly chilled.
Where once I would have had
an autumn coat
With thin woollen gloves.
Autumn clothes,
Like the tree.

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond