Concordance

This concordance provides an index to every word in the poems, excluding a list of common "stopwords". It may be useful in finding a half-remembered poem, and perhaps in looking at the usage of words in the poems as a whole. It will be readable only on a large screen.

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

B

This Boy’s in Love—Section C Part 2

b (i-ixx) // // I fell into it by accident. // // A barrier was miss

This Boy’s in Love—Section C Part 2b (i-ixx)

doigt. » // // // // Point A. Point

B . // // Starting in A going to B. // // Words fumble along the way,

[She points to the sky]

rgi does not even pull the lead // // 2

B // // ‘Two Black’ too black?—what sun beyond that shade; // // Wit

Three Ways of Walking

Point B. // // Starting in A going to

B . // // Words fumble along the way, // // From there to here, // /

[She points to the sky]

he window ledge. // // No promise of a

BA gown // // can keep me warm, // // but I shall not despair // //

A Room of Her Own

mes falling thick and fast // // their

babble : tongues, their diphthongs dripping, from // // their lips and

Same but differenT

way bricks // // Might, if we built a

Babel enough crane. // // Bums are falling off our kids: ruthless in

Hail, Holy Houston: A Discourse on the Anxiety of Mechanised Racial Profiling

but now I’m back // // to teddy and a

baby brother’s cry. // // The virus makes me look // // for virtue i

A Room of Her Own

. // // God bless us, everyone. // //

Baby , come and sit with me, // // We pick this time to fall in love.

A Hymn to a Loved One

lf. // // But nowadays it’s stubble or

baby -faced gangster chic, // // How many Walts do we see in Market Sq

Bearded Thoughts

yrinth // // To conceal where that big

baby hybrid is, // // Whose sibling stood guard (to keep access barre

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

is like a weasel. // // POLONIUS It is

backed like a weasel. // // HAMLET Or like a whale? // // POLONIUS V

light, // // With an old movie in the

background — // // I’m not around this week. // // Play with that sam

Fall for————

10th September // // With domes at our

backs — // // the city ragged like old // // lace, all behind us. //

Tridente, 10th September

gone by it was the fashion, Sweeney did

bad business. // // You can tell a lot about a man from his beard, so

Bearded Thoughts

ain. // // This might have been a very

bad move. But don’t panic, carry on. // //

Hail, Holy Houston: A Discourse on the Anxiety of Mechanised Racial Profiling

// Very blue. Lovely weather. // // [

Bad weather. Very blue.] // // So, how are you? // // Small fish, bi

Whales sing because they have a song

claw pisswet, bloodwhorled, // // and

badinaged with her would-be saviour // // and caught his eye and stru

e all of my love and describe it // //

Badly . // //

I’ll never work for Hallmark

// Avoids being distracted where it’s ‘

badly impacted’ // // But meets ‘business leaders’—which means he won

raid the view just now // // Is rather

badly marred by smoke but, as you // // English say, an omelette’s on

s well as generous supplies // // From

BAE . Do please sit here and Tzipi, pass // // The red to Gordon. I’m

nt, // // Who shivers cold in sleeping

bag at night // // Looks in to see them dancing in red light, // //

Three gay rituals

me to stay one day. // // Unpacked her

bags , // // and hung her quiet fripperies // // between the places w

our, fruit of the citronnier // // and

bakes a tarte au citron meringuée. // //

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

ockburn dreaming – // // this is their

Balaclava – // // heroic but futile, // // impetuous thunder // //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

// For the meagre protection of a bank

balance . // // The brave and fearless warrior will cross the road //

im of their ridge. // // Recasting the

balance , // // the hill-weary nilherds // // return to their high st

Nil Charge / Nil Return

what sun beyond that shade; // // With

balanced clay and graphite, // // Wrist responding to each thought //

Three Ways of Walking

ily, // // Lead on, Spirit. // // Dad

balances the turkey, // // He was better than his word. // // The cr

A Hymn to a Loved One

/ // Because you can’t wear quirky May

Ball maroon-laced shoes // // To bury your mother. // // And me real

Three Pieces of Advice

// After your hipbone, we'll put in a

ball // // of steel and titanium, wedged in the hole, // // with a s

nted this poem, it was in fairly strict

ballad form—four-line stanzas, three tetrameter and one trimeter, rhym

Leaves22 May 1998 // // The

ballot -slips are counted in // // And somewhere someone’s saying yes.

/ // Not quite seeing the wood for the

balsa , // // knowing the great hereafter for elsewhere. // // Athlet

/ // between the end of the Chatterley

ban // // and the Beatles’ first LP; // // strangely, though, not se

ble feeling in you? // // Who’s there?

BANARDO // //

roken ribs aren’t worth it, // // Kid:

bandages aren’t for this kind of wound, // // Kid: you’re twenty-four

Did you bury her yet?

dong, merrily. // // We enter mass to

bands of brass, // // We stand as the choirs pass. // // Gaudete. //

A Hymn to a Loved One

mboyant adventure—to // // jump on the

bandwagon he’ll be glad.” // // The Boris is happy. “We need a desig

Troubled waters

I confess with deepest regret, I would

banish this rubbish to the first dustbin I met // // And the moral of

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

w // // For the meagre protection of a

bank balance. // // The brave and fearless warrior will cross the roa

uine Limoges); // // The milk jug from

bank holidays // // At Dungeness Lighthouse; // // The rusty sweet t

ur roses // // Your good looks, better

bank statements and embrace, // // Will catch me this time and make m

artello tower, // // we walk along the

banked -up track // // behind the wall, level with the top, // // run

Walking in winter

ist nil, // // nil desperandum. // //

Bannockburn dreaming – // // this is their Balaclava – // // heroic

Nil Charge / Nil Return

in without design. We ended in the same

bar // // with the same familiar waiter pouring wine, awed and appall

‘War is not nice’—

Barbara Bush // // There is a picture of you that we love, // // Ta

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

y Nestlé, // // that a hand-grenade of

barbed calories // // nestled within each bite of Cadbury’s, // // s

Chocolate Sonnet

brance and pansies for thoughts, // //

Barbiturates for the beauties and kitchen ovens for the fraught, // /

h’ from right to left. // // Milan and

Barcelona and Vienna and Berlin // // All give their greatest streets

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

Abbey, and the Strid beyond, // // and

Barden Bridge—and now I flick my wand // // some miles of dale and mo

Daydream Dale Journey

tender // // Forever stained with the

Bard’s loving lines, she found herself immortalised. // // If Chester

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ath leads on, // // a gentler walk, to

bare bleak Malham Tarn. // // Then back to skirt the edge of Malham C

Daydream Dale Journey

Dimming // // Four

bare feet in the wet grass; he and she, // // Having abandoned their

yllables through my hair // // Then my

bare feet on coarse carpet, // // I hit what I head for // // And st

Falling Is Like This

-plain, // // The pitch-white lake bed

bare of life, // // All mountains and hills around, // // Nothing li

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

e houses of ill-repute // // Slip from

bare skin in the sultry heat; // // Memory lost in the wine-fugue, th

// // The tickle of its many spears on

bare toes, // // And the fragments that get stuck to my clothes. //

ing that his blood would have come from

bared fists against jaws, // // From tumbling to the concrete, eyes s

Three Pieces of Advice

ht as well rummage through bins, // //

barefaced as a Buddhist monk. Enough buns // // and you’ll look like

Chocolate Sonnet

eeping rot of loneliness. I walk // //

Barefoot across the damp ground of my thoughts, // // Squelch the com

[I am almost 25 years old]

// // into laughter, before stumbling

barefoot back to your house. // // I remember you called me a diamond

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

and envelops us, // // so it seems we

barely move at all. // // The illusion holds until // // a single tr

E EVERMORE // // That it stands in the

bareness of eternity // // At the austere edge of the real // // And

[At the coinciding point of the years]

// // May your sap run quick and your

bark hold strong— // // May your spores spread wide, your mycelium lo

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

k has developed a burr // // Under the

bark it is seen and heard // // Rolling Rs and layering up— // // No

BURR (or Brrrrr)

ear the screams, // // But all I do is

bark wildly at the moon. // // Bitter Creek, last time // // You sai

l’esprit d’escalier

/ We were so young when we smoothed the

bark with our feet // // Firm in convictions that a tree so generous

he foliage, // // Not just the bearded

barleycorn // // But a whole field springing, // // The vine and all

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

/ // The slope of hills, the fields of

barleycorn . // // The loaded branches of the apple tree, // // Glow

The Magic Apple Tree

// // not failing to hit the side of a

barn // // but falling far short of a neat bull’s-eye. // // Not qui

ose sibling stood guard (to keep access

barred ) // // In a stench that should make her a sick sis. // // Whe

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

y it scratched across the scene, // //

Barricading your past before it intrudes // // In the vitality of you

The Other Side of the Line

// I fell into it by accident. // // A

barrier was missing contrary // // to the mountains of advice // //

This Boy’s in Love—Section C Part 2b (i-ixx)

People leaning against this horizontal

barrier // // Willing it to disappear— // // But still I don’t know

ight be permitted and/or recommended if

barriers are not in place. // //

This Boy’s in Love—Section C Part 2b (i-ixx)

/ Squeezed, through concrete’s piercing

bars , // // Soft choking from a jagged cleft. // // A wax of fire—sh

to the lung-stinging surface? // // My

base animal is out for blood // // But my saccharine breath pleads fo

/ Afterwards Colin and I go down to the

basement // // —the real crematorium— // // and see her consigned to

/ // in case one snored too loud. Two

bashed half-hearts, // // the Valentine that sparked a fight. Clothe

hysics, and repeated // // On a weekly

basis , // // Almost as often as him trying to teach me to change the

Three Pieces of Advice

pon those souls of those modern men who

bask in the flames of that revered pen. // // Not even Chesterton wou

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

youngest ewe, // // who cursed as the

basket spills in sticky clay // // and scraped the mud off of her own

// // You strike him and deep crystal

bass -notes resound. // // He’ll never lose time, he’s carefully wound

tial. // // Two-faced words incarnate,

bastard breed of loathing and love. // //

bat to mr. beam // // your whispered words hushed round // // a sun-

luc bat to mr. beam

dressed and still warm from // // Your

bath —calm as the sun’s unknowing light, // // New but not news, a sig

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

hat you know // // Soaped Titan in his

bath . He loved the light // // Refracted—'til it burst—became a mass

heavy trees // // And join the boy who

bathes in the light of the moon. // //

w it too. Dante and Beatrice // // Are

bathing in it now, away upstream… // // So every trace of light begin

rowing self inside a shield, // // And

bathing me without inside this place. // // I close my eyes and feel

[What have we done]

rehabilitation // // It is 8:11 in my

bathroom a Thursday // // I am a naked Hamlet shaving in the mirror /

still hasn’t crawled // // Out of the

bathroom . // // Mock anti-Semitism, amusing Islamophobia. // // My s

promise, // // the hours spent washing

bathroom tiles of blood. // // you pray for rain, but no relief. dry-

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

I persist? // // To that, your pancake-

batter skin is the warmest retort. // // The days still dis-leave. Pa

aily Planet // // All day the noise of

battle rolls, // // The skirmishes and wars, // // What peace or tre

The Daily Planet

ch your tender wounds // // And you my

battle scars, // // Then you might pull me from my sphere // // Or f

The Daily Planet

r in front. // // It seemed a constant

battle to // // Conform, a crime to confront. // // The light trickl

flight on tarmac soar // // No scar or

battle wound, // // Just resting, feet cresting // // The concrete w

Urban bird watching

/ // With nothing left to fight for, I

battle . // // Your line, not for emphasis, but division, // // Pushe

The Other Side of the Line

ng, swelling, // // Oozing towards the

battlegrounds ahead. // // The clash where flesh meets wire and no-on

The Other Side of the Line

// ‘War is not nice’, but we accept the

battles // // In return for our shiny new lives, however long they la

Solid as her steel-stern face— // // A

battleship floating // // Above the diaphanous sea // // Of her Vict

round // // -ing a road as you reach a

bay and the sought-for sea. His sound. // //

y fox-thought, golden delighted kept at

bay from the quiet and rustling examination halls. // // This is my r

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// but grander far, a corniced window

bay // // in darker wood. Clear morning sunlight fills // // the ro

Cape Cod Morning

Point // // I hold the hazy shades at

bay — // // The sun sits sessile— // // The sand is yellow—until it i

From Trebetherick Point

ping. grind me up and scatter my ashes,

Ba’al Hadad, I submit. I lie to you like a dog, like Shaitan or Kafir

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

on again.” // // Play it, Sam. // //

BBC 1, half past ten. // // Here’s lookin’ at you, kid. // //

A Hymn to a Loved One

e met again // // on a Suffolk shingle

beach . // // In November the days were short, // // and dark night f

astwards we turn, // // along the open

beach , in rich sea air. // // Look up, look up, my love—the sky is ca

Wells in winter

ought in on the flow: time to mark the

beach . // // Now I start to trickle back // // over wet ground, unde

s // // on piles all along the shingle

beach . // // The mile south to the Martello tower, // // we walk alo

Walking in winter

clear. // // Across the wood, onto the

beach . We hear // // the gulls, and faintly, far away, the churn //

Wells in winter

way I’d promised to love her. // // I

beached her on Naxos, written off as a tax loss, // // Raised black s

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

more. // // More hills, dales, crags,

beaches // // more boat or cycle rides // // more walks, more bluebe

ew the flow // // And ebb of love like

beaches touched by waves // // From dawn far into the nights, before

[My face is old now]

lip’s corner and streams // // Into a

bead collecting at his chin’s peak. // // Orange dew drop, // // Pro

’Tis pity he’s a bore

t. // // You denied yourself, and like

beads loosed from tassels // // the cap of each i let lavender and th

arched frantically, // // blotted with

beads of light, // // for shadowed gifts. As slowly // // the stran

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

beam // // your whispered words hushed round // // a sun-warmed pill

luc bat to mr. beam

ng direct into eachother’s face, // //

Beaming an endless web around my field, // // Housing my growing self

[What have we done]

mixed up with sawdust from our new cut

beams ! // // We’re a curio. Grain shovel is propped up all ornamental

he mind // // Grow branching thoughts,

bear fruit. // // A song // // Where birds once chorused a dew brigh

lobed or broken, // // When will they

bear fruit? // // Each spent page something taken // // For somethin

leaves might fall

ion, then an elephant, and presently, a

bear . I did not ask them to come, I did not even want them to come. Yo

A Translation of Wallace Stevens’s ‘Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction’, section 1: ‘It Must be Abstract’

with burdens that they never sought to

bear ? // // It’s not as though we’ve ceased all intercourse. // // I

ding light? // // How could you // //

bear to // // close your eyes, // // how could you // // fall // /

Bright, Pale Yellow

lready one says: “mankind cannot // //

bear very much reality (wink here)”; // // next head: “bet you were a

Aubade to Girton

are not honest. // // The only thing a

beard hides is a chin. // // Perhaps we’re scared to look history in

Bearded Thoughts

ven and in black) might say. // // The

beard is living history, we are too close to the past, // // The razo

Bearded Thoughts

ia. // // We are terrified of what the

beard might hide, // // What it might mean if all we saw were beards

Bearded Thoughts

You can tell a lot about a man from his

beard , so I’m told; // // His pedigree and personal grooming, how he

Bearded Thoughts

// // Or the classicist, that type of

beard that looks like that of Hercules // // On plaster casts. // //

Bearded Thoughts

/ Youth wins, // // Confines the noble

beard to a // // Woolly-jumpered existence in out-of-the-way places,

Bearded Thoughts

ace in the foliage, // // Not just the

bearded barleycorn // // But a whole field springing, // // The vine

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

rrow // // As flails fall to split the

bearded husk // // And seeds fall to the furrow, // // Amidst the ty

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

Bearded Thoughts // // Beards seem to be out of fashion nowadays— //

Bearded Thoughts

to look history in the face, // // The

bearded wonders from a bygone age // // Of yellow Victorian tobacco-s

Bearded Thoughts

Bearded Thoughts // //

Beards seem to be out of fashion nowadays— // // The domain of eccent

Bearded Thoughts

// // Then all we’d have left would be

beards to compare, // // Men, women, and children all. // //

Bearded Thoughts

/ What it might mean if all we saw were

beards upon the face, // // A Mr. Twit complex, the psychologists (cl

Bearded Thoughts

damson, and cherry, and plum // // Be

bearers of fruit and cheerers of hearts— // // And a cheer for you, i

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

èd flame // // Sears all before, while

bearing all we’ll know; // // Its megallanic stream expands to form /

// Now I rush on down the creek // //

bearing loose things left afloat. // // Behind each moored boat runs

biro ink. // // Each domestic heirloom

bearing // // The curly script of a generation // // Framed by the d

of Russia // // (even the kitchen sink

bears witness // // to Soviet columns of ice). // // But you seem un

why i’m getting into Christmas

uck him blind and dead. // // A winged

beast can be so underhanded; // // its pupils were graves dug amid sa

o the East, // // All I can see is the

Beast . // // Here’s to failure, here’s to fear, // // Here’s to bein

Ode to a map of the world

allow me to fade this way: // // Wind-

beat cotton, holes at the knee, // // Day into day, into day // // I

I could never be (ready)

Buffy // // // In the

beat of a pun, // // She presents the wooden phallus, // // Sharpene

ty of sound and shining light // // To

beat the breast against // // And worship waist-deep in hands // //

e sense: // // beating mind dying with

beating body. // // Five minutes after our hearts stop // // everyth

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

us will’, ‘pure power’, ‘exhilaration’ ‘

beating heart’ and ’fresh blood’. This reality is primitive, musical,

A Translation of Wallace Stevens’s ‘Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction’, section 1: ‘It Must be Abstract’

os that soiled his mattress with // //

beating his hammer against his new heart made of // // iron and steal

Jonathan’s Deathbed

r) // // but in the true sense: // //

beating mind dying with beating body. // // Five minutes after our he

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

nd of the Chatterley ban // // and the

Beatles ’ first LP; // // strangely, though, not sex but fire). // //

era. // // Blake saw it too. Dante and

Beatrice // // Are bathing in it now, away upstream… // // So every

/ And then I wished I’d been one of the

Beats // // I’d be Kerouac or Dylan // // If my muse were only will

r thoughts, // // Barbiturates for the

beauties and kitchen ovens for the fraught, // // She’ll sell the pea

a peculiar, potent spell. // // What a

beautiful and strange home you have been gifted, // // Blonde and blu

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

// Memory lost in the wine-fugue, the

beautiful // // Give themselves to pleasure, and are alone happy. //

, your justice // // You will still be

beautiful in death. // //

ght is always wise, // // Whereas such

beautiful moments, // // Rarely present themselves. // //

Mosquito nights

The cat yowls, and it all comes // //

Beautifully crashing down, // // Life flying in. // // Everything I

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

elt, you’re a god, // // Pied, impious

beauty ; // // Below, bestial lust // // Striped with trust, meaningl

t way I saw it; // // lost like all

beauty . // // But knowing that to hold on // // would tarnish it all

y literal, // // Purgatory lenses your

beauty . // // Glacial. Tangled in cables. // // Spirit, they’ve vani

How and Why I Should Have Looked You in the Eyes:

don’t know if I’m here. // // My form:

beauty induced in smears of paint. // // Yet in this well-formed imag

The chicken and the egg

can they enhance // // That fine-boned

beauty , linen-wrapped and masked in paint? // // How many years your

that a thing of // // (heart-stopping)

beauty looks at you // // you do not look at It // // sees inside yo

ity now extinguished, empty, spent; the

beauty of the day submerged in silence. Buses, bicycles, cold commuter

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

he light // // Refracted—'til it burst—

became a mass // // Of scum. For us, lost Space and Earth and form. /

The sadness settled once you’d left. I

became blue, // // artificially structuring my days around coffee //

[I often think of that January morning]

mall it was, // // How narrow its eyes

became , // // But I couldn’t stop. // // All around me // // Noises

[So snow falls outside]

o the sky? // // Well, the skies

became water. The moon was the only thing keeping the sky in place, yo

[So the moon was there]

of light begins a grace // // In me, a

beckoning . The smallest gleam // // Is somehow a beginning and a call

held // // By a clenched fist, soon to

become a fatherly // // Embrace between insubstantial beings who feel

Snapshot Endings

h my age, // // Like Coleridge I could

become a sage, // // And I bet I’d get more dates // // Than WB Yeat

reathing. Keep it deep and slow. // //

Become an open singing-bowl, whose chime // // Is richness rising out

olescence was the end // // what do we

become ? And now someone new // // playing the part, such Jungian subt

oon, the stars all smiled and rushed to

become bubbles in the waves around my shoulders. And I was scared that

[So the moon was there]

n a late summer’s haze // // Now, days

become shorter // // And we know that soon, // // Another flock of b

Magnetic Mountain

en the suns are this or that // // And

become the moons before we know // // What time it is, before we can

inues onwards // // Until the mile has

become two // // And the image of what I ought to be // // Looms lar

he village shop to seek supplies // //

becomes a daily ritual. // // Suffolk, circa 1958 // // After the fl

Walking in winter

ter a little while, looking in this way

becomes annoying. It just comes and goes—we are forever anxiously on t

A Translation of Wallace Stevens’s ‘Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction’, section 1: ‘It Must be Abstract’

ll be time to meet— // // now my flesh

becomes fare: // // meat for man. He’ll greet my coat with the least

n every corridor, // // And everything

becomes impinging, a necessity for greed and proof of love or life, no

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

sert-plain, // // The pitch-white lake

bed bare of life, // // All mountains and hills around, // // Nothin

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// of her skin, like // // an unmade

bed . // // ‘Couldn’t you just sit,’ I ask, // // ‘and watch the stre

In a charity shop

r to perch on. // // I am lying in the

bed , my eyes // // are closed. I can feel that she is there, // // I

e face, the light, I fall // // Upon a

bed of compact mist, all soft, // // My heart alight, the ember grown

[What have we done]

flows uneasily // // Over the tanning-

bed tan that won’t glow healthily. // // But they miss the glimmer of

all 25 years of me dissolving into the

bed , // // The stain anxiety leaves, I cannot remember // // A time

[I am almost 25 years old]

ng // // Round and round, stuck to the

bed , // // Watered into the ground by the // // Endlessness repeatin

// My living comfort, burrowed in our

bed . // // You reach across and still the drilling bell // // And st

// things scratching walls hiding under

bedsheets , // // buoyed by the colourless memory of pain, // // as i

hich lies within. // // Oak and hazel,

beech and alder, // // What news borne on the wind? // // Just a lis

leaves might fall

/ // a burial mound where boots crunch

beech nuts // // and heave clods of wet grass. // // cowbwebs catch

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

at the other passengers. // // Shrill

beep as the // // Doors open, the // // Train disgorging scores of ‘

Poems on the Underground

the supermarket tills’ // // Incessant

beeping // // A granite sword looming, // // We gaze across, to that

Magnetic Mountain

ptations, welcome in // // the roaming

bees . // // Feel the fire. Spread out a green canopy // // in the wa

oney. // // Summer swam round, and the

bees spread rumour of honey, // // but all I could hear was the smash

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

skin. // // I taste the contentment of

bees , // // The exhilaration of rowers, // // The pink heat of burnt

e Judith has chosen the music, // // a

Beethoven string quartet. // // Afterwards Colin and I go down to the

w dog, did re-venom Eden // // infidel

beg ! // // Am I putrid, raw // // in Roman era, // // set in gibbet

Hercules et Oracle

ou // // Just grant me this one wish I

beg you // // No flowers for my grave I pray you // // Mercy! I impl

arkened and embellished around you. You

began dreaming // // as the train travelled through snow and ever nea

[I often think of that January morning]

, // // a red nick cuts… // // wonder

began // // // // or I // // Iron Age bred, // // now stuck, //

Hercules et Oracle

ts through your eyes. // // As the sky

began seeping liquid gold // // and blood rust // // we were both ma

// // and blood rust // // as the sky

began seeping liquid gold, // // the kind that still refracts through

hoes. // // Just as my memories of you

began to feel like echoes, // // you came home. Measuring the miles d

[I often think of that January morning]

oon we lost our cognitive // // Sense,

began to mime // // Words which once we could // // Speak, to lose o

ayed there for hours and hours until it

began to sink, and I said // // // // Please don’t go! // //

[So the moon was there]

nto the nights, before the words // //

Began to stick and move in different ways. // // I see it all, like s

[My face is old now]

Song // // Pianissimo // // We

begin . // // A long sustained note; a perfect third; // // Each of u

splint and the stent that are where we

begin . // // After the knife, there follows the scar, // // and afte

m stardust. // // For this is where we

begin , // // at the moment where opposites attract. // // Oh take me

n the heart is full of quietness // //

Begin the song exactly where you are. // //

Singing Bowl // //

Begin the song exactly where you are, // // Remain within the world o

e other passengers. // // And thoughts

begin to press into my mind // // Of poetry and other things, how the

Poems on the Underground

es attract, // // for this is where we

begin . // // We were both made from stardust // // and blood rust //

The smallest gleam // // Is somehow a

beginning and a calling; // // “Sleeper awake, the darkness was a dre

ria // // ONE // // Columbus was the

beginning , caravels cresting over cor- // // al, usurping canoes cont

Destination(and

beginning —for G) // // From random junctures in primeval winds // //

uld sail // // again. Columbus was the

beginning , he saw triplet hills peak- // // ing out from the emerald

verything, for everything // // in the

beginning , in the end, // // is only this, // // a sound. // //

at the edges of the air // // and the

beginning of space // // the sky is dark, but the raging fire // //

-Theory(for Girton choir) // // In the

beginning , // // only this, // // a sound. // // A sound // // who

the jarring noise of chain saws, // //

Beginning to write essays that in some wise start to feed us, // // W

[Walcott begins Omeros]

pstream… // // So every trace of light

begins a grace // // In me, a beckoning. The smallest gleam // // Is

begins Omeros] // // Walcott begins Omeros with cutting down some ced

[Walcott begins Omeros]

[Walcott begins Omeros] // // Walcott

begins Omeros with cutting down some cedars: // // We shudder here wi

[Walcott begins Omeros]

e is on vacation as // // The hot work

begins , wheeling // // Round and round, stuck to the bed, // // Wate

o—soft, my love, // // We end where we

begun . // //

// will burn for ever. The fire once

begun // // would last for days and days. Each morning I came down,

nderstand Karagiozis the lantern // //

behind a stretched sheet, can you feel the rods // // are they strong

yal charter too, // // no need to hide

behind anon // // or to reflect a man // // at twice his natural siz

A Room of Her Own

r // // Than the door we ranged // //

Behind , but never in front. // // It seemed a constant battle to //

rarely shown, // // We scuttled around

behind // // Doors and were blown // // About by the winds of change

earing loose things left afloat. // //

Behind each moored boat runs a wake: time to gush full spate. // //

reach the valley floor— // // to leave

behind , for now, the wilder moor. // // The treasures to be found alo

Daydream Dale Journey

rver, // // My gallery of waves framed

behind glass. // // And I gaze too // // At frozen events, pale memo

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

us was the end. He left the quiet dawns

behind , left too // // a strange new religion, new gold mines, new la

uddenly I’m running. Grey // // wolves

behind me and I’m running, running from the grey // // teeth breathin

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ipping // // to the ghosts which drift

behind me, // // swaying in a Finnish tango // // to the ship’s pitc

ire from within taught // // I’ll hide

behind my Wyatt today who knew // // Existing on hot coals blisters t

fact // // in stale jumpers // // and

behind // // shelves of chipped china. // // I smiled. She was right

In a charity shop

behind the candyfloss burps] // // Hidden behind the candyfloss burps

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

ind the candyfloss burps] // // Hidden

behind the candyfloss burps of hey and how are you, // // Concealed b

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

In a charity shop // // Sat

behind the counter, // // old watches spread, // // bracelets, teasp

In a charity shop

he was // // sat, hunch-huddled // //

behind the counter, // // was because she had no other cause, // //

In a charity shop

n mind, Ascent of Cascade start. // //

Behind the flow I knew there to be ice, // // For such cold worlds do

[What have we done]

nets, // // in the secret of the space

behind the new moon. // // And elsewhere, as deep as port, as rich as

heen of light on water // // As though

behind the sky itself they traced // // The shift and shimmer of anot

but carefully composed: // // the sky

behind the trees beyond the meadow, // // tall grasses glowing in the

Cape Cod Morning

m hoarse, // // to admit my narcissism

behind the twinkling guitar riff // // and yell my apologies instead

I’ve listened to too much Midwest emo and now I can’t remember how to write poems

e walk along the banked-up track // //

behind the wall, level with the top, // // running the gauntlet of th

Walking in winter

e bouquets // // thrown into the night

behind us. // // And now, deep in the wilds of the Irish Sea, // //

when they came at one, // // locked up

behind us when we left // // and then went home to get the dinner on.

e city ragged like old // // lace, all

behind us. // // Your jeans were rusty // // red, too short. I could

Tridente, 10th September

from the emerald isle’s southern shore.

Behold ! Sailors, all hail! // // No isle is truly godforsaken, give t

ours like sand-dunes // // against the

beige of my fingertips // // against the straight planes of your edge

akespeare will forevermore consume, the

beings , bodies and souls of any given room // // While doomed to peri

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ly // // Embrace between insubstantial

beings who feel too much. // // // // …Bleached walls stare into pa

Snapshot Endings

their faces are // // Rubbed out. In

Beit Hanoun, the sun seems spent: // // The blasts drop like a shutte

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

sh News // // Scientist says: meme for

belief in life after death // // Old man sits bespectacled in laptop

// When to sense was to make ourselves

believe . // //

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

was that return. // // How can we not

believe in some // // beneficent source of grace, if from // // the

t even Chesterton would find it hard to

believe that men can desire more from art that cheese // // They want

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

he notes, your voice too much your own.

believe // // the news. can’t starve the much-too-muchness out // //

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

thought I understood you once, // //

Believed you were more than you appeared, // // But a realisation fal

The Tree of Wisdom

You reach across and still the drilling

bell // // And stretch and yawn and kiss me. All is well. // //

children // // Wait for the ring of a

bell , // // hush, presents, crib, Christ Kind: // // tree aspark and

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

ne fits, but // // It misfits, kills a

bell in a burning crucible. // // The cat yowls, and it all comes //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// Will be quenched before your passing

bell is rung. // // But now I need the poets who grew old // // And

// Breaks in the drill and rhythm of a

bell … // // Were I to wake alone I would be weeping // // With shift

gifts them in return a rose, // // la

belle dame. // //

e princes’ steeds lie fallow, // // la

belle dame. // // In thrall to notions of her name, // // tame linne

Belle Dame // // La belle dame shivers in the shadows, // // a green

La Belle Dame // // La

belle dame shivers in the shadows, // // a green silk veil against he

dash for the mountain, // // turn and

bellow their challenge // // from the rim of their ridge. // // Reca

Nil Charge / Nil Return

swept tip of the hill // // // // I

bellowed my name to the slate grey sky // // I shouted my name at the

[I whispered my name into the trees]

// // Eyed the slowly roving ox // //

Bellowing his song of grace. // // Briers grew about his head // //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

e, // // is as much an altar draped in

bells and mistle- // // toe as an instrument whose strings sing of so

r lashings at surge; // // and I in my

belly cave singing // // to the rib-dark sky, larking my demiurge. //

erry. // // joy, pride swelling in the

belly fear // // the forbidden room // // groans and secrets //

Drink and be merry

Leviathan // // I, in the

belly of the whale fast, // // fasting, feasted on the sea: // // it

ike Shelley, // // Or the fire in your

belly // // Will be quenched before your passing bell is rung. // //

ear out his heart // // Like it didn’t

belong there, because it was the only way // // The world would start

[And, hey, maybe if I continue to sing]

t wave to be set // // in motion by my

beloved , her gleaming eyes wet // // From the cold wind on a bench on

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

sprawled wide in its this— // // is-my-

beloved -son yawn. // // Warm flesh through feathers pressed // // li

at, // // Does drift away, discovering

below’t // // A pool of stillness, dotted with specs chrome: // // T

[What have we done]

slips on significance. // // Above the

belt , you’re a god, // // Pied, impious beauty; // // Below, bestial

leaving this letter here, on this

bench , for you to collect // // Dear Alan, // // I don’t suppose you

eyes wet // // From the cold wind on a

bench on a freezing night, // // because let’s not go home just yet,

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

of-the-way places, // // Lounging on a

bench or pew, some character in a play // // With Brian Blessed // /

Bearded Thoughts

just think of him as a child” and I can

bend and break when you want to snap me. cleanse me with hyssop and I

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

h skimmer’s // // river-hewn back. Now

bend … // // It hums // // it skates // // it skates! // // It fall

ed sleeves and scarves // // The sandy

bend that was my elbow, crooked // // Round old socks long since sund

e-some ebb and flow. // // No cramping

bend to lunar bow. // // No woman ruled by orbing tyrant queen; // /

retending // // to read. Then you were

bending // // your mouth to mine and mine // // was answering, and t

gang of children you // // are scales

beneath a sheepskin you are crow’s // // feet in a mirror, so many qu

sed and primed, // // ground crumbling

beneath her feet // // to meet the water channelling below. // // Th

f hey and how are you, // // Concealed

beneath ‘I don’t know’ defence, // // Reflex that deflects skilful as

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

// // but saying // // that the earth

beneath // // is completely // // indifferent // // and that there’

ite at first, newly-mowed, // // Shorn

beneath its reasonable limits // // And covering the hard brown earth

ember a time // // When I didn’t feel,

beneath my clothes and the fallen // // Leaves of my skin, the seepin

[I am almost 25 years old]

ot the torn tissue or even the treasure

beneath . // // My Grandmother says she saw // // Angel’s feet once,

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

// Your soft memory immolates its body

beneath my hands. // // Rings of ash are black MIDI: // // All that

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

t’s mine. // // You’ve taken residence

beneath my skin, // // And sewn our hearts together using twine. //

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

t it froze // // And fell, and dropp’d

beneath , pass’d ’neath my toes // // To endless death, rinsing me fee

[What have we done]

rs in the weather // // Tell of flames

beneath shed skin, // // The old so neatly severed // // From the li

leaves might fall

t cold, but every day // // the embers

beneath the ash were darkly glowing, asking only // // a slight encou

intense, a stormy grey, // // But just

beneath the darkness all is gold: // // The slope of hills, the field

The Magic Apple Tree

hoydenish // // bivalves blew bubbles.

