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

C

ink it’s out of choice. // // *Section

C includes a Part divided into sub-parts each with several options des

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

// You claim I would have read Section

C * // // more thoroughly // // if I’d truly intended to avoid fallin

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

This Boy’s in Love—Section

C Part 2b (i-ixx) // // I fell into it by accident. // // A barrier

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

e done sitting in an omnibus or hackney

cab : // // ‘That one is too large, too small, cut close or not at all

Bearded Thoughts

ailed memory waiter’s goodbye, smile of

cabbie ; // // Ambient objects. // //

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

nsides, // // By the abjected charging

cables , // // And my missing teeth, // // And the probiotics, // //

Frighteningly Inert

your beauty. // // Glacial. Tangled in

cables . // // Spirit, they’ve vanished! // //

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

. // // I close my eyes and feel their

cacoons grow // // More pink, more soft, and in this tired state //

[What have we done]

nes speak out— // // add to the road’s

cacophony . // //

d // // My thoughts are a maelstrom, a

cacophony , // // Crashing, shrieking, // // Half longing, half cauti

nes speak out— // // add to the road’s

cacophony . // // Through air and ether people mutter, shout, // // v

// Now I wish that I had, the arrogant

cad , // // But time passed—and I hadn’t a lot on. // // Concluding t

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

cestry // // phantoms // // graveyard

cadavers // // spicing the soil // // iron rusted // // pump valves

yew needs dried blood in spring

ries // // nestled within each bite of

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

Chocolate Sonnet

/ Hymns rattle around the silverware

cadences vibrate the port // // drink to Christ! and be merry! // //

Drink and be merry

ernovae; helium flame // // From Alpha

Caeli’s rim; the Pleiad mass // // Of gas and dust that veils, then f

th anglo-saxon attitudes // // then to

Caerphilly came. // // They lingered long in Leicestershire; // // r

Café oh late // // Doze on my arm while it fades, // // Sodium light

opard-like // // Within the corrugated

cage . // // The petrified wood // // Of my great-grandmother’s rolli

// The word-worm breaks from the bone-

cage // // The word-worm encircles, tightens its coils, and the words

/ // Her chest, like mine, heaves with

caged spite // // Threatening to escape. Getting nowhere, I stare //

er head, // // To afford the crowns of

Cain , the trademarks of Hester, // // Until she falls dead. // // O

at he’d made it // // when he chose to

cajole her // // with fresh Gorgonzola … // // but the thing is, she

The Failing of the Cheese

// —in muesli, say, or maybe Christmas

cake , // // or more appropriately, Suliman’s pilaf. // // But stay m

The well of love

g on the celery. And a slice // // of

cake was suicide, and sugar mice // // were a tensed trap, and truffl

Chocolate Sonnet

// and scraped the mud off of her own

caked shoes. // // The feet that passed here have passed away. // //

lives with grace. // // They came with

cakes , they came with flowers // // They came to strew his grave with

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ut all you can see through is a pierced

calcite skin, bloody ingrown nails and an incorrection. Adonai, Adonis

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

tions posed are so unkind: // // Parse—

calculate —discuss … I see // // In the panic hall where I’m confined

Exam Room Villanelle

// // Of the skull, once scorched soft

calfskin , // // Now burns blackened words into dead wood; // // Crem

wrenches words to verse // // Scorched

calfskin with meaning // // Of the skull, once scorched soft calfskin

// do the Sainsburys’ run, give Mum a

call , // // and look up flight-times for your daughter’s plane. // /

took you away, at night I lie awake and

call . // // I think about the time we met, how long ago // // It was

[My face is old now]

the world of which you’re made. // //

Call nothing common in the earth or air, // // Accept it all and let

// // For these are the things we can

call our own. // //

// and sharpen their needling, // //

call out their managers, // // rule up their ledgers, // // and ente

Nil Charge / Nil Return

ecision of reason. The true poet, who I

call the major man, is a man of night, revery, and murmuring, a man of

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

they find and are not found. // // Re-

call the river-tongues from Alph to Styx, // // summon the summoners,

s play. Then dared // // A young voice

call : ‘who’s that?’ and no-one knew. // // You joined relations that

you to feel the same, but— // // I’ll

call you back soon. // // Warmth in 5 o’clock dark, // // You smell

Fall for————

sion to // // Pseudonymous-ify: // //

Called himself Woody, // // And promptly found fame. // // Higgledy

ck to your house. // // I remember you

called me a diamond in a world of coal. A light // // through the mis

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

se make it soon, because I think I just

called you God. // //

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

High and clear and far, the song // //

Called you; in triune harmony you ascended. // // Amended death. I wi

// Look up, look up, my love—the sky is

calling . // // Dark shapes are calling each to each: a throng // //

Wells in winter

sky is calling. // // Dark shapes are

calling each to each: a throng // // moves north against the fading e

Wells in winter

eam // // Is somehow a beginning and a

calling ; // // “Sleeper awake, the darkness was a dream // // For yo

eedlework, // // the duty to be paying

calls , // // attending prayer // // and, dressed for dinner, // //

A Room of Her Own

Arms stretched as sundown. // // Echo

calls of words unspoken— // // She hopes to watch you drown. // // W

Who am I, Bernard?

ed and still warm from // // Your bath—

calm as the sun’s unknowing light, // // New but not news, a sign tha

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

é, // // that a hand-grenade of barbed

calories // // nestled within each bite of Cadbury’s, // // so bring

Chocolate Sonnet

down. I get unbelief. one day I will be

calx and cure, what’s inside will be me. // //

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

of pain, // // another summer, home in

Camberwell . // // Between the endpoints there were many days // // —

der fluorescent light. // // Autumn in

Cambridge , and the stars wouldn’t shed me as much light // // as they

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

/ drops thirty feet into a hole. // //

Cambridge , circa 1966 // // One cold winter’s afternoon // // we wal

Walking in winter

e best: // // To get inky fingers in a

Cambridge college // // And pilfer the noble classes’ ancient knowled

t’s everything you’d expect // // of a

Cambridge courtyard: // // the library, the chapel, // // the fluste

[The sash rattles up]

iano piece.) // // Standing around the

Cambridge crematorium, // // dressed for the occasion, // // we read

Fitzwilliam Museum,

Cambridge // // I translate Greek words from a slab of stone // // t

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

e. A yellow glare: // // 222 deaths in

Cambridgeshire last year. // // People finding their way home. // //

// stilled, and out of the heart // //

came a song of our first // // spring; an ache and burn. // // How s

ompact // // No more as to the warm we

came , and roll’d // // Away to join my sweat and flesh below, // //

[What have we done]

// The boy without a face. // // July

came , and the woods grew pretty // // Local people left the city //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

/ let the flower-arrangers in when they

came at one, // // locked up behind us when we left // // and then w

// // I don’t understand why you never

came back. The waves // // always return to comfort the shore. The pa

[I often think of that January morning]

last for days and days. Each morning I

came down, // // expecting to find it cold, but every day // // the

/ and finding // // the man // // who

came forth // // from the earth // // had something to say // // th

e I wonder // // Just exactly where it

came from // // And if it’ll happen again. // // If half-formed thou

Writing to explore

, as you might think, but by It. Poetry

came from It, as we do not really know how to create poetry or account

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

u began to feel like echoes, // // you

came home. Measuring the miles decreasing with every page // // of th

[I often think of that January morning]

ic // // Mother Earth. // // But they

came // // nonetheless // // the feeble // // the old // // the ra

// So when the silver thief (who always

came // // on Thursdays) took our memories, why did // // he stoop t

Compass Reading

the riddle himself // // and the poor

came // // the feeble // // the rabid // // the lame // // looking

/ // The closer to the hope-made sky I

came . // // Then, as a blacksmith finds his mold self-grown, // // M

[What have we done]

xon attitudes // // then to Caerphilly

came . // // They lingered long in Leicestershire; // // red was the

streets of late modernity. // // None

came . Time passed. She left the door ajar— // // She thought she’d he

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

f the flames. // // Drawn by warmth, I

came to see you, // // which I do. You look back at me. // // The mo

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

Came to stay one day. // // Unpacked her bags, // // and hung her qu

kes, they came with flowers // // They

came to strew his grave with boughs // // But in the darkening hour t

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

Later, of course, // // another priest

came // // who stood over the dragon // // speaking powerful words /

ned their lives with grace. // // They

came with cakes, they came with flowers // // They came to strew his

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

race. // // They came with cakes, they

came with flowers // // They came to strew his grave with boughs //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

// POLONIUS By th’mass and it’s like a

camel indeed. // // HAMLET Methinks it is like a weasel. // // POLON

/ // We were all alone with our // //

Camel lights watching the floating moon. // // We went driving in you

at cloud? That’s almost in shape like a

camel . // // POLONIUS By th’mass and it’s like a camel indeed. // //

ome Dover Lorry Park. // // Uncase the

Camembert , bring out the Brie, // // The precious freight that crosse

ak // // Of bones to pick up. // // A

camera lens whirs to focus on a hunched // // Body. One of the crowd

Vicious or Virtuous?

like a distress signal—fossilised. The

camera light // // flashed seconds before waves flooded my boots, wat

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

lie—innocently // // Staring past the

camera’s smitten gaze, // // While Bush stares out from under you. /

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

well-thumbed // // Edges— // // Their

camouflage of grease spots // // Leopard-like // // Within the corru

/ // Briers grew about his head // //

Campions covered his outspread hair // // And mildew took the place o

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

then slope down towards // // A still

canal , laced with rust that blooms // // From old fashioned, swan-nec

rails. I’m not such a mug. // // I’ve

cancelled his buses, no more will I pay for—and // // now on the brid

Troubled waters

flowers for a suffering friend // // —

cancer , poor dear, we’ll keep her in our prayers— // // sweep the kit

rally quite poorly attempted, with many

candidates not able to understand fully the situation being studied. A

on being studied. A large proportion of

candidates only attempted the first part and were unable to earn any o

akes oblations // // Of shorn hair and

candle wax, to the saint; // // The ram-head of the corpse cracks a s

slow as moonrise // // Sung beside the

candled tree. // // It was so for my childhood too // // When my eye

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

myself like honeycomb. Wax might create

candlelight , // // but for now my light is stored, and the slightest

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

the choirs pass. // // Gaudete. // //

Candles glowing through stained glass. // // O little one mild. // /

A Hymn to a Loved One

d! wriggling life! a name! love! // //

Candles , hats—shake the snow from your coat, uncle— // // drink! and

Drink and be merry

t we have any power to light // // One

candle’s guttering sickly flame // // And peer. Myopic view, fragment

[Hidden behind the

candyfloss burps] // // Hidden behind the candyfloss burps of hey and

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

dyfloss burps] // // Hidden behind the

candyfloss burps of hey and how are you, // // Concealed beneath ‘I d

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

s of the world: // // Its fag ends and

canisters of laughing gas. // //

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

t. Rendered absurd— // // warmed by un-

canned laughter and crackling fire-breath // // (Sound-bites for both

g crudely over cor- // // al, usurping

canoes claim to the crests, each sullen swelling rock- // // ing him

cresting over cor- // // al, usurping

canoes control of the crests, each rippling roll rock- // // ing him

. // // Her white hand weeps about its

canopy , // // and her clipped trunk is an ash boomerang. // // Old w

/ // Feel the fire. Spread out a green

canopy // // in the warming sunlight. Soak up the rays and the air. /

g been away, I can still see // // The

canopy of green fingers tickling the clouds // // And the saffron-yel

, // // Wherefrom they bounce onto the

canopy , // // Sprinkling their light through ground, through sky, thr

[What have we done]

golds replace the greens. Now throw the

canopy too // // to the winds, let it whirl away // // into the encr

// // And flowing across the virginal

canvas of the page was the fluid skill of the masterful mage // // So

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ke beads loosed from tassels // // the

cap of each i let lavender and thistle // // sprout from its neck, t

contain nothing more than their visible

capacity // // So that cheese is not sorely missed from the criticall

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

the right. And rising left // // the

Cape Cod house’s painted clapboard side. // // At centre, as if growi

Cape Cod Morning

Cape Cod Morning // // Almost accidental, but carefully composed: //

Cape Cod Morning

her just would guess. // // In Eastern

Cape men show their worth by rite, // // Both those who fit and those

Three gay rituals

r model excludes gravitation. // // Da

Small Particles in the Small Hours

ewn the floors today: quicksand clumps,

capsized melon cubes, stranded sea monkeys // // Maybe they patterniz

unseen by their neat // // nihilarian

captors . // // The nilherds sense nail-break // // and sharpen their

Nil Charge / Nil Return

metaphors and simplistic similes // //

Capture all of my love and describe it // // Badly. // //

I’ll never work for Hallmark

herds encircle // // to make their nil

capture . // // For this year there’s no nil return. // // Nil Return

Nil Charge / Nil Return

stand restless with suspense // // to

capture the flight and fall of // // the girl poised and primed. //

Since we went driving in your parents’

car . // //

// // We went driving in your parents’

car // // And didn’t stop until we’d gone so far // // That dusky si

lickers on // // the switch, grabs her

car -keys, // // handbag, puts her sneakers on, // // downs a double

[the typist puts her knickers on]

ossy blackness // // Of Dad’s funereal

car . // // Later, unpacking, // // I find a history— // // My histo

// // We went driving in your parents’

car // // Out to the desert, // // Sweet like shalimar // // On the

// // We went driving in your parents’

car // // To see if we could stop the mar // // Of what we’d done fr

into a prayer, in the back // // Of a

car who’s doors can only open from the // // Outside. // // Despite

Vicious or Virtuous?

