quiet poems
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Quiet Poemsby Christopher
Sanderson
Christopher Sanderson’s Poetry PamphletsSP
!2
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
!3
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.................................................................
!4
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
!5
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
!6
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
!7
To tell the story
Ever so slow the
Silver stripe is
Gathered
Stone walls
Remain
Stories of the ancients
!8
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
!9
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.
!10
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.
!11
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
!12
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
!13
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
!14
Shiver in skin; soak up tobacco together
Tread barefoot, naked; armed
With no more than a lover's smile
!15
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