Beneath the flushed sea-tail, a gleam— // // It was just a small fish

Just a Small Fish

ld-like smile almost // // discernable

beneath the map // // of her skin, like // // an unmade bed. // //

In a charity shop

crafty sea is also digging down // //

beneath the piles. Then one stormy night // // it pulls the final pr

Walking in winter

me and Woodlands court, // // separate

beneath the stars, // // at 1am. // //

[The sash rattles up]

// // and the low buzzing of machines

beneath the steady gaze of grey // // hospital walls. Roses in empty

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ng in the meadow // // In May he stood

beneath the willow // // In June he lay among the yarrow // // Polle

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

leapt over us // // The ocean rolling

beneath us // // Like seeing a humpback breach // // Great Skellig s

e grey and wet // // The ocean rolling

beneath us // // Your tears mingling with the rain // // Great Skell

e truth that I had feared. // // I sit

beneath your branches, breathless, // // Waiting for a moment to arri

The Tree of Wisdom

/ How can we not believe in some // //

beneficent source of grace, if from // // the dull hearts habit made

what’s needed. The // // real public

benefit’s not even there.” // // Sadik says “The Boris’s vanity proje

Troubled waters

// // You’d have to be a fool to feel

bereft // // Because old verse forms rarely see the light // // The

In Defence of Evolution

earts— // // Then silence, and my life

bereft . // // Dinner Party. Jerusalem, 21 January 2009 // // ‘I’ll t

her joints. // // Or it’s a tree long

bereft of its roots, // // a prop for mother nature’s grand exit, //

croach— // // Everything of which I am

bereft . // // Slowly, time makes its approach // // On this idle bre

I could never be (ready)

Walking in winter // //

Berkshire , 1962-3 // // This year it snows on Boxing Day. // // The

Walking in winter

// Milan and Barcelona and Vienna and

Berlin // // All give their greatest streets and plazas names that ha

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

// Quickly ditched Corpus // // With

Berlin in mind. // // Wrote of his life in his // // Autobiographies

cco-stains upon the creamy-white // //

Bernard Shaw, the voluptuous Darwin, the natty Disraeli. // // Youth

Bearded Thoughts

Bernard ? // // Welcome to absence, these open // // Arms stretched a

Who am I, Bernard?

ept cool in the shade // // My brother

beside me, companiable but mute // // Remains a vivid memory of my ch

wo verses, slow as moonrise // // Sung

beside the candled tree. // // It was so for my childhood too // //

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

he hadrons collide, // // I’m counting

beside // // The flickering green // // Of my screen. // // Here in

Small Particles in the Small Hours

h and talk // // Are mingled as we sit

beside the stream // // And watch the minnows swim against the flow.

Is it a memory?

Wells in winter // // We take the path

beside the wood—the fir // // and silver birch along the dunes that r

Wells in winter

in life after death // // Old man sits

bespectacled in laptop moth-light. Rendered absurd— // // warmed by u

oordinated purpose which only they know

best , // // As we linger in our lovely, darkening bowers // // Of bu

[Walcott begins Omeros]

to keep on course, despite // // The

best attempts of two wheels // // To end this trip early. // // “S

The Notes You Have Left

prop. A hundred yards // // of man’s

best effort at defence // // drops thirty feet into a hole. // // Ca

Walking in winter

Pol Pot said, // // and he almost did

best her // // with a slice of Red Leicester, // // but history judg

The Failing of the Cheese

make us all meet our fate, // // You’d

best make a bet I’d want that wave to be set // // in motion by my be

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

at an ode to cheese would have been the

best // // No, in fact I am sure we all can attest he would have ackn

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

rice // // It clucked, and spat at the

best of both worlds. // // The monster hatched by a mother-serpent //

the sheets. // // I used to think the

best songs had been sung, // // That genius is destined to die young,

have a little heft. // // To name your

best street simply ‘Fifth’ must surely be a sin. // // Maybe the new

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ndemns us to decline, // // Before the

best that Europe’s vineyards yield, // // And all the fruits of fores

// Now my achievement’s lauded as the

best : // // To get inky fingers in a Cambridge college // // And pil

Cretan abuser. // // I’m a man at his

best where there’s fighting // // (Hand to hand with a bull/man’s exc

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

// Pied, impious beauty; // // Below,

bestial lust // // Striped with trust, meaningless fucks and love cel

dge I could become a sage, // // And I

bet I’d get more dates // // Than WB Yeats // // For all his talk of

meet our fate, // // You’d best make a

bet I’d want that wave to be set // // in motion by my beloved, her g

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

as many colour purples raining; // //

Bet we can make them all in micro, soft, paint— // // Art in the age

Hail, Holy Houston: A Discourse on the Anxiety of Mechanised Racial Profiling

fter all, love is universal and you can

bet whatever I say // // Someone, somewhere has heard it before. //

I’ll never work for Hallmark

eality (wink here)”; // // next head: “

bet you were a difficult child”; // // the next: “getting so drunk is

Aubade to Girton

and your roses // // Your good looks,

better bank statements and embrace, // // Will catch me this time and

books away, // // Oh sod the lot! I’d

better be myself. // //

ffecting mathematic precision to // //

better her dear husband’s still-mortal guess. // // Fearless and sham

Jonathan’s Deathbed

I could remember those long words more

better ), // // Ranging over the snow sheets, stained now with black,

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ed our path to this point. // // “Feel

better soon” // // Wrapped in layer after layer, like I’m // // Expe

The Notes You Have Left

ugh your jaw— // // We'll build you up

better than ever before. // //

Dad balances the turkey, // // He was

better than his word. // // The crackers sound, the jokes renowned— /

A Hymn to a Loved One

; // // Son-wise, he’s probably // //

Better than some. // // Higgledy Piggledy // // Allan S. Konigsberg

mights to Hell? // // The vapours held

betwixt these lines move tight // // Into gaping personages then, qui

[What have we done]

// me. Though unknown to you, still you

bewail // // my loss – but ask my cooling corpse to rush // // you f

Between Life and Death

en has no reason to live, // // But do

beware // // Something’s gotta give. // // From your perdition she’l

n edge // // Between idea and infinite

beyond . // //

Three Ways of Walking

, // // to Bolton Abbey, and the Strid

beyond , // // and Barden Bridge—and now I flick my wand // // some m

Daydream Dale Journey

red hills, created by some force // //

beyond imagination; and of course // // extracted from my fickle memo

Daydream Dale Journey

ld I never love. Built of a bulk // //

beyond my comprehension; lensed eyes ‘big // // as saucers’ x-ray-bur

Compass Reading

om the grey // // teeth breathing just

beyond my shoulder blades. An unsteady light // // is flickering betw

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

there’s nothing // // above // // or

beyond // // or below // // that has anything to say // // to the p

// Wood door, not daring // // To step

beyond our domain, // // Not much caring // // Whether there was a /

our consciousness // // And the light

beyond , // // Quenched any wistfulness // // For light, for love, fo

// // ‘Two Black’ too black?—what sun

beyond that shade; // // With balanced clay and graphite, // // Wris

Three Ways of Walking

nted fireworks // // in the dark edges

beyond the flickering light. // // Nearly-five-year-old Colin // //

mposed: // // the sky behind the trees

beyond the meadow, // // tall grasses glowing in the morning sun //

Cape Cod Morning

ng fringe of rich green leaves, // //

Beyond the music of the shepherdess, // // Down through the dark towa

The Magic Apple Tree

sings of life // // To hear the Song,

beyond the notes // // Oh onwards, onwards, draw us on // // Into th

and // // Yet we deemed // // It far

beyond the realm // // Of serfs, and so kept away // // From the elm

he some more the cool clear air. // //

Beyond the scree the open path leads on, // // a gentler walk, to bar

Daydream Dale Journey

arks. Of the rest many did not progress

beyond the second part, with many simply claiming incorrectly that the

low path: // // Your silhouette stands

beyond their glow. // // Red, white, and black words disappear. // /

// // Whether there was a // // World

beyond to explore. // // We sought to do away // // With silly notio

rmony, it shows the way // // To reach

beyond —to touch the light // // And now the song bursts from our thro

ee the Dayspring at your waking, // //

Beyond your long last line the dawn is breaking”. // //

of the day submerged in silence. Buses,

bicycles , cold commuters, they passed us by as we stood on the bridge,

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

like linen freshly laid for tea, // //

Bid hieratic welcome to those gods, // // Or ghosts, or guessed-at ot

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

ugal, but when land (oh finally, land!)

bid their seek- // // ing end, Portugal could only tip its hat. Colum

illed the bits of my skin that were too

big and suddenly I could fit it again. And although the skies never re

[So the moon was there]

/ beyond my comprehension; lensed eyes ‘

big // // as saucers’ x-ray-burning to my five- // // year infant gu

Compass Reading

labyrinth // // To conceal where that

big baby hybrid is, // // Whose sibling stood guard (to keep access b

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

d it’s not a serpent // // But a great

big black wave // // That crashes over you // // And you try to gasp

e been perfect, except my skin felt too

big for my bones. It just hung there softly, crumpled at the elbows an

[So the moon was there]

ts a magpie on the road. // // like, a

big fucking magpie. // // and this magpie says: can you help me? //

/ // Teetering on the edge of // // A

big idea. // // Each line, a step, // // Towards that moment // //

Falling Is Like This

// Faced with the end result // // The

big idea no longer seems so big // // The fall, awkward // // And un

Falling Is Like This

ors or men with knitted jumpers // // (

big ideas on rocks and bones in the ground), // // Or even vicars, to

Bearded Thoughts

isses aren’t words // // and the great

big massive enormous wide universe full of galaxies and black holes an

Same but differenT

n by. On his 13th birthday we had that

big party down the pub, // // and for her 21st, well she was away at

// So, how are you? // // Small fish,

big pond. // // But staying afloat? // // I move a little, and the r

Whales sing because they have a song

thistle-scratch // // and bounce back:

big prizes! // // glossier glamour! more glorious to spend yours //

[A spinning spider]

// // The big idea no longer seems so

big // // The fall, awkward // // And unspectacular. // // But, onc

Falling Is Like This

y house // // that is my mother’s next

big venture after // // producing six of us. // // L-shaped the hous

preserved or pressed? // // And so the

big words, dispossessed // // by our ramshackle fumbling // // with

// // Ah! this one looks chipper—it’s

bigger and fitter // // And should keep me going for—wait…! // // DA

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ing through the murk, // // Mendacious

bigots do their deadly work, // // Those creeping politicians breathi

eval sleeves // // Or habits while you

bike your kids to school. // // Pointy hats—and couplets—fade like le

In Defence of Evolution

ree fraught years – with bitterness and

bile // // sieved through our shared blue sleeve; we’re worn // // w

s must compete for life. // // Another

billion random changes: all // // —or almost all—are duds. Neverthele

om junctures in primeval winds // // a

billion random patterns form—until // // an accidental spiral sequenc

of weighed and measured mass // // Ten

billion years from this. Yet few’ll then know, // // Or knowing grasp

eep my eyes peeled, // // For each mil-

billionth strike // // Might give the psych- // // Ological boost //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

// Warm air turbulent // // expanding

billowing fabrics, // // Exquisite timpani of sole on pavement. // /

’Tis pity he’s a bore

e long, and you are drained. // // the

billows settle low, cold as a curse, // // but though the thunder roa

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

rpet, // // and people come in, // //

binbag -laden // // with mum’s blouses, // // dad’s old shirts and tr

In a charity shop

pelling silence into sound, // // they

bind and loose, they find and are not found. // // Re-call the river-

t-rust, // // they burst through their

binding // // like overwound springs; // // nilly-willy their horns

Nil Charge / Nil Return

d text: this warfare is the strife that

binds . // //

Sixteen Forty-Five

// But now our cropped, uncivil Samson

binds // // Five foxes, brush to brush, a hexagram // // Of blazing

Sixteen Forty-Five

y // // That codes and siphons off and

binds me here // // And keeps me earthed, but, if I could be free //

This is Sweet Briar, the Tudor seal, it

binds // // One kingdom with another, fire with fire. // // Its five

Sixteen Forty-Five

Found prophesy fulfilled. Their writing

binds // // Past with present: a poet’s hexagram // // Of ever-livin

Sixteen Forty-Five

// // Master of the hollow forest, who

binds // // The aged with their heart’s desire, the rose // // With

Sixteen Forty-Five

ring nylon stockings curled // // Like

bindweed . Deposited, blooming with the taint // // Of former stages

unk? You might as well rummage through

bins , // // barefaced as a Buddhist monk. Enough buns // // and you

Chocolate Sonnet

9 // // Giggly Hillary // // Met mean

Binyamin // // In the offices running // // His fighting machine. //

amp collecting” and // // You are just

biology . // // I am the king that buried the world; // // The only m

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

// (The winners in heartbreak.) // // “

Biology is just stamp collecting” and // // You are just biology. //

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

side the wood—the fir // // and silver

birch along the dunes that run // // between the marshes and the sea.

Wells in winter

// downwards to slug lickings on empty

bird box // // with flightless eggshells mouldering. // //

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

Cracks like fire, burning so bright, a

bird // // Cozied in its nest, snuggles down somehow. // // A change

down drains. // // If there had been a

bird // // No doubt she would have seen it. // // She gazed blankly

[The sun flattened]

ed trough. // // I cough a protest. No

bird sings. // //

black MIDI: // // All that is left of

bird song. // // Phoenix upside—down. // // Pigeon panicking inside

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

// Nothing else works for the College

bird . // // The burr-sore want some fast relief: // // Heat-treatmen

BURR (or Brrrrr)

the thoracal zone // // springing the

bird to post-Jurassic flight // // to trade in futures on the wishing

ast, unyielding sky // // Untouched by

bird , unseen by any eye. // // And I know you are there, amongst them

[My face is old now]

bird watchingOn the Huntingdon Road. // // They found him, petrified,

Urban bird watching

ll been lost in transit, // // and the

birds and the branches are unseen. // // Her white hand weeps about i

bear fruit. // // A song // // Where

birds once chorused a dew bright dawn. // // Immortality // // Is in

know that soon, // // Another flock of

birds will settle— // // Confusedly— // // Here, with us. // //

Magnetic Mountain

u love me again // // Is like notating

birdsong . // // I made you the ideal theory: // // An unsystematised

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

e wishing bone // // clavicles fuse in

birds ’ ancestral night // // in this revision one and one makes one /

/ // and the tactless scratch of green

biro . // // I have to keep running to feel I’m going somewhere. // /

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

origin immortalized // // In scratchy

biro ink. // // Each domestic heirloom bearing // // The curly scrip

- // // life. They are too few. // //

Birth certificate. // // Death certificate. // // I want to see the

Stone, Paper, Scissors

Pushing 60 // // My sixtieth

birthday is nearing— // // brings a thought that is far from cheering

oking back, it’s flown by. On his 13th

birthday we had that big party down the pub, // // and for her 21st,

g of news // // (“She’s birthed! She’s

birthed !”)—children at play— // // The carter’s mare as she wheezes o

ellos—the crying of news // // (“She’s

birthed ! She’s birthed!”)—children at play— // // The carter’s mare a

you covered instead— // // put out the

biscuits , the chairs, the cat, // // drew up rotas, tidied up upstair

whole new shade of wet. // // My Frost-

bit ears resound with words I know. // // (How many miles to go till

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

across the sea, // // A name a little

bit like « me ». // // To the East, to the West, // // I wish a witc

Ode to a map of the world

// Sometimes your routine just gets a

bit monotonous. // // But if a tidal wave as tall as the Empire State

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

like good sex— // // But I did seek a

bit more humanity. // // My mistake was suggesting the cotton— // //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

a of the world ending sometimes sound a

bit nice?’ // // Everybody occasionally dreams of apocalypse. // //

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

bed calories // // nestled within each

bite of Cadbury’s, // // so bring on the celery. And a slice // //

Chocolate Sonnet

he frequent sticky thrill of that first

bite of fruit // // While propped against the tree trunk, kept cool i

/ // But poets curdle words until they

bite , // // With substance and a flavour of their own: // // So Donn

Cheese is the medium

and crackling fire-breath // // (Sound-

bites for both now!)— // // because he couldn’t see the afterlife of

lanea, fool’s gold, bric-a-brac, // //

bits and pieces, odds and ends, junk, old rope. // // Boarding passes

’s how it saved me. The moon filled the

bits of my skin that were too big and suddenly I could fit it again. A

[So the moon was there]

affold. And why not wriggle our toes in

bits of old bran and chaff // // mixed up with sawdust from our new c

into the night // // I fed it all the

bits that it had missed: // // fragments around the edges of the blaz

the poem?’ // // Words catch my mouth,

bitter as lightning—is this the poem? // // The cicada’s memories dis

// There was a war. // // There was a

bitter , civil // // war in Jordan. // // There was a gun. // // The

Black September

wo months // // are clear and fine and

bitter cold. // // Every step, // // your foot upon the crust, you t

Walking in winter

I do is bark wildly at the moon. // //

Bitter Creek, last time // // You said this was the only way. // //

l’esprit d’escalier

: // // its scales, its tales, and its

bitter // // fomenting glory in the great not-me. // // Way-hey, blo

of our land. // // When you dismiss my

bitter words offhand, // // Both you and I have everything to lose. /

// // than three fraught years – with

bitterness and bile // // sieved through our shared blue sleeve; we’r

so thin and impatient, // // but then…

bittersweet jubilation! // // He was filled up with bliss, ’cause //

The Failing of the Cheese

h // // Drops spray silent // // Zest

bittersweet scent // // Syrupy fingertips // // Slide past lips //

a whiskery love-in and hoydenish // //

bivalves blew bubbles. Beneath the flushed sea-tail, a gleam— // // I

Just a Small Fish

and awaiting recognition // // Of how

bizarre the night can be, // // Roof falling down, // // The sound o

ening lanes we went to cross the river,

black and cruel. This city now extinguished, empty, spent; the beauty

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

n this night. Redshift // // The stars

black —do you still feel // // Their loss? My wife stirs, // // As ou

Here be dragons

o lift a stained glass // // skull, my

black eyes my light eyes, this arched spine, // // do you remember wh

ELS LIKETO BE HERE IN THIS PLACE // //

black // // frost // // black // // sky // // wet stones // // sk

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

the wire brush // // of David’s thick

black hair, // // staying in place until at home // // the small gas

Walking in winter

mous wide universe full of galaxies and

black holes and stars // // makes no sound // // only their tongues

Same but differenT

Centaur // // Black on white on

black // // In your suit, you’re urbanely monochrome; // // A real s

t // // And come away with bruises and

black lung // // And purple dermal chunks of coal and grit. // // Ju

neath my hands. // // Rings of ash are

black MIDI: // // All that is left of bird song. // // Phoenix upsid

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

the psychologists (clean-shaven and in

black ) might say. // // The beard is living history, we are too close

Bearded Thoughts

// The ink I wrote to you in was always

black , never blue, // // and I’d imagine you sitting and reading my w

[I often think of that January morning]