/ // The patterns the night frosted on

car windows // // will be water and unremarkable in the morning warmt

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

// misting in the middle of a cracked

caramel carpet // // a burial mound where boots crunch beech nuts //

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

// // TWO // // Columbus was the end,

caravels crashing crudely over cor- // // al, usurping canoes claim t

ONE // // Columbus was the beginning,

caravels cresting over cor- // // al, usurping canoes control of the

e losing the key. // // If you aimed a

card , or a note, or a cry // // too carelessly into the hopeful abyss

The Dead Letter Office closes down

// // The box arrived— // // Crumpled

cardboard , // // Raw-edged— // // Wrapped within the glossy blacknes

il Charge // // High above desk-jockey

Cardiff // // the wild wind // // from the heights of Gwyngachu, //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

e clear. // // Play your men like your

cards , dear, and never // // Keep your cards in hand after you’re qui

cards, dear, and never // // Keep your

cards in hand after you’re quite done; // // Discard and shuffle quic

She’ll stone you back // // Without a

care . // //

// I noticed the sign said // // ‘take

care , ail road’ // // ahead, on the rail road // // a deer had stopp

, would pursue his creation with // //

care and affecting mathematic precision to // // better her dear husb

Jonathan’s Deathbed

eterate absentee, // // he never could

care for the sender or sent, // // so we’re locking the door and we’r

The Dead Letter Office closes down

// // Conditioned corpse. A quality of

care // // That might have saved you all those years ago. // // Con

s ranged all around // // —they little

care . // // Voices far across the valley sound // // through still,

’ homes, // // but I don’t remember or

care what it is. I never could // // meet anyone’s eye. // //

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

Long into night we’re sitting tired and

carefree // // In the darkness of no-brand car’s back seats. // // F

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

y it should. // // resent the years of

careful compromise, // // the hours spent washing bathroom tiles of b

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

uitar filled the room with the sound of

careful echoes. // // Even now I remember little of reading The Waves

[I often think of that January morning]

Between your body and the world. // //

Careful , things might fall // // Where the senses cannot feel— // //

d Morning // // Almost accidental, but

carefully composed: // // the sky behind the trees beyond the meadow,

Cape Cod Morning

my Nan’s seaside semi. // // Each item

carefully labelled // // With owner and origin immortalized // // In

Ebb tide // // First I

carefully let go // // just as far as I can reach // // the flotsam

und. // // He’ll never lose time, he’s

carefully wound. // // A finer example will never be found. // // Hi

a card, or a note, or a cry // // too

carelessly into the hopeful abyss // // please come and claim it—take

The Dead Letter Office closes down

r. // // She’d this need for a bull to

caress her. // // Left me stuck in a maze to the end of my days // /

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ith a sigh that page surrendered to the

caresses of that pen most famously tender // // Forever stained with

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

/ // Should I let myself sink into the

caressing depths // // Or fight to the lung-stinging surface? // //

step beyond our domain, // // Not much

caring // // Whether there was a // // World beyond to explore. //

// // Drowned in champagne. // // The

carnival has come to town, // // The breeze is on vacation as // //

ting in the middle of a cracked caramel

carpet // // a burial mound where boots crunch beech nuts // // and

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

indow // // to fade the colours of the

carpet , // // and people come in, // // binbag-laden // // with mum

In a charity shop

hair // // Then my bare feet on coarse

carpet , // // I hit what I head for // // And study my imprint. //

Falling Is Like This

nished, sanded, rooted into cold // //

carpet ) // // there is simply nothing to connect you to your former s

loors, // // Through spaghetti-stained

carpet // // With a smile, plastered on my face, // // As I traced o

The Notes You Have Left

not to forget // // Stockings spongy

carpets the window clad in lights, closed against the great grey sky

Drink and be merry

// As I pour with them into the // //

Carriage , step across the gap // // Between the train and the platfor

Poems on the Underground

there. // // Only an infrequent ferry

carries me across, // // Reluctant. // // He holds his generosity hi

r cluster // // In clouds and tides to

carry // // In light like a welcome guest. // //

been a very bad move. But don’t panic,

carry on. // //

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

eins weren’t pumping acid yet, // // I

carry on, as though I’m craving more. // // My shoes have turned a wh

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

eate Cocytus and Pyriphlegethon, // //

Carrying your burning wails into Acheron // // Your river of woe and

birthed!”)—children at play— // // The

carter’s mare as she wheezes on through; // // The triumphant honk of

e wishing bone // // Hall in Bones and

Cartilage has shown // // the furcula might prove a midline split //

the castle mound, // // swelling with

cartoon vigour from the surround- // // ing shops and offices, has se

to me // // That any given Aztec would

carve a prayer // // Into a child’s chest, and tear out his heart //

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

ng—Ondine. // // But finding a form to

carve // // to remember you by is hard. // // It is not that forms o

Stone, Paper, Scissors

are empty on the inside. // // I feel

carved out when I accept. // // He maps out his face and hair // //

weed takes root and // // Its appetite

carves sharp to sign the paper, // // Cleave the land. // // In a ti

t with Blight, // // Whose knived line

carv’s out a trace, a Well // // Cascading in with all its mights to

[What have we done]

free // // In the darkness of no-brand

car’s back seats. // // Fresheners’ smell is the only thing we can se

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

The angel then sings out, “Amen, // //

Casablanca’s on again.” // // Play it, Sam. // // BBC1, half past te

A Hymn to a Loved One

heart embarking on its sea. // // The

cascade I had ’fore in-gazed faced me, // // Wide-as-the-horizon, an

[What have we done]

ber // // And, half in mind, Ascent of

Cascade start. // // Behind the flow I knew there to be ice, // // F

[What have we done]

line carv’s out a trace, a Well // //

Cascading in with all its mights to Hell? // // The vapours held betw

[What have we done]

a flight of stairs, // // To find the

case and lift the dull brown cover // // To see, at first, your image

The Magic Apple Tree

ear infant guilt. Fruitless to plead my

case // // into that microphone I could not reach, // // high on you

Compass Reading

// gets the Red Margaret to look at the

case . // // “It’s been a fiasco, a drain on our taxes. The // // te

Troubled waters

; and four wax-white earplugs // // in

case one snored too loud. Two bashed half-hearts, // // the Valentin

sleepless nights, clutching your pillow

case , wishing those ‘thoughts’ away, thoughts that are not yours. In y

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

t saw in me a magician // // Who could

cast a bronze bull to let his Queen pull, // // And commit all her si

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

Over Easy // // I don’t wish to

cast any aspersions // // upon your nature, the way you nurture, //

Hill today // // past the old motte, I

cast away // // all such signs. May the new // // and broken morning

e. // // His hair is a lustrous shadow

cast by earthly forms of that abyssal goddess. // // ’Tis pity he’s a

’Tis pity he’s a bore

ehow you fill your name already, // //

Cast in white marble by two gentle breaths. // // How different we lo

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

demons rise, // // Let him without sin

cast the first stone, // // Let her without skin be the first to cry.

se // // And small black-stoppered oil

caster . // // The year is nineteen fifty-five; // // The man, Bologn

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

reat shakes. // // So, plummeting down

Castle Hill today // // past the old motte, I cast away // // all su

/ // During these slow nine months the

castle mound, // // swelling with cartoon vigour from the surround- /

like that of Hercules // // On plaster

casts . // // No longer when walking down the street can one compare e

Bearded Thoughts

// That forges, through its surge, the

casts of forms— // // Icons for us—of weighed and measured mass // /

night, // // when dawn is stuck in its

casual delay. // // All letters not claimed will be chastened to ash

The Dead Letter Office closes down

ofessionals, // // Shirts meticulously

casual . // // His humour still hasn’t crawled // // Out of the bathr

r metaphor turns to dust. // // With a

casual pop-culture reference, // // She turns to leave the polystyren

his father, prisoner of war // // Then

casualty of blue austerity; // // Just so my father, labouring before

n purple sage to lie. // // A Cheshire

cat accosted them, // // then walked his wild way // // alone. In S

/ put out the biscuits, the chairs, the

cat , // // drew up rotas, tidied up upstairs, // // let the flower-a

nd his hat in the dark so he put on the

cat instead. // // Columbus was the end. He left the quiet dawns behi

ry judged he was not fed. // // So the

cat sat, so thin and impatient, // // but then… bittersweet jubilatio

The Failing of the Cheese

ght you here. // // Three X-rays and a

CAT scan for an air- // // Conditioned corpse. A quality of care //

iling of the Cheese // // A hungry old

cat (Siamese) // // tried to draw out a mouse with some cheese. // /

The Failing of the Cheese

ust made her sneeze. // // But the sly

cat would not be dissuaded, // // and probably thought that he’d made

The Failing of the Cheese

bell in a burning crucible. // // The

cat yowls, and it all comes // // Beautifully crashing down, // // L

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

Catalogue d’Oiseaux: // // Trying to make you love me again // // Is

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

e // // I at least want to be rendered

catatonic by the impact. // // I want someone whose smile makes the s

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// the matter’s so compacted it won’t

catch . // //

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

cross the road (no joke in that) // //

Catch at only half way there. // // Feathers blacken and unpeel // /

Urban bird watching

ank statements and embrace, // // Will

catch me this time and make me Mrs. // // I’ll-settle-for-a-jack-in-l

riting ‘is this the poem?’ // // Words

catch my mouth, bitter as lightning—is this the poem? // // The cicad

In search of // // I

catch myself thinking while writing ‘is this the poem?’ // // Words c

I, // // demurely stripped, // // I’d

catch Nick’s eye // // and he’d be gripped. // // I thought he’d itc

ave clods of wet grass. // // cowbwebs

catch on tongue and mesh eyes // // blinking on a pimpled trunk // /

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

thinking, the fuck will they do if they

catch the what, water? Why would aquarium be a freshers’ event? // //

Whales sing because they have a song

// // dropping by unannounced. // //

Catch them at it— // // there must be moonshine. // //

There must be moonshine

he desk and away, // // And you try to

catch them in the net of your head, // // But deep and troubled the h

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// // The sash rattles up // // then

catches . // // I clamber clumsily // // into the slow // // black t

[The sash rattles up]

the impact, white on the window, // //

catches my eye as I enter the kitchen: // // a dove, sprawled wide in

t mercy // // Is the spider’s web that

catches the spider? // // All is not yours to surrender // // I take

ere near Chester, // // the fog lights

catching great dark shoals // // of rain, algorithmic complexity //

lame, // // Reduced to an inability to

cater // // For our inner selves. Pressured into // // Insanity, we

ll at my gran’s house, // // The full,

Catholic -size family, // // Cramped into the front room // // Like c

Wild Mountain Thyme

brute grace, // // then passes, // //

catseyes like bouquets // // thrown into the night behind us. // //

o our whim, or how the light // // was

caught . After time we found coffee and wine, // // a waiter who looke

ed with her would-be saviour // // and

caught his eye and struck him blind and dead. // // A winged beast ca

reet-side window the octogenarian sits:

caught // // in the—“today there’s been fifteen homicides and sixty-t

t small hole through. // // the marble

caught the glass, // // where the sun rises. // //

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

to lupine-winds, fire burn and chthonic

cauldron bubble. Incorrigible night // // in which sailors drown at s

ore to know’. // // Imprisoned in this

cauldron we must know // // How miniscule we are, before we form //

s time to warm up, and can, apparently,

cause a rash, // // But you’d roll your eyes and tell me we’re late f

I’ll never work for Hallmark

n! // // He was filled up with bliss, ’

cause // // he tracked down his Whiskas // // while the dear mouse d

The Failing of the Cheese

er, // // was because she had no other

cause , // // no-one else to spend her days // // watching, and so th

In a charity shop

. // // Are we not glad it was an epic

cause the Greeks and Trojans fought for, instead of finlandia swiss, g

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

linger // // On the stirring of senses

caused by your palm on mine. // // I’ll keep these unspecific love po

I’ll never work for Hallmark

Metallic disks land on a surface // //

Causing a sound more recognisable // // Than ever before. To tell the

Vicious or Virtuous?

g, shrieking, // // Half longing, half

caution . // // Should I let myself sink into the caressing depths //

primatura of your skin; // // delicate

cave magic revealed // // by the flickering torch // // of a heartbe

ings at surge; // // and I in my belly

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

Perhaps it seems archaic, rather like a

caveman or some troglodyte. // // We are too sophisticated now, // /

Bearded Thoughts

d: // // tree aspark and fizzing, in a

cavern // // so unknown but home. // // Ah but before little hands c

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

a’s memories discarded, a copper effigy

caves in, // // And far away green wings are flying—is this the poem?

ay any attention. // // She’s too busy

cavorting around space, gay as Galactus, // // Blowing out more stars

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

the trees in Girton’s driveway come the

caws // // Of rooks opposed to any sawing of their trees, // // Choo

[Walcott begins Omeros]

t cry vanité! // // vanité! tous n’est

ce que vanité! // // But, creeping further in, she finds a tree // /

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

o bear? // // It’s not as though we’ve

ceased all intercourse. // // In truth I’d not part now, no more woul

/ // on the heath, // // Releaseless,

ceaseless . She // // sighs to my teeth. // // Deafness, I watch the

l’esprit d’escalier

repeating // // DO i have to, without

ceasing , // // without rest or break? // // i WISH that i could slow

the windmill’s lament—a short play

e divine; // // Outside our window the

cedar tree // // Shook its head along with me, // // Blankly dismiss

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

tt begins Omeros with cutting down some

cedars : // // We shudder here with the jarring noise of chain saws, /

[Walcott begins Omeros]

// So good of you to come and help us

celebrate // // Completion of our necessary task to fight // // And

te of Cadbury’s, // // so bring on the

celery . And a slice // // of cake was suicide, and sugar mice // //

Chocolate Sonnet

with trust, meaningless fucks and love

celestial . // // Two-faced words incarnate, bastard breed of loathing

sion // // of Prospero’s storm: // //

cellophane sea and scattered // // doll-like bodies, their tiny faces

// She turns to leave the polystyrene

cemetery , // // Blonde hair flicking like a snake’s tongue. // // Bu

in a wild part of the old South London

cemetery . // // Perhaps I should plant // // some box or holly. //

Centaur // // Black on white on black // // In your suit, you’re urb

use’s painted clapboard side. // // At

centre , as if growing from the clapboards, // // but grander far, a c

Cape Cod Morning

re, // // but as we intertwined at the

centre // // of the world, dragonlike, I was, I think, // // less a

ier trod. // // His eyes are deep dark

centre stones, // // Buried in squinting distance, // // And his ski

’Tis pity he’s a bore

s run not to time // // But to a vivid

centre — // // There stands a tree // // Radiant in its being. // //

[At the coinciding point of the years]

ened into rock // // third, freeze for

centuries until // // crystallized into meaningless // // serve cold

[A still life, with

ceramic vase] // // A still life, with ceramic vase // // And small

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

ceramic vase] // // A still life, with

ceramic vase // // And small black-stoppered oil caster. // // The y

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

/ // (She had chosen the music for the

ceremony // // —a Schubert piano piece.) // // Standing around the C

awash in blooms, arching heavenwards in

certain praise // // state His glory. This land I name, La Trinitaria

hem, // // Breaking their sheen into a

certain shade // // Particular and unrepeatable. // // Some golden e

The Magic Apple Tree

has nothing to be ashamed about. // //

Certainly , he would never even dream of eating meat // // that he had

t dancing on this face? // // Than the

certainty of a familiar shore? // // Please, allow me to fade this wa

I could never be (ready)

// life. They are too few. // // Birth

certificate . // // Death certificate. // // I want to see the rest:

Stone, Paper, Scissors

// // Birth certificate. // // Death

certificate . // // I want to see the rest: // // a ticker-tape parad

Stone, Paper, Scissors

riggle our toes in bits of old bran and

chaff // // mixed up with sawdust from our new cut beams! // // We’r

s her skin. // // In Cheddar Gorge the

chaffinches // // were twittering. The twain // // with anglo-saxon

as you try to disappear. // // Now the

chain is a thousand daggers, // // Piercing you, making you scream. /

you won’t // // Because the wave is a

chain , // // Keeping you from moving, // // Clanking, as you try to

shudder here with the jarring noise of

chain saws, // // Beginning to write essays that in some wise start t

[Walcott begins Omeros]

I cut new rivulets // // to drain the

chains of pools that lace the spreading sands and soft mudflats: time

g me as I sleep, // // from the wicker

chair . // // I need not say anything because // // she fills the sil

Chair // // My Grandmother sits in the corner. // // There is a chai

e. The room is empty. // // There is a

chair there, made of wicker // // For her to perch on. // //

r sits in the corner. // // There is a

chair there, made of wicker // // For her to perch on. // // I am ly

umes shelved, // // Her thoughts, like

chairs drawn out from table’s edge, // // Awaited those who knew how

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

ache on floors, // // Perch on arms of

chairs , // // Settle into laps of relatives. // // Fields of Athenry

Wild Mountain Thyme

stead— // // put out the biscuits, the

chairs , the cat, // // drew up rotas, tidied up upstairs, // // let

latter. // // I don’t want to align my

chakras ; I want to them to shatter. // // I’m sure it’s not abnormal.

