Christian Ward is a UK-based poet whose work has appeared in Southword, Ragaire, Okay Donkey, and Roi Faineant. His poetry explores a range of themes with vivid imagery and emotional depth. He is the author of two collections, Intermission and Zoo, both available on Amazon and other platforms. Ward’s writing continues to gain recognition for its lyrical style and evocative storytelling.
Nature Translates My Lymphoma
Stage 0
My lymphoma speaks cicada,
hides underground like a miner
sweating their sanity. A canary
gleefully drinks it, does laps
in the cage like an invisible bull chase
until they outpace the sun.
Counsellors pluck feathers
from my swollen tear ducts.
Why does the sun shout so much?
Stage 1
My lymphoma speaks Mount Iberia frog –
all liquorice and flame. It reeks
of stale coffee and painkillers.
The frog doesn’t want to talk
about my parents. London is a rainforest
unsure of itself.
Stage 2
My lymphoma speaks dwarf lanternshark.
A rubbery dog toy content
to nip at the Great White circling
beside my bed. It doesn’t know
I don’t care if the damage festers.
Stage 3
My lymphoma speaks parakeet –
a flock of magicians hiding the sky
under a bright green tablecloth.
Distracts therapists with Instagram
photos of exotic holidays flirting
through the screen. My body
squawks away the pain.
Stage 4
My lymphoma speaks common carp,
has reduced my body to a thesis
on the effects of abandoning your children.
The fish swim throughout my blood
until my words are bubbles. Therapists
tell me to lose myself to the river.
Stage 4b
My lymphoma speaks parasitoid wasp.
The spine is a mouth. My pain
is subject, object, verb. It talks
non stop.
I haven’t slept in weeks.
(Previously published in Southword)
The Bitterns
The bitterns are stubborn
as a rubber stamp
refusing to lift,
stuck in a pause of flight
neither here nor there.
The sky could taxidermise
them immediately,
plugging their bodies
with a wadding of cloud.
A tincture of rain
to cover the silence
stuck in an autumnal
hinterland.
Whatever machinery
is needed to resolve the issue
might have been lost
to the theatre of the reeds,
how we saw three.
Each posed like a gesture
I wanted for a lifetime.
And now they’re articulated
for peace in a space
I can’t even comprehend.
Look, when I said I love you
forever, this is what I meant.
(Previously published in The Winged Moon)
The Shelter
Like a mouth missing teeth,
the back of the block of flats
was a hodgepodge of fire
escapes and randomly placed
balconies. Most unable to see
the WW2 shelter hidden
by a hug of cherry trees, curious
residents might’ve stumbled
on the structure sticking out
like a dumped cow. Wrapped
in ivy, its corrugated roof
and padlock thick as a steak bone
kept out intruders. Was it used?
Did desire smell like powdered milk
inside its walls? What was more
ruinous — the lullaby of falling bombs
or the heavy water of secrets
sashaying out of a father’s pipe?
The Galway Review 