Christian Ward
—Poetry by Christian Ward, UK
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
KARNER BLUE BUTTERFLY
Plebejus melissa samuelis
The air is coloured denim,
blueberry. Not quite indigo.
Tastes of yesterday's summers:
grass wearing a blanket of dew,
rivulets of melted ice cream
running down your hands,
a soundtrack of laughter.
Charcoal cleansing the air
of all our previous trespasses.
The butterfly enters the zoetrope
of our sight and we watch it
fly across every slide of memory—
an uninvited curator of secrets.
Plebejus melissa samuelis
The air is coloured denim,
blueberry. Not quite indigo.
Tastes of yesterday's summers:
grass wearing a blanket of dew,
rivulets of melted ice cream
running down your hands,
a soundtrack of laughter.
Charcoal cleansing the air
of all our previous trespasses.
The butterfly enters the zoetrope
of our sight and we watch it
fly across every slide of memory—
an uninvited curator of secrets.
Plebejus melissa samuelis
MUSSEL
Every shell is dipped in night.
Place an ear against the ceramic
to eavesdrop on fox squabbles,
crows watching rubbish bags
left split open like unfinished
operations, brambles unfurling
their fruit. Humans, extras
with no dialogue. Open every
shell to reveal day—the glazed
pottery, a perfect sky. Of course,
there's the meat: An orange muscle
on a ready-made plate. Quiet,
contemplative. I threw up the sea
the first time I tried it. Didn't know
I was chewing its prayer.
(prev. pub. in FEED)
Every shell is dipped in night.
Place an ear against the ceramic
to eavesdrop on fox squabbles,
crows watching rubbish bags
left split open like unfinished
operations, brambles unfurling
their fruit. Humans, extras
with no dialogue. Open every
shell to reveal day—the glazed
pottery, a perfect sky. Of course,
there's the meat: An orange muscle
on a ready-made plate. Quiet,
contemplative. I threw up the sea
the first time I tried it. Didn't know
I was chewing its prayer.
(prev. pub. in FEED)
WALKING UP SCAFELL PIKE WITH MY FATHER
After walking a few yards
you breathe like someone
who has slipped across the border.
I am ahead, you are far
behind. There are no rest stops
on this rocky path to the summit,
no hedgerows to distract
our lack of common interests
or silences broken up with ums
and ers. You wear a jacket
of rain and I nudge you ahead with tuts.
At the top, there is nothing
but what a view. We are at opposite
ends of the plateau with only similar
rocks bringing us closer.
(prev. pub. in Poetry and Places)
After walking a few yards
you breathe like someone
who has slipped across the border.
I am ahead, you are far
behind. There are no rest stops
on this rocky path to the summit,
no hedgerows to distract
our lack of common interests
or silences broken up with ums
and ers. You wear a jacket
of rain and I nudge you ahead with tuts.
At the top, there is nothing
but what a view. We are at opposite
ends of the plateau with only similar
rocks bringing us closer.
(prev. pub. in Poetry and Places)
FILMING THE BEHEADING OF DANIEL PEARL
Week twelve. The special effects
guy has quit, citing ‘insensitive
subject matter’. Asshole. $300k
down. Maryland is no Pakistan
but between the minaret-necked
cormorants and hillbilly locals
I can’t tell the difference. Week
eighteen. The walk-on playing
Pearl’s Taliban executioner can’t
hold the replica scimitar steady,
doesn’t believe it won’t cut. I press
the edge against my right arm, point
to the dent, shallow as a GI’s crew-cut,
that it leaves. $500k down. The man
is still shaking. Dick. Week twenty-four.
Some pathetic loser has left a fake head
drooling ketchup outside my trailer. $2m
down. My head is already loosening itself
from the neck. I don’t need a gimmick
to tell me this is the worst death I’ve
experienced yet.
(prev. pub. in Fuselit)
Week twelve. The special effects
guy has quit, citing ‘insensitive
subject matter’. Asshole. $300k
down. Maryland is no Pakistan
but between the minaret-necked
cormorants and hillbilly locals
I can’t tell the difference. Week
eighteen. The walk-on playing
Pearl’s Taliban executioner can’t
hold the replica scimitar steady,
doesn’t believe it won’t cut. I press
the edge against my right arm, point
to the dent, shallow as a GI’s crew-cut,
that it leaves. $500k down. The man
is still shaking. Dick. Week twenty-four.
Some pathetic loser has left a fake head
drooling ketchup outside my trailer. $2m
down. My head is already loosening itself
from the neck. I don’t need a gimmick
to tell me this is the worst death I’ve
experienced yet.
(prev. pub. in Fuselit)
PORTRAIT OF MYSELF AS A DORMOUSE
Winter me like a dormouse
wintering in a hollow oak
or cradled underground.
Shoo away paparazzi snow
keen for the perfect shot
or the winking sunlight
with an ulterior motive.
I don't belong to the weather
or any given season.
Let my bones pack away
themselves for a while
while my thoughts soak
and the night purrs
like background noise
for this perpetual sleep.
Winter me like a dormouse
wintering in a hollow oak
or cradled underground.
Shoo away paparazzi snow
keen for the perfect shot
or the winking sunlight
with an ulterior motive.
I don't belong to the weather
or any given season.
Let my bones pack away
themselves for a while
while my thoughts soak
and the night purrs
like background noise
for this perpetual sleep.
___________________
Today's LittleNip:
Butterflies are self-propelled flowers.
—Robert A. Heinlein
___________________
Christian Ward is a UK-based writer who can be currently found in Wild Greens and Cold Moon Review. Future poems will be appearing in Dreich, Uppagus, Chantarelle's Notebook and Spillwords. He was recently shortlisted for the 2021 Canterbury Poet of the Year Competition. For more about him, see christianward.net/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Christian, and please hop across the pond to see us, now and then!
•••Today (Sun., 11/21), 3pm, Lincoln Poets presents Tapati Ray plus open mic on Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/85432894546/. Host: David Anderson.
__________________
—Medusa
Dormouse
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clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
LittleSnake in Hibernation