Black on white on black // // In your suit, you’re urbanely monochrom

the year // // but no Murder of absurd

black penguins // // congregate this afternoon as my leg // // slumb

why i’m getting into Christmas

ritten off as a tax loss, // // Raised

black sails, and now I’m in clover. // // ARIADNE // // I blame that

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

Black September // // // There was a war. // // There was a bitter,

Black September

neral suit, // // And only one pair of

black shoes, // // And who’s going to help me put new laces in, // /

Three Pieces of Advice

tinctive stride // // As your polished

black shoes emerge stealthily // // And know the simple tie, knotted

PLACE // // black // // frost // //

black // // sky // // wet stones // // skittering onto the // // d

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

ife, with ceramic vase // // And small

black -stoppered oil caster. // // The year is nineteen fifty-five; //

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

e’ve been. // // Each in our uniforms,

black suit, striped tie // // Marching to the front line, clutching o

d in your unmaking, // // Of the fatal

black suit, that only I saw // // Fit you ill, and added to your brea

er clumsily // // into the slow // //

black treacle of the night air // // and see the simplicity // // mo

[The sash rattles up]

’s not a serpent // // But a great big

black wave // // That crashes over you // // And you try to gasp for

nd refuse of ages, // // Sounding over

black waves of the sunset hour. // // Softly the last gondolier, dipp

over the snow sheets, stained now with

black , what if one day all the books drew blanks? // // There’d be no

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

e lead // // 2B // // ‘Two Black’ too

black ?—what sun beyond that shade; // // With balanced clay and graph

Three Ways of Walking

yond their glow. // // Red, white, and

black words disappear. // // I’m not so far away from home. // //

at only half way there. // // Feathers

blacken and unpeel // // With the mourning of the wheels. // //

Urban bird watching

consume, // // And leave nothing but a

blackened gloom, // // Of faces lost and undefined. // // A word tha

tack lighting the midges and her // //

Blackened soles, he lies back in damp grass // // And wonders when on

corched soft calfskin, // // Now burns

blackened words into dead wood; // // Cremates Glede-eyes garnet //

I won’t be clean. wash me and I will be

blacker than coal. if my truth is wrong I want you to gouge it from me

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

edged— // // Wrapped within the glossy

blackness // // Of Dad’s funereal car. // // Later, unpacking, // /

ce into shape, do vacate back // // To

blackn’d smog which as the ocean shifts // // Over itself, a growing

[What have we done]

, // // The outside plumbing blues and

blacks . // // Damp limestone humming and spectral, // // The absence

hope-made sky I came. // // Then, as a

blacksmith finds his mold self-grown, // // My practic’d pattern forg

[What have we done]

// a section of spalted trunk— // //

blackstrap coaly seams // // making the wood marbled. // // Or maybe

exercise alone. // // HB // // ‘Hard

Black ’ appears as grey: // // The universal, standard and // // Unth

Three Ways of Walking

ven pull the lead // // 2B // // ‘Two

Black ’ too black?—what sun beyond that shade; // // With balanced cla

Three Ways of Walking

// When you pierced me with your unseen

blade . // // I will see you before I die // // Face to face. // //

dust. // // The mis-struck stone. The

blade which breaks. // // The potter’s hand that slips and scores //

teeth breathing just beyond my shoulder

blades . An unsteady light // // is flickering between needling trees;

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

. // // ‘It’s true’ // // Lied // //

Blair // //

arch 2009 // // Now we must cheer, for

Blair is here. // // After two years’ pay, this is the day // // He

Blair // // Lied, // // It’s true. // // He had to // // Lie, to p

-Spring, the eternal Prima Vera. // //

Blake saw it too. Dante and Beatrice // // Are bathing in it now, awa

Cretan Quartet—a

blame game // // MINOTAUR // // I blame my mother, Zeus bless her. /

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

oaf, resolute. // // THESEUS // // I

blame my dad. Such a loser // // To marry Medea. I accused her // //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

t—a blame game // // MINOTAUR // // I

blame my mother, Zeus bless her. // // She’d this need for a bull to

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

I’m in clover. // // ARIADNE // // I

blame that bronzed hulk and his vanity // // Claimed his dad was a se

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ing for—wait…! // // DAEDALUS // // I

blame the King’s first commission // // He just saw in me a magician

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

You claim it “impedes progress” and is “

bland ,” // // But, full of energy and youth, I choose // // Our dial

ve // // What? I stare at you looking.

Blank ! Crack open the sixth seal // // Whilst you speak the weather o

tten across me, transforming the body’s

blank page. // // I don’t understand why you never came back. The wav

[I often think of that January morning]

etheless. // // Here, the courtyard is

blank . // // Still just a courtyard. // // Still just me and Woodlan

[The sash rattles up]

d who wasn’t made for work. // // Now,

blank verse seems to break those systems down: // // It’s open and ad

In Defence of Evolution

hen I stare into reality // // I see a

blank white sheet, and withdraw, // // Back to my drooling muse, beca

Writing to explore

rovelled on the ground, // // Our eyes

blank , with nothing to // // Consider, no reason on which to found //

And it was just sitting there, looking

blankly at me, like a globe spinning so fast that all the colours blur

[So the moon was there]

he would have seen it. // // She gazed

blankly at the branches. // // The world swam occasionally, // // Le

[The sun flattened]

// Shook its head along with me, // //

Blankly dismissing the old sublime; // // The dogs that passed, for t

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

ere I’m confined // // As my pen moves

blankly line to line // // Controlled by the wrist of an amputee, //

Exam Room Villanelle

ack, what if one day all the books drew

blanks ? // // There’d be nothing to write about for one. // // (but

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

and scent // // than I was fried by a

blast from your snout. // //

Hanoun, the sun seems spent: // // The

blasts drop like a shutter’s blink and break // // The moment when th

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

ecluded pathways. // // Each crescendo

blasts my mind to whiteness. // // Who will join me in the temple? //

/ // fragments around the edges of the

blaze . // // Even now, // // I feel the heat upon my face. // // Tw

ties of fuel // // and built a roaring

blaze . Then late into the night // // I fed it all the bits that it

s, brush to brush, a hexagram // // Of

blazing damage. Kinship, threat, and fire // // Contend for right in

Sixteen Forty-Five

th, // // and send signal fires // //

blazing into the air. // // Our space is the earth, // // time lives

Sestina // // Abyss. A nanosecond’s

blazing light, // // The herald to a straining fecund mass // // Unl

u, // // There is the day’s newspaper,

blazoned with // // The spin of a world that isn’t yours and can’t /

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

ings who feel too much. // // // // …

Bleached walls stare into pale skin, each keeping the warmth // // In

Snapshot Endings

eads on, // // a gentler walk, to bare

bleak Malham Tarn. // // Then back to skirt the edge of Malham Cove,

Daydream Dale Journey

r bubbling in oil spit, and the lamb is

bled // // drink! to winter! and be merry. // // joy, pride swelling

Drink and be merry

arena morn: // // I war dirt-up, image-

bled , // // if nine demon ever did, god-won // // Arrêt. // // Ange

Hercules et Oracle

// Sharp with the earth’s slow // //

Bleed , four nights till it sheds // // Its shadow to bloom // // In

Here be dragons

nights, more dreams // // more seasons

bleeding into seasons. // // Just not so many more. // //

ight is stored, and the slightest knock

bleeds a honey // // that will never wash from my hands. I guard myse

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

dipping into knot warps and sanded-down

blemishes ) // // To imagine // // (your contours like sand-dunes //

// // Melting into a liquid form, they

blend . // // A faded wash seemingly moves o’er all; // // A slight l

[What have we done]

ets, turning weed, revealed nothing: no

blenny , no bream— // // It was just a small fish. // // So we lay on

Just a Small Fish

old rubber fingers and let their priest

bless by its // // psalmodic tone—only heaven can sing. // // Parodi

Jonathan’s Deathbed

MINOTAUR // // I blame my mother, Zeus

bless her. // // She’d this need for a bull to caress her. // // Lef

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

e and gold and bow themselves // // To

bless the fruitful earth from whence they spring. // // These colours

The Magic Apple Tree

/ It hides my nephew’s eyes. // // God

bless us, everyone. // // Baby, come and sit with me, // // We pick

A Hymn to a Loved One

e character in a play // // With Brian

Blessed // // Squeezed into the frame, the dusty sepia. // // We are

Bearded Thoughts

as awoken? // // Your glance is like a

blessing on the broken // // I tender this in thankfulness, a token /

e to face; // // Your glance is like a

blessing on the broken, // // Your smile a sudden grace. // //

A Token // // Your glance is like a

blessing on the broken, // // Your smile a sudden grace. // // And w

y love-in and hoydenish // // bivalves

blew bubbles. Beneath the flushed sea-tail, a gleam— // // It was jus

Just a Small Fish

milk // // the sick cow // // and the

blight // // that had fallen on the vineyard. // // A few self-confe

// Surrounding ev’ry face we meet with

Blight , // // Whose knived line carv’s out a trace, a Well // // Cas

[What have we done]

/ // and caught his eye and struck him

blind and dead. // // A winged beast can be so underhanded; // // it

hose strings sing of souls hurt. // //

Blind , dumb, deaf upon the pedestal of a saint, // // by touch and in

ing edge is coming near. // // Not the

blind fury // // With the abhorred shears // // But this is what I f

The Cutting Edge

/ // while I // // Am dancing on your

blind spot // //

pixillating condensation // // Bolting

blind the top-floor library– // // Like a vitreous slogan of a monume

How and Why I Should Have Looked You in the Eyes:

heir sockets, // // And as I’m limping

blind through Siberia, // // I want her to restart the solar system w

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

cretary // // Eyeless for Gaza, // //

Blind to the consequence: // // Tabula Rasa. // //

Look. Just look, look around! Don’t be

blinded by preconceptions that pretend to be the foundation of things.

A Translation of Wallace Stevens’s ‘Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction’, section 1: ‘It Must be Abstract’

fear; // // The stealthy scissors of a

blinded time // // Cutting through accretions of the past // // Dull

The Cutting Edge

e from view; surrounding spectra // //

blinding from refracted // // oil-light off tarmac. As you // // fin

luc bat to mr. beam

// // How can you sleep in this // //

blinding light? // // How could you // // bear to // // close your

Bright, Pale Yellow

cund mass // // Unleashed. A tongue of

blinding , whippèd flame // // Sears all before, while bearing all we’

old. // // My eyes obscured by wash, I

blindly dug // // My place, lifting my molten body’s mold // // By h

[What have we done]

all directions // // As my hands grasp

blindly for a white flag. // // “I don’t know” spills from my lips in

// // The blasts drop like a shutter’s

blink and break // // The moment when the child looks and the lens //

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

ly. // // But just one illicit // //

Blink and I’ll miss it. // // Too much strain // // For dawn brain;

Small Particles in the Small Hours

bs catch on tongue and mesh eyes // //

blinking on a pimpled trunk // // snail-spotted and blooded // // by

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

ce, // // in overlapping amplitudes of

bliss , // // pattering into patterns, into persons, into us, // // c

ubilation! // // He was filled up with

bliss , ’cause // // he tracked down his Whiskas // // while the dear

The Failing of the Cheese

given way. // // Under the transparent

blister of a moon, // // A thumbtack lighting the midges and her //

y who knew // // Existing on hot coals

blisters the feet // // Just when I found them again // // In the me

ns // // Looks and the newspaper image

blithely grins // // Into a million messy shards. // // The table a

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

ideal me waves from a mile away. // //

Bloated on turkey and stale conversation // // The pack turns their i

// // // // // Manhattan’s built on

blocks because they planned it out like that // // (You don’t get per

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ey raised the ramparts: giant concrete

blocks // // on piles all along the shingle beach. // // The mile so

Walking in winter

range home you have been gifted, // //

Blonde and blue-eyed Sufi, upright and serious and oblivious. // // P

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

leave the polystyrene cemetery, // //

Blonde hair flicking like a snake’s tongue. // // But her stylish-yet

yew needs dried blood in spring // //

blood ancestry // // phantoms // // graveyard cadavers // // spicin

yew needs dried blood in spring

ds, // // All that remains is dripping

blood // // And an empty frame. // //

his moment’s pulse, this rhythm in your

blood // // And listen to it, ringing soft and low. // // Stay with

Hear! Our songs of love, our lives, our

blood , and // // My window on the world in all its hues: // // Our d

gel hunter. // // I could vomit // //

Blood and water upon my feet // // And say never, never forgive him /

ening, white above again and // // the

blood below. Pause. I think I just want to really feel. //

your head bobs in peace upon a heart’s-

blood bouquet. // //

rface? // // My base animal is out for

blood // // But my saccharine breath pleads for a haven. // // I hav

// Immortality // // Is in time, our

blood coloured autumn. // // Artifice // // Risks going against the

my desires // // I am unsullied by the

blood crystals on my palm // // I am unsullied. // // Ornithologists

Frighteningly Inert

Will sweep away this red refuse. // //

Blood dies quicker than paint // // Shouts the gunshot on the lake //

ching from the window, impassive // //

Blood dries quicker than paint // // But all the wide obliging sea //

// You shed dust from your eyes, // //

Blood dripping from your next cigarette, // // And we feel bored and

y every second of our lives, and // //

blood -fed, or starved to oblivion // // in five minutes. // // The p

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

the hinge of the door— // // After the

blood has been wiped from the wall— // // After the wires we'll threa

yew needs dried

blood in spring // // blood ancestry // // phantoms // // graveyard

yew needs dried blood in spring

ever turned on their pilots—that’s your

blood // // In the water—they’ve always been lying. Is this the poem?

sushi restaurant. // // 3. Always wash

blood off in cold water. // // 1, given to me for the first time whil

Three Pieces of Advice

ife. I wondered if your // // thinning

blood resented life, // // words mocking your condition—if // // you

Sestina to an English Teacher

were both made from stardust // // and

blood rust // // as the sky began seeping liquid gold, // // the kin

ky began seeping liquid gold // // and

blood rust // // we were both made from stardust. // // For this is

ait // // for spring // // when dried

blood scatters // //

yew needs dried blood in spring

t our love flows through me // // Like

blood , that I pine for you, and yearn for you, // // And can taste th

I’ll never work for Hallmark

me realising that the method of erasing

blood was stated with experience, // // And me realising that his blo

Three Pieces of Advice

/ A crowd of faces linked by tinsel and

blood , // // While the ideal me waves from a mile away. // // Bloate

ience, // // And me realising that his

blood would have come from bared fists against jaws, // // From tumbl

Three Pieces of Advice

n room // // groans and secrets // //

blood ! wriggling life! a name! love! // // Candles, hats—shake the sn

Drink and be merry

e hours spent washing bathroom tiles of

blood . // // you pray for rain, but no relief. dry-heave // // over

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

pimpled trunk // // snail-spotted and

blooded // // by stagnant recess overfull trickling // // downwards

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

aughtered his girlfriend // // In cold-

blooded rage. // // (Nothing too funny here, // // Uxoricidally, //

es. // // Huntsman, lord of a thousand

blooded tongues // // Master of the hollow forest, who binds // // T

Sixteen Forty-Five

that // // during the days are // //

bloodshot . // // How can you sleep in this // // blinding light? //

Bright, Pale Yellow

d // // a tribute with a claw pisswet,

bloodwhorled , // // and badinaged with her would-be saviour // // an

in it— // // Why Rhyme Royal is such a

bloody chore. // // I’m trying to be cheerful, but can’t fain it: //

In Defence of Evolution

see through is a pierced calcite skin,

bloody ingrown nails and an incorrection. Adonai, Adonis, open my swor

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

// // Go hungry dear fox // // Do not

bloody my door, there // // Is nothing for you // // In this night.