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ed utterly into pits // // Girded with

chalk and bone. // // Tarweed takes root and // // Its appetite carv

or // // Magog? Tell // // me of cut

chalk and // // turf scalped red, ley lines and hillforts, // // inv

Wandlebury Hill

on. // // Body aching, waiting, for my

chalk outline. The last mark I’ll make, // // White and pure, unlike

Snapshot Endings

mountain, // // turn and bellow their

challenge // // from the rim of their ridge. // // Recasting the bal

Nil Charge / Nil Return

giant is the figure who succumb to Its

challenge . He slows down, stops, waits, pontificates. Time and flux go

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

ell, while a translucent team // // of

chameleon shrimps held a whiskery love-in and hoydenish // // bivalve

Just a Small Fish

to you, and you’d made me a cup of tea—

chamomile tea—because I was cold. And although you’d been sat there fo

[So the moon was there]

// Re-fill my glass, and this time with

Champagne , // // Drink down the last few bottles that remain, // //

through an alley with keef, kefir, with

champagne on the nightstand, and four dozen roses I once destroyed. I’

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

parroting particulars // // Drowned in

champagne . // // The carnival has come to town, // // The breeze is

dren to look after— // // there was no

chance for her to follow him. // // There was a week of waiting while

Black September

s; I’ve lost my way; // // I’ve had my

chance —I have no more— // // I’m waiting on tomorrow’s world; // //

ready and the wine // // Passed up its

chance to be divine; // // Outside our window the cedar tree // // S

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

// Yet, time allowed, what seems fine

chance will be // // And, likewise to two falling trees, my bone, //

[What have we done]

and get old saint // // George of the

Chancel to throw in some too.” // // So the project proceeds with a l

Troubled waters

were built. // // All humans feel the

change // // And, if we look, we can still see. // // Great stone sh

Before Christmas

k, // // ‘and watch the street outside

change , // // and the people // // change, and the weather // // ch

In a charity shop

de change, // // and the people // //

change , and the weather // // change // // like friends with time.’

In a charity shop

esire for Truth, something that doesn’t

change and they can have. Consequently, they died as they lost touch w

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

will make you fall in love easier I can

change for you. I will be your umbilicalised hero. correct and reposse

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

are achingly familiar. // // —‘Please

change here, for…’— // //

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

an or Kafir soft in your ear, and I can

change . if it will make you fall in love easier I can change for you.

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

/ The air they shine through breathes a

change in them, // // Breaking their sheen into a certain shade // /

The Magic Apple Tree

; // // She has to clamber out. // //

Change // // Is what she has chosen. // //

e // // change, and the weather // //

change // // like friends with time.’ // // Everything’s easy. // /

In a charity shop

ree. A timed renaissance, I // // Must

change my heart, must build my soul anew. // // As old as the oak, as

one of many. // // All humans feel the

change . // // Seeking the return of the light, // // Great stone shr

Before Christmas

/ Strip off the civility // // And you

change skin; // // Are more and less than human. // // I read the un

s nest, snuggles down somehow. // // A

change , some things remain, I must be heard // // I must be free. A t

ries. The vital stress // // expresses

change . Some variant has found // // how good sex is—to mix the genes

were blown // // About by the winds of

change . // // Something seemed greater // // Than the door we ranged

d to see how it all turns out. // // I

change the disc, it is not a record (I did lie to you once), // // An

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

t as often as him trying to teach me to

change the laces in my shoes, // // Increasing in frustration exponen

Three Pieces of Advice

ou stagnate and // // fade, longing to

change the world? // //

[The world moves the same]

A child’s voice deepens, // // Like a

changeling held // // Over the flame, some strange trapped, // // Un

Here be dragons

for life. // // Another billion random

changes : all // // —or almost all—are duds. Nevertheless // // ten t

n ripped apart. // // Then the light

changes or goes out altogether // // and I can’t quite remember the f

‘Yes,’ I thought, ‘nothing ever // //

changes .’ I wondered // // if she’d pictured // // her dresses // /

In a charity shop

s every minuscule alteration— // // By

changing everything. // // Tiny fingertips. // // (The winners in he

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

nd primed // // as she flees the water

channelling below. // //

without trace // // to greet the water

channelling below. // // And you, voyeur, // // approach the ledge t

// she jumps // // to meet the water

channelling below. // // Held aloft by spray // // she floats above

neath her feet // // to meet the water

channelling below. // // The crowds stand restless with suspense //

ry! // // Warm, mellow bread breath

chanting and a song // // drink to winter! and be merry! // // Fat

Drink and be merry

imitive, musical, and Dionysiac. Nature

chants in nonsensical monosyllables; its nonsense pierces us at once w

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

rming, breaking, forming // // ordered

chaos with a raucous song: // // A thousand geese are flying into nig

Wells in winter

on // // (spokesnake?) // // for old,

chaotic // // Mother Earth. // // But they came // // nonetheless /

idge courtyard: // // the library, the

chapel , // // the fluster of lights // // in windows of work-stale r

[The sash rattles up]

silver crunching aphids. // // I will

char those swatches dotted with herds of woollen teeth. // // I will

Aubade to Girton

// // Lounging on a bench or pew, some

character in a play // // With Brian Blessed // // Squeezed into the

Bearded Thoughts

of their trousers rolled, // // I need

characters like Tennyson, // // Who improve, like port and venison, /

ing, // // hooves pounding // // they

charge … // // Ah! Nihilist nil, // // nil desperandum. // // Bannoc

Nil Charge / Nil Return

// // // // Nil

Charge // // High above desk-jockey Cardiff // // the wild wind //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

/ // Adrift on waters // // Stagnant,

charged , ion wet, // // The pumice golem // // On and off again, //

Frighteningly Inert

d by my insides, // // By the abjected

charging cables, // // And my missing teeth, // // And the probiotic

Frighteningly Inert

s me eat a peach? // // Time’s warring

chariots can clatter by— // // we have the earth, the water and the s

The pace is always // // slow, // //

charitable , // // sad. // // ‘Yes,’ I thought, ‘nothing ever // //

In a charity shop

charity shop // // Sat behind the counter, // // old watches spread,

In a charity shop

s exciting), // // But I turned on the

charm : made her help me to arm— // // And reel in my return once I’d

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

From some controll’d explosion: dry and

charr’d , // // Destin’d to be the waste fate does discard. // // Yet

[What have we done]

// // We have the vote, // // a royal

charter too, // // no need to hide behind anon // // or to reflect a

A Room of Her Own

es dance and turn, // // The startling

chartreuse yellow, // // Translucent as childhood fever // // Which

leaves might fall

wind blows about our windows // // And

chases whispers through my dreaming head; // // Dry voices sift and f

ur! more glorious to spend yours // //

chasing what’s cheap, than choose to slow down, // // it tumbles, tre

[A spinning spider]

// // All letters not claimed will be

chastened to ash // // and the smell of their burning will herald the

The Dead Letter Office closes down

s so often taught that you could // //

chat in verse, speak in poetry, you could save // // these dying word

Sestina to an English Teacher

Pimm’s // // I taste the hum of pub

chatter // // And the tang of good-humoured sweat // // Along with t

s—already // // between the end of the

Chatterley ban // // and the Beatles’ first LP; // // strangely, tho

us to spend yours // // chasing what’s

cheap , than choose to slow down, // // it tumbles, trembling, traces

[A spinning spider]

house. // // I always regretted, felt

cheated by // // that twenty-minute hiatus. // // But the fire bore

while trying to turn a phrase // // or

check a reference on-line. // // This is the en-suite life. // // I

A Room of Her Own

u wongaboy – // // since you forgot to

check if I was versed // // in things grammatical, your bubble burst.

Between Life and Death

// That can’t be right. // // Let me

check the textbook again. // // 2, said half-jokingly on holiday in S

Three Pieces of Advice

tch!) ticking // // Boxes on an Apollo

checklist ; stuck at some point, still. // // Don’t worry Karl we have

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

/ so milk-white was her skin. // // In

Cheddar Gorge the chaffinches // // were twittering. The twain // /

r now vacant stomach // // Her blushed

cheeks moistened with my tears. // // Momentary flashes of white coat

ives his back to the smiters // // His

cheeks to them that pluck out the hair, // // His spring is come to s

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

. Gaza, 1 March 2009 // // Now we must

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

it and cheerers of hearts— // // And a

cheer for you, inkcap, and dark brittlegill // // And a drink for you

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

and plum // // Be bearers of fruit and

cheerers of hearts— // // And a cheer for you, inkcap, and dark britt

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

a bloody chore. // // I’m trying to be

cheerful , but can’t fain it: // // With every line I hate the bugger

In Defence of Evolution

/ // brings a thought that is far from

cheering : // // that while the past // // will last and last, // //

tuff immortality is made on. // // Not

cheese . // //

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

alking talked— // // but never once of

cheese . // //

The Failing of the

Cheese // // A hungry old cat (Siamese) // // tried to draw out a mo

The Failing of the Cheese

with supreme imagination to create from

cheese an immortal sensation // // However, no man has dared to extol

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ts as hard and cold, as they very thing

cheese ! as it is growing old // // They want the superb, the surreal,

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ium // // Poets have been silent about

cheese // // Because whilst every subject is the message. // // Che

Cheese is the medium

// tried to draw out a mouse with some

cheese . // // But his scheming was built on // // her fondness for S

The Failing of the Cheese

n their visible capacity // // So that

cheese is not sorely missed from the critically acclaimed world of the

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

Cheese is the medium // // Poets have been silent about cheese // //

Cheese is the medium

t every subject is the message. // //

Cheese is the very medium of their work. // // We drink in language w

Cheese is the medium

r ankles. // // Lunch was hard, strong

cheese // // taken amongst the bums // // in the silence of exiles.

Tridente, 10th September

that men can desire more from art that

cheese // // They want their soul to be gently stroked; they want the

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

asting the words themselves lke cottage

cheese // // To Eliot, difficult, in cold collations // // Crumbling

Cheese is the medium

nt would he dare suggest that an ode to

cheese would have been the best // // No, in fact I am sure we all ca

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

Cheesy Discourse // // // // // // // Transport yourself to the

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ged mastery with silence // // For had

cheesy words ravaged the page, then never would they have been engrave

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ough; // // Here’s to you, damson, and

cherry , and plum // // Be bearers of fruit and cheerers of hearts— //

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

e angels were the first to fall, // //

Cherub and Seraph spiralled down // // In circling curlicues of sacre

The Cutting Edge

// // on purple sage to lie. // // A

Cheshire cat accosted them, // // then walked his wild way // // alo

ld carve a prayer // // Into a child’s

chest , and tear out his heart // // Like it didn’t belong there, beca

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

stay. Wishing for a

chest . // // I am here. // // This is me. Period. // //

[She points to the sky]

/ // I think again of coal-dust in the

chest . // // If he who fell at Passchendaele had seen // // My suit

m stuck // // In my throat. // // Her

chest , like mine, heaves with caged spite // // Threatening to escape

e to explain, sheltered by the brimming

chest , // // the shivering sceptic, afraid, at last, of ghosts? // /

the one whose dog slept on // // their

chest to keep it warm // // or the ones holding hands // // as the s

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

sing the secrets // // He holds to his

chest . // // Wrists, shackled by counterfeit silver, // // Steeled a

Vicious or Virtuous?

