Quiet Poemsby Christopher

Sanderson

Christopher Sanderson’s Poetry PamphletsSP

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Christopher Sanderson’s Poetry PamphletsPS

About the writing of Quiet Poems

To give something back, to take something away. Not

everything is new, except a new word here, or a word taken

away there. And no grasp at all of linear time, pulled out of

whichever felt hat was fancied.

Christopher Sanderson

March 2016

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Contents

© Christopher Sanderson - October 2015

Endpoint 5 ......................................................................................

Distilled 6 ........................................................................................

Little Tor 7 .......................................................................................

Preoccupied 9 ................................................................................

Letter 23rd November 10 .............................................................

Son et Lumière 12 ..........................................................................

Beat 13 ............................................................................................

More Than Half Way 14.................................................................

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Endpoint

Close the door

Ever so quietly

So as not to wake

Drive to the moors

Ever so slowly

So as not to forget

Park beside the water

Ever so carefully

So as not

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Distilled

Serially

Insidious

Walk on

From individual

Through indivisible

On into

The hardly visual

Meander, meanwhile

Inconspicuous, eerily

A vortex voracious

Totally

Seen for all

Hope to be invisible

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Little Tor

The grey black

Creeps behind

Hides most of

The horizon

Except the

Silver stripe of

Resistance

The summit is

Cut from the

Next scene

The grey curtain

Falls

In an instant

The harlequins

Slide off into

The wings

One ridge stays behind

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To tell the story

Ever so slow the

Silver stripe is

Gathered

Stone walls

Remain

Stories of the ancients

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Preoccupied

On as on; relentless

Slimmest of down moments

Her august demeanour remains

An anniversary, of sorts

Night of immaculate conception

Dances of determination

Why part, why start

To drift from cast-aways dreams

Schemes of arrival as survival

Twenty years

On of the fine rims of daylight

Are the deep dark bowls of love

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Letter 23rd November

Baby Bird sings of Buick car rides to the moon, he glides

easily about the star studded universe. I think to set aside the

stepped on stones, let cool water wash over them

indiscriminately.

Turner strives to capture the nothingness, the emptiness, the

aloneness of man, amongst the Venice Horizons. He scrapes

with blades into the whites and gold’s and blues; all with the

undertones of visceral crimsons.

I was already alone when I wrote; Now there is no horizon. A

clear winters night as I looked out of the hotel bedroom

window, gazed into the dark emptiness; stared through a

personal cosmology which stretched way beyond Lyme Regis

Bay.

We both then call for calmness driven by passion. Yet,

although you encourage our infusion into the stillness, the

stars and the universe are for you but a platform, a diving

board, a place to plunge into the vast oceans.

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There for you to call out, as might have Wright of Derby whilst

he painted Vesuvius Eruption, with a view over the Bay of

Naples - “Vesuvius, I am yours, come and take me, you have at

once now found me”

All that remains is to say: remember the blue sky Saturday

mornings; remember the warm beds; remember how we

romped, in our joint escape from the burdens of reality;

remember the tea and scone in the bookshop on the

quayside; remember.

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Son et Lumière

Write of the sunlight

The passions consume

Light falls

On bookshelves of poetry

Light casts flowers shadow

On magnolia walls

Light reaches

Over the slender armchair

Light ever stronger

Claims benevolence

Passion caught

Through yesterday's music

Passion of heart beat

Of lips kissing

Passion consumes sunlight

As you once asked to call

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Beat

I want to talk of a place

Measured in feet and inches

I want to talk of a place where doubt

Is measured in pounds and ounces

I want to talk of a cosmology

Configurations of micro-cells

Which rise and fall

In a rhythmic change of light

I want to talk of a loss

Of our place, in the cosmos

No more feet or inches

Nor micro-cells ejaculated

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More Than Half Way

I take it in my mind

That to capture this view

At the same time

From the same place

The camera on a tripod

Use of a remote control

To dispel all nervous affects

Seven days between visits

Life of growth in my absence

I will not tell you the colours

But as the year surely turns

Much as you travel full circle

Up and down the metropolitan line

Then the trees

Give up their lifeblood also

I had it in mind

In the delirium of first light

That one could take nature as a lover

Share conjugal rights, bare ones soul

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Shiver in skin; soak up tobacco together

Tread barefoot, naked; armed

With no more than a lover's smile

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