Hear the Kingfisher

About the Book

Awkward Human Folly

As sea mist fogs my window, I no longer
see the pair of swans lift up on webbed feet,

shake out wings and beat the blues
for sun’s return. I miss their long landings

on orange pontoons, the swish of water
parting, wake soft under their white chest

as they settle into their favorite chair.
All this white surprises me,

as did the wind dying yesterday,
when I watched a lone man with his ice boat

slip and stumble across the bay, dragging
dead sails behind him on his long ice walk,

with no neck in a graceful S-curve, wings
broken and his voice hissing low grunts.


Old Furrows

Last night, we dined on plump
white asparagus served on cheerful

china plates with a crevice for mayonnaise.
(The chateau has been restored

to a desideratum of elegance and culture
by Madame & Monsieur Tormos.)

As we tucked in, Madame Tormos said, “The garden
was sown on top of ancient monks’ graves.”

She tends the vegetables today with a care
which harkens to old days of Saint George,

before the sound of hob-nail boots marching
into her hall, or smell of burning panel walls.

Villagers blasted out from blood and barbed wire,
changing bread-line crumbs into wheat fields,

ploughing pain into the earth
and seeding old furrows with poppies.

Now the abbey’s red brick wall, topped with red tiles,
seems a perfect buttress against any kind

of perpetration. The wall, centuries older
than any of us, withstood five hundred years

of occupations. This year a Nazi helmet
was dug up in the garden;

it hangs on a hook in the stables.
A yellowhammer perched on it and sang–

behind him the church tower pitted
with bullet holes. How perfect,

this morning the passionflower, desideratum,
on the wall beside the window.


After All

Will death be like crinoline oak leaves
waltzing in a summer breeze, rumpled and airy?
Will spirits float together in clumps or alone?
When they meet, will they say to each other
“Do you remember on earth when we…” Will we see God?

You stamp your feet into the earth
as you walk, as if to make sure the ground
remains solid. I doubt if we will need toes
or shoes where we are going.
I feel sure we will have a great adventure.
After all, there’ll be no need to go anywhere,
we will have arrived and I’m thinking
I may learn to sing.

About the Author

Ann Hammond was born in England in 1936. When she was three years old World War II began which had a profound effect on her childhood. Ann, her mother and brother moved from town to town trying to escape German bombs while her father served as captain of a Cable and Wireless ship. Educated in boarding school and London University, she moved to Rhodesia before immigrating to America in 1964. For forty years she taught health and physical education in private and public schools while earning an M.A. from Adelphi University and becoming an American citizen in 1972. At the age of fifty-eight she joined her first writing group, workshop given by author Barbara Wersba, who encouraged her to write poetry. She has studied with Patricia Carlen at the New School and for many years and currently with poet Molly Peacock. Ann Hammond resides in Southampton, New York, with Lewis a Yorkshire terrier and Emily a Havanese. The Bookman Press publishes her work. She is listed in the 25th Anniversary Edition of Who's Who in American Women 2006 and 2007 and will be in Who's Who in the World 2008.