56, // // heading west, somewhere near

Chester , // // the fog lights catching great dark shoals // // of ra

e found herself immortalised. // // If

Chesterton had been present would he dare suggest that an ode to chees

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

es of that revered pen. // // Not even

Chesterton would find it hard to believe that men can desire more from

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

Cramped into the front room // // Like

chestnuts in an oven. // // Bums ache on floors, // // Perch on arms

Wild Mountain Thyme

net // // You always said you’d sooner

chew nettles // // than touch anything branded by Nestlé, // // that

Chocolate Sonnet

ays it’s stubble or baby-faced gangster

chic , // // How many Walts do we see in Market Square on a Friday nig

Bearded Thoughts

chicken and the egg // // I live! Un-ownable, not made: revealed. //

The chicken and the egg

about the arse // // Eating us out of

chicken feed. // // But that was to miss the glory of it— // // The

[No point, she said]

count your chickens // // … but if the

chicken // // is just the egg’s // // way of making // // another e

Don’t count your chickens

Don’t count your

chickens // // … but if the chicken // // is just the egg’s // // w

Don’t count your chickens

did // // he stoop to brass? Why do I

chiefly mourn // // that little gap where we had always kept // // y

Compass Reading

such Jungian subtext— // // you are a

child a gang of children you // // are scales beneath a sheepskin you

ars whispers, “I just think of him as a

child ” and I can bend and break when you want to snap me. cleanse me w

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

ywards, cut clean. // // I am the moon-

child broken free, // // Losing mother and maternity. // //

priced, // // hunch-huddled, // // a

child -like smile almost // // discernable beneath the map // // of h

In a charity shop

nk and break // // The moment when the

child looks and the lens // // Looks and the newspaper image blithely

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

names: // // It is: The Virgin and her

Child ; // // The Mother and her only Son. // //

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

// next head: “bet you were a difficult

child ”; // // the next: “getting so drunk is a waste of // // my tim

Aubade to Girton

ute // // Remains a vivid memory of my

childhood days. // // Now far from home, I wonder if new children mig

hartreuse yellow, // // Translucent as

childhood fever // // Which once spelled time so slow. // // I hear

leaves might fall

like I’m // // Experiencing that first

childhood snow. // // Humming show tunes to test my voice // // Or l

The Notes You Have Left

e candled tree. // // It was so for my

childhood too // // When my eyes searched frantically, // // blotted

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

to branch, preserving those // // Old

childhood traditions of tree climbing delight // // Fruit eating and

The streets of London slalom like your

childhood’s playroom mat, // // And Rome and Paris too have roads tha

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

// Golden, swollen mangoes unpicked by

childish hands // // Giving a final dull thud as they fall to the gro

ards to compare, // // Men, women, and

children all. // //

Bearded Thoughts

ion messy shards. // // The table and

children and paper and dust appear // // Recycled as the morning’s f

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

/ // (“She’s birthed! She’s birthed!”)—

children at play— // // The carter’s mare as she wheezes on through;

// Now far from home, I wonder if new

children might // // Monkey-like prance from branch to branch, preser

table in // // The dust-white room are

children . // // Part of the news they lie upon, they can’t // // Loo

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

ention and denial. // // What will our

children think, and is it fair // // to leave them, as the offspring

s // // Could never refuse us its ripe

children to eat // // For, if it could, it would feed even Tantalus.

crowded hospital. // // There were the

children to look after— // // there was no chance for her to follow h

Black September

Christmas day. // // Men and listening

children // // Wait for the ring of a bell, // // hush, presents, cr

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

btext— // // you are a child a gang of

children you // // are scales beneath a sheepskin you are crow’s //

ztec would carve a prayer // // Into a

child’s chest, and tear out his heart // // Like it didn’t belong the

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

Flight, from window to shadow // // A

child’s voice deepens, // // Like a changeling held // // Over the f

Here be dragons

// The cloud shadow passes, but in its

chill I remember - // // What if he had got that knife in? Is this th

// // but grows into ice as my hair is

chilled // // by all the breath of Russia // // (even the kitchen si

why i’m getting into Christmas

As examiners so cruelly, // // In the

chilling hall where I’m confined, // // Tell us to start the task ass

Exam Room Villanelle

// Become an open singing-bowl, whose

chime // // Is richness rising out of emptiness, // // And timelessn

ight in criss-cross rays // // wedding

chimes of line and light that got through to me. // // I don’t always

// Meanwhile, the wind whistles in the

chimney . // //

/ // Nor his watching from the window,

chin -heavy // // Will sweep away this red refuse. // // Blood dies q

/ // The only thing a beard hides is a

chin . // // Perhaps we’re scared to look history in the face, // //

Bearded Thoughts

rin, // // we'll make you a new one of

china and tin. // // After your hipbone, we'll put in a ball // // o

// and behind // // shelves of chipped

china . // // I smiled. She was right. // // The rails were like //

In a charity shop

r each cracked piece // // Of souvenir

china : // // The white and yellow honey-pot // // With matching spoo

wisted everywhere. // // Though, via a

chink a softer glare // // suggests I need not now despair // // but

ms // // Into a bead collecting at his

chin’s peak. // // Orange dew drop, // // Promising and frightening

’Tis pity he’s a bore

d(not a concrete poem) // // After the

chip from the front of your grin, // // we'll make you a new one of c

ers // // and behind // // shelves of

chipped china. // // I smiled. She was right. // // The rails were l

In a charity shop

on my plate. // // Ah! this one looks

chipper —it’s bigger and fitter // // And should keep me going for—wai

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

speckles of weed on the water are like

chips of dark gold // // Under the magnesium moon. // // One night s

visitors all knock. // // We share hot

chocolate , // // play tennis on the lawn, // // talk of equality and

A Room of Her Own

Chocolate Sonnet // // You always said you’d sooner chew nettles //

Chocolate Sonnet

ing darts, // // I wonder if I have no

choice but to be selfish, presumptuous, breakable. // // Do I need ot

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

item”, // // and you think it’s out of

choice . // // *Section C includes a Part divided into sub-parts each

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

iversal, standard and // // Unthinking

choice // // That makes all necessary marks. // // Park-safe, the co

Three Ways of Walking

e than signs— // // Trust that the old

choices hold wordlessly. // //

String-Theory(for Girton

choir ) // // In the beginning, // // only this, // // a sound. //

bands of brass, // // We stand as the

choirs pass. // // Gaudete. // // Candles glowing through stained gl

A Hymn to a Loved One

/ // She spat the pips, for they could

choke you, yet // // She imagined swallowing them, and her tongue, //

h concrete’s piercing bars, // // Soft

choking from a jagged cleft. // // A wax of fire—shrill waning hearts

ngachu, // // sweeps over the ruminant

chomp // // of a mutinous herd of nil. // // Below them, the sharp-s

Nil Charge / Nil Return

// // But, full of energy and youth, I

choose // // Our dialect, sweet sister of our land. // // Our learni

louds ’come snow // // Appear and I do

choose to open all, // // The gate, the door, the face, the light, I

[What have we done]

yours // // chasing what’s cheap, than

choose to slow down, // // it tumbles, trembling, traces mindlessly /

[A spinning spider]

rper pain – // // some, having parted,

choose to wed again. // //

nothing of the things we’d seen, // //

choosing again without design. We ended in the same bar // // with th

ed to any sawing of their trees, // //

Choosing , building, flying, feeding in the fields, // // Walking, hop

[Walcott begins Omeros]

we took a mapless walk // // at dawn,

choosing our course by instinct, taking // // left or right according

o successive summer holidays, // // we

chopped and sawed and dug and then set fire to // // the produce of o

s and enfolded into dense coils, // //

Chopped up and worn away until I forget how it sounds when you clear y

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

/ // As if the act of moving weren’t a

chore , // // As if my veins weren’t pumping acid yet, // // I carry

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

// // Why Rhyme Royal is such a bloody

chore . // // I’m trying to be cheerful, but can’t fain it: // // Wit

In Defence of Evolution

eminded of yesterday’s wonder: // // a

chorus of whispers painted on // // the imprimatura of your skin; //

. // // A song // // Where birds once

chorused a dew bright dawn. // // Immortality // // Is in time, our

in perfectly straight lines, // // And

chose a brand new name to give to every single one. // //

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

rld. Naming // // you was not hard, we

chose // // a name that meant all things // // that dazzle and move

Stone, Paper, Scissors

at it is she sees? The frame // // he

chose has cut us off from looking at // // the focus of her gaze: doe

Cape Cod Morning

hought that he’d made it // // when he

chose to cajole her // // with fresh Gorgonzola … // // but the thin

The Failing of the Cheese

t. // // Change // // Is what she has

chosen . // //

// To some other wide-eyed labour-eager

chosen one // // I shall leave this garden instructionless. // // I

Aubade to Girton

rematorium. // // This time Judith has

chosen the music, // // a Beethoven string quartet. // // Afterwards

proper formal funeral. // // (She had

chosen the music for the ceremony // // —a Schubert piano piece.) //

dences vibrate the port // // drink to

Christ ! and be merry! // // Sanitized warm parsnip smells tender goo

Drink and be merry

and the great pudding // // drink! to

Christ ! and be merry. // // silence unspoken fear gritting the

Drink and be merry

witch would show her face. // // But,

Christ ! From the West to the East, // // All I can see is the Beast.

Ode to a map of the world

of a bell, // // hush, presents, crib,

Christ Kind: // // tree aspark and fizzing, in a cavern // // so unk

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

irst // // Without the old sun-dancing

Christ : // // The bread stayed bready and the wine // // Passed up i

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

een’s speech, naturally // // drink to

Christmas ! and be merry! // // Turkey on a platter from John Lewis, c

Drink and be merry

gruous prosecco // // drink! // // to

Christmas ! // // and, please, be merry. // //

Drink and be merry

place // // —in muesli, say, or maybe

Christmas cake, // // or more appropriately, Suliman’s pilaf. // //

The well of love

God’s angels // // The evening before

Christmas day. // // Men and listening children // // Wait for the r

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

Wild Mountain Thyme // //

Christmas day. // // We’re all at my gran’s house, // // The full, C

Wild Mountain Thyme

Christmas Dolls’ House // // A house gestated in paternal love // //

The Christmas Dolls’ House

why i’m getting into

Christmas // // I’m perched inside an open window // // drinking cof

why i’m getting into Christmas

n my Grandmother’s homeland, // // The

Christmas room is readied // // By the mothers and God’s angels // /

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

Christmas // // There are pagan echoes. // // The supple green branc

Before Christmas

ounted washing powder and // // Garish

Christmas wrapping paper, // // Looking for that one item on my list.

The Notes You Have Left

d fame. // // Higgledy Piggledy // //

Christopher Isherwood // // Quickly ditched Corpus // // With Berlin

A pool of stillness, dotted with specs

chrome : // // The stars. They glitter ’gainst my mirror eye, // // A

[What have we done]

rmer stages of my seven skins; // // A

chronicle of past unbuttonings. // // I need these layers, this heral

// Back to lupine-winds, fire burn and

chthonic cauldron bubble. Incorrigible night // // in which sailors d

of us, faced by the juggernaut, // //

chucked in the towel and had to join the queue // // in servile sever

y // // He finally comes to Gaza (with

chums ). // // Avoids being distracted where it’s ‘badly impacted’ //

and black lung // // And purple dermal

chunks of coal and grit. // // Just so his father, prisoner of war //

t // // // // I sang my name in the

church // // I hissed my name to the cold pebbles and the cold sand /

[I whispered my name into the trees]

Down through the dark towards the grey

church spire // // In to its heart : the arching apple boughs… // //

The Magic Apple Tree

/ the gulls, and faintly, far away, the

churn // // of waves upon the sand. Eastwards we turn, // // along

Wells in winter

lightning—is this the poem? // // The

cicada’s memories discarded, a copper effigy caves in, // // And far

kink // // Night she sulks, // // Two

cigar butts dunking themselves // // In the undergrowth. // // Silen

He who made the Lamb

s, // // Blood dripping from your next

cigarette , // // And we feel bored and lazy, // // And my parents ca

Wednesday // // Another day of fresh

cigarette burns, // // not failing to hit the side of a barn // // b

/ your red coat an aegis to lift // //

cigarettes to your many mouths that // // breathe words down the phon

why i’m getting into Christmas

Iron Age bred, // // now stuck, // //

cinder at last ebb // // ignites arena morn: // // I war dirt-up, im

Hercules et Oracle

// Dry voices sift and fall in ash and

cinders , // // In acrid conversation with the dead, // // whose ghos

recycled air. // // Our viewing of the

cinema landscape in that filthy glass // // Will only pause briefly,

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

// Turkey on a platter from John Lewis,

cinnamon infused bread sauce and incongruous prosecco // // drink! //

Drink and be merry

becomes a daily ritual. // // Suffolk,

circa 1958 // // After the floods of fifty-three // // they raised t

Walking in winter

rty feet into a hole. // // Cambridge,

circa 1966 // // One cold winter’s afternoon // // we walk to the ed

Walking in winter

this close. // // The pond is a tight

circle of moon, eyelashed with heavy grasses. // // His pointed foot

/ Despite cuff, coins and courtesy, the

circle // // Will inhale. The peak reaching skywards, extending // /

Vicious or Virtuous?

away // // To something other than our

circled self. // // I know the angels were the first to fall, // //

The Cutting Edge

e dead, // // whose ghosts go round in

circles down from heaven, // // whose ghosts go round in circles up f

// MUST i keep on going round in // //

CIRCLES must i keep on going // // ROUND in circles must i keep on //

the windmill’s lament—a short play

ES must i keep on going // // ROUND in

circles must i keep on // // GOING till i break? // // DO i have to

the windmill’s lament—a short play

heaven, // // whose ghosts go round in

circles up from Hell, // // Whose pace, within the strictest measure

nil strain – tight pressed // // in a

circlet of steel. // // Haunch-heaving and panting // // they dream

Nil Charge / Nil Return

rub and Seraph spiralled down // // In

circling curlicues of sacred text, // // Flaring in ink and paper to

The Cutting Edge

in yourself, // // all those feelings

circling in my strange heart // // whose meaning will forever elude y

// // Clipped wires and frames, // //

Circuit mid-flight shorted. // // I am unsullied by the outside, //

Frighteningly Inert

/ // should rest in perfect peace. I’m

circumspect // // about my first response. Success and joy // // may

Between Life and Death

will you trade for an eye? AI might be

cis , white, male, hetero, // // but at least it won’t talk to me on t

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

citronnier // // and bakes a tarte au

citron meringuée. // //

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

// takes yard eggs, flour, fruit of the

citronnier // // and bakes a tarte au citron meringuée. // //

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

predictability. // // // // In a new

city and in love, we took a mapless walk // // at dawn, choosing our

d nilherds // // insinuate up from the

city // // dragging their ledgers and pens // // for the annual nil

Nil Charge / Nil Return

e and fall, // // So why does New York

City from the heavens look so flat? // // And why do all the names so

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ps through // // the window frame. The

city is a puddle of glistening yellow and grey, // // and everybody h

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

rew pretty // // Local people left the

city // // Moved by long forgotten pity // // For their lovely Princ

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

cross the river, black and cruel. This

city now extinguished, empty, spent; the beauty of the day submerged i

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

les ahead in wait // // and then a new

city . // // Now you are relegated to observer, // // My gallery of w

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

city // // Penthoused // //

Credit in the city

// With domes at our backs— // // the

city ragged like old // // lace, all behind us. // // Your jeans wer

Tridente, 10th September

house agents’ clerks // // and busted

city slickers on // // the dole, unshaven merchants, and // // the a

[the typist puts her knickers on]

e was a war. // // There was a bitter,

civil // // war in Jordan. // // There was a gun. // // There was a

Black September

eal social animal. // // Strip off the

civility // // And you change skin; // // Are more and less than hum

/ Neither fur, feathers nor scales ever

clad // // A perfectly honed piece of mortal machinery // // Like yo

Stockings spongy carpets the window

clad in lights, closed against the great grey sky // // drink! and be

Drink and be merry

ly // // Trinity. Let’s alight now and

claim her in the name of God’s grace. // // TWO // // Columbus was t

// You see it differently. // // You

claim I would have read Section C* // // more thoroughly // // if I’

