Tag Archives: poetry

The lilies of the night

October 7, 2020poem, Poetrydark, night, poem, poetryThe Cheesesellers Wife

The lilies of the night
are made of many colours
all of them black
as on a Raven wing
dark iridescences
pooled in shadows as twilight fails

The lilies twist around our dreams
soaking deep and darkly
nurturing fear, sowing despair
their leaves absorb moonlight
petals gleaming drably
as midnight rises

Creating Truth Like Glass From Inspiration’s Furnace

October 3, 2020poem, PoetryInspiration, poem, poetry, Wales Millennium CentreThe Cheesesellers Wife

In truth we never wholly translate
These thoughts we have into words which are
Stones weighted down and sinking into a pond
Horizons, thoughts and words need to be boundless and
Sing our intentions to the Universe

The Wales Millennium Centre in Cardiff is the home of Welsh National Opera and stages many musicals and bands (in more normal times that is). It has two huge inscriptions across the front of the building, one in Welsh. The English words are In These Stones Horizons Sing , but the Welsh words say something different – Creating Truth Like Glass From Inspiration’s Furnace.

Friday Poem: Winter In America

October 2, 2020Friday Poem, poem, PoetryBLM, corona virus, Friday Poem, Gil Scott-Heron, poem, poetryThe Cheesesellers Wife

From the Indians who welcomed the pilgrims
And to the buffalo who once ruled the plains
Like the vultures circling beneath the dark clouds
Looking for the rain
Looking for the rain

Just like the cities staggered on the coastline
Living in a nation that just can’t stand much more
Like the forest buried beneath the highway
Never had a chance to grow
Never had a chance to grow

And now it’s winter
Winter in America
Yes and all of the healers have been killed
Or sent away, yeah
But the people know, the people know
It’s winter
Winter in America
And ain’t nobody fighting
‘Cause nobody knows what to say
Save your soul, Lord knows
From Winter in America

The Constitution
A noble piece of paper
With free society
Struggled but it died in vain
And now Democracy is ragtime on the corner
Hoping for some rain
Looks like it’s hoping
Hoping for some rain

And I see the robins
Perched in barren treetops
Watching last-ditch racists marching across the floor
But just like the peace sign that vanished in our dreams
Never had a chance to grow
Never had a chance to grow

And now it’s winter
It’s winter in America
And all of the healers have been killed
Or been betrayed
Yeah, but the people know, people know
It’s winter, Lord knows
It’s winter in America
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows what to save
Save your souls
From Winter in America

And now it’s winter
Winter in America
And all of the healers done been killed or sent away
Yeah, and the people know, people know
It’s winter
Winter in America
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows what to save
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows, nobody knows
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows what to save

Written by Gil Scott-Heron (1949–2011)

An old poem that is now very timely. A lot of this poem also now applies to Britain too, sadly.

Another Poem published at Poetry and Places

October 1, 2020London, poem, Poetrypoem, poetry, published poem, silver birch pressThe Cheesesellers Wife

I’m delighted to tell you the my poem ‘London’ is now up at has been published at Poetry and Places:

London by Kim Whysall-Hammond

Poetry and Places is a site that shares travel adventures and celebrates our planet through poetry.

High on the Downs

September 30, 2020nature, poem, Poetry, Wild lifeDowns, nature, poem, poetry, wildlifeThe Cheesesellers Wife

Where pylons stalk
lend their shadows
to grasses that
sift the evening wind

Further over, turfed ditches
engrave a summit
and rabbits bob and lope
then settle to a little silflay

Pony Lad

September 26, 2020family history, poem, PoetryCoal, family, family history, poem, poetryThe Cheesesellers Wife

Deep along and under
coal damp flared, blew
took out men and rocks.
The pony knew it, that fetid puff
and bolted, taking his boy,
tightly clutching the harness, with him

Deep under and along
men scrambled, suffocated
wordless in the dark
never to see the green again.
But the pony boy was out
as the shaft tumbled and crushed
thanking God for his pony

Wilfred Whysall, my grandfather was that pony lad….