Selected Poems (2006 - 2012)

by John Christopher

  In the tragedy of yellow.

  I felt for her a tender touch,

  As if she were as my friend, but I cannot pretend,

  Anything which could be and isn’t certain.

  I can keep a sketch on a drive home,

  With ‘mad for you’ upon my lips-

  When the poet’s dream from afar for a tender kiss,

  Or an hour for hand in hand.

  One can realize in a moment when his earth has moved-

  And though it takes time for the poem,

  The night is quick to torture.

  Dreaming of her head upon my shoulder,

  Or this tender poem.

  When one is alone-

  And the shadows under yellow lamps.

  I touch on a bit of history to complete this poem.

  Dae’s Poem

  Dae is my online friend. We only met one time in person, when we went out on Halloween with a group of her friends to a haunted house, but I wrote her a poem over cyberspace. I would have wanted to date her of course, but she was my good friend, and I sent her many messages about my writing and my life and she has responded in kind. It’s interesting in this modern technological age how relationships can be had solely online. I have offered many times to take her to coffee or whatnot, but she has always remained a mystery and aloof.

  To Dae

  You hold your lips so tightly when you smile-

  Into camera phones on the go,

  with an exaggerated sorrow- the wail.

  I would have told you that beauty is only tortured here,

  Stoned alone in the mirror, where the light fails the lens.

  I would have warned you, that perfect heavenly bodies,

  And the solitude of man-

  Are only romanticized here.

  Where the fair-skinned girls, affected,

  Make lunar celebrations of their wickedness,

  While the wicked are all the self-righteous,

  Who hide their cycles from the moon.

  Mandy’s Poem

  Mandy was another girl who I met online. She’s a short redhead with pale skin, and I sent her a few messages and we agreed to meet for coffee. She never showed up to the meeting, and I sent her this wonderful poem, to which she never responded.

  To Mandy

  I am a believer in fate or destiny,

  when my road takes a sharp turn off the edge,

  or my car swerves off the road and topples over,

  I believe it was supposed to happen,

  that all things, to me, happen for a reason.

  When I am in a dark mood, and it begins to rain,

  and the rain sprinkles down over me,

  and the moon shines brightly,

  only for me does it do so, it is my symbol and my sign-

  the moon like it were God, alone and separated,

  and the rain like it were his love, showering down,

  and the night like it were my solitude,

  dark and full of wonders, like the vast starry sky.

  When calm, my solitude brings insights,

  When frantic, my solitude brings hostile imaginations.

  I am the only one here who is touched,

  by something eternal and divine.

  I feel that when you send for me,

  and the hour has already grown late,

  that it were for some purpose, for some cosmic game.

  I sense something true, but also remote,

  all around me, but again separate from me-

  like you, are separate and remote from me-

  and I yearn to know, I want to touch- that eternal star.

  I see your picture, with your fair skin,

  and waves of red hair, your prettiness, and I read your words,

  such commonality between us, such recognition of one another.

  But, were it to be anything more, than anything else?

  Were you just there to inspire this poem?

  Or were there potential for something more?

  I wish it were more, I wish it were a cosmic connection,

  a first few words, which turn into something everlasting.

  Perhaps, my feeling of fate were not true,

  or perhaps my fate is to be alone, beneath the stars, separated.

  But, I don’t want this moment to fade away,

  I don’t want you to fade away, I don’t want to fade away,

  not so quickly at least, without a goodbye.

  Iris’s Poems

  I don’t remember exactly how I came into contact with Iris, but I do remember much about our time together. She was a fragile girl, who was very innocent, with long black hair and pale skin. She loved the arts, and was of this nature child sort- she was a romantic and loved being outside and told me the names of plants and trees. She was childlike, and took pictures of herself with flowers and birds. She went with me on a few dates, one to the botanical gardens, and a few times to the movies and walking around the mall. We also went to a haunted house in October with her brother. We spent a great deal of time together over a short period. I asked her to ‘be my girl’ to which she consented, and I felt like things were going well. Until one night after a movie she grew cold to me and told me to take a cab home. I never really spoke to her again after that. I do have these poems from that time. I had begun at this point to save my poems, which is why I have so many for Iris, and so few for others.

  To Iris

  Come out and see me at the window,

  Like poetic lover’s of old,

  Like Rosaline, or Juliet, their virginal white-

  On the balcony, the young and hopeful.

  Too young for remorse- too old for coddling-

  throwing flower blossoms,

  and a soft breeze blowing through their hair-

  in waves of excitable joy-

  like a mermaid woman caught in the night seas,

  caught by the blue moon.