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

anguage does not understand. // // You

claim it “impedes progress” and is “bland,” // // But, full of energy

he hopeful abyss // // please come and

claim it—take it back— // // you wasted ink and were bound to miss. /

The Dead Letter Office closes down

rhymes wrench’t // // sufficiént; you

claim sans rhyme it’s prose, // // obtusely count ictūs with fingers

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

ly over cor- // // al, usurping canoes

claim to the crests, each sullen swelling rock- // // ing him closer

e to hold you // // Here’s Thanatos to

claim you, // // You will never know the wilderness of mirrors // //

that bronzed hulk and his vanity // //

Claimed his dad was a sea god—insanity— // // But he did have firm pe

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ts casual delay. // // All letters not

claimed will be chastened to ash // // and the smell of their burning

The Dead Letter Office closes down

// // Trinity, and then conquered and

claimed you in the name of God’s grace. // //

fection, // // Epochs before this have

claimed you, // // The archaic gods will make you // // An example i

eyond the second part, with many simply

claiming incorrectly that the second derivative of xx is aa and the se

the night, I can no more // // credit

clairvoyance for what was simply love // // than I could moralise tha

attles up // // then catches. // // I

clamber clumsily // // into the slow // // black treacle of the nigh

[The sash rattles up]

Janet’s Foss. // // Upstream again to

clamber Gordale Scar // // and rest, and breathe some more the cool c

Daydream Dale Journey

stuck in agelessness; // // She has to

clamber out. // // Change // // Is what she has chosen. // //

ted by leaves overhead, // // With the

clammy fingers of shade that you are glad to feel, // // Especially t

// Waiting for when, the // // Doors

clamp tight shut, like an oyster, (Would // // Someone please // //

Poems on the Underground

understand” why I had to leave tonight.

Clancy got loose and ran through an alley with keef, kefir, with champ

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

in the customary sense // // (machine

clanging to a halt, // // mind looks on in horror) // // but in the

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

// // Keeping you from moving, // //

Clanking , as you try to disappear. // // Now the chain is a thousand

eft // // the Cape Cod house’s painted

clapboard side. // // At centre, as if growing from the clapboards, /

Cape Cod Morning

/ // At centre, as if growing from the

clapboards , // // but grander far, a corniced window bay // // in da

Cape Cod Morning

lds her stare? // // Or is it just the

clarity of light, the glowing // // grass and trees outside her windo

Cape Cod Morning

rds the battlegrounds ahead. // // The

clash where flesh meets wire and no-one wins // // Except you, you an

The Other Side of the Line

// It’s like how I don’t enjoy a yoga

class until my knees are at my ears, // // and I feel like if I rock

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// // And well they do, for both were

classed and cruel: // // Embroideries and rhymes were fortune’s perk—

In Defence of Evolution

dge college // // And pilfer the noble

classes ’ ancient knowledge. // // I think again of coal-dust in the c

by God, nothing to hide? // // Or the

classicist , that type of beard that looks like that of Hercules // //

Bearded Thoughts

ach? // // Time’s warring chariots can

clatter by— // // we have the earth, the water and the sky. // //

and inch, I’ll tumble and my bones will

clatter . // // I don’t want to align my chakras; I want to them to sh

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

er to cut me open at the waist with her

clavicle // // And put me back together and seal the wound with her m

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ding futures on the wishing bone // //

clavicles fuse in birds’ ancestral night // // in this revision one a

he latest life hurdle means we grab and

claw // // For the meagre protection of a bank balance. // // The br

l. Sand shivered a hermit // // crab’s

claw from its recycled shell, while a translucent team // // of chame

Just a Small Fish

hed her, penned // // a tribute with a

claw pisswet, bloodwhorled, // // and badinaged with her would-be sav

beyond that shade; // // With balanced

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

Three Ways of Walking

o cursed as the basket spills in sticky

clay // // and scraped the mud off of her own caked shoes. // // The

ned heart, // // Angelic messengers in

clay — // // Angelic messengers who say // // That though he finds hi

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

ld // // Like a spirit waiting for its

clay ; // // Because the abstractions of experience // // Make the me

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

// Horse hooves sunk deep into sticky

clay . // // Between rutted mud and thistle bloom // // We pick our p

scores // // his mark into the waiting

clay ; // // Telling the future his signature flaw. // // Creation st

// I cannot remember a time when I felt

clean enough. // //

[I am almost 25 years old]

; // // Umbilical tangen skywards, cut

clean . // // I am the moon-child broken free, // // Losing mother an

A Mr. Twit complex, the psychologists (

clean -shaven and in black) might say. // // The beard is living histo

Bearded Thoughts

the foundation of things. ‘Reality’ is

clean , simple and purely luminous. It is difficult to look and experie

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

sert of the sea. // // Fatness sluiced

clean , // // Streets emptied utterly into pits // // Girded with cha

an ache and burn. // // How sweet and

clean was that return. // // How can we not believe in some // // be

. cleanse me with hyssop and I won’t be

clean . wash me and I will be blacker than coal. if my truth is wrong I

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

end and break when you want to snap me.

cleanse me with hyssop and I won’t be clean. wash me and I will be bla

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

und will hear my silent pleas // // To

clear a seat or two and make a gap // // There, though if it were les

Poems on the Underground

bodies, their tiny faces // // far too

clear . // // A wave breaks over us like a stage curtain, // // and i

ve a whim // // to build a fine bridge

clear across a great river, where // // trees, grass and flowers can

Troubled waters

n // // is low ahead of us, the sky is

clear . // // Across the wood, onto the beach. We hear // // the gul

Wells in winter

nd rest, and breathe some more the cool

clear air. // // Beyond the scree the open path leads on, // // a ge

Daydream Dale Journey

re-spear. // // What passion. High and

clear and far, the song // // Called you; in triune harmony you ascen

crust. The next two months // // are

clear and fine and bitter cold. // // Every step, // // your foot up

Walking in winter

clifftop grave // // Curved ache of a

clear horizon // // Could I foretell the future // // The wake of li

light on water // // Curved ache of a

clear horizon // // You hold your hand in mine // // The wake of lig

iced window bay // // in darker wood.

Clear morning sunlight fills // // the room we glimpse inside. A wom

Cape Cod Morning

count your winnings ’til you’re in the

clear . // // Play your men like your cards, dear, and never // // Ke

but I grow. // // Feeling when it gets

clear , // // This pain is very wrong! // //

A Tribute to AQOH

// // through still, warm air, // //

clear to my vantage point on higher ground. // // Voices far across t

y until I forget how it sounds when you

clear your throat, // // Or the face you pull in the mirror when fidd

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

Boxing Day. // // The country road not

cleared for days // // —and then of course it snows again. // // One

Walking in winter

ag, and then turns— // // shearing me.

Clearing me myself from hide. Hide? // // No plaice. He’ll gobble me

Clearing // // Miscellanea, fool’s gold, bric-a-brac, // // bits and

ked Hamlet shaving in the mirror // //

Clearing the gravel in my throat pulling // // The wire from within t

carves sharp to sign the paper, // //

Cleave the land. // // In a time of dates that rot from inside out //

bars, // // Soft choking from a jagged

cleft . // // A wax of fire—shrill waning hearts— // // Then silence,

by an invisible string held // // By a

clenched fist, soon to become a fatherly // // Embrace between insubs

Snapshot Endings

n by now, this feeling. // // Stomach,

clenching , so hard the butterflies // // Brush the back of my throat.

ne // // intent on small house agents’

clerks // // and busted city slickers on // // the dole, unshaven me

[the typist puts her knickers on]

/ Discard and shuffle quickly if you’re

clever // // And find a new hapless victim to con.” // // So if you

the waves. // // Lying dizzily on the

cliffs , we listened to echoes upon echoes // // of the sea incessantl

[I often think of that January morning]

oretell the future // // Gazing from a

clifftop grave // // Curved ache of a clear horizon // // Could I fo

slate grey and wet // // Gazing from a

clifftop grave // // Your tears mingling with the rain // // Could I

all will be fine? // // North of here,

climate’s unsure. // // All enduring is our failure, // // Let us ke

Ode to a map of the world

p with happiness. You human anti // //

climax , nothingness. You are mewling death. // // In truth, you stagn

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

rocks, I soon surmise // // The more I

climb the softer each stroke comes. // // So on I flow, my breath hel

[What have we done]

// // Old childhood traditions of tree

climbing delight // // Fruit eating and the inevitably ripped clothes

dust it only // // digs deeper. // //

clinch my neck between your fingers, // // bore that small hole throu

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

lesh below, // // My knife no place to

cling , my life to stow. // // I swim through slush of half-solid and

[What have we done]

/ // (Like a window)); // // My pride

clings like // // The pixillating condensation // // Bolting blind t

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

e of the kettle; // // Rhythmed by the

clink -clink-clink of teaspoons against the side of mugs. // // And th

he kettle; // // Rhythmed by the clink-

clink -clink of teaspoons against the side of mugs. // // And though o

tle; // // Rhythmed by the clink-clink-

clink of teaspoons against the side of mugs. // // And though our unk

make for irate avians // // With wings

clipped , // // Clipped wires and frames, // // Circuit mid-flight sh

Frighteningly Inert

weeps about its canopy, // // and her

clipped trunk is an ash boomerang. // // Old woman wobbles back to he

ped pots // // ornamental // // shape

clipped // // wind curves // // moles tubers // // worm roots wait

yew needs dried blood in spring

vians // // With wings clipped, // //

Clipped wires and frames, // // Circuit mid-flight shorted. // // I

Frighteningly Inert

(astray) // // Or the farm-wife, with

clippings from the youngest ewe, // // who cursed as the basket spill

t: once upon a time, // // a girl in a

cloak of symbolic colouration // // meets a magpie on the road. // /

on-existent tick // // Of your digital

clock , resting next to my head. // // “No milk” // // Pushing a tro

The Notes You Have Left

// Love set you going like a fat gold

clock (watch!) ticking // // Boxes on an Apollo checklist; stuck at s

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

ould start again the next day. // // A

clockwork Abraham, ready every morning with his flint // // At six o’

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

earth // // like a jolt // // in the

clockwork // // of memory. // // Not here, but elsewhere, // // the

[The sash rattles up]

oots crunch beech nuts // // and heave

clods of wet grass. // // cowbwebs catch on tongue and mesh eyes //

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

ing down the motorway // // to loom as

close // // and still // // as midwinter dawn. // // It completes a

ws // // It cannot be // // Less than

close by. // //

me without inside this place. // // I

close my eyes and feel their cacoons grow // // More pink, more soft,

[What have we done]

ss feet and unsteady ground // // If I

close my eyes I still see // // A harbour adorned with lights // //

the festival of Ferragosto // // If I

close my eyes I still see // // Fireworks like a Pollock painting //

m // // I would, but I can’t. Not even

close . My vocabulary // // Can describe many things, but the thought

I’ll never work for Hallmark

ll not be again. // // I once held you

close ; now I hold the wind // // As it howls, painlessly, through my

The Other Side of the Line

cker // // Flicker. // // Did I just

close on // // My boson? // // ‘Standard Model’ perfection! // // P

Small Particles in the Small Hours

‘That one is too large, too small, cut

close or not at all; // // This one here too ginger for the colour ha

Bearded Thoughts

urprised. // // I have never been this

close . // // The pond is a tight circle of moon, eyelashed with heavy

elter, I’m not far off off-shore // //

Close to the land, I open my maw // // to the ocean: I have no feet.

The beard is living history, we are too

close to the past, // // The razor might not last, the bomb might fal

Bearded Thoughts

ends have piled up eight or nine // //

Close -written sheets, but as for me // // I fear I am not in my perfe

Exam Room Villanelle

// How could you // // bear to // //

close your eyes, // // how could you // // fall // // asleep? // /

Bright, Pale Yellow

h herds of woollen teeth. // // I will

close your goddamn curtains for you. // //

Aubade to Girton

gy carpets the window clad in lights,

closed against the great grey sky // // drink! and be merry! // // G

Drink and be merry

am lying in the bed, my eyes // // are

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

hat she is there, // // I keep my eyes

closed . // // My Grandmother sits in the corner, // // she is watchi

disappears, // // cloud-eclipsed, and

closer than it seems. // //

[A spinning spider]

each rippling roll rock- // // ing him

closer to the exotic East. Each tear was worth the glor- // // y of t

oming down ’coming more tame // // The

closer to the hope-made sky I came. // // Then, as a blacksmith finds

[What have we done]

ch sullen swelling rock- // // ing him

closer to the pristine West Isles. Tears would pay for the glor- // /

The Dead Letter Office

closes down // // // // // The dead letter office is closing down

The Dead Letter Office closes down

/ // // // The dead letter office is

closing down // // because of a failure of management, // // and all

The Dead Letter Office closes down

e rails were like // // lives woven in

cloth , // // a tapestry, // // by which // // all that’s left of us

In a charity shop

e // // When I didn’t feel, beneath my

clothes and the fallen // // Leaves of my skin, the seeping rot of lo

[I am almost 25 years old]

really? // // All three removed their

clothes , as seemed appropriate, // // The boys scrambled up, toecurli

everything, my speech smeared into your

clothes , // // I cannot remember a time when I felt clean enough. //

[I am almost 25 years old]

And the fragments that get stuck to my

clothes . // // I taste the jigsaw created by leaves overhead, // //

Fruit eating and the inevitably ripped

clothes . // // Or does the mango tree solitarily stand // // Still c

// the Valentine that sparked a fight.

