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Unchosen Poems by Christopher Sanderson

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poetry shop free poetry pamphlets


poetryshop.co.uk poetryshop.co.uk is the archive point for all of Christopher Sanderson’s creative work over the years.

! Cover Artwork is by my son Joseph Van Der Niet

! ! ! ! ! ! !

P S

poetry shop free poetry pamphlets

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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 

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Contents ! 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

! ! ! © Christopher Sanderson - May 2014


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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

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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  

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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


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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

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…fucking, fucking, fucking A poem from myself the poet – She unwrapped presents, instead


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Unchosen Poems