Here be dragons

xhilaration’ ‘beating heart’ and ’fresh

blood ’. This reality is primitive, musical, and Dionysiac. Nature chan

A Translation of Wallace Stevens’s ‘Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction’, section 1: ‘It Must be Abstract’

ghts till it sheds // // Its shadow to

bloom // // In the vast, dust-filled // // Maria of a hidden // //

Here be dragons

o the lifter of leaves, of branches and

bloom // // May your sap run quick and your bark hold strong— // //

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

. // // Between rutted mud and thistle

bloom // // We pick our path along the hollow way // // Handfast; we

// the winter now, // // but she’ll be

blooming , // // and she’ll be spiralling // // back in spring. // /

e around it, // // Hide it amongst the

blooming heather, // // Warm it, // // Pick around it. // // Our vo

Wild Mountain Thyme

urled // // Like bindweed. Deposited,

blooming with the taint // // Of former stages of my seven skins; //

r hydra stalks for fear of fresh // //

blooms : already one says: “mankind cannot // // bear very much realit

Aubade to Girton

esty, // // these three hills awash in

blooms , arching heavenwards in certain praise // // state His glory.

ty // // or those three hills awash in

blooms , arching skyward only to praise // // nature’s glory. He renam

// A still canal, laced with rust that

blooms // // From old fashioned, swan-necked cycles. // // The pinke

orgia sunsets, and // // bougainvillea

blooms ; hands to hold // // and promised stories told // // of daugh

luc bat to mr. beam

left you // // Deserted. Only bramble

blooms ; only ivy strays // // Through the hollows the years have worn

but I // // Shut my ears to Antigone,

blot out my dear’s words. // // They can’t be talking to me. // // I

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

den // // Moon. Now your shadow // //

Blots the sky, what is // // It looks to flower in your // // Cries,

Here be dragons

ntle against the cool glass, // // But

blotted quickly by a tunnel’s vulgar arrival. // // Those old eyes ar

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

en my eyes searched frantically, // //

blotted with beads of light, // // for shadowed gifts. As slowly //

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

, // // binbag-laden // // with mum’s

blouses , // // dad’s old shirts and trousers, // // sorry to let the

In a charity shop

r. // // From across the waters // //

blow the evanescent airs // // moistening the many-coloured earths. /

ng in jail. // // Give me some time to

blow the man down // //

ry in the great not-me. // // Way-hey,

blow the man down // // Might and strain of the wave-thick // // ten

mely winds in sixteen forty-five // //

Blow through the windows, wake the paper rose. // // This is Sweet Br

Sixteen Forty-Five

ter, // // Up there in the sky, // //

Blowed and bumbling along, // // Airwards words off the tongue. // /

[The sun flattened]

ou with your hair cut day-short, // //

blowing a cool kiss, // // prone on a white toboggan, // // doubli

g around space, gay as Galactus, // //

Blowing out more stars with her laugh. // // It’s not that weird, rig

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

led around behind // // Doors and were

blown // // About by the winds of change. // // Something seemed gre

ation brick-dust from our lungs. // //

Blown away through our empty sails, over the fields. // // We’re righ

at the creature, transfixed by its time-

blown boughs, // // Will find itself returned to the perfect lightnes

[At the coinciding point of the years]

ch-Wind // // All night the March wind

blows about our windows // // And chases whispers through my dreaming

to shame and spitting, // // Under the

blows the cut stones splinter // // The Green Man comes to winter, //

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

wrote to you in was always black, never

blue , // // and I’d imagine you sitting and reading my words in echoe

[I often think of that January morning]

dness settled once you’d left. I became

blue , // // artificially structuring my days around coffee // // bef

[I often think of that January morning]

prisoner of war // // Then casualty of

blue austerity; // // Just so my father, labouring before // // The

e. // // And then he breathed his last

blue breath // // And left it in the shining air // // And left his

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

you have been gifted, // // Blonde and

blue -eyed Sufi, upright and serious and oblivious. // // Promise me—l

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

// He lay there till the stars turned

blue // // He lay there till his breath ran cold // // The boy witho

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

gh earth, I long for water and a sky of

blue . // // Like a seed I want to grow. But all I have is cold coffee

[I often think of that January morning]

/ // Stormy where you are? // // Very

blue . Lovely weather. // // [Bad weather. Very blue.] // // So, how

Whales sing because they have a song

// End-tale: November song seeks mist-

blue port, so // // Defying stormy-weather and determinism both, toni

windled between your hands, as the deep

blue // // sky darkened and embellished around you. You began dreamin

[I often think of that January morning]

d bile // // sieved through our shared

blue sleeve; we’re worn // // with waiting in dissention and denial.

vely weather. // // [Bad weather. Very

blue .] // // So, how are you? // // Small fish, big pond. // // But

Whales sing because they have a song

ords off the tongue. // // The sky was

blue . // // That she knew, had known all along // // It seemed, only

[The sun flattened]

conscious swallowed me like an ocean of

blue . // // The sadness settled once you’d left. I became blue, // /

[I often think of that January morning]

along // // It seemed, only it wasn’t

blue today, // // It was deep and grey when // // It appeared, the s

[The sun flattened]

// I can see the evening’s // // last

blue twilight, // // pressed between // // stormclouds like a flower

nted my feelings in layer upon layer of

blue // // until watercolours splattered my sleeves and the drowning

[I often think of that January morning]

sea incessantly singing her serenade of

blue . // // We hugged goodbye. I walked home and made coffee, // //

[I often think of that January morning]

or cycle rides // // more walks, more

bluebell woods // // more curlews, more ragged, slanting lines of gee

the yellow, // // The outside plumbing

blues and blacks. // // Damp limestone humming and spectral, // // T

/ // But the service gets slow when it

blunders // // Around in the passages—just losing weight // // So it

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

things in my hands— // // The familiar

blunt fingers and shallow nails // // Of proud practicality. // // W

ong I want you to gouge it from me. use

blunt , hoping, hoping and hoping. let me hear the sound of joy and gla

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

ors, new scissors: // // no stone will

blunt them. // //

Stone, Paper, Scissors

/ // Endeavours in but weekly shut out

blunt . // // They all are shunned and I am shut out too, // // The p

Three gay rituals

ide was a shiver. // // I float in the

blur of your // // Shallow depth of field // // Like a spirit waitin

How and Why I Should Have Looked You in the Eyes:

s perhaps are good, // // But slightly

blurred and ill-conceived, // // But cram enough inside and surely in

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

e spinning so fast that all the colours

blurred into white. And I felt sorry for it, because although it sat a

[So the moon was there]

h // // pages upon pages of poetry. My

blurry eyes resisted breaking // // concentration until the walls dis

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

d covering the hard brown earth. // //

Blurry , out of focus and unfeeling // // Times, when the suns are thi

/ // from violent to -et to rose-risen

blush . // // We must not rush now past the wee hours of // // waitin

Aubade to Girton

ts on her now vacant stomach // // Her

blushed cheeks moistened with my tears. // // Momentary flashes of wh

ngely, oddly quiet // // The wind that

blusters is strangely keen. // // A dance, hypnotic; long, yet savour

ink to winter! and be merry! // // Fat

boar bubbling in oil spit, and the lamb is bled // // drink! to winte

Drink and be merry

p-drip of drying plates on the draining

board // // as you pray for strength, head in hands, // // in a kitc

, odds and ends, junk, old rope. // //

Boarding passes from times they went for broke. // // Gifts they coul

ills, dales, crags, beaches // // more

boat or cycle rides // // more walks, more bluebell woods // // more

out // // And will not dry // // The

boat rocks on the water like a drum. // //

left afloat. // // Behind each moored

boat runs a wake: time to gush full spate. // // Now my headlong das

rt, as rich as Tokaji, // // your head

bobs in peace upon a heart’s-blood bouquet. // //

e will forevermore consume, the beings,

bodies and souls of any given room // // While doomed to perish are h

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

n that all is right. // // The line of

bodies on the table in // // The dust-white room are children. // //

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

/ dusted cogs very still above sleeping

bodies . Our grist is long gone // // and we’re lighter, quieter. Let

e gap // // Constricting in a press of

bodies that would // // Never normally indulge in such proximity with

Poems on the Underground

hane sea and scattered // // doll-like

bodies , their tiny faces // // far too clear. // // A wave breaks ov

somewhere just past my horizon. // //

Body aching, waiting, for my chalk outline. The last mark I’ll make, /

Snapshot Endings

ntine // // mouth; less folded in your

body and scent // // than I was fried by a blast from your snout. //

// // Mind the gap // // Between your

body and the world. // // Careful, things might fall // // Where the

d // // Your soft memory immolates its

body beneath my hands. // // Rings of ash are black MIDI: // // All

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

the watery sounds take control of your

body // // But no one can hear them // // And no one has seen your s

ent to arrive, // // When out of your

body comes understanding, // // And a wonderful point to be derived.

The Tree of Wisdom

id you, or did you not, hide // // The

body ? Did you, or did you not, // // Keep digging— // // All night—

Did you bury her yet?

ath held deep but soft, // // I let my

body fall again, be wash’d // // Into direction mapp’d by playing dru

[What have we done]

// // beating mind dying with beating

body . // // Five minutes after our hearts stop // // everything (not

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

n gall, // // they found it indide her

body . // // I imagined its cross section like a burr, // // or like

aise Venus with every judder. // // My

body is a hymn to Cupid; // // He is in its arches and secluded pathw

My hand falls on your waist // // your

body is so familiar // // yet I have never known you before. // // I

lens whirs to focus on a hunched // //

Body . One of the crowd in particular // // Distinct, only, because it

Vicious or Virtuous?

ining air // // And left his stiffened

body there // // The boy without a face. // // His only keepers were

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ain written across me, transforming the

body’s blank page. // // I don’t understand why you never came back.

[I often think of that January morning]

dug // // My place, lifting my molten

body’s mold // // By hand, hardening to the rocks each tug, // // Th

[What have we done]

tomach, the tender // // Violence of a

body’s ripening—is this the poem? // // Soon, make the screen a mirro

our faith // // that all of life still

boils down to love. // //

happy. “We need a designer with // //

boldness and vision—I know just the man. // // He has built me some b

Troubled waters

is nineteen fifty-five; // // The man,

Bologna’s drawing-master. // // He lives a quiet, four-cornered life,

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

tle and press ’til, // // abrading the

bolt -rust, // // they burst through their binding // // like overwou

Nil Charge / Nil Return

// The pixillating condensation // //

Bolting blind the top-floor library– // // Like a vitreous slogan of

How and Why I Should Have Looked You in the Eyes:

am, back up the river Wharfe, // // to

Bolton Abbey, and the Strid beyond, // // and Barden Bridge—and now I

Daydream Dale Journey

es // // more storms, gales, lightning

bolts // // more days of sun or rain or passing cloud // // more mee

t, // // The razor might not last, the

bomb might fall, // // Then all we’d have left would be beards to com

Bearded Thoughts

// now trade in futures on the wishing

bone // // and flocks of starlings, sparrows, swallows know // // th

// we trade in futures on the wishing

bone // // and learn too late that one and one make none // //

// but in the ritual splitting of the

bone // // as Martin’s morning breaks upon the night // // we trade

th // // The word-worm breaks from the

bone -cage // // The word-worm encircles, tightens its coils, and the

// // Trading futures on the wishing

bone // // clavicles fuse in birds’ ancestral night // // in this re

Nightwatching // // By the

bone -ground my eyes linger; // // I am watching the boy take off his

// to trade in futures on the wishing

bone // // Hall in Bones and Cartilage has shown // // the furcula m

into pits // // Girded with chalk and

bone . // // Tarweed takes root and // // Its appetite carves sharp t

And, likewise to two falling trees, my

bone , // // Unseen or seen, did spark a tiny fire. // // A lonely em

[What have we done]

now: can they enhance // // That fine-

boned beauty, linen-wrapped and masked in paint? // // How many years

ures on the wishing bone // // Hall in

Bones and Cartilage has shown // // the furcula might prove a midline

opp’d on me, // // and with my brittle

bones and star roll’d dice // // I plucked from falling world two dag

[What have we done]

he town’s past, but of your fine // //

bones , feather-forming in the fast- // // ness of your mother’s side.

ion, thick // // To perfect brew’d. My

bones grow Ache and Lack; // // But drown’d out is their path—it floa

[What have we done]

m top-to-toe. Each day I feel // // My

bones grow old with waiting for the feel // // Of earth against their

[My face is old now]

jumpers // // (big ideas on rocks and

bones in the ground), // // Or even vicars, touched by God, nothing t

Bearded Thoughts

ect, except my skin felt too big for my

bones . It just hung there softly, crumpled at the elbows and knees. Bu

[So the moon was there]

ce that isn’t worth the creak // // Of

bones to pick up. // // A camera lens whirs to focus on a hunched //

Vicious or Virtuous?

rock back and inch, I’ll tumble and my

bones will clatter. // // I don’t want to align my chakras; I want to

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

e sound of joy and gladness so that the

bones you crushed can rejoice. it’s waiting there for you. maybe one d

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

, // // Grown grave, recite the Prayer

Book and the Rose. // // This is the trial of fire and fire, for fire

Sixteen Forty-Five

ong the passengers) // // Take out the

book before the faceless passengers // // And fill my mind // // To

Poems on the Underground

the words to make it plain. // // Two

book -ends bracket our shared domain: // // the start, the lobby of a

rs, couples, // // Phone-paralysed and

book -engrossed, // // Pret-a-Manger munching, soul searching, love-li

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

he reader that was me. // // In an old

book I see a yellow square, read the part // // marked, and am amazed

ant the rest. // // I want to hold the

book // // of you. You would be soft, // // whole, warm. Not paper.

Stone, Paper, Scissors

I smile and say, // // As I put their

books away, // // Oh sod the lot! I’d better be myself. // //

where’s the tragedy? // // Back to the

books , // // Back to the justification, // // The deliberate slow co

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

now with black, what if one day all the

books drew blanks? // // There’d be nothing to write about for one. /

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

rneys, voyages, expeditions // // more

books , more coffee cups // // more tragedies, comedies, histories //

grandmothers: // // Overcooked recipe

books — // // Tough, stringy leather around crumbling // // Pages //

gone furry in the heat, // // an empty

bookshelf // // what remains // // three years in boxes. // // I wa

ted // // From its place on our shared

bookshelf // // When I see desire distilled in the juice that runs //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

