Tag Archives: Simon MacCulloch

Ekphrastic SF poem: Simon MacCulloch, ‘Rocket Ride’

1 Reply

A dinosaur straddles a rocket
And whether the pilot within
Was trying to launch it or dock it
To finish a trip or begin,
It looks like a fight that the dinosaur might
By weight and ferocity win.

But how did it mount there? Its wings
Though bat-like are really too small
To soar to the perch where it clings
Indeed, to get airborne at all
It better hold tight as the rocket takes flight
For if it slips off it will fall.

The monster can only have boarded
The spaceship when close to the ground
(Its huge-muscled hind legs afforded
The strength for a crouch and a bound)
And as it gains height in the star-speckled night
It will squat, legs and tail firmly wound.

A rodeo cowboy! Each buck
Of boosters a challenge to greet!
A contest of power, skill, luck
To see if a lizard can beat
This beast that takes fright at the terrible sight
Of a dragon that thinks it’s in heat.

For that is the heart of the matter:
This brute who bears down from above
Will scrabble and buffet and batter
Then, spent, wrap as close as a glove
With licks to invite its cold mate to requite
Its misallied dinosaur love.

*****

Simon MacCulloch writes: “Rocket Ride was inspired by Peter Andrew Jones’s book cover painting for The Second Experiment (Granada Books, 1975); the poem was first published in Aphelion.”

Simon MacCulloch lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of print and online publications, including Reach Poetry, View from Atlantis, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Spectral Realms, Black Petals and others.

Image © Peter Andrew Jones 1975


Simon MacCulloch, ‘Mouth Harp’

Leave a reply


The doctor raised an eyebrow. He’d pronounced the sentence (death)
And expected her to die now; yet the patient still drew breath.
The woman was a smoker, and the cancer had a hold
That was strong enough to choke her. She was ninety-three years old.
Her lungs must be a sump, awash with nicotine and tar,
And with a clogged-up pump like that she wasn’t going far.

Well, any trouble breathing? Not at all, I just can’t walk!
(I see her, thick smoke wreathing, still unpausing in her talk.)
A cough, perhaps? Not really – nothing wrong that I’m aware.
The doctor starts to feel she must be using different air.
There’s nothing more to say, his grim prognosis is complete;
The science of today must now acknowledge its defeat.

Back home, I watch my mother as she settles in her chair,
Sips coffee, lights another and inhales without a care.
I pass her the harmonica, she takes it, has a blow,
And jaunty and euphonic her recital starts to flow.
The angels have their harps but death’s a word they never knew;
Down here it’s flats and sharps and death’s a song on air turned blue.

*****

Simon MacCulloch writes: “A largely true account of the somewhat surreal day on which my uncomprehending late mother was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. I’m still quite proud of having rhymed “harmonica” without anyone called Veronica to help out.”

‘Mouth Harp’ was originally published in The Cannon’s Mouth 92.

Simon MacCulloch lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of print and online publications, including Reach Poetry, View from Atlantis, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Spectral Realms, Black Petals and others.

Photo: “Music Maker” by darkday. is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Iambic heptameter: Simon MacCulloch, ‘Jasmina’

Leave a reply

Jasmina is the doorway, Jasmina is the key;
Jasmina walks the path beside the pearl-infested sea.
The angels peer bewildered from the god-infested sky;
Jasmina is the only how that doesn’t need a why.

I see her in the morning in her robe of melting frost;
She visits me at noontime when the meaning has been lost.
At evening she invades the nooks the spiders thought their own
Till night demands a moon; she stoops, and hurls it like a stone.

I used to think her complicated, now I know she’s not
(A how that doesn’t need a why has little use for what).
I used to think she’d care for me, if only for a while;
I used to think a lot of things before I saw her smile.

I never hear her speaking though I think she has a song
Which many claim to know although they always get it wrong.
She feels like furry gossamer and tastes like perfumed smoke;
I often hear her laughter but I never learn the joke.

Jasmina is a destiny, Jasmina is a doom;
Jasmina is a woman but with stars within her womb.
The demons peer demented from their hope-infested hell
And beg her for a story, but she hasn’t one to tell.

*****

Simon MacCulloch writes: “Jasmina is a slightly offbeat take on the great western goddess motif (Aphrodite, the Virgin Mary etc). It is not based on anyone I know.”

Simon MacCulloch lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of print and online publications, including Reach Poetry, View from Atlantis, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Spectral Realms, Black Petals and others. Jasmina was originally published in Blue Unicorn.

Photo: “mask” by new 1lluminati is licensed under CC BY 2.0.