Fury Poems by Christopher Sanderson
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Christopher Sanderson’s Poetry Pamphlets
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Christopher Sanderson’s Poetry Pamphlets !2
About the writing of Fury Poems For once the image came first, the cover artwork for this pamphlet is by my son Joseph van der Niet. He oered it to me recently, and I thought Fury to be an excellent sense of what my poetry has been about for a great many years.
Fury has kept me going in many walks of life; the more furious I have been then the more determined I have been to respond, to react, even if on occasions that reaction was to run away, to run away to work out my furies, work out my furies in my own sweet way.
These poems are reworking of poems selected from the seven years since I went to writing college. They, just as was the decision to go to college, are all driven by the Fury
Christopher Sanderson October 2015 
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Contents To Be Is Not Alone Enough .............................................................5 F Words Saying Look .......................................................................6 Déjà Vu ...............................................................................................7 Between The Lines ...........................................................................8 First Word (Definitive Article) ........................................................9 At The End Of Night .....................................................................10 I Or Almost Or I .............................................................................11
© Christopher Sanderson - October 2015
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To Be Is Not Alone Enough White board, wipe away, move on, gone But you travelled through some deep synapses Erase, erasure, lose, loss of sweet saviour Or quarantine, quarantine before you delete Loosening links and losing linkages Opening wounds, bound, sealed, slowly wheeled Turn to‌ Make a sense Find a purpose Being: To Be Is Not Alone Enough Buy some time, rebuild some memories Work out the why 
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F Words Saying Look The corner seat by the window The preferred classroom vista You, your friend And Billie Holiday’s sister
Her signature on your satchel Her drawing on your book Angry at the Americans And F words saying look
An obstinate smile Unreasonable with a smile Objectionable with a smile Sincere with your insincerity
You care for your sisters You care for your mother You care I think for everyone When the sunshine shines on you 
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Déjà Vu I ride a stumbled path Beside the broken glass Through the deserts of blown grass Without fence or hedgerow
A solitary walker waves me down Do I know the way he asks Certain that he has passed this way before But where are the fields of folk Where are the farmers workers
I tried to make a laugh Without thought or purpose Through the void of explanation Without doubt, deliverance or benediction
Thanks he said I’ll be on my way I may be back again tomorrow He did not say, And I for certain did not follow
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Between The Lines You are Better read than I Your intellect Positively on fire
Yet actively restrained One day you will give me your take Tell me who The vulgar-upstarts represent
For my part I will wallow in the Pastoral passages Though I note a certain lack of flow Unbecoming of such a refined writer
My guess – there will be a purpose To the unfortunate juxtapositions No doubt you will elaborate, elongate Raise to the surface my submerged view 
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First Word (Definitive Article) Black & white Underlined in red ink For me That’s where the poem began
The denouement or duende May have arrived later But for me the poems Always began at the beginning 
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At The End Of Night Daylight creeps into the valley In search of the crowing voices Beat of the pheasants wings Brings vibrations physicality to glass It is all that stands between human warmth & the strut of winged courtship
The clocks tick-tock Yet the alarm is silent Once again I have woken Before the time to wake To peer across the flat frosted grass Over the stream to the woodlands
Banks of trees that rise in an instant A vast array of intense greens And golds, and browns, and yellows and cherry reds Yes, also the girlish wisp of the eastern silver birch We all stand erect In search of the photosynthetic energy of light 
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I Or Almost Or I I make this mark as a way to begin A doorway through which to enter
The music is vaguely religious With deep folk root overtones The heavy curtains are drawn Spotlights cast long shadows
I have read from Edgelands; learnt of an artist by the name of Chell who might well have captured the verges that I hoped to draw, or at least to write of
I have read from Falling Upward; of the two halves of life, reflected on my strong similarities to the failings of others on the road to immaturity
Before the fever takes hold As I fear the fever no doubt will I stretch full to say then take me To write as would a man possessed
I make this mark as a way to end A doorway through which to depart
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