Tag Archives: poetry

Deer

Where do the deer go in the day?
Empty fields, busy lanes
shady woods — all the same
No deer.

Walk in the evening
there they flit
in the shadows.

Where do the deer go in the night?
Same as the day — out of sight.

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

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Friday Poem: Epitaph on an army of Mercenaries

These, in the day when heaven was falling,
The hour when earth’s foundations fled,
Follow’d their mercenary calling
And took their wages and are dead.

Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
They stood, and earth’s foundations stay;
What God abandon’d, these defended,
And saved the sum of things for pay.

by A.E. Housman (1860-1936)

To me, this poem is evocative of all those who do the dirty work for the rest of us. It is a WW1 poem, but also  applies, I feel, to all those who fought in WW2, specifically to my  Grandfather who fought in both world wars and his children:  my Uncle who defended India, my Godmother who repaired Spitfires under enemy fire  and her sister who manned (womanned?) the Barrage Balloons during the London Blitz. Plus my other Aunt’s American fiance who died at D-Day and all the young American boys my teenage mother danced with during the long wait for D-Day, and who she cried for as they left one night to take back Europe.

The mercenaries in this poem are actually the ‘Old Contemptibles’, the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) of 1914— the professional British army before the rush of volunteers. The BEF was sent to France in 1914 to fight against the Germans.

A Cheesy Rhyme

As the Cheesesellers Wife, I cannot resist sharing a wonderful Cheese poem with you, all in rhyme, by Kunal Thakore in Bombay. Enjoy:

random rants ruminations ramblings

From French or English or Dutch
To American or Danish or Swiss
Whether from cow or sheep or goat
Can anyone give cheese a miss

Think of it, cheese should be yuck
Cultured as it is with bacteria and mould
Sounds downright disgusting for sure
But completely worth having, if truth be told

Mild or sharp, with wine or with bread
Sliced, cubed, diced, or as a spread
With crackers, cucumber sticks, or with jam
Or then with olives, grapes, or even ham

With nachos, as chips & dip, in burgers
Melted in a fondue, as part of a platter
It’s fattening but tasty as hell
So it really doesn’t matter

Honey, mustard or a salad
Philadelphia, Boursin or Cheez Whiz
Can you really go wrong
With a slather of any of these

There’s Camembert and Emmental
Cheddar, Gouda and Brie
But many hundreds of others
From all over, as…

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Friday Poem: The Taxi

When I go away from you
The world beats dead
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.
Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

by Amy Lowell, 1874 – 1925  

This is the first of a Friday series of poems selected from my poetry shelf

 

Poetry versus Fiction

“….with a lyric poem, you look, and meditate, and put the rock back. With fiction you poke things with a stick to see what will happen.”

Margaret Atwood

http://movies2.nytimes.com/books/97/05/18/bookend/bookend.html

…although I would argue that good Speculative Poetry does poke about with a stick……

Coming of Age

Another great poem from Betty, and time I shared one with you…

Seasonings

.

He says she’s over the hill,

that she’s dancing

with entropy

toward the valley below

.

but she hears the call

of flickers, and the chitter

of squirrels,

and she sees ahead

.

lush meadows, tall trees,

and moss-covered stones

on the path

by a sapphire river.

.

There, she’ll follow the scent

of her own deep roots

to a range of mountains,

their tops hidden

.

in the subtleties he missed

between the lines

on her face

when e’er she smiled.

.

.

(c)  2018  Betty Hayes Albright

.

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We are Stardust

Orbital telescopes send home images
nebulae, glowing with colour
last remnants of fat, dying, exploded stars
lingering across the night sky
lighted by millennia old catastrophe

They are where the magic happens
atoms forged in burnt out stars
a deathbed bequest that has made us all

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Epitaph — a poem by Theodore Stephanides

“Let something of me still remain behind;
A verse a cadence, to outlive the clay;
Let some reflect, some glimmer of my mind
Recall the passage of my little day.”

by Theodore Stephanides, who should be familiar to all who love Gerald Durrell‘s “My Family and other Animals”. Theodore was a polymath—-both Doctor and aquatic biologist, and he wrote wonderful poetry. Apparently he wrote this, his own epitaph.