Moth
Landing on a photograph
of my father, it must have thought
the bulb of his scalp was a source
of light; just as for years I thought
the transmissions from his heart
was love.
Showing posts with label Featured Writer: Christian Ward. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Featured Writer: Christian Ward. Show all posts
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Featured Writer: Christian Ward Day 2
The Source
Now that grandfather’s tumors have started
collapsing the timbers of his organs, his body
has started to stink. Nurses hold their breaths
when changing his sheets, giving him food
and water. The daffodils in the vase by his
windows have turned away, shut their petals.
I ignore them when sitting down by his side
to read him the newspaper, tell him of daily
happenings. When it increases in intensity,
I smile and remember reading how the ark,
filled with putrid smells from 151 days
of travelling, beached itself on the summit
of a mountain and all known life crept out
from that foul smelling source.
Now that grandfather’s tumors have started
collapsing the timbers of his organs, his body
has started to stink. Nurses hold their breaths
when changing his sheets, giving him food
and water. The daffodils in the vase by his
windows have turned away, shut their petals.
I ignore them when sitting down by his side
to read him the newspaper, tell him of daily
happenings. When it increases in intensity,
I smile and remember reading how the ark,
filled with putrid smells from 151 days
of travelling, beached itself on the summit
of a mountain and all known life crept out
from that foul smelling source.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Featured Writer: Christian Ward Day 1
Winter
You cannot dream of winter
happening because it is always
there in the background,
whatever month it is. Walking
along a pier in August you
will hear it grinding against
the iron legs, in the gulls’ mews.
Sitting on the porch in April,
you will feel it rubbing against
your legs, turning your skin
white as milk. Fake a surprise look
in November when snow falls,
ignore the glimpse of ice behind
your parents’ eyes.
__________________________________________
Fulton Street
After Walker Evans' 'Girl in Fulton Street'
This is not the city Frank
wrote about. There are no
hum coloured cabs or men
stopping for a cheeseburger
and malt shake. Lana Turner
has not died and the sky
has not worn its funeral coat.
This is the city made of glass
where people wear alien nouns
like Fedora and Cloche Hat
and sniff the air like gundogs,
eager for the scent of their identity.
Christian Ward is a 28 year old London based poet whose poetry
can be currently seen in journals such as Thieves Jargon and Origami
Condom. His chapbook, Bone Transmissions, will be released in March
courtesy of Maverick Duck Press.
You cannot dream of winter
happening because it is always
there in the background,
whatever month it is. Walking
along a pier in August you
will hear it grinding against
the iron legs, in the gulls’ mews.
Sitting on the porch in April,
you will feel it rubbing against
your legs, turning your skin
white as milk. Fake a surprise look
in November when snow falls,
ignore the glimpse of ice behind
your parents’ eyes.
__________________________________________
Fulton Street
After Walker Evans' 'Girl in Fulton Street'
This is not the city Frank
wrote about. There are no
hum coloured cabs or men
stopping for a cheeseburger
and malt shake. Lana Turner
has not died and the sky
has not worn its funeral coat.
This is the city made of glass
where people wear alien nouns
like Fedora and Cloche Hat
and sniff the air like gundogs,
eager for the scent of their identity.
Christian Ward is a 28 year old London based poet whose poetry
can be currently seen in journals such as Thieves Jargon and Origami
Condom. His chapbook, Bone Transmissions, will be released in March
courtesy of Maverick Duck Press.
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