Unchosen Poemsby Christopher Sanderson

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!Cover Artwork is by my son Joseph Van Der Niet

!!!!!!!

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The Editing of Unchosen Poems

I am editing and rewriting these poems in the comfort of

my Lincolnshire home, on a quiet Sunday morning in

May 2014.

!They first came together in my poetry folders of

September 2009.

!The reason for their selection is as obtuse as the poems

themselves might seem. Only those with hurt on-board

were left out

!Christopher Sanderson

May 2014

!3

Contents !

!!!© Christopher Sanderson - May 2014

The path less chosen 5

Sculptor 7

After Math 9

Cycle 11

Transference 13

Sociability Test 14

Only later did I read of his love of YKB 15

!4

The path less chosen

Ice melts

On the pavement

Outside the newsagent

The crunchy brown salt

Turns all to slush

!The ambulance light flashes

On a stretcher

The fallen man

Curses his bad luck

!Inside the shop

Hot cups of tea

Steam behind the counter

Liz & Sally chatter away

!First Harry, then Bert, then Joe

A constant stream of regulars

Call for their morning paper

And packets of cigarettes

!!5

The works buzzer

Blows out at seven-thirty

They hurry along the canal side

Cross over at the footbridge

!Pools coupons are completed

Over a snap-tin luncheon

Talk of the match on Saturday

A game of darts down the pub

!Myself I dream of western isles

A day shadowing the pastoral poet

Soaking up his joie de vivre

Wondering how it could be otherwise

!6

Sculptor

Let me be

Let me find the light

!I have moved from the west coast

To be at the east coast

Let me be, let me find the light

!Down the garden, through the gate in the edge

Up the path, on and over the sand dunes

To the shoreline of the vast North Sea

!I know the sea is there

Though I cannot see it

I know the sea is there

!At night, in the darkness of my solitary bed

I hear the waves land; I know the sea is there

Just as at night, I try to hear you

!You need not taunt me

About the lack of light in my work !7

!You need not taunt me

I can see there is no light

Right now I cannot see the light

!I know the light should be there

I can hear the need for light

But I cannot see the light

!Just as it was

With you on the west coast

!8

After Math

Look back

Into the inconsistencies

Of memory

Along that utmost certainty

Of the line of time

!What day

Was the yoghurt pot left on the table

Why is last season’s season ticket

By the furniture polish

And how did it become draped

With that dark haired girl’s ankle bracelet

!Photographs, pictures, mirrors

Vases, fabrics, carpets

Curtains, old marmite jars

Sweet music on the stereo

!Only in this sketch; you are absent

Only with these words; for the distant future

Only then some catch of perfume !9

May help to re-create the essence

!10

Cycle

Albert turns up the collar on his thigh length tweed coat

He surveys the bereft gardens

Stands witness to the aftermath of wind and rain

!It will be like this all through till springtime

Months of darker days, only the brazier for warmth

Now that Esther is with him no more

!He kicks a loose stone, whistles an old song

A soldier’s route march tune, from his youth

With a beat, that still, he never misses

!There is a temptation to do little

Thought to do less

But he ought to go back to the farmhouse for breakfast

!To hold the cup of warm tea

In his rugged, weathered hands

With skin as thick as upturned oilcloth

!I wake, without the assistance of an early morning call

!11

Take a hot power shower, in the fully tiled wet-room

Shampoo in extracts of cinnamon and plum

!I dress, in the dressing room

A silk shirt; Italian-cut, lightweight, linen suit

Camel-skin brogues, over lambs-wool socks

!Fresh squeezed orange juice, eggs over easy

Fresh ground coffee from Brazilian beans

The London Times newspaper

!We ease into the air-conditioned executive limousine

Pull away across the gravel track

Into sunlight that falls through the blue sky

!12

Transference

About forty or fifty centimetres away

Or within reach

Of a, half curved, outstretched arm

!That is as near as the ideas

Or suggestions need to be, to my mind

No point for them to enter my thought processes

!Best to take instant action, on the energy in the ether

Watch the raindrops bounce

On the taught high wires

!13

Sociability Test

It’s not the same; what with voices, doors slamming,

and a radiator that rattles for England

!Thank heavens for the book about Derek Jarman’s garden,

a place to rest my writing slip of paper

!Those intrusive early risers settle back into their warm

beds;

Cups of tea with toast and jam, let’s browse the morning

newspaper !These are exciting times, first day at a new college for

one,

Job application, to be in by ten, for the other

!But it’s not the same for me; the quiet time could be gone

forever,

What then to console me, or to shed light on my opening

gambit

!14

Only later did I read of his love of YKB

Instead I wrapped presents

Read a poem by Derek Jarman

…fucking, fucking, fucking

!I came with nothing

I was given nothing;

Given nothing, but

The tongue-tied gift of love

!A clear September night

On a quiet hilltop

Sat, counting the stars

With tear filled eyes

Blurring the darkness

!I go with nothing

I gave everything;

Gave everything, except

The tongue-tied gift of love

!!15

…fucking, fucking, fucking

A poem from myself the poet –

She unwrapped presents, instead

!16

!

!17