  I am here in the garden at night,

  Where a cold wind blows over my neck, and I stand alone-

  Like a simple touch of the hair from her neck-

  That sends shivers of pin needle pricks-

  Shivering on the way through parking lots,

  Shivering on the way to the movie theaters.

  And Tennyson’s buds are whispering to me,

  Of how a love less than given wholly,

  Is not a love that’s given at all.

  I want to go with you to a secret garden,

  Where there are magical springs and a stone fountain-

  And throw roses, and other imperfections, on the cobble stones.

  I want to give you a gift of more perfection,

  and to give it from my heart,

  A true gift, given wholly- like a soft touch,

  That brings those pin pricks and needles-

  Where the hares rummage beneath the foliage,

  And a chilly winter breeze blows.

  At Every Meeting

  At every meeting, I’ll wish to hold your hand,

  Or hug you for a greeting, or brush aside a strand,

  Of your silk hair from your fair smooth cheek,

  by way of an excuse,

  To caress that fair cheek, or to wrap my arms about you,

  Or to kiss you, like the water that falls gently, like rain.

  At every meeting, I’ll wish to know your thoughts,

  Or ask you about your visions- your ideas about the future,

  Of all those weeping willows, or the trees of oleander,

  The roses that grow full, at the festival of Samhein,

  Where we shall discuss Scottish folklore,

  Or those from that land upon the Rhine.

  When I look into your eyes, I see stars and waves.

  When I look at your tiny hands, I see wings or mermaid fins.

  I see the poem then, and am more the poet then.

  When I hear the sirens on their island, imploring me-

  laughing at
me,

  To guide my ship to their eternal shore.

  Or I see a beautiful Selkie girl, who buried her oily skin-

  Beneath the tides-

  For some shipwrecked sailor to uncover in the sand,

  Or a flower faerie, who lives with Robert Burns’ Red Rose,

  That sits outside your lovely home,

  Or grows around the college,

  Where love blooms-

  To tend to it, and care for it, and protect it.

  That I should be that sailor,

  to uncover her skin beneath the sand-

  Or that rose to be cared for by her,

  Or to hide beneath her silken wings.

  But, if I should say, ‘you know, I’m very much in love with you,’

  I hope that it were not like Whitman’s unrequited turn.

  It would be the same for me, as it once were for him.

  For if I should ask you to touch that cheek,

  Or to wrap my arms about you, my fair faerie,

  Or to kiss you, like the waters of the fountain kiss the pool,

  If you should then refuse,

  Or tell me to seek thee no more…

  For every happy meeting, I’ll at least have these poems.

  - If not to find the words, to know them all by heart.

  I will carry them in my heart.

  At the Botanical Garden

  She walks fleet-footed in her tiny black shoes,

  With a dress like breezy foliage,

  And the little white tuffs on the cacti,

  Around her breathe and exhale around her-

  And there are birds jumping through the branches,

  And the creosote bush has a scent like summer rain,

  And there are white fluffy clouds that cool the little paths,

  Where the native peoples once made huts out of sticks,

  And there is a green pool with weeds and a little bench.

  Love is like the butterflies she watches intimately,

  Silently, because they land so sweet and gently,

  And spread beautiful thin wings, like paintings of bright colors.

  And while she kneels down to watch them dance about,

  The feeling is delicate and kind,

  I watch her,

  and think how beautiful it is that she would have it so,

  and how delicate she is, like the butterflies.

  Love is also like a quiet path surrounded by sunflowers,

  And the large palo verde tree that reaches out over us-

  Or the faerie wisps that are red and magical, airy like ballerinas.

  It is how she watches for the cottontails in the overgrowth,

  And how she is delighted by the hopping cactus wren,

  As it jumps from branch to branch,

  Or how she takes pictures of a family of quail as they run.

  I watch her,

  and think how beautiful it is that she would have it so,

  And how delightful and quiet she is,

  like the path surrounded by flowers.

  Love is like the tangled and strange cacti,

  With arms that grow about one another,

  and hold onto one another.

  There is much delay and much revelry in their growing.

  They must reach long roots beneath for water,

  They must make spines and grow intricate for defense,

  Their many lengths hide beneath themselves and twist in desire.

  It is how she becomes nervous and looks away from me,

  And how her silence gives way to a smile when she looks back.

  I look at her,

  and think how beautiful it is that she would have it so,

  and how strange and intricate she is, like the tangled cacti.

  Love is also like the many twigs and flowers

  that surround the path.

  It is like the doors in the trees made of dry branches,

  And the shadows which hide many mysteries and enchantments within.

  For much is hidden in our thoughts,

  much is unknown between us.

  And love is like the natural world as it surrenders itself over to us,

  It surrenders its heart, its secrets,

  And its strength is in that surrender.

