Poetry Focus On: CHRISTIAN WARD

Christian Ward is a 31-year-old London-based poet. He graduated from Roehampton University with a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing and has an MA in Creative Writing from Royal Holloway, University of London. His poetry has appeared in Poetry Wales, The Warwick Review, Iota and is forthcoming in Poetry Review. He has won, been short listed and commended in a number of competitions, including a 2009 Eric Gregory award, 2012 Jane Martin Poetry Prize and the 2010 East Riding Open Poetry Competition. In January 2013, he was accused of serious acts of poetic plagiarism; I maintain this post as a record of an earlier, more innocent time, but not an endorsement, of this author. [editor's note, on January 13, this post was edited to take into account new information].

Christian Ward

Hikmet

i.m Nazim Hikmet

A little unknown folktale
is that Nazim Hikmet could tune
into radio transmissions using
the power of his heart alone.
Guards at Bursa Prison noticed
he used to stroke his breast
and a loud transmission
would start to come out of his
mouth. He liked to listen
to broadcasts of Shostakovich,
the news, underground speeches.
Months before he died guards
reported that he was curled up
in his cell, frantically trying
to tune into the weather report,
eager for news of thunder.

Spock

He's the ideal flatmate: clean, tidy,

never drinks or smokes. Doesn't get music

but that's okay. I've learnt to stop staring

at his ears in case he grips my neck

and I collapse like laundry on the floor.

Some days, late at night, I hear him muttering

'Captain, Captain, Captain' into a shoe

and laugh to myself. Spock, fine as he may be,

doesn't make for the best company. Everything

has to be logical: call centres, mangoes, even sex.

My girlfriend says he's a pervert whenever

she’s around, that he leers at her in a strange way,

as if something is trapped under his skin

and he's desperately trying to get rid of it. Weirdo.

And, if you're wondering, never talk to him

about poetry. He bloody hates it. You can almost

smell the dactyls bubbling on his tongue

as he drones on, how illogical it is to describe

emotion on paper, before becoming still

like a heron about to dive into the dark of a pond

it’s never seen before.

Girl on the District Line

Reach into her eyes

and you might scoop

a handful of koi

turning the carriage

walls gold and orange;

a smattering of lily

pads, frogs, water

boatmen and sticklebacks.

If you're lucky, a heron

still at the water's edge.

A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.

Poetry vs. Literature

Poetry is, of course, a part of literature. But, increasingly, over the 20th century, it has become marginalised - and, famously, has less of an audience than "before". I think that, when one considers the sort of criticism levelled against Seamus Heaney and "mainstream poetry", by poet-critics like Jeffrey Side , one ought to see the wider context for poetry in the "Anglo-Saxon" world. This phrase was used by one of the UK's leading literary cultural figures, in a private conversation recently, when they spoke eloquently about the supremacy of "Anglo-Saxon novels" and their impressive command of narrative. My heart sank as I listened, for what became clear to me, in a flash, is that nothing has changed since Victorian England (for some in the literary establishment). Britain (now allied to America) and the English language with its marvellous fiction machine, still rule the waves. I personally find this an uncomfortable position - but when ...

IQ AND THE POETS - ARE YOU SMART?

When you open your mouth to speak, are you smart? A funny question from a great song, but also, a good one, when it comes to poets, and poetry. We tend to have a very ambiguous view of intelligence in poetry, one that I'd say is dysfunctional. Basically, it goes like this: once you are safely dead, it no longer matters how smart you were. For instance, Auden was smarter than Yeats , but most would still say Yeats is the finer poet; Eliot is clearly highly intelligent, but how much of Larkin 's work required a high IQ? Meanwhile, poets while alive tend to be celebrated if they are deemed intelligent: Anne Carson, Geoffrey Hill , and Jorie Graham , are all, clearly, very intelligent people, aside from their work as poets. But who reads Marianne Moore now, or Robert Lowell , smart poets? Or, Pound ? How smart could Pound be with his madcap views? Less intelligent poets are often more popular. John Betjeman was not a very smart poet, per se....

E Y E W E A R, THE BLOG - FREEDOM MEANS BEING UNAFRAID TO WRITE WHAT YOU THINK

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