Ernest and heartfelt
she is a big city girl
surrounded by ice.
poetry
Haiku: Maratse
Sledging on sea ice
a constable – not hunter
smoking, undisturbed.
The Orchard – a poem
The Orchard
© Christoffer Petersen, 2022
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
Biting into the Wild
© Christoffer Petersen, 2021
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
The Jacket
© Christoffer Petersen, 2021
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
Aartaajik’s Challenge Song
© Christoffer Petersen, 2021
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.