  I watch her,

  and think of how beautiful it is that she would have it so,

  And how mysterious and enchanted she is like the shadows,

  And I surrender my heart, I surrender my very heart to her.

  When I see Love Bloom

  When I see nature bloom forth its elegance,

  In roses or flowers, like on her cute little dress,

  And in the summer, a sweet smell fills the air,

  With a soothing aroma, that cheers me up-

  Or I see the birds nesting over their delicate eggs,

  Protecting and encouraging them to life-

  like romantic hearts encourage each other,

  I think of her, and how love is delicate,

  And how love blooms forth its elegance, like the flowers.

  When I see the eagle that soars high overhead,

  over sun lit mountain tops, lifted and airy,

  Or in winter when snow covers those same peaks,

  With warm white sheets, I think of her fair skin,

  And how warm and everlasting her beauty is.

  Or I see the trees dance together in the wind,

  And tangle up their branches like dancers,

  Caressing each other, knowing one another,

  I think of her, and how love means warmth,

  And how love soars high above everything else.

  When I hear an old country song,

  or a poet’s long sung ballad,

  I listen to the tender words,

  And I dream of her,

  my favorite dream and inspiration.

  I feel in my heart for the first time,

  the meaning in the words,

  And I see that life cannot be more beautiful,

  That I can be in love with her today,

  And feel that love surrounds me.

  Jordan’s Poems

  Jordan I met when I was trying to become a filmmaker. She came out to a casting call for a film I was trying to put together, and my first impression of her was that she was cute and fun, but I didn’t take her very seriously. She was a tiny girl, standing about 5ft 1in, and she had a squeaky little voice, which I found endearing. We became friends quickly while we were working together on the movie, and I gradually began to fall in love with her. We became the very best companions, and we told each other our hidden thoughts and secrets. She would come over to my parent’s home, and we would spend hours just talking, and I was very happy with our friendship, but wanted more. I was drawn to her emotionally and physically, but I didn’t want to move too quickly. I wanted her to fall as hopelessly in love with me as I had her. This was never to happen, and one night on one of our shoots, she brought another boy with her to the party. I was in very real distress and suffered greatly that she had found a new boy who she wanted more than me. She moved away, to Flagstaff, Arizona, though we are still the best of friends. I still write her poetry and still love her, and she says she loves me, which is something very real. This relationship is the closest I have yet come to something real with a woman. I think we will always be in contact, and our friendship means very much to both of us. She has been a muse for me for the past few years, and these are some of my most recent poems. The last poem Betrayal was written just as I began getting ready to publish this book.

  God Did Whisper, and an Angel Appeared

  I have often confessed my heart to God,

  And spoken to him about my loneliness.

  He never did answer, never responded-

  To all my hopes and dreams I spoke to him-

  All my pleas and cries in the night-

  I was not certain he ever heard them.

  I cursed his name for
his lack of a response,

  I lost all belief, and became incredulous.

  I lost all meaning- life was for me, nothing but a corruption.

  Women were unkind, and men were all brutes.

  But, God did see me there and he took pity on me.

  He saw me in my loneliness and despair.

  I know now that Life is beautiful, Life is dear,

  For God did Whisper, and an angel appeared.

  If You Were Mine

  If you were mine,

  You could expect my complete surrender.

  I’d surrender my heart and my affections,

  And my poetry, only for you.

  Such verses I would write!

  Such passions I would explore!

  We could make love like poets!

  We could give birth to new sensations,

  We would burn, full of verve,

  Vital and fertile, like an ever lived spring.

  Never dying, never killed.

  Not by death to decompose.

  No rainstorm in the night could quench our fire!

  We could surge to the boundaries of ourselves,

  Uplifting one another, in spirit, and in art,

  We would become one, and eternally one-

  United, indivisible, never separated.

  Through all disasters, and all comic plays,

  All climaxes.

  We would be invigorated,

  And restored,

  by each tender kiss or warm embrace.

  Restore me! Complete me!

  I yearn to be embraced!

  I want to know what love is!

  I’d want to know you completely,

  And see you in the nude.

  Truly, verily, I do, and I would adore,

  Every flaw and imperfection in you.

  Every detail I would remember,

  Your breasts, your hands, your legs,

  There would be no other woman for me,

  I could not admire another.

  Not for your beauty, and your powers,

  And your kindness, and your charm,

  Things that I would cherish completely.

  Completely would I be yours’,

  I would follow you with tears to the grave,

  And no other situation could tempt me away.

  For your love would I be,

  Never lonely, nor full of angst,

  I should be reconciled to mankind!

  I should love him as a brother!

  No sin could divert my path-

  No dark wood would give me fear or pause-