poetry

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.

I write of black lichen – a poem

November 25, 2021 by Christoffer Petersen Leave a Comment

I write of black lichen

I write of black lichen
Crisp petals of frost-parched flowers
Piercing palms, crisping beneath soles
As we stride across the ankle heathers
To disappear for a while.

I reek of fish entrails
Oils and eye slime juicing over the cuffs
Of my industrial Marigolds
Bought for rinsing dishes
They stir the halibut heads.

I burn with embarrassment
One cultural gaff after another –
Those tongue-lolling huskies
Fawning on sun-smoothed ice
Waiting for me to pull the sledge.

And I dream of darkness
When the sun is at its brightest
Only to regret summer dreams and wishes
As the sun shrinks below the horizon
Never to be seen again.

Deeper – a poem

November 22, 2021 by Christoffer Petersen Leave a Comment

Deeper

Then, into the stink of it,
Black fingers poised to knit
Into the earth, parting soil flesh
Past the dewed and fresh
stems of grass wet with dawn –
Onwards to finger the devil spawn
of the multi-legged carapace
rippling ribbed armour plates
distracting me from the fever
as I dig deep, deeper and deeper.

Notes…

Like lots of people I rediscovered the garden during the height of the pandemic. And, through the garden, I got that bit closer to nature.

Arctic Episode – a poem

November 17, 2021 by Christoffer Petersen 4 Comments

Arctic Episode

Beneath the splintered crate
Mouse tracks, maybe lemmings–
Fast frozen scat, four legs
Wandering the hushed world.
Sidestep to the canvas,
Nibbles through the bedrolls,
More evidence–teeth, claws,
Sporing Arctic journeys.

Ours was a long journey,
Across oceans, bumping
Bits of bergs with our bows,
Scoring paint with ice spears,
Holding our breath behind
Blistered and cold-creased lips.
We gripped the railings, skin
Seized in cold metal clutch.

Once on land the ink froze,
Lead smeared wet notepaper,
Thwarting record keeping,
Until, observing land,
Between staking, pitching
Our heavy canvas tent,
The naked eye absorbed
All that ink omitted.

And, inside mildewed walls,
Settled but unsettled
For savage words of storm,
There –the soft scurry of
Ghost feet, pattern-pawing
The dirt beneath the crate,
Sharing our shelter in
The fabled land of north.

Walking Home from School (Polar Poetry)

August 17, 2021 by Christoffer Petersen Leave a Comment

Walking Home from School

Legs weary, I strode up the hill, in wind,
Beyond the railing, rocks rolled to the fjord,
Splashing whipped seas, to disturb the whale hoard.

I took the road, to skirt the icy track,
But slipped all the same with sand-riddled feet,
Scrabbling for grip, I heard the ocean beast.

And then, on reaching the steps to my door,
With numb fingers pressed to cold blistered cheeks,
Sparked by husky howls, I saw distant peaks.

Home again, struck by moon-beamed ice splinters,
I squinted into the dark, hailing friends,
Asking, d’you hear it? Hear those Arctic gems?