Back (In Mind) Across The Irish Sea

He told me his wife was having an affair

He had taken some time out to stay with his sister, herself a recovering schizophrenic

With a dedication to The Mass that he admired, he admired her dedication greatly

Earlier, and the reason I am writing this, he told me he had seen the light

He was staring out to sea, on the cliffs of his hometown near Donegal

He had become at one with peace, he had found inner love (my words not his)

He said that if I wanted to find it I had to be prepared, I had to make myself ready

It would be hard work but it would be uniquely fulfilling

He sold me on his story, which also included only ever telling the truth, the truth as he saw it

This is the final poem, I hope you enjoyed the journey

From Christopher Sanderson's Ireland Poems
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Return Ferry Cross The Irish Sea

How many more ideas might a man have that he hasn’t the time to write them all down

Moving across the horizon, speeding towards the mainland

Something about the paintings of John Miller’s seas

And his Cornish summer sandbars

From Christopher Sanderson's Ireland Poems
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Vacation, Vacation

I thought to take the train to Dublin, take a glass or two in the Palace Bar

Leave my place west of Killarney, out on the headland, past Dingle Bay

I’d meet a fair-minded legal couple who would tell me of their land

Of planting trees and building houses, for the returning poor folks to stay

I’d hear talk of a new kind of landlord, a guardian of his own destined way

He’d pay a Welsh man to carve his pastures, in the ideal of Capability Brown

His mission was tied into the desire for a legacy, to be achieved through land and book

He would read all that he could, such that one day he should write his own piece

So complete, and so succinct, so much more in the line of Hemingway and land

Than of F.Scott Fitzgerald’s labours, with the splintered souls of soul-less society

From Christopher Sanderson's Ireland Poems
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Back Streets

I take myself out of the dereliction, feeling unsafe in the squalid world of the half-life

I retire to the Japanese coffee shop and art gallery, where jazz music plays soulful

I look back on my photographs of Beckett, and that wild phantom of a man whose name evades me right now

Yet twenty five years past I saw his ghostly portraits, back then I thought, as I think now, there is the man who captured the troubled soul

The French jazz singer seemingly achieves only that half-way point of angst, in her search for today’s equilibrium

From Christopher Sanderson's Ireland Poems
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Straight Lines; Obtuse Angles

Old rectangles came into my life today, in walls with windows, in hallways with stairs, in tall tales of Pythagoras on the road to Donegal

Thin slots, reminiscent of the rill constructed in another’s garden’, with log, with neoprene, with sand and water on the road to Nowhere

Alarm bells in square boxes guard the heavy wooded doors, elsewhere John Singer Sergeant is kept from public view, although if I recall he was on the road to Venice

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