12 turn as 12 by Christopher Sanderson

12 turn as 12 12 poems and 12 pictures celebrating love, and the female form

Christopher Sanderson

A Coastmoor Publication

12 turn as 12 12 poems & 12 pictures celebrating love,

and the female form

Christopher Sanderson

A Coastmoor Publication

Images questioniswhyamiattracted Poetry

Christopher Sanderson

Many Things

There are so so many things happening

Yet so so little is going on

There are so so many tides turning

Yet so so little sunshine splashes on the shore

There is so so much to think about

Yet with so so little to inﬂuence

There is so so much to confuse you

Yet so so many more to try to straighten you out

There are going to be changes

Aren't there always going to be changes

There are going to be things that stay the same

Aren't there always things which remain the same

There will be more understanding

Hopefully, there will be a lot less misunderstanding

There will, no doubt, be more confusion

There will, hopefully, be less of a conclusion

There will be calming meditative music

There will also be lively, energising music

There will be peace, found in love

There will also be anguish, found in love

Motel

I tried to give it soul, I asked if you recalled our previous visit

Calling in brieﬂy, for a family celebration

I told myself, and told myself again; be alive here, be alive

And be here, be here in the moment

I felt the dim light, the emptiness, the long stretch Of windowless corridors, with key-locked bedrooms to either side

I imagined myself, in an American movie, where solitude

And autobiography each play their own chilling part

It is more of an isolation cell for one

Than the cleansing to be found in the monastery

There's less life here for sure

Than in the ﬁve o’clock awakenings for Matins

Her for whom the bell tolls, the bell tolls

I hear myself ring those words around my eardrums

Pen

The pen is new, the motel life isn’t

One I don't yet have the feel for I have yet to bed her in

The other, as you, has felt me all over

Felt with me, felt for me

Felt me; over so so many, many years

One is straight lines, round barrels

Filled with engineering

Yet more suited to sketching and drawing

Rather than writing

The other is long, dimly-lit corridors

Where solitude creeps by; it is engraved

On the key fob, which stands

On the uniform drinks tray

Temple

If I found myself on the mountain

If I found myself inside, or outside, of the temple

Would I be any closer to the soul of my self

Than I am in these forty-ﬁve minutes

Of sound supported meditation

If I listened to the high altitude winds

If I gazed out over the slowly rolling mists

Would I be any nearer to my own self-discovery

Than I am with the free-ﬂowing thoughts

Of my early morning sitting

If I ventured once again to the abbey

If I entered into those foreboding religious quarters

Would I challenge myself any more

Than I do in the peacefulness

Of this room, in this my home

If I remained then, and did not leave

If I opted instead for re-negotiation

Would I stumble upon a more settled solution

Than I do, in this moment

With no more than my own self

Follower

It takes someone else, writing in is diaries (Pavares) to make me raise the questions for my reasons, or my rationales, for writing poetry

Just back there, I crossed out you, and replaced it with me; for in this work, most unusually, I am now writing not for you, but for me

You have dominated my writing for so so many years, yet mostly I would like to think that it was a reﬂex reaction to the feelings of the moment, as opposed to any rigorous preplanned methodology

I could look back on the last thirty-ﬁve years or so of words; I am sure, for the many hundreds, indeed for many thousands of poems you would have been the kick-off, or the close-off

If this should count as an obsession, or an addiction, I have to say that the obsession, or the addiction if you will, should be classed as something that has proved most useful, and effective, for me as a writer

Also beneﬁcial for the both of us, as people

No Longer

Little by little, as I write to you, I no longer write to you

Little by little, as my crisis of writing grows stronger

I no longer am able to write to you

Somehow I have to ﬁnd something stronger I may have to take longer, to gather my strength

Yet already I feel sure

That I am no longer able to write for you

I am indeed searching for something stronger Someone who will be trusted to go on longer

For I am no longer able to write to you

And now I say that; for longer, and for longer

Hands Off Receiver

I couldn't make the call For ever, and ever I stalled

I had too much to lose And knew not of what I had to gain

You came to me, now, and again Yet it was, only, now and again

Your stain was wearing thin My new slim look

And my found-again grin Offered me another direction

I am winding down the clock

Yet this night

I will keep on going Until I reach the buffers

Until I utter the very last And ﬁnal, ﬁnal full stop

Making, Showing

He picked me up by my ears

The art teacher Mr Carter

I didn't let him see my tears

I was sharper, I was smarter

I knew he could carve and turn the clay

Also play, with the trainee history teacher

But for sure he wasn't going to get in my way

I did not cry, nor show signs of my ﬁnal feature

For I had my eye on Hazel Whelter

I spun my wheel, I spun it oh so fast

Thinking of riding with her, on the helter-skelter

And wondering, for just how long, our clinging might last

He put me down, ﬂat on my feet

The art teacher Mr Carter

I did not let him hear my bleat

I was in control, I had signed the Magna Carta

Last Call For Boarding

The white van boys are out on the road, full of the joys of their right foot pedals; they are a minor irritation, a noise, but I leave well alone, I do not meddle.

Rather I come back to you, and the ﬂash of the azure blue, in my previous daydream; those images which you alone have given me, the soul that I have riven from your spirited smile.

With this small gift of style I carry on the writing, brightening myself up as the rain falls; it is no longer frightening, I am in the groove, I move through the line of trees with a certain swiftness.

I have nothing else to prove, I am simply working off, working off my stiffness; the contractors, and the conspirators, are out on their morning assignments.

The poet, the writer, with his studio, so he's told, standing on a Ley-line, is seeking out his own realignment; his breath is steady, his thoughts almost precise.

Oblique Slopes

I share these moments

I share these moments this morning with you

I dare to have these thoughts

To have these thoughts of no more meaning for you

Past the line of tall standing poplars

Beside the breeze blown oaks and willows

Past what I might as well deﬁne as popular

Beside what I create on the night-time pillows

Nothing more then

Nothing more then to remind me

Nothing before then

Nothing before then to conﬁne me

As the black clouds keep on rolling

Blackness up above, sunshine down below

The fear, to fall out of this love he is calling

The depths of despair on which to draw

Past the giant ﬁr tree, its branches splayed

In the style of the Chinese temple roof

The road is the real place, yet at once delayed

Although I am permitted to show you no proof

Happen It Is

The truth is in what happens

Not in what is written

Nor in what is read

The truth is

That it is the chase that gladdens

Not the letters, of the dying soldiers on parade

I raid all those silent pastimes

Climbing stairs, opening doors

I am made of a brighter nature

Yet it is evidently true that I still crave I know myself, that I would likely misbehave

I have it in my fervour to favour lust

And one day I will go off-piste

Just as today

I sit in the queue, at the road-works lights

One day I will go off piste

Just as I sit here

And in my mind, I enjoy the midnight ﬂight

Happen It Isn't

I hope you can see; really there is no enforcement

I hope you can feel

That actually it is only my own endorsement

To play games with clouds and stars

To walk tall

Towards, towards wherever you are

How easily I fall back to thirty-ﬁve years ago

How fearless to leave the pack

I no longer have to snatch the lost sleep

Of the days, those days when I had to go

How far I could see, just then, in that moment

I could see all the way, way past our horizons

Underneath the silver-grey, blue-black rolling clouds

Over the green grass, the rust-brown ploughed ﬁelds

Farmland of which we are, quietly, quietly proud

And I thought to myself; what of it then

What of making something more of your life

What of doing something distinctly different

A Coastmoor Publication

12 turn as 12 12 poems and 12 pictures celebrating love, and the female form

Christopher Sanderson