// // and her clipped trunk is an ash

boomerang . // // Old woman wobbles back to her old man. // //

/ Might give the psych- // // Ological

boost // // Of being the first // // Who saw the collision, // // R

Small Particles in the Small Hours

// // He has built me some buses which

boosted my ego—the // // Heatherwick’s sure to produce a fine plan. /

Troubled waters

. // // The cold he feels nudges at my

booted feet. // // The speckles of weed on the water are like chips o

amel carpet // // a burial mound where

boots crunch beech nuts // // and heave clods of wet grass. // // co

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

. // // But her stylish-yet-affordable

boots // // Do sometimes quake. // // Her high school sits right abo

nt to leave, // // There, the sound of

boots make me dry heave. // // South of here, the sun will shine, //

Ode to a map of the world

/ // One night soon I will take off my

boots , // // Slip out from under the heavy trees // // And join the

flashed seconds before waves flooded my

boots , water breaking // // into damp dust around my knees and my smi

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

bus as it rounds Hyde Park, // // Down

border -lanes, and further west // // Leaves and scraps of paper clust

a mere bromide. // // ’Tis pity he’s a

bore . // //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

byssal goddess. // // ’Tis pity he’s a

bore . // // How he strides, // // Warm air turbulent // // expandin

’Tis pity he’s a bore

’Tis pity he’s a

bore // // I imagine he’d wear my armour well, // // And send sandal

’Tis pity he’s a bore

l of the pieces: // // He turned out a

bore —I was dumped on the shore // // And now I have wed Dionysus //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ch my neck between your fingers, // //

bore that small hole through. // // the marble caught the glass, //

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

enty-minute hiatus. // // But the fire

bore us no grudge, // // and welcomed us back into its glow. // // A

// In truth, you stagnant, solipsistic

bore , // // You’re nothing, utter nothing, nothing more. // //

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

your next cigarette, // // And we feel

bored and lazy, // // And my parents can’t tell me enough, // // Tha

/ // I’m ill; I’m hurt; I’m tired; I’m

bored ; // // I’ve loved and now I’m torn apart… // // These whispers

hat they also threw // // Into the asp-

bored sand to rest for two millennia. // // Haloed by Hawara sun you

there isn’t anything worse // // Than

boredom . Except the non-existent tick // // Of your digital clock, re

The Notes You Have Left

/ —but Sadik the Most Evil deposes poor

Boris , and // // gets the Red Margaret to look at the case. // // “I

Troubled waters

he bandwagon he’ll be glad.” // // The

Boris is happy. “We need a designer with // // boldness and vision—I

Troubled waters

London, he // // goes by the rubrik of

Boris the Mad. // // He’d adore such a grand and flamboyant adventure

Troubled waters

not even there.” // // Sadik says “The

Boris’s vanity project has // // gone off the rails. I’m not such a

Troubled waters

/ Seeming deathless, // // The year is

born again. The festival // // Of a boy-king // // Is but one of man

Before Christmas

Is but one of many. // // The year is

born again. The festival // // Seeking the return of the light // //

Before Christmas

uds we were sharing, // // And our new-

born argument is furrowing your brow, // // So I glance instead at yo

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

at you—born of halves and fulls, // //

Born of earth into stalled world. // // Have you forgotten the early

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

oose Ghazal for Rumi // // Look at you—

born of halves and fulls, // // Born of earth into stalled world. //

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

iggledy // // Jesus of Nazareth // //

Born on a solstice // // The prophecised son (/sun) // // Sceptics w

the occasion, // // we read the flower-

borne messages // // and talked to relatives not seen for years. //

azel, beech and alder, // // What news

borne on the wind? // // Just a list of wedding favours // // And a

leaves might fall

leaves might fall // // What news

borne on the wind? // // What winged seed has taken root, // // Thos

leaves might fall

// to the ship’s pitch and yaw, // //

borrowed eyes seeing // // some earlier draft of things, // // lost

eagled in the cycling lane. // // With

borrowed wings a hedgehog // // Sprawls upon the pavement, // // Bri

Urban bird watching

fool without wisdom, // // Feeding on

borrowed wit. // // Your voice echoes off my skull. // // Your eyes

k // // its scream, // // Deep in the

bosom of the // // gentle night. // // I make no love to the girl //

l’esprit d’escalier

he collision, // // Revealed the Higgs

boson . // // Briefly. // // But just one illicit // // Blink and I

Small Particles in the Small Hours

r. // // Did I just close on // // My

boson ? // // ‘Standard Model’ perfection! // // Professorial electio

Small Particles in the Small Hours

// Fin de siècle. // // Ethel Sargant,

botanist // // (Girton student 1880s) // // builds a lab in her gard

There must be moonshine

broke. // // Gifts they could never be

bothered to wrap. // // Ties, from when he tried to make an effort //

’s your happiness again, // // Lost in

bottles and found, // // In your uneven smile, sharp teeth, // // Yo

Fall for————

ampagne, // // Drink down the last few

bottles that remain, // // As though delirium could dull the pain. //

// hospital walls. Roses in empty wine

bottles unfolded in the house, // // anxiously mourning red petal fin

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

poets who grew old // // And wore the

bottoms of their trousers rolled, // // I need characters like Tennys

/ // South Georgia sunsets, and // //

bougainvillea blooms; hands to hold // // and promised stories told /

luc bat to mr. beam

// A sense of hope, a sense of fear, a

bough // // Cracks like fire, burning so bright, a bird // // Cozied

// to burn within these apples and this

bough , // // Which here and now at last, you recognise. // // This i

The Magic Apple Tree

/ // They came to strew his grave with

boughs // // But in the darkening hour they saw // // The boy withou

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

tree at last, the buried light. // //

Boughs form an arch, the painting draws you in // // Under its framin

The Magic Apple Tree

// In to its heart : the arching apple

boughs … // // The sky is dark, intense, a stormy grey, // // But jus

The Magic Apple Tree

g by such slender stalks from its laden

boughs . // // We were so young when we smoothed the bark with our fee

creature, transfixed by its time-blown

boughs , // // Will find itself returned to the perfect lightness of i

[At the coinciding point of the years]

houghts that thistle-scratch // // and

bounce back: big prizes! // // glossier glamour! more glorious to spe

[A spinning spider]

that mirror pool, // // Wherefrom they

bounce onto the canopy, // // Sprinkling their light through ground,

[What have we done]

it back— // // you wasted ink and were

bound to miss. // // From now on all unaccountable post // // should

The Dead Letter Office closes down

populations press // // against their

boundaries . The vital stress // // expresses change. Some variant has

// Let the treasure maps go Marcus. The

boundary between two // // Things is just a matter of timing. Is this

head bobs in peace upon a heart’s-blood

bouquet . // //

/ // then passes, // // catseyes like

bouquets // // thrown into the night behind us. // // And now, deep

// // of a heartbeat. // // Over the

bow // // I can see the evening’s // // last blue twilight, // // p

flow. // // No cramping bend to lunar

bow . // // No woman ruled by orbing tyrant queen; // // Umbilical ta

, // // Glow red and ripe and gold and

bow themselves // // To bless the fruitful earth from whence they spr

The Magic Apple Tree

Steeled against the disgrace of a head

bowed // // By superior hands into a prayer, in the back // // Of a

Vicious or Virtuous?

/ As we linger in our lovely, darkening

bowers // // Of bushes, trees, and living, dying flowers. // //

[Walcott begins Omeros]

Bowl // // Begin the song exactly where you are, // // Remain within

cup waiter serves // // My tea. Sugar

bowl fills not-white tablecloth sea. // // Daily no-feeling recurs in

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

and slow. // // Become an open singing-

bowl , whose chime // // Is richness rising out of emptiness, // // A

ets, // // Vases, ash trays, cups, and

bowls . // // What does he see in jugs and jars? // // What meaning i

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

rom the glazed back door // // through

box and holly grown to full maturity // // to an iron-gated pointed a

of weathered Cotswold stone. // // The

box and holly // // were magnificent, but could not be allowed // //

The Box // // The

box arrived— // // Crumpled cardboard, // // Raw-edged— // // Wrapp

fix— // // You can’t revive a worn-out

box of tricks. // // Just like you can’t wear medieval sleeves // //

In Defence of Evolution

// Perhaps I should plant // // some

box or holly. // //

// the produce of our labours. // // A

box or holly root, smouldering slowly, // // will burn for ever. The

Box // // The box arrived— // // Crumpled cardboard, // // Raw-edge

// I reapply to the inside face of the

box to make // // An inventory of items, // // A register for each c

ownwards to slug lickings on empty bird

box // // with flightless eggshells mouldering. // //

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

// what remains // // three years in

boxes . // // I want to take this moment and fossilise it. // // forg

fat gold clock (watch!) ticking // //

Boxes on an Apollo checklist; stuck at some point, still. // // Don’t

Hail, Holy Houston: A Discourse on the Anxiety of Mechanised Racial Profiling

re, 1962-3 // // This year it snows on

Boxing Day. // // The country road not cleared for days // // —and t

Walking in winter

// There are no limits and we’re all in

boy // // and I’ll take you for all that you’ve got. // //

id: are you, or are you not, // // The

boy in the poem? // // He knows I’m here; he knows // // What I soun

Did you bury her yet?

is born again. The festival // // Of a

boy -king // // Is but one of many. // // The year is born again. The

Before Christmas

red by Middle-Eastern tales // // Of a

boy -king. // // Seeming deathless, // // The year is born again. The

Before Christmas

others to the surprise of the small

boy playing in the street // // // // I heard the reply and it was

[I whispered my name into the trees]

y eyes linger; // // I am watching the

boy take off his shoes, // // Slipping them easy as peel from his moo

der the heavy trees // // And join the

boy who bathes in the light of the moon. // //

the darkening hour they saw // // The

boy without a face. // //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ere till his breath ran cold // // The

boy without a face. // // Between the shining silver trees // // He

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

eft his stiffened body there // // The

boy without a face. // // His only keepers were the fox, // // Crouc

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ldew took the place of tears // // The

boy without a face. // // July came, and the woods grew pretty // //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

my grandfather die in his voice. hurry

boy , “your light points to the sky”. he says it’s a figure, a luminesc

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

playfulness, // // On Tuesdays for the

boys in crinkled shirts, // // A break from labs and analysing dirts;

Three gay rituals

thes, as seemed appropriate, // // The

boys scrambled up, toecurling-wise and like two young // // Eves, in

Boy’s in Love—Section C Part 2b (i-ixx) // // I fell into it by accid

This Boy’s in Love—Section C Part 2b (i-ixx)

// // Miscellanea, fool’s gold, bric-a-

brac , // // bits and pieces, odds and ends, junk, old rope. // // Bo

ent. // // Pens open and ready, // //

braced with crossed ledgers // // and steelily smiling, // // the ni

Nil Charge / Nil Return

nter, // // old watches spread, // //

bracelets , teaspoons // // neatly priced, // // hunch-huddled, // /

In a charity shop

to make it plain. // // Two book-ends

bracket our shared domain: // // the start, the lobby of a Greek hote

// // Too much strain // // For dawn

brain ; // // And does matter // // Matter // // That much? // // W

Small Particles in the Small Hours

perfect mind // // As I try to get my

brain on line, // // Searching amongst my fact-debris. // // In the

Exam Room Villanelle

// The half-formed house // // Of the

brain trying to crystallize, but so often falls at the first hurdle, /

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

for greater // // Things, and left our

brains lame, // // Reduced to an inability to cater // // For our in

last steps. // // // // …Screeching

brakes and crunching metal as gravity falls away. // // Tumbling upw

Snapshot Endings

path and left you // // Deserted. Only

bramble blooms; only ivy strays // // Through the hollows the years h

why not wriggle our toes in bits of old

bran and chaff // // mixed up with sawdust from our new cut beams! //

are we fell // // And how, so root and

branch do both curse spell, // // Where fog, encoal’d, imbues with cl

[What have we done]

keeping the warmth // // In while the

branch outside knocks, drum-like, // // Pounding out a rhythm in harm

Snapshot Endings

/ // Monkey-like prance from branch to

branch , preserving those // // Old childhood traditions of tree climb

en might // // Monkey-like prance from

branch to branch, preserving those // // Old childhood traditions of

uck— // // To the lifter of leaves, of

branches and bloom // // May your sap run quick and your bark hold st

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

tree, // // The fall of light through

branches and the fling // // And curve of colour on the golden fruit…

The Magic Apple Tree

n transit, // // and the birds and the

branches are unseen. // // Her white hand weeps about its canopy, //

I had feared. // // I sit beneath your

branches , breathless, // // Waiting for a moment to arrive, // // W

The Tree of Wisdom

ow I listen at the window // // As the

branches dance and turn, // // The startling chartreuse yellow, // /

leaves might fall

scroll your youth // // When ash-keyed

branches dipped and prayed // // Not to hollows, but hellos—the cryin

ir re-sewn // // So through it dancing

branches from roots grown // // Do frame the stars, suspended, unders

[What have we done]

en smile, then // // strike with white

branches in a // // flash of white lights against // // bright, pale

Bright, Pale Yellow

fields of barleycorn. // // The loaded

branches of the apple tree, // // Glow red and ripe and gold and bow

The Magic Apple Tree

e pagan echoes. // // The supple green

branches , // // Remembering half-forgotten lives, // // Are obscured

Before Christmas

-Eastern tales. // // The supple green

branches , // // Seeming deathless, // // Are obscured by Middle-East

Before Christmas

// bright, pale yellow, // // the same

branches that // // during the days are // // bloodshot. // // How

Bright, Pale Yellow

een it. // // She gazed blankly at the

branches . // // The world swam occasionally, // // Left hand knotted

[The sun flattened]

e the dendrites of the mind // // Grow

branching thoughts, bear fruit. // // A song // // Where birds once

d carefree // // In the darkness of no-

brand car’s back seats. // // Fresheners’ smell is the only thing we

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

ctly straight lines, // // And chose a

brand new name to give to every single one. // //

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ld Adam must have done: // // Alone in

brand new Paradise with infinite-ish time. // // And so they split th

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

chew nettles // // than touch anything

branded by Nestlé, // // that a hand-grenade of barbed calories // /

Chocolate Sonnet

won’t need us— // // He’s in with top

brass and so scorns Hamas. // // Where we die to live, he has zero to

rrily. // // We enter mass to bands of

brass , // // We stand as the choirs pass. // // Gaudete. // // Cand

A Hymn to a Loved One

ur memories, why did // // he stoop to

brass ? Why do I chiefly mourn // // that little gap where we had alwa

Compass Reading

e exchanges of false // // Smiles and

bravado that shield the truth // // From the handshake. // // A hand

Vicious or Virtuous?

rotection of a bank balance. // // The

brave and fearless warrior will cross the road // // To avoid the rem

he misting-up Dickensian window. // //

Bravely , someone intones // // The first notes to // // Wild Mountai

Wild Mountain Thyme

And me realising there’s still a street

brawler inside him. // // And there are some scars a business suit ca

Three Pieces of Advice

eneath us // // Like seeing a humpback

breach // // Great Skellig slate grey and wet // // The ocean rollin

the stars // // Like seeing a humpback

breach // // The fire which leapt over us // // The ocean rolling be

gh, and every wave tries hard // // to

breach the wall. And when it hits just right // // the spray rises a

Walking in winter

rink! and be merry! // // Warm, mellow

bread breath chanting and a song // // drink to winter! and be m

Drink and be merry

atter from John Lewis, cinnamon infused

bread sauce and incongruous prosecco // // drink! // // to Christmas

Drink and be merry

the old sun-dancing Christ: // // The

bread stayed bready and the wine // // Passed up its chance to be div

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

dancing Christ: // // The bread stayed

bready and the wine // // Passed up its chance to be divine; // // O

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

captors. // // The nilherds sense nail-

break // // and sharpen their needling, // // call out their manager

Nil Charge / Nil Return

cles must i keep on // // GOING till i

break ? // // DO i have to keep repeating // // keep repeating keep r

the windmill’s lament—a short play

from labs and analysing dirts; // // A

break from hoping father just would guess. // // In Eastern Cape men

Three gay rituals

r the boys in crinkled shirts, // // A

break from labs and analysing dirts; // // A break from hoping father

Three gay rituals

without ceasing, // // without rest or

break ? // // i WISH that i could slow i wish that // // i could SLOW

the windmill’s lament—a short play

appropriates for its own // // but you

Break it with a smile and portion and peel // // these days to savour

ow, at least. // // Teeth, showing, to

break the ice // // And cut the tension. // // I should have spoken

t having one of its stupid questions to

break the ice, // // ‘Doesn’t the idea of the world ending sometimes

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

blasts drop like a shutter’s blink and

break // // The moment when the child looks and the lens // // Looks

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

y grasses. // // His pointed foot will

break the skein of water; // // I love that bubble-burst every time.

work. // // Now, blank verse seems to

break those systems down: // // It’s open and adaptive and it’s free:

In Defence of Evolution

Splitting // // // Our

break -up has been roiling now for more // // than three fraught years

k of him as a child” and I can bend and

break when you want to snap me. cleanse me with hyssop and I won’t be

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

choice but to be selfish, presumptuous,

breakable . // // Do I need others’ breezing breath to fill my happine

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

Breakfast // // A grapefruit squeezed // // Spoon cuts crimson flesh

Beyond your long last line the dawn is

breaking ”. // //

n every darkness is a reminder of their

breaking . // //

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

hear was the smash of lights inside me

breaking , // // and the low buzzing of machines beneath the steady ga

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ages of poetry. My blurry eyes resisted

breaking // // concentration until the walls dissolved around me, the

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

English say, an omelette’s only made by

breaking eggs. // // Oh! must you leave so early? We had hoped // //

ght. // // Slanting lines are forming,

breaking , forming // // ordered chaos with a raucous song: // // A t

Wells in winter

ds before waves flooded my boots, water

breaking // // into damp dust around my knees and my smile breaking /

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

damp dust around my knees and my smile

breaking // // into laughter, before stumbling barefoot back to your

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

olf-eyes in the rain. Their irises keep

breaking // // me, and so I build myself like honeycomb. Wax might cr

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

and my Grandmother will love me again.

Breaking // // slowly, I’m about to knock when the dream drops my han

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

rough breathes a change in them, // //

Breaking their sheen into a certain shade // // Particular and unrepe

The Magic Apple Tree

// that old haunt still knocking about

breaking // // things scratching walls hiding under bedsheets, // //

w // // Fit you ill, and added to your

breaking ; // // True predators fear this world’s raw // // Venality

pe the songsmith // // The word-worm

breaks from the bone-cage // // The word-worm encircles, tightens its

thin the strictest measure even, // //

Breaks in the drill and rhythm of a bell… // // Were I to wake alone

// Towards the edge // // Where fell

breaks // // On nothing but the shiver // // of your fresh skimmer’s

is grey— // // The sea brims until it

breaks — // // Onward—I watch the wake— // // And further—the ships n

From Trebetherick Point

// // I am still dreaming; everything

breaks over me in waves. // // Like a seed listening to echoes throug

[I often think of that January morning]

ces // // far too clear. // // A wave

breaks over us like a stage curtain, // // and it is last night on th

Autumn // // The day

breaks slowly on the hills of green // // Everything turned strangely

/ The mis-struck stone. The blade which

breaks . // // The potter’s hand that slips and scores // // his mark

of the bone // // as Martin’s morning

breaks upon the night // // we trade in futures on the wishing bone /

My judicious removal of selected line

breaks was universally acknowledged to be the making of this poem. —

takes, // // Human things that Michael

breaks // // Will wash away his refuge. // // As he watches from the

g weed, revealed nothing: no blenny, no

bream — // // It was just a small fish. // // So we lay on the rock i

Just a Small Fish

nd and shining light // // To beat the

breast against // // And worship waist-deep in hands // // That till

// And then he breathed his last blue

breath // // And left it in the shining air // // And left his stiff

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

over you // // And you try to gasp for

breath , but you can’t // // And it feels like your head will explode

and be merry! // // Warm, mellow bread

breath chanting and a song // // drink to winter! and be merry!