Clothes pegs. // // He, of course, always hated sentiment, // // and

ok like // // lives clustered into the

clothes , some // // afternoons when the sun // // presses through th

In a charity shop

name dribbling from my lips // // And

clotting on my neck. // // I know now you walk as a man angel hunter.

hanging, something sad inside. // // A

cloud broke, and she saw it shatter, // // Up there in the sky, // /

[The sun flattened]

globe. It gleams and disappears, // //

cloud -eclipsed, and closer than it seems. // //

[A spinning spider]

// more days of sun or rain or passing

cloud // // more meetings with old friends // // more talks, more si

ter home. // // At once, in shock, the

cloud on which I float, // // Does drift away, discovering below’t //

[What have we done]

// // Where fog, encoal’d, imbues with

cloud our sight, // // Surrounding ev’ry face we meet with Blight, //

[What have we done]

een lying. Is this the poem? // // The

cloud shadow passes, but in its chill I remember - // // What if he h

ore, // // Folds into itself. // // A

cloud steps aside for a second. // // The sun hits. // //

[The sun flattened]

Phonecall // // HAMLET Do you see that

cloud ? That’s almost in shape like a camel. // // POLONIUS By th’mass

d, the sun jumping // // From cloud to

cloud . // // The world went waterwards again. // // Her right hand s

[The sun flattened]

t appeared, the sun jumping // // From

cloud to cloud. // // The world went waterwards again. // // Her rig

[The sun flattened]

he canopy of green fingers tickling the

clouds // // And the saffron-yellow orbs of our mango tree // // Dan

s and scraps of paper cluster // // In

clouds and tides to carry // // In light like a welcome guest. // //

She Stands There, Given To The Dreadful

Clouds Crossing The Stars, Racing To Nowhere // // And you’re frantic

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

te, // // A door, a light, a face, the

clouds ’come snow // // Appear and I do choose to open all, // // Th

[What have we done]

// Raised black sails, and now I’m in

clover . // // ARIADNE // // I blame that bronzed hulk and his vanity

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

Cockatrice // // It

clucked , and spat at the best of both worlds. // // The monster hatch

rumpled in a heap // // I don’t have a

clue ! // // Another hour in despair // // It was so easy before //

have strewn the floors today: quicksand

clumps , capsized melon cubes, stranded sea monkeys // // Maybe they p

p // // then catches. // // I clamber

clumsily // // into the slow // // black treacle of the night air //

[The sash rattles up]

west // // Leaves and scraps of paper

cluster // // In clouds and tides to carry // // In light like a wel

‘when the rails look like // // lives

clustered into the clothes, some // // afternoons when the sun // //

In a charity shop

// // And proffered a posy. // // She

clutched it and simpered. // // The future seemed rosy— // // To her

tie // // Marching to the front line,

clutching our briefcases // // Like the paperwork holds the keys to v

oo don’t you: in your sleepless nights,

clutching your pillow case, wishing those ‘thoughts’ away, thoughts th

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

Microgynon // // Defy the moon suck,

Cnut unheeded, // // All that she did with packet, pop, superseded. /

r you called me a diamond in a world of

coal . A light // // through the mist, softly luminous and guiding peo

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

lung // // And purple dermal chunks of

coal and grit. // // Just so his father, prisoner of war // // Then

ient knowledge. // // I think again of

coal -dust in the chest. // // If he who fell at Passchendaele had see

A modern phoenix // // risen from old

coal -grate ash // // so I can shift my gaze // // from keys to coots

A Room of Her Own

ean. wash me and I will be blacker than

coal . if my truth is wrong I want you to gouge it from me. use blunt,

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

gle truck tyre appears, // // a sudden

coalescence of storm and tar // // shuddering down the motorway // /

t today who knew // // Existing on hot

coals blisters the feet // // Just when I found them again // // In

ion of spalted trunk— // // blackstrap

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

ugh my hair // // Then my bare feet on

coarse carpet, // // I hit what I head for // // And study my imprin

Falling Is Like This

/ // His likeness glimmering // // On

coarse woollen lapels // // As proof of our labour. // // After the

Magnetic Mountain

ut you seem unperturbed // // your red

coat an aegis to lift // // cigarettes to your many mouths that // /

why i’m getting into Christmas

21 January 2009 // // ‘I’ll take your

coat . Ehud will fix a drink. // // How was the flight? Few noticed th

// // To me it’s just another tyrant’s

coat . // // So, free verse, then, seems fittest to survive. // // It

In Defence of Evolution

Candles, hats—shake the snow from your

coat , uncle— // // drink! and be merry! // // Hymns rattle around th

Drink and be merry

re: // // meat for man. He’ll greet my

coat with the least of concern, // // once the knife scores the surfa

ears. // // Momentary flashes of white

coats and pitying faces // // And her, sobbing, while our future drai

Cockatrice // // It clucked, and spat at the best of both worlds. //

ragon, // // Your tears will recreate

Cocytus and Pyriphlegethon, // // Carrying your burning wails into Ac

right. And rising left // // the Cape

Cod house’s painted clapboard side. // // At centre, as if growing fr

Cape Cod Morning

Cod Morning // // Almost accidental, but carefully composed: // // t

Cape Cod Morning

raft the machine under skin, // // Let

code -lines mesh with genotyping—is this the poem? // // Millennia liv

these layers, this heraldry // // That

codes and siphons off and binds me here // // And keeps me earthed, b

nly for a brief moment. This reality is

coextensive with ‘unconscious will’, ‘pure power’, ‘exhilaration’ ‘bea

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

hem company with honey // // sweetened

coffee , a palimpsest of limbs and layers leafing through // // pages

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

I want to grow. But all I have is cold

coffee , and an empty page. // //

[I often think of that January morning]

// // was caught. After time we found

coffee and wine, // // a waiter who looked like a brother, and a plac

he jar of water, swirling brushes in my

coffee . // // As much as I tried to forget, the memories resurfaced i

[I often think of that January morning]

the floor of your house, sipping sleepy

coffee // // as your guitar filled the room with the sound of careful

[I often think of that January morning]

artificially structuring my days around

coffee // // before falling asleep in the hope I would avoid dreaming

[I often think of that January morning]

seem // // that right now sitting here

coffee can make // // do just as well I guess. // //

why i’m getting into Christmas

es, expeditions // // more books, more

coffee cups // // more tragedies, comedies, histories // // more sha

the flickering fire and read it with my

coffee , // // filling and unfilling the warm mug in murky waves. //

[I often think of that January morning]

place where I anxiously waited with my

coffee . // // Hours later we lay on the floor of your house, sipping

[I often think of that January morning]

, // // And there’s no song on or cold

coffee left, // // And there’s no dusty sheets or torn curtains // /

west song on the speaker, // // A cold

coffee left by my side. // // You sing along to your favourite lyrics

Coffee -stained breaths // // I pull myself into // // the comforting

Shit, we’ve missed our stop. // //

Coffee -stained plastic floor, its frailty tuned by too bright, // //

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

d inside an open window // // drinking

coffee that leaves rings // // slowly absorbed by paper // // as I a

why i’m getting into Christmas

hugged goodbye. I walked home and made

coffee , // // then sat and poured my thoughts over a journal’s patien

[I often think of that January morning]

tep at a time). // // Soon we lost our

cognitive // // Sense, began to mime // // Words which once we could

ropped up all ornamental, // // dusted

cogs very still above sleeping bodies. Our grist is long gone // // a

nnades and the ruins of markets, // //

Coiling round temple pillars and bronze effigies, // // Usurping the

s coils, wrenches words // // Tightens

coils , a crucible // // Refining through fire. // // The page is fil

/ The word-worm encircles, tightens its

coils , and the wordsmith // // And wrings and wrenches words to verse

g out in series and enfolded into dense

coils , // // Chopped up and worn away until I forget how it sounds wh

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

mates Glede-eyes garnet // // Tightens

coils , wrenches words // // Tightens coils, a crucible // // Refinin

s the tree drops its leaves like yellow

coin : // // NOW // // and NOW // // and O // //

[At the coinciding point of the years]

no-texture of headrests. // // Foreign

coin of size of 20p fell from my wallet in stopping taxi, // // Fille

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

coinciding point of the years] // // At the coinciding point of the y

[At the coinciding point of the years]

iding point of the years] // // At the

coinciding point of the years // // Where minutes, hours, and days ru

[At the coinciding point of the years]

he // // Outside. // // Despite cuff,

coins and courtesy, the circle // // Will inhale. The peak reaching s

Vicious or Virtuous?

no fire and no gold, // // no gems nor

coins nor jewels; just the old // // and weathered hills, created by

Daydream Dale Journey

: // // I can assess my scanty nuts of

coke , // // apportion rationed quires and dilute ink. // // The snow

A Room of Her Own

grass mops our toes // // // // the

cold air stings my lips // // … // // i have a strong urge to tell y

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

cup of tea—chamomile tea—because I was

cold . And although you’d been sat there for days and days waiting for

[So the moon was there]

stallized into meaningless // // serve

cold and forgotten // // Ah what do they know? // // “The Romans wer

“Now that I’m old, // // I do feel the

cold — // // and my breathing is rather uncertain.” // //

drained. // // the billows settle low,

cold as a curse, // // but though the thunder roars, it will not rain

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

// // Some want the facts as hard and

cold , as they very thing cheese! as it is growing old // // They want

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

// Slaughtered his girlfriend // // In

cold -blooded rage. // // (Nothing too funny here, // // Uxoricidally

came down, // // expecting to find it

cold , but every day // // the embers beneath the ash were darkly glow

// // (varnished, sanded, rooted into

cold // // carpet) // // there is simply nothing to connect you to y

seed I want to grow. But all I have is

cold coffee, and an empty page. // //

[I often think of that January morning]

dead, // // And there’s no song on or

cold coffee left, // // And there’s no dusty sheets or torn curtains

ur newest song on the speaker, // // A

cold coffee left by my side. // // You sing along to your favourite l

fire and we are safe against the

cold , cold night // // drink! and be merry! // // Warm, mellow bread

Drink and be merry

e cheese // // To Eliot, difficult, in

cold collations // // Crumbling and stuffed with other folk’s quotati

Cheese is the medium

submerged in silence. Buses, bicycles,

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

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

rp velars // // That cut and crack and

cold consume, // // And leave nothing but a blackened gloom, // // O

hs // // are clear and fine and bitter

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

Walking in winter

hat bubble-burst every time. // // The

cold he feels nudges at my booted feet. // // The speckles of weed on

ecretly hope there is. // // I keep us

cold in a glass jar // // at our heart's core. // // Helium and hydr

/ at our heart’s core. // // I keep us

cold in a glass jar, // // but secretly hope there is // // no possi

but shop door front, // // Who shivers

cold in sleeping bag at night // // Looks in to see them dancing in r

Three gay rituals

s? // // That there’s no such thing as

cold , just an absence of warmth? // // That can’t be right. // // Le

Three Pieces of Advice

/ Pounding out a rhythm in harmony with

cold machinery. // // A continuous shriek throbs against the wall //

Snapshot Endings

for———— // // Passing Fall in tattooed

cold , // // Misted breath on misted grass. // // Dew dappled on fall

Fall for————

plucked from falling world two daggers

cold . // // My eyes obscured by wash, I blindly dug // // My place,

[What have we done]

// 1. Heat always travels from hot to

cold . // // 2. Never eat at an empty sushi restaurant. // // 3. Alwa

Three Pieces of Advice

re and we are safe against the cold,

cold night // // drink! and be merry! // // Warm, mellow bread breat

Drink and be merry

// Columbo-standard, // // Crouching

cold -nose, // // Eyes like a noose, nipping // // Natural paper edge

He who made the Lamb

hole in my side where your hand, // //

cold , // // now rests. like malagas // // through the dust it only /

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

has warmed the room // // against the

cold outside. // // (But that was forty years ago // // —these days

Walking in winter

rlier draft of things, // // lost in a

cold , particulate light. // // Is this the drowning which was meant?

e church // // I hissed my name to the

cold pebbles and the cold sand // // I roared my name to the surprise

[I whispered my name into the trees]

all; // // A slight light pigments the

cold pond harsh, // // Revealing smokey lines of my knife’s end. //

[What have we done]

e. Wading fearlessly through // // the

cold receding sea, with hair the colour of honey // // obscuring itse

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

. // // He coughs with surprise at the

cold rigidity of the ground— // // I have seen him do this before, an

, plucked on its string with his // //

cold rubber fingers and let their priest bless by its // // psalmodic

Jonathan’s Deathbed

sed my name to the cold pebbles and the

cold sand // // I roared my name to the surprise of the animals t

[I whispered my name into the trees]

// // He lay there till his breath ran

cold // // The boy without a face. // // Between the shining silver

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ant. // // 3. Always wash blood off in

cold water. // // 1, given to me for the first time while helping me

Three Pieces of Advice

, her gleaming eyes wet // // From the

cold wind on a bench on a freezing night, // // because let’s not go

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// // Cambridge, circa 1966 // // One

cold winter’s afternoon // // we walk to the edge of town and on //

Walking in winter

I knew there to be ice, // // For such

cold worlds do not let flowing be, // // so passed I through, life’s

[What have we done]

his Alaskan scene. // // It may be the

coldest day of the year // // but no Murder of absurd black penguins

why i’m getting into Christmas

oets now, who match my age, // // Like

Coleridge I could become a sage, // // And I bet I’d get more dates /

hoven string quartet. // // Afterwards

Colin and I go down to the basement // // —the real crematorium— //

ring light. // // Nearly-five-year-old

Colin // // needed a lavatory, and I had to leave the fire for a whil

n each other’s company: // // Ready to

collaborate // // In the shaping of sugar petals, // // The rising o

Instead was broken into pieces, // //

Collapsed into the shattered trees // // Like water flows down drains

[The sun flattened]

ese // // To Eliot, difficult, in cold

collations // // Crumbling and stuffed with other folk’s quotations..

