poetry

The Orchard – a poem

January 29, 2022 by Christoffer Petersen Leave a Comment

The Orchard

I binged the news and
Ran out of things to write,
So I escaped to the garden.

The mouse beneath the planks,
Salvaged from the playhouse, scampered
Under the pile of dressed granite rocks,

While I stacked the wood,
Putting the good pieces to one side
For raised beds and bird boxes.

I thought about boxes for bats,
Remembering the little fellow who
Clung to the wall, low, between the tulips,

But bats are a no-go
In these pandemic times,
Another species in human crosshairs.

I took my dead mother-in-law’s garden
Chair, placed it by the iron tracks,
Looking back at the future orchard.

Every bush needs berries, every
Tree will need fruit as
Nothing must grow to waste.

I’ll start small – remove the fence and
Plant the trees – apples and pears,
In the shade of the big cherry.

If I trim the branches, keep them
Low, then we’ll both be able to pick the fruit –
My wife and I, bent beneath future rays of sun.

Biting into the Wild – a poem

January 9, 2022 by Christoffer Petersen Leave a Comment

Biting into the Wild

We crowned the invisible
Called it novel and we wept
When the markets crashed
Worse than collapsing houses
Which everyone agreed
Was impossible, yet,
Like our new monarch
Waiting in the wings
As we stack our bets
Cement our foundations
Biting into the wild
Wholly unprepared
For when the wild
Bites back.

The Jacket – a poem

December 14, 2021 by Christoffer Petersen 2 Comments

The Jacket

He wore his jacket on the hunt,
Weave-soaked in sweat, blood and grime.
Sweeping his eye across the sea ice, his words barely a grunt.

The police emblem blazed yellow and green on the front,
Faded with time.
This was the jacket he wore on the hunt.

The sledge creaked, runners bumping, jolting with a shunt.
The fan of dogs before him, panting, aged in their prime.
He swept his eye across the ice, no words, just a grunt.

Maratse tugged a bullet from his jacket pocket, thumbing the tip–it was blunt.
He scraped a scale from the brass shell, removing the grime.
He wore his jacket on the hunt.

Maratse slowed the dogs, soft slapping the whip on the ice–just a bunt.
He saw the seal, winter fat, bearded with thick whiskers of rime.
Maratse scanned the sea ice, silent, save for a grunt.

He lifted the rifle–a tricky shot, worth a punt,
And put a bullet through the seal’s eye–no bigger than a dime.
He unzipped his jacket after the hunt,
Eyes sparkling across the sea ice, elation contained in a single grunt.

from the Greenland Noir poetry collection

Aartaajik’s Challenge Song – a poem

December 8, 2021 by Christoffer Petersen Leave a Comment

Aartaajik’s Challenge Song

I hear a challenge came
flung from south to north
and I prepare my answer.
What words will I sling
Upon this great southerner?
Hunter intrepid
claiming adulterous behaviour.
He says I stole a thing
valued highly,
and I say better to
treat well those
one would keep near,
than weep when they
wander further,
as if mourning.
Ai ja ja, ai ja
Ja ai, ja ja.

And here he comes
marching, stoop walking
he drags his club
meant for my head
no doubt.
And I am here,
armed with words–
no more.
Keep your club, friend,
and tackle me mouth to mouth
with resuscitation,
like I did your wife.
Ai ja ja, ai ja ja
Ja ai, ja ja.

Yes, I’ve been naughty
I’ve been bad
But your living-widow
deserves to be touched by a man–
caressed, excited,
not possessed, nor slighted
I was the lover that loved
while the loved-one rubbed
the world the wrong way,
on the ice
in the far bay.
Guilty, I am.
Judge me.
Ai ja ja, ai ja
Ja ai, ja ja.

Christmas on the Moor – a poem

December 4, 2021 by Christoffer Petersen Leave a Comment

Christmas on the Moor

I paint a shepherd this tar whistling night
trudging lonely moor, through the kissing gate
a long stone wall – frosted wool tufts in the cracks
faithful dog out front sniffs the cold path home

the hearth is warming, and the fire is lit
soot-black kettle on the boil with a plate
of stew and clay apple dumplings tonight
before the evening smoke wisps from spent coals

frost-stiff cuffs and ice in the sweater weave
much stamping of snow on the wire hemp mat
jacket hung, she settles at the table
the chair creaks – waiting for Christmas morning.

Ivory in my Pocket – a poem

November 29, 2021 by Christoffer Petersen 2 Comments

Ivory in my Pocket

Eight hundred miles north
Across a shrinking desert of ice,
Is magnetic north – a wandering Pole,
Closer than my parents’ house. Such giddy latitude heights
Where I live at the very top of the Earth.

I do my best to visit – weather permitting,
Arriving with ivory in my pocket, scrimshaw,
Etched with history, carved with a hunter’s eye,
Or showing off my prized polar bear claw –
stiff knuckle hairs still bloody from killing.

I’ve seen the great beast, you know? Carpet stretched
On a curing rack in the settlements
Pinned beside the bright pink and orange towels,
t-shirts and jeans from a wind-bitten residence,
blistered paint and parched wood – winter etched.

The houses are clumped beneath the mountain,
Paths traced with hoof-footed rubber boots
From one tiny house to the next
Where children play in winter suits,
Like regular kids – laughing, shrieking, and shouting.