Christopher Hopkins. Poetry


A hawk head of a sun.
Neck line & forearms,
wind hushed red
from the grip 
of the unexpected heat. 

I watch you
in this flipped world.
of the flicker constellation,
a flash gun sea.
The many hands of light.

You are auburn gold
in the rub.
Unpicked by scavengers,
by questions, breathing 
like an ordinary day.

Form of shadows & light
play in the space 
by your side,
between you & me,
the space they should be,
our other traveller.

I watch you 
in this flipped world
you’re woven gold.
My vision.

In another version of myself, I am a happy mess

Death lives on the coast.
Its thick with it.

Where there is death, 
there is sun,
where there is suffering, 
the sparkle tide
blinds the eyes to it,
to all the subtle changes,
how life tolerates its salt –
forming their hard carcass shell,
             toughen roots of daisies, 
             beneath a white curve 
             of a gentle front, 
             the fine horse mane of whispering clouds
             in the blue.
Beauty can’t be trusted.

Listen with the right pitch 
and you’ll hear it,
exposed in hissing withdrawals of tides.
What we see as the imbue tourist 
is thrilling as a path of tongues to first kisses.
All Nature is, 
is urge & returning.
           It was wrong to come here,
           wrong to escape you, 
           try loosen my grip on the wish bone
           in stealth of sun,

‘cause all the compass hand will do
is swing from heart – to head – to low ache.
It’ll remain the pointing finger of my own 
silent hand
of every drink,
every cigarette I touched 
before I knew of you, 

every bad meal,
everything which made
my body 
unready for you. 

Loss is settling like water.
Affliction finds your lowest point,
your deepest well.

and I sing up from it, sing with
all those who sleep 
with one eye on their body.
A nervous of nature, of touch.

And in a moment passing, the
breeze brushes the hair 
from my face.
There is a heat 
to the ground.

The Last Time We Saw Strangers by Christopher Hopkins – On Goodreads

Christopher Hopkins

About the contributor

Christopher Hopkins is a Welsh poet living in Faversham, Kent. He has received an IPPY, CLMP Firecracker and three Pushcart Prize nomination. He has two chapbook published by Clare Songbirds, New York. Christopher is widely published including poems in The Morning Star, The Cortland Review and Ink Sweat & Tears.

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