Drink and be merry

note stays unfinished. // // One last

breath drawn, shakily, then I end something // // For the first time.

Snapshot Endings

s to those who see // // Pentameter as

breath from nature’s throat; // // To me it’s just another tyrant’s c

In Defence of Evolution

h stroke comes. // // So on I flow, my

breath held deep but soft, // // I let my body fall again, be wash’d

[What have we done]

an do // // Than whine with your final

breath ? // // I am one of those dread ancients // // Dispensing just

ng each other, wasn’t it? // // Like a

breath of old air. Hear from you soon? // // Course. // // [I missed

Whales sing because they have a song

as my hair is chilled // // by all the

breath of Russia // // (even the kitchen sink bears witness // // to

why i’m getting into Christmas

jar— // // She thought she’d heard the

breath of the unknown— // // But through the door there only swept a

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

ng Fall in tattooed cold, // // Misted

breath on misted grass. // // Dew dappled on falling trees, // // Da

Fall for————

cate as I, can // // Tear with a sharp

breath or vicious statement. // // But your line stands, reinforced,

The Other Side of the Line

// like a sponge-print. // // The last

breath out is the first to be drawn. // // Under the window, on the p

out for blood // // But my saccharine

breath pleads for a haven. // // I have little hope that either will

urned blue // // He lay there till his

breath ran cold // // The boy without a face. // // Between the shin

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

. Miss cannot teach us Greek; // // No

breath remains to show how we might speak // // Or write, approaching

y un-canned laughter and crackling fire-

breath // // (Sound-bites for both now!)— // // because he couldn’t

// This is how you lose the ancestral

breath , // // This is how you lose home. // //

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

able. // // Do I need others’ breezing

breath to fill my happiness? // // Glances, yeses, and the mystery of

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

be for good. // // Start with the very

breath you breathe in now, // // This moment’s pulse, this rhythm in

annot understand you // // Because you

breathe . // // I only included everything important. // // Everythin

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

. // // Start with the very breath you

breathe in now, // // This moment’s pulse, this rhythm in your blood

ot rain. // // your ribs are kindling;

breathe in, strike a match: // // the matter’s so compacted it won’t

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

hat race // // Through my heart when I

breathe in what you breathed // // Out are unintelligible, or unorigi

I’ll never work for Hallmark

amber Gordale Scar // // and rest, and

breathe some more the cool clear air. // // Beyond the scree the open

Daydream Dale Journey

arettes to your many mouths that // //

breathe words down the phone // // which I’ll never hear because I fe

why i’m getting into Christmas

verything squalls and // // Everything

breathed and // // Your soft memory immolates its body beneath my han

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

ing its white grace. // // And then he

breathed his last blue breath // // And left it in the shining air //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ugh my heart when I breathe in what you

breathed // // Out are unintelligible, or unoriginal. // // If I tol

I’ll never work for Hallmark

ight, // // The air they shine through

breathes a change in them, // // Breaking their sheen into a certain

The Magic Apple Tree

ere: // // those undulating ring-lines

breathing // // age into you // // and sighing into the ground; //

work, // // Those creeping politicians

breathing hate, // // Who prostitute the offices of state, // // Red

/ // I do feel the cold— // // and my

breathing is rather uncertain.” // //

ing, running from the grey // // teeth

breathing just beyond my shoulder blades. An unsteady light // // is

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ill come in time. // // Slow down your

breathing . Keep it deep and slow. // // Become an open singing-bowl,

s a piece of itself there? // //

Breathless , I stand being looked at // // immobile open ripped a

ed. // // I sit beneath your branches,

breathless , // // Waiting for a moment to arrive, // // When out of

The Tree of Wisdom

// Cast in white marble by two gentle

breaths . // // How different we look—you and I, // // More darkness

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

Hold // // Coffee-stained

breaths // // I pull myself into // // the comforting wetness of you

an // // // // or I // // Iron Age

bred , // // now stuck, // // cinder at last ebb // // ignites arena

Hercules et Oracle

// Two-faced words incarnate, bastard

breed of loathing and love. // //

e with fire. // // Its five red petals

breed six warring tongues // // That in the silence spell our hexagra

Sixteen Forty-Five

ng. Yet it will // // occasionally not

breed true. Now strife: // // the different dittoes must compete for

erent we are, // // And the loneliness

breeds like dysentery down every corridor, // // And everything becom

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

freeze // // And ice to form upon the

breeze // // And snow to lie upon the lease // // Leaving its white

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

makes its approach // // On this idle

breeze , // // And summons me with gentle reproach // // Of the thing

I could never be (ready)

hide among // // the seeds spun by the

breeze , between lines of sonnets, // // in the secret of the space be

e carnival has come to town, // // The

breeze is on vacation as // // The hot work begins, wheeling // // R

// // Snaps like a rope whipping in a

breeze on a desert-plain, // // The pitch-white lake bed bare of life

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

us, breakable. // // Do I need others’

breezing breath to fill my happiness? // // Glances, yeses, and the m

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

growing potion, thick // // To perfect

brew’d . My bones grow Ache and Lack; // // But drown’d out is their p

[What have we done]

Discover that we might yet wreck their

brexit . // //

w, some character in a play // // With

Brian Blessed // // Squeezed into the frame, the dusty sepia. // //

Bearded Thoughts

ke the paper rose. // // This is Sweet

Briar , the Tudor seal, it binds // // One kingdom with another, fire

Sixteen Forty-Five

earing // // Miscellanea, fool’s gold,

bric -a-brac, // // bits and pieces, odds and ends, junk, old rope. //

s // // Like a building falling // //

Brick by brick. // // I couldn’t make it out. // // You were not the

[So snow falls outside]

aydream // // and puff that renovation

brick -dust from our lungs. // // Blown away through our empty sails,

Like a building falling // // Brick by

brick . // // I couldn’t make it out. // // You were not there, // /

[So snow falls outside]

Until your notes covered it like yellow

bricks . // //

The Notes You Have Left

/ Ships hang in the sky much in the way

bricks // // Might, if we built a Babel enough crane. // // Bums are

Hail, Holy Houston: A Discourse on the Anxiety of Mechanised Racial Profiling

s Kind. // // Higgledy Piggledy // //

Brideshead Revisited: // // Nostalgic adventures // // Of Ryder and

and the Strid beyond, // // and Barden

Bridge —and now I flick my wand // // some miles of dale and moor to s

Daydream Dale Journey

h, I have a whim // // to build a fine

bridge clear across a great river, where // // trees, grass and flowe

Troubled waters

re will I pay for—and // // now on the

bridge I am pulling the plug.” // //

Troubled waters

Journey // // From Ilkley’s old stone

bridge I trace a path // // against the stream, back up the river Wha

Daydream Dale Journey

Decomposed on Westminster

Bridge , January 3, 2002 // // Early in the evening, we left the

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

poem? // // Last night’s kiss a broken

bridge —now we’re both in the abyss. // // In the darkness I keep rewr

Bridge // // Red and white lights guide their journey, // // Light f

s, they passed us by as we stood on the

bridge , suspended sense of solid pavement in smokefilled grey. I asked

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

ngers // // And fill my mind // // To

bridge the gap // // And space between the // // Ones that live as t

Poems on the Underground

an island offshore. // // There are no

bridges between here and there. // // Only an infrequent ferry carrie

s can stretch shore to shore. // // Of

bridges traversing the Thames here in London, we’ve // // just thirty

Troubled waters

discourses on mozzarella, richelieu and

brie // // Fixing anyone who disagrees with an impenetrable stare, ye

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

// Uncase the Camembert, bring out the

Brie , // // The precious freight that crossed the sundering sea, //

ows again. // // One afternoon for one

brief hour // // the air is warm enough to melt // // the topmost la

Walking in winter

// I was always earth-strewn, // // A

brief interlude of disequilibrium. // // This pumice golem was never

Frighteningly Inert

he experience of reality, if only for a

brief moment. This reality is coextensive with ‘unconscious will’, ‘pu

A Translation of Wallace Stevens’s ‘Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction’, section 1: ‘It Must be Abstract’

rching to the front line, clutching our

briefcases // // Like the paperwork holds the keys to victory, // //

// // Revealed the Higgs boson. // //

Briefly . // // But just one illicit // // Blink and I’ll miss it. /

Small Particles in the Small Hours

hat filthy glass // // Will only pause

briefly , // // Or be eclipsed by the shuttered windows of the next tr

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

d flat to my sole, // // Your nightbed

briefly vacated. // // My arm fading back now, rocking with wheels’ f

// Bellowing his song of grace. // //

Briers grew about his head // // Campions covered his outspread hair

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ugh // // Cracks like fire, burning so

bright , a bird // // Cozied in its nest, snuggles down somehow. // /

// // Where birds once chorused a dew

bright dawn. // // Immortality // // Is in time, our blood coloured

Bright , Pale Yellow // // Our house is in darkness. // // I shut my

Bright, Pale Yellow

// my eyelids are glowing with // //

bright , pale yellow, // // the kind that shines through your // // s

Bright, Pale Yellow

// flash of white lights against // //

bright , pale yellow, // // the same branches that // // during the d

Bright, Pale Yellow

plastic floor, its frailty tuned by too

bright , // // White-gold light, suspending patterned navy seats. //

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

I still feel its warmth. // // [You’d

brighten my day more.] / [Too long.] / [ Winter has a jealous moon.]

Whales sing because they have a song

l // // future lights heating, burning

brighter now // // that her kerosene eyes have lost their heat // //

why i’m getting into Christmas

w suns, // // and, picking four of the

brightest ripest ones, // // takes yard eggs, flour, fruit of the cit

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

/ out of the darkness, // // watch the

brightness // // squirm, then smile, then // // strike with white br

Bright, Pale Yellow

/ how else to explain, sheltered by the

brimming chest, // // the shivering sceptic, afraid, at last, of ghos

yellow—until it is grey— // // The sea

brims until it breaks— // // Onward—I watch the wake— // // And furt

From Trebetherick Point

instead of finlandia swiss, gubbeen and

brin d’amour? // // And had Hamlet said ‘Forsooth, I must punish my u

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ithin each bite of Cadbury’s, // // so

bring on the celery. And a slice // // of cake was suicide, and suga

Chocolate Sonnet

orry Park. // // Uncase the Camembert,

bring out the Brie, // // The precious freight that crossed the sunde

three days and He’ll return // // And

bring salvation and sunshine and the smell of fresh grass with Him. //

[And, hey, maybe if I continue to sing]

taboo. I wasn’t even // // allowed to

bring up the subject of Lindt. // // All of which left just me. You

Chocolate Sonnet

estled in a form I had not meant // //

Bringing a message I had not planned // // Screaming in my mind for r

Writing to explore

ish were it not for the curse // // Of

bringing her here. But now someone’s penned // // A delicate sonnet—t

Wednesday Evening

My sixtieth birthday is nearing— // //

brings a thought that is far from cheering: // // that while the past

sterful his pen appears, // // When it

brings its audience to tears // // Or lets them feel or empathise. //

kings—all rot away, while night // //

brings rumbling forest drums that cry vanité! // // vanité! tous n’es

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

the simplicity // // moonlight // //

brings to an autumn frost. // // 1am, and Woodlands court // // is t

[The sash rattles up]

/ // Sprawls upon the pavement, // //

Bristles forced to comic angles. // // A pigeon’s slow, ungainly step

Urban bird watching

I could not reach, // // high on your

bristling Harris Tweed lapel. // // The smell of disappointment and o

Compass Reading

mp, decant- // // ing fungus. Brutish,

British , you’re out of // // step with happiness. You human anti //

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

ocean dropp’d on me, // // and with my

brittle bones and star roll’d dice // // I plucked from falling world

[What have we done]

/ And a cheer for you, inkcap, and dark

brittlegill // // And a drink for you, fungus, and your magic fruits—

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

dream perchance to sleep … Brrng!

Brnng ! // // No time for that sunshine, get up and go // // you’ve g

/ Feel the air. Turn in the four winds.

Broadcast the secret // // to earth, as far away as it will go. Let t

g, something sad inside. // // A cloud

broke , and she saw it shatter, // // Up there in the sky, // // Blow

[The sun flattened]

oarding passes from times they went for

broke . // // Gifts they could never be bothered to wrap. // // Ties,

is the poem? // // Last night’s kiss a

broken bridge—now we’re both in the abyss. // // In the darkness I ke

d their seventy-percent // // Of newly-

broken foetus-leaves // // In the last May bursts of spring. // // T

, cut clean. // // I am the moon-child

broken free, // // Losing mother and maternity. // //

/ Your glance is like a blessing on the

broken // // I tender this in thankfulness, a token // // Of what ca

y touched the panes, // // Instead was

broken into pieces, // // Collapsed into the shattered trees // // L

[The sun flattened]

all such signs. May the new // // and

broken morning be no song of you, // // but may you revel in this wor

ngs // // Burning. Listen, kid: // //

Broken ribs aren’t worth it, // // Kid: bandages aren’t for this kind

Did you bury her yet?

alling, // // Kneeling on a cushion of

broken shards, // // All that remains is dripping blood // // And a

alling trees, // // Dancing shoes over

broken shards. // // Burnished leaves line damp concrete, // // Reje

Fall for————

ill left locked // // anything not yet

broken , so tell me // // contrary poltergeist what is it you // // s

d toothed, // // Like a hand, lobed or

broken , // // When will they bear fruit? // // Each spent page somet

leaves might fall

/ Your glance is like a blessing on the

broken , // // Your smile a sudden grace. // //

/ Your glance is like a blessing on the

broken , // // Your smile a sudden grace. // // And what is it your p

. // // The divine condensed to a mere

bromide . // // ’Tis pity he’s a bore. // //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

n me a magician // // Who could cast a

bronze bull to let his Queen pull, // // And commit all her sins of e

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

// // Coiling round temple pillars and

bronze effigies, // // Usurping the old shore with the new tide. //

ver. // // ARIADNE // // I blame that

bronzed hulk and his vanity // // Claimed his dad was a sea god—insan

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

// Her scarf, her necklace. // // That

brooch . // // Or if she ever // // leant back on her stool // // an

In a charity shop

wine, // // a waiter who looked like a

brother , and a place to talk. // // Years later we went back and made

trunk, kept cool in the shade // // My

brother beside me, companiable but mute // // Remains a vivid memory

wish I could be faithful. // // Lover,

brother , I have done you wrong. // // Only an infidel writes thirteen

ute: // // Provided a thread, left her

brother stone dead, // // And sailed with the oaf, resolute. // // T

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

now I’m back // // to teddy and a baby

brother’s cry. // // The virus makes me look // // for virtue in the

A Room of Her Own

ictured // // her dresses // // being

brought back here, // // her son thinking // // ‘that’s what she’d’v

In a charity shop

s far as I can reach // // the flotsam

brought in on the flow: time to mark the beach. // // Now I start to

shone—’twas my ember. // // The flame

brought me to my feet remember // // And, half in mind, Ascent of Cas

[What have we done]

Wednesday Evening // //

Brought my new friend to the Poetry Group // // To sit on a sofa, our

Wednesday Evening

fine your life. // // Your young voice

brought old words to life, // // age only antique, frailty perceivabl

Sestina to an English Teacher

It was a strange attraction // // That

brought us here: // // A glisten from your sullen veins— // // A pro

Magnetic Mountain

/ They had just funds enough to pay and

brought you here. // // Three X-rays and a CAT scan for an air- // /

her wear // // Than the crease of your

brow emblazoned in my hair. // // And you, around that narrow spotles

our new-born argument is furrowing your

brow , // // So I glance instead at your mirror, // // Rested head ge

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

k—you and I, // // More darkness in my

brow than in your entirety. // // You may yet grow to resemble your m

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

// To find the case and lift the dull

brown cover // // To see, at first, your image in the glass. // // Y

The Magic Apple Tree

right in that light, hush’d // // lull

brown , // // deep among your dusk // // heavy sockets. rust // // m

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

ble limits // // And covering the hard

brown earth. // // Blurry, out of focus and unfeeling // // Times, w

but too quick, arson— // // under the

brown fog of a winter noon // // Tiresias the stripper’s son // // t

[the typist puts her knickers on]

duction is draining.) // // The quick,

brown fox sticks his hot sharp stink in ones and zeroes. // // We are

Hail, Holy Houston: A Discourse on the Anxiety of Mechanised Racial Profiling

: weaving a registry of fifty shades of

brown . // // Ships hang in the sky much in the way bricks // // Migh

Hail, Holy Houston: A Discourse on the Anxiety of Mechanised Racial Profiling

Fresh as the day although freckled and

browned // // And frowned. // // With the royal standard let him be

constant, fruit-laden, generous and sun-

browned // // Golden, swollen mangoes unpicked by childish hands //

rth, as far away as it will go. Let the

browns // // and reds and golds replace the greens. Now throw the can

Ah, to dream perchance to sleep …

Brrng ! Brnng! // // No time for that sunshine, get up and go // // y

Brrrrr ) // // The Girton oak has developed a burr // // Under the ba

BURR (or Brrrrr)

// For in the name of Mammon, you still

bruise // // Our dialect, sweet sister of our land. // // The poor m

me in the pit // // And come away with

bruises and black lung // // And purple dermal chunks of coal and gri

/ of you. The thoughts still hurt. Like

bruises , existing as echoes // // of former pain written across me, t

[I often think of that January morning]

amson binds // // Five foxes, brush to

brush , a hexagram // // Of blazing damage. Kinship, threat, and fire

Sixteen Forty-Five

ines along the east // // To touch and

brush a sheen of light on water // // As though behind the sky itself

// A snowdrift forms against the wire

brush // // of David’s thick black hair, // // staying in place unti

Walking in winter

enching, so hard the butterflies // //

Brush the back of my throat. // // I should have smiled by now, at le

uncivil Samson binds // // Five foxes,

brush to brush, a hexagram // // Of blazing damage. Kinship, threat,

Sixteen Forty-Five

dly I missed the jar of water, swirling

brushes in my coffee. // // As much as I tried to forget, the memorie

[I often think of that January morning]

haeological tools // // extracting and

brushing each letter // // in return he translates Latin eulogies //

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

etes a turn in the air // // with slow

brute grace, // // then passes, // // catseyes like bouquets // //

/ // The girl fell for the muscular he-

brute : // // Provided a thread, left her brother stone dead, // // A

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

, like damp, decant- // // ing fungus.

