Up On High

The old wall, with mock Georgian sachet windows, the new gardens, with painted crimson supports for the glass panelled, highly elevated walkway

Would that I find my soul twixt the window and the girder, would that I give my heart to you, without the fear of its own murder

The old public house, with a bed of straw and quilt, the never-ending lake which compels the father to leave his unwed daughters

Would that I find my mind, between the public house and the lake, would that I give mankind to you, without the fear, for my own heaven’s sake

From Christopher Sanderson's Ireland Poems
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Paul Henry’s Connemara Village

I would take this wooden seat to look upon, at the Cottages of Connemara, I would read that the brush strokes elude to a rural life, at the foot of the mountains

I would write, as you looked on, while I tried to satisfy my intellect; yes I would claim for Frances Danby to also be the Earl of Derby, the painter of Vesuvius Rising

I would think Paul Henry could be Cezanne, each day to sit with coloured shower, each day to sit with shades of french grass, as if the meditation unceasingly continues

I would desire the gift to be able to explain to you, of moments passing that reflect hollow, and enormous, on the moors that passed, as if the partaking of the all of love

I would post the postcard’s words, of all those people years, pulled and strung together, as the rosary beads on the older woman’s chair

From Christopher Sanderson's Ireland Poems
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Doppelgänger

I saw you down O’Connell Street, first to cross the pedestrian crossing

Still, still after all these years, still in a rush, you didn’t see me, or did you

Is that why you moved so swiftly, away from my piercing eyes

I had been talking, in the Palace Bar, to that Tom Carney, the lawyer farmer

He said I had caught it, you know, the regret, he said I had caught it, with the repetition

From Christopher Sanderson's Ireland Poems
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Injured Yet Joyful

A couple of lawyers, you wouldn’t if you could, tales to take the wind’s sails, no really, really you should

And kick her on the leg, say sorry a hundred times, say you’ve ridden around Kerry, say you love her, say everything’s fine

And you love him like a brother, he’s planted trees as no other, he’s helped to find that land of plenty, for to give it to the poor

From Christopher Sanderson's Ireland Poems
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Giving The Given

Imagine this, I doubt if you can, he is the new Capability Brown, the most philanthropic man I’ve met this week

He works in Dublin town, plays lawyer for the crown, but spirits the money away into the land, o boy he’s way out there, something grand, and I met him this week

Imagine this, I doubt if you can, he says that I am a poet, and that I have written the perfect poem this week

I work in an old England town, mostly I play the clown, and spirit away the money by following bands, o joy he’s given me quite a hand, good that I met him this week

From Christopher Sanderson's Ireland Poems
Read free in Ibooks on Itunes here
Listen free on soundcloud here
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Read and download for free from ISSUU here