Tag Archives: poetry

Twenty Twenty

Crowded into the bowl, excitement mounting
Shouting as the brightly coloured teams come on
Every ball is greeted by an intaken breath
Every shot is acclaimed by cheers
The bowler waits restlessly
As the batsman gardens at the wicket
Fielders circle to the boundary edge
Keen to take the catch
Wicket keeper nonchalantly sledges
A crack and the ball lofts high
Leather on willow performing the longed for magic
The Great Game is on

 

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

It’s Summer and the Cricket is on!

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Time and the starlet

Deep in space-time, she awakes
throws off her mantle of gas
explodes onto the scene
young, hot
burning high

Accrues fans, slaves in her orbit
flares up occasionally
bloats as her diet changes,
sinks into middle age
ends catastrophically

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Friday poem: On Seeing A Piece Of Our Artillery Brought Into Action

Be slowly lifted up, thou long black arm,
Great gun towering towards Heaven, about to curse;
Sway steep against them, and for years rehearse
Huge imprecations like a blasting charm!
Reach at that Arrogance which needs thy harm,
And beat it down before its sins grow worse;
Spend our resentment, cannon,–yea, disburse
Our gold in shapes of flame, our breaths in storm.

Yet, for men’s sakes whom thy vast malison
Must wither innocent of enmity,
Be not withdrawn, dark arm, thy spoilure done,
Safe to the bosom of our prosperity.
But when thy spell be cast complete and whole,
May God curse thee, and cut thee from our soul!

 

Forefathers

One walked into shellfire for a mile
and a half
to check if a barbed wire barrier
was now holed

One fought Ottomans in Salonika
and fought again in the next war that burnt Europe

One built underground factories,
and stood at the end of a
bombed and burning street
mourning

We tell their great grandchildren,
watch them weep,
while grateful that
in most of Europe
war is distant

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Each of our Grandfathers survived their wars, but my Aunt lost an fiancé — one of the many American GI’s killed on D-Day.

Friday Poem: The isle is full of noises

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.

By William Shakespeare

Spoken by Caliban in The Tempest — and used in the London 2012 Olympics Opening Ceremony.   “Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises” — I loved it as a description of the British Isles!

Full Text at:  http://shakespeare.mit.edu/tempest/tempest.3.2.html

Deceiving hills

These hills deceive.
Apparent summits slide off away
as the slope goes farther up again.
Their hollows and ridges
cosset then expose.
Any level walking is above the spring line
so the ignorant go thirsty.
In their interior,
direction is lost with the clouds.
The oldest ways stay close
to the stiff steep slopes down to water
and someone to tell you the way.

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Sunday in Spring

Two fields over, Rooks argue
a raucous parley that
goes on and on and on
while other birds sing prettily

Here in the meadow we have knelt
as if worshipping
to peer at tiny pink blooms
wobbling on a frail stem

On the way home
we walk a green lane
lambs call behind a hawthorn hedge
a ewe responds, deep voiced

Pretty bird song
clamorous rooks, bountiful sheep
tremulous flower

Are all remnants
Of a greater whole
Nature worn ragged

Broken
By our actions
Or inactions

And I feel the need to
kneel once more
in supplication
and in fear

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Places of Poetry

Colin Hill has found a great poetry project :

https://www.placesofpoetry.org.uk/

—It’s open to all and aims to use “creative writing to prompt reflection on national and cultural identities in England and Wales, celebrating the diversity, heritage and personalities of place.”

The site is open for writers to pin their poems to places from 31st May to 4 October 2019. It will then be closed for new poems but will remain available for readers.

I have pinned these poems of mine on the map:

Farm   (pinned near Didcot)

Picking up the Cheeses  (pinned at Iwerne Minster in Dorset)

Rat Trap (pinned in North Hillingdon)

Glaslyn (pinned at Lake Glaslyn near Lllanidloes, Mid-Wales)

At Stratford with William (pinned at Stratford upon Avon)

Fellow Traveller (pinned in the middle of Exmoor)

 

Um, yes I think I got a bit carried away….have you got some poems to pin there????