Brutish , British, you’re out of // // step with happiness. You human

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

rsed // // in things grammatical, your

bubble burst. // //

Between Life and Death

the skein of water; // // I love that

bubble -burst every time. // // The cold he feels nudges at my booted

e and Earth and form. // // Within our

bubble , Hubble shows the forms // // Of roiling supernovae; helium fl

-winds, fire burn and chthonic cauldron

bubble . Incorrigible night // // in which sailors drown at sea becaus

it just passed, // // Expanding in a

bubble that you know // // Soaped Titan in his bath. He loved the lig

e-in and hoydenish // // bivalves blew

bubbles . Beneath the flushed sea-tail, a gleam— // // It was just a s

Just a Small Fish

e stars all smiled and rushed to become

bubbles in the waves around my shoulders. And I was scared that my ski

[So the moon was there]

o winter! and be merry! // // Fat boar

bubbling in oil spit, and the lamb is bled // // drink! to winter! an

Drink and be merry

age through bins, // // barefaced as a

Buddhist monk. Enough buns // // and you’ll look like you’ve one in

Chocolate Sonnet

rk and damp. Now push out above, // //

buds into the waxing light, the spring rain. Throw open // // the fir

you lose sight of the mountains, of the

buffalos . // // Promise me—don’t compromise your name, // // This is

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

Buffy // // // In the beat of a pun, // // She presents the wooden

n it: // // With every line I hate the

bugger more. // // And so my theory for this open sore: // // Verse

In Defence of Evolution

stink in ones and zeroes. // // We are

buggering the ineffable; Satan’s a spot we can see! // // What will y

Hail, Holy Houston: A Discourse on the Anxiety of Mechanised Racial Profiling

h my halo. Ah, I have a whim // // to

build a fine bridge clear across a great river, where // // trees, gr

Troubled waters

ce, I // // Must change my heart, must

build my soul anew. // // As old as the oak, as this oak tree grew //

rises keep breaking // // me, and so I

build myself like honeycomb. Wax might create candlelight, // // but

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

l thread through your jaw— // // We'll

build you up better than ever before. // //

// Noises fell in puddles // // Like a

building falling // // Brick by brick. // // I couldn’t make it out.

[So snow falls outside]

sawing of their trees, // // Choosing,

building , flying, feeding in the fields, // // Walking, hopping, stir

[Walcott begins Omeros]

nd distant, // // My frustration, ever

building , swelling, // // Oozing towards the battlegrounds ahead. //

The Other Side of the Line

sins of emission. // // The sequel was

building the labyrinth // // To conceal where that big baby hybrid is

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

st // // (Girton student 1880s) // //

builds a lab in her garden // // in Reigate, on her way to // // rec

There must be moonshine

h in the way bricks // // Might, if we

built a Babel enough crane. // // Bums are falling off our kids: ruth

Hail, Holy Houston: A Discourse on the Anxiety of Mechanised Racial Profiling

fire. // // The page is filled. I have

built a pyre // // To all the words whose smoke the sky swallowed. //

generated quantities of fuel // // and

built a roaring blaze. Then late into the night // // I fed it all t

light, // // Great stone shrines were

built . // // All humans feel the change // // And, if we look, we ca

Before Christmas

short, // // and dark night fell as we

built and lit the fire // // on the dark stones, and planted firework

/ // A soft man from the oddest matter

built , // // Is man no less when odd and painted white. // // Anothe

Three gay rituals

pointed arch // // piercing the wall,

built like the house // // of weathered Cotswold stone. // // The bo

ll see. // // Great stone shrines were

built // // Many lifetimes before us // // And, if we look, we can s

Before Christmas

sion—I know just the man. // // He has

built me some buses which boosted my ego—the // // Heatherwick’s sure

Troubled waters

Reading // // You could I never love.

Built of a bulk // // beyond my comprehension; lensed eyes ‘big // /

Compass Reading

p Lines” // // // // // Manhattan’s

built on blocks because they planned it out like that // // (You don’

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ome cheese. // // But his scheming was

built on // // her fondness for Stilton // // when, sadly, it just m

The Failing of the Cheese

e our love to be an energy saving light

bulb , // // It takes its time to warm up, and can, apparently, cause

I’ll never work for Hallmark

// You could I never love. Built of a

bulk // // beyond my comprehension; lensed eyes ‘big // // as saucer

Compass Reading

’s fighting // // (Hand to hand with a

bull /man’s exciting), // // But I turned on the charm: made her help

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

bless her. // // She’d this need for a

bull to caress her. // // Left me stuck in a maze to the end of my da

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

magician // // Who could cast a bronze

bull to let his Queen pull, // // And commit all her sins of emission

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

o— // // nobody heard from that // //

bullet -proof hideout their // // life’s melody. // // “Fiddle-dee-de

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// There was a gun. // // There was a

bullet , stray. // // There was a young man writhing in the splinters

Black September

// // but falling far short of a neat

bull’s -eye. // // Not quite seeing the wood for the balsa, // // kno

Up there in the sky, // // Blowed and

bumbling along, // // Airwards words off the tongue. // // The sky w

[The sun flattened]

/ // Like chestnuts in an oven. // //

Bums ache on floors, // // Perch on arms of chairs, // // Settle int

Wild Mountain Thyme

f we built a Babel enough crane. // //

Bums are falling off our kids: ruthless in cutting off waste! // // F

Hail, Holy Houston: A Discourse on the Anxiety of Mechanised Racial Profiling

strong cheese // // taken amongst the

bums // // in the silence of exiles. // // No surprise at sundown //

Tridente, 10th September

// // Tomorrow—the same. // // find a

bunch of flowers for a suffering friend // // —cancer, poor dear, we’

/ Out of the magician’s hat the rainbow

bunny of being able to remember the names of the metrical forms, // /

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

/ barefaced as a Buddhist monk. Enough

buns // // and you’ll look like you’ve one in the oven. // // Teacak

Chocolate Sonnet

ng walls hiding under bedsheets, // //

buoyed by the colourless memory of pain, // // as if there were any d

th // // No less than home. // // The

burden of Egypt, // // The burden of the desert of the sea. // // Fa

// // The burden of Egypt, // // The

burden of the desert of the sea. // // Fatness sluiced clean, // //

s the offspring of divorce, // // with

burdens that they never sought to bear? // // It’s not as though we’v

sink, // // Pour out the last of this

Burgundian wine // // Before those wretched wreckers draw the line //

le of a cracked caramel carpet // // a

burial mound where boots crunch beech nuts // // and heave clods of w

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

pple tree // // And here the light you

buried for so long // // Leaps up in you to life and resurrection.

The Magic Apple Tree

ree hours after his arrival, // // was

buried in an unmarked grave. // // There were no victors: only victim

Black September

yes are deep dark centre stones, // //

Buried in squinting distance, // // And his skin demarcates the Sun’s

’Tis pity he’s a bore

colour on the golden fruit… // // All

buried in the rubble of your fall. // // Walk through the present dar

The Magic Apple Tree

/ // And through the tree at last, the

buried light. // // Boughs form an arch, the painting draws you in //

The Magic Apple Tree

darkness of the world // // Towards a

buried memory of light // // Whose faded trace no photograph records.

The Magic Apple Tree

just biology. // // I am the king that

buried the world; // // The only map of his kingdom perfect enough //

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

o hear and touch and see // // what is

buried well inside. // // Yes, this is where I hide— // // and you c

It never forms // // Intelligence, to

burn a gem-like flame. // // If you are last to leave, put out the li

reel // // Back to lupine-winds, fire

burn and chthonic cauldron bubble. Incorrigible night // // in which

y root, smouldering slowly, // // will

burn for ever. The fire once begun // // would last for days and day

of our first // // spring; an ache and

burn . // // How sweet and clean was that return. // // How can we no

d // // Where your funeral pyres still

burn , // // Silently roaring // // In a late summer’s haze // // No

Magnetic Mountain

// without words or comforts. // // We

burn . // // We can’t touch or even speak, // // afraid of the reflec

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

ncrements of incarnation down // // to

burn within these apples and this bough, // // Which here and now at

The Magic Apple Tree

se I feel // // future lights heating,

burning brighter now // // that her kerosene eyes have lost their hea

why i’m getting into Christmas

ut // // It misfits, kills a bell in a

burning crucible. // // The cat yowls, and it all comes // // Beauti

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

n aloft, // // My skin feels ’kin to a

burning fire’s waft, // // Sizzling at every edge and spitting ’oft.

[What have we done]

// // And I kept digging, lungs // //

Burning . Listen, kid: // // Broken ribs aren’t worth it, // // Kid:

Did you bury her yet?

fear, a bough // // Cracks like fire,

burning so bright, a bird // // Cozied in its nest, snuggles down som

nsed eyes ‘big // // as saucers’ x-ray-

burning to my five- // // year infant guilt. Fruitless to plead my ca

Compass Reading

nd Pyriphlegethon, // // Carrying your

burning wails into Acheron // // Your river of woe and death. // //

ed to ash // // and the smell of their

burning will herald the day. // //

The Dead Letter Office closes down

are happy—some shiny erection to // //

burnish my halo. Ah, I have a whim // // to build a fine bridge clea

Troubled waters

ancing shoes over broken shards. // //

Burnished leaves line damp concrete, // // Rejected love letters aban

Fall for————

once scorched soft calfskin, // // Now

burns blackened words into dead wood; // // Cremates Glede-eyes garne

y // // Another day of fresh cigarette

burns , // // not failing to hit the side of a barn // // but falling

smell like watching rain fall // // In

burnt amber light, // // With an old movie in the background— // //

Fall for————

tion of rowers, // // The pink heat of

burnt necks and thirsty flowers. // // I taste the faint rustle of gr

ot-quite-never-yet notes // // will be

burnt to the sound of a piped lament. // // The manager wouldn’t deal

The Dead Letter Office closes down

[Hidden behind the candyfloss

burps ] // // Hidden behind the candyfloss burps of hey and how are yo

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

ps] // // Hidden behind the candyfloss

burps of hey and how are you, // // Concealed beneath ‘I don’t know’

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

BURR (or Brrrrr) // // The Girton oak has developed a burr // // Und

BURR (or Brrrrr)

// I imagined its cross section like a

burr , // // or like cork— // // all suberised. // // It could look

works for the College bird. // // The

burr -sore want some fast relief: // // Heat-treatment is the only cur

BURR (or Brrrrr)

) // // The Girton oak has developed a

burr // // Under the bark it is seen and heard // // Rolling Rs and

BURR (or Brrrrr)

like a Scot, // // At every moment the

burring grows, // // Thrushes migrate where the weather’s hot, // //

BURR (or Brrrrr)

you sleeping, // // My living comfort,

burrowed in our bed. // // You reach across and still the drilling be

(warm) corridor. // // Every Girtonian

burrs like a Scot, // // At every moment the burring grows, // // Th

BURR (or Brrrrr)

y cure; // // Everyone should give the

bursar grief— // // Have protests along her (warm) corridor. // // E

BURR (or Brrrrr)

we are left in its throes, // // Now,

bursar , now, let us warm our toes. // //

BURR (or Brrrrr)

// in things grammatical, your bubble

burst . // //

Between Life and Death

oved the light // // Refracted—'til it

burst —became a mass // // Of scum. For us, lost Space and Earth and f

ein of water; // // I love that bubble-

burst every time. // // The cold he feels nudges at my booted feet. /

// abrading the bolt-rust, // // they

burst through their binding // // like overwound springs; // // nill

Nil Charge / Nil Return

ery of mustard yellow tights. // // My

bursting flight of spotlit laughing on the pavement // // dries to si

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

touch the light // // And now the song

bursts from our throats // // And now our hearts are opened wide //

[cyclamen in purple

bursts kiss compost] // // cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost //

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

kiss compost] // // cyclamen in purple

bursts kiss compost // // mushroom-tiled and moss-gilded // // a sum

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

en foetus-leaves // // In the last May

bursts of spring. // // Till now there’s only been a fist, // // Hal

bury her yet? // // // // Listen, kid: are you, or are you not, //

Did you bury her yet?

y May Ball maroon-laced shoes // // To

bury your mother. // // And me realising there’s still a street brawl

Three Pieces of Advice

es are suddenly spread. // // Over the

bus as it rounds Hyde Park, // // Down border-lanes, and further west

Crossing // // “the yellow

bus had stopped // // at the railroad crossing // // the driver yell

mumbled my name to the dank moss in the

bus shelter // // I mouthed my name silently on the windswept tip of

[I whispered my name into the trees]

// Dear Alan, // // I saw a man on the

bus who I thought was you // // Dear Alan, // // I knew he couldn’t

beauty of the day submerged in silence.

Buses , bicycles, cold commuters, they passed us by as we stood on the

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

t such a mug. // // I’ve cancelled his

buses , no more will I pay for—and // // now on the bridge I am pullin

Troubled waters

st the man. // // He has built me some

buses which boosted my ego—the // // Heatherwick’s sure to produce a

Troubled waters

he camera’s smitten gaze, // // While

Bush stares out from under you. // // You look so nice: fresh-dressed

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

‘War is not nice’—Barbara

Bush // // There is a picture of you that we love, // // Taken when

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

our lovely, darkening bowers // // Of

bushes , trees, and living, dying flowers. // //

[Walcott begins Omeros]

ot at all fair. // // The pledges from

business are far from what’s needed. The // // real public benefit’s

Troubled waters

she was old enough // // To join their

business in the living room. // // She does not see them now. // //

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

le more priming (the // // buy-in from

business is not keeping pace) // // —but Sadik the Most Evil deposes

Troubled waters

it’s ‘badly impacted’ // // But meets ‘

business leaders’—which means he won’t need us— // // He’s in with to

him. // // And there are some scars a

business suit can’t hide. // // And I still faint from nosebleeds. //

Three Pieces of Advice

ng recurs in identical mornings. // //

Business will go as usual—Routine completion guarantee. // // My real

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

by it was the fashion, Sweeney did bad

business . // // You can tell a lot about a man from his beard, so I’m

Bearded Thoughts

n small house agents’ clerks // // and

busted city slickers on // // the dole, unshaven merchants, and // /

[the typist puts her knickers on]

e lies on your tongue— // // I’ve been

busy . // // Amidst these love letters littered, // // Lost in curdle

Fall for————

to pay any attention. // // She’s too

busy cavorting around space, gay as Galactus, // // Blowing out more

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ap // // There, though if it were less

busy I wouldn’t mind // // Standing, would // // Even smile at the o

Poems on the Underground

r song. // // Granny’s keeping herself

busy // // Making Gaelics in the kitchen, // // Keeping her mind tog

Wild Mountain Thyme

// Lost in curdled red // // I’ve been

busy , too, // // Falling— // // Could you come over? // // Then it’

Fall for————

// // Stomach, clenching, so hard the

butterflies // // Brush the back of my throat. // // I should have s

/ // Night she sulks, // // Two cigar

butts dunking themselves // // In the undergrowth. // // Silent drip

He who made the Lamb

with a little more priming (the // //

buy -in from business is not keeping pace) // // —but Sadik the Most E

Troubled waters

/ // And those that would. // // They

buzz like passengers, the // // words that please the mind, // // na

Poems on the Underground

inside me breaking, // // and the low

buzzing of machines beneath the steady gaze of grey // // hospital wa

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

face, // // The bearded wonders from a

bygone age // // Of yellow Victorian tobacco-stains upon the creamy-w

Bearded Thoughts