Cheese is the medium

letter here, on this bench, for you to

collect // // Dear Alan, // // I don’t suppose you have often though

your eyes. // // I’m not sure when we

collected this specimen of sadness. // // Helium and hydrogen hauled

d together. // // I'm not sure when we

collected this specimen of sadness, // // the kind that still refract

rtbreak.) // // “Biology is just stamp

collecting ” and // // You are just biology. // // I am the king that

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

s corner and streams // // Into a bead

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

’Tis pity he’s a bore

// To get inky fingers in a Cambridge

college // // And pilfer the noble classes’ ancient knowledge. // //

g up— // // Nothing else works for the

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

BURR (or Brrrrr)

ind // // Which three therapists and a

college counsellor failed to spot, // // But I feel like I want to be

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

shoes // // on the dark path back from

college , refusing // // to look him in the eye, it could have been a

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

// (Linnean Society 1904, // // Girton

College 1913). // // The Reigate lab, of course // // has a source /

There must be moonshine

ust be exemplar for // // The ‘women’s

college ’ where the third years saw // // They had just funds enough t

drunk is a waste of // // my time, the

college’s time, the porter’s time,” etc. // // To some other wide-eye

Aubade to Girton

r planets weep // // To see two worlds

collide . // //

The Daily Planet

a // // Mandala. // // As the hadrons

collide , // // I’m counting beside // // The flickering green // //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

/ Of being the first // // Who saw the

collision , // // Revealed the Higgs boson. // // Briefly. // // Bu

Small Particles in the Small Hours

eir food amongst the sand // // Whilst

colonists enjoy resplendent views: // // Oppression’s language does n

through the reeds, // // Winding past

colonnades and the ruins of markets, // // Coiling round temple pilla

ent objects surrounded me. // // In no-

color , no-shape cup waiter serves // // My tea. Sugar bowl fills not-

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

// // This one here too ginger for the

colour hair, or too straight, too curly.’ // // In days gone by it wa

Bearded Thoughts

sh of something // // Mundane, a gaudy

colour . // // Like a trap the hand snaps shut, // // Creases more, /

[The sun flattened]

// the cold receding sea, with hair the

colour of honey // // obscuring itself across my vision, and in the a

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

nches and the fling // // And curve of

colour on the golden fruit… // // All buried in the rubble of your fa

The Magic Apple Tree

// // Fairy-free gardens have as many

colour purples raining; // // Bet we can make them all in micro, soft

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

e, // // a girl in a cloak of symbolic

colouration // // meets a magpie on the road. // // like, a big fuck

mmortality // // Is in time, our blood

coloured autumn. // // Artifice // // Risks going against the grain.

// to deflate into lonely doubt. // //

Coloured creases of downy skin // // and the tactless scratch of gree

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

nescent airs // // moistening the many-

coloured earths. // // In forests and in open spaces // // there are

// Transform the coloured flower into

coloured flesh // // and hide a secret inside. // // Feel the air. T

rays and the air. // // Transform the

coloured flower into coloured flesh // // and hide a secret inside. /

ire between them: // // these dazzling

coloured images of flames. // // Should I wonder if my eyes deceive m

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

// Finding only shorter grass, // // A

coloured strip made // // By the lawnmower. // //

spring rain. Throw open // // the fire-

coloured temptations, welcome in // // the roaming bees. // // Feel

g under bedsheets, // // buoyed by the

colourless memory of pain, // // as if there were any doors still lef

e a globe spinning so fast that all the

colours blurred into white. And I felt sorry for it, because although

[So the moon was there]

ies, histories // // more shapes, more

colours , more darknesses // // more storms, gales, lightning bolts //

ugh the dusty window // // to fade the

colours of the carpet, // // and people come in, // // binbag-laden

In a charity shop

as they gaze // // so deep between the

colours of the flames. // // Drawn by warmth, I came to see you, //

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

h from whence they spring. // // These

colours seem to fall from Eden’s light, // // The air they shine thro

The Magic Apple Tree

He who made the Lamb // //

Columbo -standard, // // Crouching cold-nose, // // Eyes like a noose

He who made the Lamb

La Trinitaria // // ONE // //

Columbus was the beginning, caravels cresting over cor- // // al, usu

hat. Columbus would sail // // again.

Columbus was the beginning, he saw triplet hills peak- // // ing out

name of God’s grace. // // TWO // //

Columbus was the end, caravels crashing crudely over cor- // // al, u

rk so he put on the cat instead. // //

Columbus was the end. He left the quiet dawns behind, left too // //

g end, Portugal could only tip its hat.

Columbus would sail // // again. Columbus was the beginning, he saw t

hen sink bears witness // // to Soviet

columns of ice). // // But you seem unperturbed // // your red coat

why i’m getting into Christmas

/ Philosophies are aired, // // temple

columns spaced, // // lightning rods earthed. // // On the dark side

ted, swift and free, // // shining, re-

combining in their dance // // the genesis of every utterance, // //

ly marvel: he exists, he exists, in the

combustion of his heart! // //

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

bling onto the stage. // // There will

come a time when the new year is held back, firm by the wrist. // //

/ // That such a thing as Spring would

come again. // // Ostara didn’t need viscera wrenched by obsessed obs

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

handed air of gravitas. Our thanks, and

come again’. // // The Envoy. Gaza, 1 March 2009 // // Now we must c

ly into the hopeful abyss // // please

come and claim it—take it back— // // you wasted ink and were bound t

The Dead Letter Office closes down

ght? I mean // // what about the women

come and go and talk

gleam // // Of sunlight in green water—

come and go // // Like us from depth to height—suddenly seem // // T

Is it a memory?

t have helped. // // So good of you to

come and help us celebrate // // Completion of our necessary task to

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

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

A Hymn to a Loved One

told ‘I love you’. I want it // // To

come and wreck me. // // And I don’t mean ‘wreck’ as in emotionally w

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

spent a lifetime in the pit // // And

come away with bruises and black lung // // And purple dermal chunks

ere for days and days waiting for me to

come back, the tea was still hot. And so we just sat there, and the tr

[So the moon was there]

just sit and stare, silent, and you’ll

come back to me. // // But please make it soon, because I think I jus

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

g around in the first place // // Will

come back to you. You knew it all along, it seems. // // And we can w

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

g. // // Diminuendo— // // soft soft,

come down— // // The ebb and flow of melody // // Ends on a heartfel

Come fill the cup, we’ve little time to drink, // // The ship of stat

Come find me in a crease sea-squalls cannot reach // // Waves are my

ad-, a handful when // // The scissors

come for me. // // For at my back, like you, I always here // // The

The Cutting Edge

// // of You. // // 6. // // Let It

come freely, and look what nonsense it writes! How it is determined by

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

me realising that his blood would have

come from bared fists against jaws, // // From tumbling to the concre

Three Pieces of Advice

e wisdom // // of poor folk // // who

come from the hills // // looking for folk answers // // to folk pro

resently, a bear. I did not ask them to

come , I did not even want them to come. You feel this too don’t you: i

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

olours of the carpet, // // and people

come in, // // binbag-laden // // with mum’s blouses, // // dad’s o

In a charity shop

// // Stay with the music, words will

come in time. // // Slow down your breathing. Keep it deep and slow.

hen I have gone. It’s time: my end has

come . // // Note by the senior author: When my assistant first prese

, too, // // Falling— // // Could you

come over? // // Then it’s your happiness again, // // Lost in bottl

Fall for————

// A door, a light, a face, the clouds ’

come snow // // Appear and I do choose to open all, // // The gate,

[What have we done]

hen from the trees in Girton’s driveway

come the caws // // Of rooks opposed to any sawing of their trees, //

[Walcott begins Omeros]

// jump to join in, but needs time to

come through. // // I’ll give it some taxpayer funding, and get old s

Troubled waters

the Empire State // // Really is gonna

come to make us all meet our fate, // // You’d best make a bet I’d wa

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

luck out the hair, // // His spring is

come to shame and spitting, // // Under the blows the cut stones spli

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

I shall not despair // // now men can

come to tea. // // An eco-room. // // A modern phoenix // // risen

A Room of Her Own

ving no entry. // // // // …If you

come to the end of the road, stop. If you can’t live with yourself, //

Snapshot Endings

k through the present darkness till you

come // // To the stone steps, the lions, the façade, // // The whit

The Magic Apple Tree

d in champagne. // // The carnival has

come to town, // // The breeze is on vacation as // // The hot work

mshackle fumbling // // with phonemes,

come tumbling // // back across the page: // // Love, Time, Ever, Ag

me into the weeds.] // // Make sure to

come up for air. // // Course. // // Good one. // // I use humour—I

Whales sing because they have a song

kingdom, and its men, with fire. // //

Come with your houndsmen to the household fire: // // Here is Herbert

Sixteen Forty-Five

em to come, I did not even want them to

come . You feel this too don’t you: in your sleepless nights, clutching

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

more coffee cups // // more tragedies,

comedies , histories // // more shapes, more colours, more darknesses

st, that’s what I’m told, that even the

comedy is tragic, // // Well, if you say so. // // I have no idea, /

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

5. // // For example, in my mind: here

comes a lion, then an elephant, and presently, a bear. I did not ask t

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

g in this way becomes annoying. It just

comes and goes—we are forever anxiously on the edge, on the look out;

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

cible. // // The cat yowls, and it all

comes // // Beautifully crashing down, // // Life flying in. // //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

sheltering waves // // Until the ferry

comes into harbour // // And I see that he is half of me. // //

The more I climb the softer each stroke

comes . // // So on I flow, my breath held deep but soft, // // I let

[What have we done]

y I should be happy now. // // Success

comes sweet at last. // // All I want to do is cut you up. // // My

[So snow falls outside]

pay, this is the day // // He finally

comes to Gaza (with chums). // // Avoids being distracted where it’s

flies back and falls; // // The other

comes to slush within the marsh, // // Melting into a liquid form, th

[What have we done]

ut stones splinter // // The Green Man

comes to winter, // // To the harness and the harrow // // As flails

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

o arrive, // // When out of your body

comes understanding, // // And a wonderful point to be derived. //

The Tree of Wisdom

ns and secrets // // and when the time

comes we will pray for you, and try not to forget // // Stockings s

Drink and be merry

to find you sleeping, // // My living

comfort , burrowed in our bed. // // You reach across and still the dr

tree-top nests, // // Settling down in

comfort comparable to ours, // // Coordinated purpose which only they

[Walcott begins Omeros]

, though Suliman’s pilaf // // is real

comfort food. But comfort me not // // with apples, nor with pilaf.

The well of love

pilaf // // is real comfort food. But

comfort me not // // with apples, nor with pilaf. I can’t speak //

The well of love

. // // But stay me not with them, nor

comfort me // // with apples, for I am well of love. // // The usual

The well of love

ance. // // One afterthought // // of

comfort might assuage the sharper pain – // // some, having parted, c

back. The waves // // always return to

comfort the shore. The pain ached in waves. // // I painted my feelin

[I often think of that January morning]

oud practicality. // // We are already

comfortable // // In each other’s company: // // Ready to collaborat

l of love. // // Apples may perhaps be

comforting // // as any fruit, though Suliman’s pilaf // // is real

The well of love

memory of kind words // // fixed to a

comforting face that could // // keep its humour through elegy and tr

Sestina to an English Teacher

hs // // I pull myself into // // the

comforting wetness of your mouth. // // My hand falls on your waist /

tween our eyes, // // without words or

comforts . // // We burn. // // We can’t touch or even speak, // //

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

the pavement, // // Bristles forced to

comic angles. // // A pigeon’s slow, ungainly steps // // To cross t

Urban bird watching

nd field // // Are lost forever in the

coming dark, // // Impounded in some Dover Lorry Park. // // Uncase

the rocks each tug, // // The upstream

coming down ’coming more tame // // The closer to the hope-made sky I

[What have we done]

And though I dreamed I saw // // your

coming in the night, I can no more // // credit clairvoyance for what

h tug, // // The upstream coming down ’

coming more tame // // The closer to the hope-made sky I came. // //

[What have we done]

re // // The cutting edge, the edge is

coming near. // //

The Cutting Edge

ar // // The edge, the cutting edge is

coming near. // // Not the blind fury // // With the abhorred shears

The Cutting Edge

ng in. // // Everything I Ever See Was

Comin ’ Or Goin’ Away. Same As You. Maybe The Only Thing Is…The Knowin’

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

. // // Our learning is denied at your

command . // // They are not mine, these words you make me use: // //

// New Year. Gaza, 2009 // // The tank

commander , aiming well, // // Took out the vacant ground floor flat,

AEDALUS // // I blame the King’s first

commission // // He just saw in me a magician // // Who could cast a

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

bull to let his Queen pull, // // And

commit all her sins of emission. // // The sequel was building the la

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

stability that will outlive, // // To

commit love to memories less fallible than our own, // // To find new

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

hoping today // // she’d speak // //

common Greek. // // No one asked // // if she had any interest // /

which you’re made. // // Call nothing

common in the earth or air, // // Accept it all and let it be for goo

the offices of state, // // Reduce the

common people to despair, // // And laugh as they invest their funds

erged in silence. Buses, bicycles, cold

commuters , they passed us by as we stood on the bridge, suspended sens

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

the light, I fall // // Upon a bed of

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

[What have we done]

k’d // // So softly and remorselessly,

compact // // No more as to the warm we came, and roll’d // // Away

[What have we done]

strike a match: // // the matter’s so

compacted it won’t catch. // //

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

the shade // // My brother beside me,

companiable but mute // // Remains a vivid memory of my childhood day

ages, different // // moods, different

company , // // but me nonetheless. // // Here, the courtyard is blan

[The sash rattles up]

eady comfortable // // In each other’s

company : // // Ready to collaborate // // In the shaping of sugar pe

over the sea. I lay awake and kept them

company with honey // // sweetened coffee, a palimpsest of limbs and

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// // point // // Could this induce a

comparable feeling in you? // // Who’s there? BANARDO // //

nests, // // Settling down in comfort

comparable to ours, // // Coordinated purpose which only they know be

[Walcott begins Omeros]

er when walking down the street can one

compare each specimen, // // Like one might have done sitting in an o

Bearded Thoughts

n all we’d have left would be beards to

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

Bearded Thoughts

ard. // // School store supply; // //

Compass control; // // Consistency straight-ruled. // // Pacing for

Three Ways of Walking

Compass Reading // // You could I never love. Built of a bulk // //

Compass Reading

ap where we had always kept // // your

compass with its swinging fleur-de-lys // // watched by the crystal p

Compass Reading

I’ve done! // // This passion! // //

Compassion ! // // I will surrender // // My love, surrender // // H

een muddied fingers // // —now usb 3.0

compatible — // // Horrified by the naïveté of younger affirmations: /

Frighteningly Inert

rife: // // the different dittoes must

compete for life. // // Another billion random changes: all // // —o

told over the phone last week, with me

complaining about a getting a nosebleed on // // A crisp white formal

Three Pieces of Advice

round and about, under and over. // //

Complete another ring. // // Sleep. // //

// // that the earth beneath // // is

completely // // indifferent // // and that there’s nothing // // a

her consigned to the flames. // // (I

completely understand why people have // // funeral pyres.) Later we

ill // // as midwinter dawn. // // It

completes a turn in the air // // with slow brute grace, // // then

/ // Business will go as usual—Routine

completion guarantee. // // My reality assembles with Ikea instructio

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

ou to come and help us celebrate // //

Completion of our necessary task to fight // // And crush this evil f

beards upon the face, // // A Mr. Twit

complex , the psychologists (clean-shaven and in black) might say. //

Bearded Thoughts

// // The deliberate slow conundrum of

complexity (if only I could remember those long words more better), //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

dark shoals // // of rain, algorithmic

complexity // // that flexes // // and envelops us, // // so it see

// // Almost accidental, but carefully

composed : // // the sky behind the trees beyond the meadow, // // ta

Cape Cod Morning

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss

compost ] // // cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost // // mushroom

