2 poems by Christopher Hopkins

Christopher Hopkins was born and raised in Neath, South Wales. He currently resides in the Canterbury area of Kent with his wife and daughter. His debut poetry chapbook ‘Take Your Journeys Home’ was  published by Clare Songbirds Publishing House in November 2017 and it received a nomination for the IPPY book award for poetry. Two of its poems ‘Sorrow on the Hill’ and ‘Smoke and Whiskey’ also received nominations for the Pushcart Prize.

He has had poems published in The Morning Star, Backlash Press, The Paragon Journal, The Blue Nib Magazine, Ibis Head Review, The Journal (formally the Contemporary Anglo – Scandinavian poetry), Taxicab Magazine, Rust & Moth, Harbinger Asylum, Scarlet Leaf Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, VerseWrights, Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice magazine, Poetry Superhighway, Duane’s PoeTree, Outlaw Poetry. His spoken word poetry has also featured in a podcast of Golden Walkmen Magazine, which also is to be included for their ‘Best of the Year’. Christopher also has had work featured in the MIND Anthology called ‘Please Hear What I’m Not Saying’ (February 2018). Christopher also has a YouTube channel dedicated to his poetry readings.




Drinking the root beer


We’ve spent summers picking rust apart
with the points of knives,
seeing more than one 3 o’clock in the day,

and here we are
our feet in a coolness of remembering,
a long way away from the sea.

We have inched away from outside.
Edged out the nonage boy.
Now, our wildering eyes
at those flawless longings.
We lived in contrasts, skying the glorious,
the detail we put in play.

Our skin knew the dirt
and sky kisses.
How we were grazed raw
under the sunlight’s blessing.

Now we are grown.
Roots in the soils of other towns
and a weave of sorrow
in circlets of frowns.
Twenty years try to claw its way out
from depths of our laugh lines.
Asking of each other,
how the mountains
were whittled down to a man?



Whale poem


We don’t hear the inconsolable whale
as we try to push it back to the sea.

It whispers its prayers
with monotone lips,
to try and make its god
bored with its dreaming.
But still it kicks.

Did the whale swim
in straight line to the shore
or happen upon a drowning
like a lottery draw
on a Tuesday in the rain,

away from the screams
in the breakers,
far away from the teasing witches
sea weed fingers,
as it tries to dry
its car sized tears once again.