Tag Archives: speculative poetry

Science and Science Fiction poetry: Rain

He sleeps on while I awake
to hear rain on the roof
lie snug listening to a
long familiar sound
pattering, gathering strength
and force until
it pounds
and the roof resounds.

Gasping with sudden
shattering realisation
I grab for the breathers,
the suits,
scream for the children.
It does not rain
here on Mars.

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

‘Rain’ was first published in the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Associations print journal Star*Line  42.2     http://sfpoetry.com/sl/issues/starline42.2.html

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.

Science and Science Fiction poetry: Lights

Moonlight feathers treetops
reveals hill slopes, shadows gullies
sketches out my beautiful moors
Where lone headlights angle skywards
twist along the high road.
I watch at the window on this cold night
as the car winds along towards us
praying
(to whoever may
or may not be listening)
that traitor Moon
will not glint on my rifle barrel.

Gripping the gun with amateur’s nerves,
I reach for Eva’s hand
and we hold our breath while
a child cries fitfully
from another room
We all have broken sleep in these remaining days
nightmares of the plague
that took so many
leaving the mad, bad
and us, the desperate.
We eke out, stand watch, wait.
For what? For a quiet death perhaps.
But in the day we want very much to live
so we tend straggling sheep, shoot rabbit,
go on.

Fear clutches my gut as the car turns past empty houses
and down along our valley road,
a form of relief washes us as it continues on
following the river to richer pickings in the southern towns.
I move my baby to feed at my other breast
and mourn the futures stolen from her,
the violence awaiting.

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

‘Lights’ was first published in The Future Fire: http://press.futurefire.net/2019/05/new-issue-201949.html

Mondays are Science and SF Mondays!

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

Science and Science Fiction poetry: She came to see me

She came to see me
resplendent in red
glittering with dust
her elegant bone structure evident more than ever
desiccated and dead
spacesuit blown
floating past the view screen
when I know we retrieved her from orbit yesterday

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

“She came to see me” was first published in the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Associations print journal Star*Line 40.4:

  http://www.sfpoetry.com/sl/issues/starline40.4.html

Today is Science and SF Monday — A poem each week which either has a science theme or is Science Fiction…..

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.