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

] // // cyclamen in purple bursts kiss

compost // // mushroom-tiled and moss-gilded // // a summerwake heap

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

ound of my thoughts, // // Squelch the

compost of old text messages between my toes, // // Obsessive over th

[I am almost 25 years old]

rowth’s spiraling has passed // // The

comprehendable . A lash of light // // That forges, through its surge,

love. Built of a bulk // // beyond my

comprehension ; lensed eyes ‘big // // as saucers’ x-ray-burning to my

Compass Reading

uld. // // resent the years of careful

compromise , // // the hours spent washing bathroom tiles of blood. //

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

little fingers. // // Promise me—don’t

compromise your name, // // This is how you lose sight of the mountai

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

f the buffalos. // // Promise me—don’t

compromise your name, // // This is how you lose the ancestral breath

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

ly Live Once Manual. // // My life was

compromised // // in an instant // // when all I’d ever wanted was t

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

// // And find a new hapless victim to

con .” // // So if you think your love and your roses // // Your good

el was building the labyrinth // // To

conceal where that big baby hybrid is, // // Whose sibling stood guar

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ss burps of hey and how are you, // //

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

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

od, // // But slightly blurred and ill-

conceived , // // But cram enough inside and surely in a week or two /

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

le. // // Some golden essence seems to

concentrate // // From light to air, from pigment into paint // // I

The Magic Apple Tree

cue you from the daily grind. // // We

concentrate on renewal, us lot. // //

My blurry eyes resisted breaking // //

concentration until the walls dissolved around me, the small house //

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

connect you to your former self but the

concentric rings that signify your age— // // Meanwhile, the wind whi

ists, it shines outside of language and

concept . // // 2. // // After a little while, looking in this way be

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

u stroked me into light… // // Eternal

concept , crystalline, unknown… // // But I can’t reach or feel your f

The chicken and the egg

this was // // one // // great // //

conceptual // // joke // // about our failure // // to realise //

. He’ll greet my coat with the least of

concern , // // once the knife scores the surface, finds a snag, and t

re too sophisticated now, // // Roman,

concerned with an honesty which we think the skin provides, // // But

Bearded Thoughts

t third; // // Each of us with our own

concerns . // // I’ve lost my keys; I’ve lost my way; // // I’ve had

Delphi // // I think we have to

conclude // // that the Greeks // // were mistaken. // // A girl on

me passed—and I hadn’t a lot on. // //

Concluding this long anamnesis // // And to gather up all of the piec

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

/ // Perhaps their mind-dulling // //

Concoction which // // Constricted our mulling // // Minds one step

// // they raised the ramparts: giant

concrete blocks // // on piles all along the shingle beach. // // Th

Walking in winter

assert // // Their dependence on this

concrete desert. // // They shudder at your distinctive stride // //

ainst jaws, // // From tumbling to the

concrete , eyes screaming from tear gas // // Thrown by Apartheid poli

Three Pieces of Advice

Reinforced(not a

concrete poem) // // After the chip from the front of your grin, //

ards. // // Burnished leaves line damp

concrete , // // Rejected love letters abandoned. // // I want you to

Fall for————

Just resting, feet cresting // // The

concrete wave. // // Days stretch out, like a wingspan // // And fea

Urban bird watching

rocession that // // Squeezed, through

concrete’s piercing bars, // // Soft choking from a jagged cleft. //

her // // Of suppressing the truth—so

condemning our youth // // To be fed to that Cretan abuser. // // I’

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

s draw the line // // That severs, and

condemns us to decline, // // Before the best that Europe’s vineyards

ride clings like // // The pixillating

condensation // // Bolting blind the top-floor library– // // Like a

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

e is reduced to an X. // // The divine

condensed to a mere bromide. // // ’Tis pity he’s a bore. // //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

esented life, // // words mocking your

condition —if // // you knew we saw you through your words // // and

Sestina to an English Teacher

-rays and a CAT scan for an air- // //

Conditioned corpse. A quality of care // // That might have saved yo

d swiss // // Had I not written this I

confess with deepest regret, I would banish this rubbish to the first

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

llen on the vineyard. // // A few self-

confessed skeptics // // privately thought // // that this was // /

is practised in Greece // // the self-

confessed skeptics // // run workshops and digs // // and stand in t

ss end in shallow // // graves), share

confessions of their shame, // // while she gifts them in return a ro

ng is, she so rarely ate it. // // His

confidence shaken, near shot dead, // // he thought of some words tha

The Failing of the Cheese

ind // // In the lonely hall where I’m

confined . // //

Exam Room Villanelle

bris. // // In the inky hall where I’m

confined // // As my pen moves blankly line to line // // Controlled

Exam Room Villanelle

see // // In the panic hall where I’m

confined // // My friends have piled up eight or nine // // Close-wr

Exam Room Villanelle

, // // In the chilling hall where I’m

confined , // // Tell us to start the task assigned // // For three g

Exam Room Villanelle

tty Disraeli. // // Youth wins, // //

Confines the noble beard to a // // Woolly-jumpered existence in out-

Bearded Thoughts

// Yet in this well-formed image, I’m

confirmed . // // Your mind, your hands! You stroked me into light… //

The chicken and the egg

/ It seemed a constant battle to // //

Conform , a crime to confront. // // The light trickled through, // /

nt battle to // // Conform, a crime to

confront . // // The light trickled through, // // A liquid reminisce

ok him in the eye, it could have been a

confrontation but there’s // // a sickly glow from the windows of the

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

Un-ownable, not made: revealed. // //

Confused and worn, I don’t know if I’m here. // // My form: beauty in

The chicken and the egg

ther flock of birds will settle— // //

Confusedly — // // Here, with us. // //

Magnetic Mountain

can project anxieties // // and sexual

confusion without any explicit // // engagement from responsible adul

Murder of absurd black penguins // //

congregate this afternoon as my leg // // slumbers in the warmth of t

why i’m getting into Christmas

rpet) // // there is simply nothing to

connect you to your former self but the concentric rings that signify

my skin as I strike // // At her face,

connecting with the glass and falling, // // Kneeling on a cushion of

initaria, holy // // Trinity, and then

conquered and claimed you in the name of God’s grace. // //

patterns, into persons, into us, // //

conscious harmonics, singing face to face. // // Resounding into musi

umanity, drove a rut // // Between our

consciousness // // And the light beyond, // // Quenched any wistful

nape, // // Might, from time to time,

consent a tawny arm to drape. // //

/ Eyeless for Gaza, // // Blind to the

consequence : // // Tabula Rasa. // //

ie to live, he has zero to give. // //

Consequences . Jerusalem, 3 March 2009 // // Giggly Hillary // // Met

that doesn’t change and they can have.

Consequently , they died as they lost touch with true vitality of natur

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

e saved you all those years ago. // //

Conserved and published, now at last you know // // We hold you treas

Our eyes blank, with nothing to // //

Consider , no reason on which to found // // Our release from this hum

y the wrist. // // // // And, lover,

consider the running down of the strong stag, // // its only hope to

he real crematorium— // // and see her

consigned to the flames. // // (I completely understand why people ha

ne, awed and appalled // // by our own

consistency , but back where we started. // // // // We talk less no

supply; // // Compass control; // //

Consistency straight-ruled. // // Pacing for the exercise alone. //

Three Ways of Walking

but never in front. // // It seemed a

constant battle to // // Conform, a crime to confront. // // The lig

ango tree solitarily stand // // Still

constant , fruit-laden, generous and sun-browned // // Golden, swollen

journey, // // Light foliage for their

constant “go”. // // I feel very far from home. // // Red, white. Re

“I don’t know” spills from my lips in a

constant litany, // // Until my shame hangs, heavy, in the frosted ai

eyes make their movement static, // //

Constant , never reaching home. // // I find that I am not alone // /

rm struck the sea // // The shock of a

constellation lost // // On a promontory we watched // // And the ni

night stared back // // The shock of a

constellation lost // // We navigate by auspice // // And the night

-dulling // // Concoction which // //

Constricted our mulling // // Minds one step at a time). // // Soon

train and the platform, the gap // //

Constricting in a press of bodies that would // // Never normally ind

Poems on the Underground

// // meaning and are instead cultural

constructions // // onto which developing minds can project anxieties

lars // // That cut and crack and cold

consume , // // And leave nothing but a blackened gloom, // // Of fac

sonnets of Shakespeare will forevermore

consume , the beings, bodies and souls of any given room // // While d

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

g the wall, then the floor // // As it

consumes you // // And it’s not a serpent // // But a great big blac

around a desk too large // // To make

contact with anything other than // // Words. Each man seeks to draw

Vicious or Virtuous?

hair // // Like the wind that I cannot

contain by // // Mapping its every minuscule alteration— // // By ch

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

hings that have the amazing audacity to

contain nothing more than their visible capacity // // So that cheese

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

/ // to the mountains of advice // //

contained in The You Only Live Once Manual. // // My life was comprom

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

.M, the one I sometimes

contemplate // // This is where I started,

[She points to the sky]

nd that each life is a movement towards

contemplation // // Of its abounding moment // // And that the creat

[At the coinciding point of the years]

amage. Kinship, threat, and fire // //

Contend for right in sixteen forty-five— // // Until the Lord of Libe

Sixteen Forty-Five

s of a river’s skin. // // I taste the

contentment of bees, // // The exhilaration of rowers, // // The pin

n incessant nattering of the doors that

continue to open, // // The sweltering smell of morbid recycled air.

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

[And, hey, maybe if I

continue to sing] // // // // // // // // // And, hey, maybe i

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

e in your dreams. // // Of course I’ll

continue to sing, because you do crazy things // // To get back what

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

// // // // // And, hey, maybe if I

continue to sing, that thing // // That’s on the tip of your tongue,

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

ittle more loved, // // Turns away and

continues onwards // // Until the mile has become two // // And the

n harmony with cold machinery. // // A

continuous shriek throbs against the wall // // And the tree falls si

Snapshot Endings

emishes) // // To imagine // // (your

contours like sand-dunes // // against the beige of my fingertips //

thing not yet broken, so tell me // //

contrary poltergeist what is it you // // see in my mind’s silvered f

accident. // // A barrier was missing

contrary // // to the mountains of advice // // contained in The You

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

// // Our despondent slough // // By

contrast . It seemed // // So pure and free, and // // Yet we deemed

Of every thinker it lands upon, // //

Contrasting gentle with the strong // // Emotions felt when read in w

deft: // // Any half-taught infant can

contrive // // To lean a pile of lines towards the left. // // You’d

In Defence of Evolution

// School store supply; // // Compass

control ; // // Consistency straight-ruled. // // Pacing for the exer

Three Ways of Walking

4. // // Modernity is wrong. We cannot

control nor predict anything. They preceded us, autonomous. Poetry is

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

of younger affirmations: // // I am in

control of my desires // // I am unsullied by the blood crystals on m

Frighteningly Inert

ng over cor- // // al, usurping canoes

control of the crests, each rippling roll rock- // // ing him closer

plode // // And the watery sounds take

control of your body // // But no one can hear them // // And no one

not yours. In your ennui, you tried to

control them, restrict their frivolous dance, and escape from their tr

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

// You must plan what you say, // //

Control what you say. // // You can never just say it, // // If you

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

y pen moves blankly line to line // //

Controlled by the wrist of an amputee, // // I fear I am not in my pe

Exam Room Villanelle

top themselves, debris // // From some

controll’d explosion: dry and charr’d, // // Destin’d to be the waste

[What have we done]

stification, // // The deliberate slow

conundrum of complexity (if only I could remember those long words mor

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

/ // Astrologistically, // // This is

convenient // // In more ways than one. // //

d of a sunbeam // // until our shadows

converged and it fled to the wrack in a finflick. // // Our nets, tur

Just a Small Fish

to // // Something. // // A cycle of

conversation fills the room // // Asking meaningless, roundabout, que

Vicious or Virtuous?

way. // // Bloated on turkey and stale

conversation // // The pack turns their inquisitive gaze // // On me

/ I don’t always want to be having this

conversation with myself. // // For years—for, rather, rare nights be

all in ash and cinders, // // In acrid

conversation with the dead, // // whose ghosts go round in circles do

ings in scrawled letters // // Than in

conversations , so the note stays unfinished. // // One last breath dr

Snapshot Endings

in fair weather. // // [My heart is a

convertible with the roof always down.] // // I have to go. Drive saf

Whales sing because they have a song

and away, // // I get a point I can’t

convey . // // What we say is true, // // « Quand la sage montre la L

[She points to the sky]

d the bark with our feet // // Firm in

convictions that a tree so generous // // Could never refuse us its r

// // // // // // // //

Cookies and rainbow, // // Did what I thought was right, // // Shunn

A Tribute to AQOH

ey ever ask the question // // What we

cooking for tea? We could have Prometheus again. We had that last

// and rest, and breathe some more the

cool clear air. // // Beyond the scree the open path leads on, // //

Daydream Dale Journey

, // // Rested head gentle against the

cool glass, // // But blotted quickly by a tunnel’s vulgar arrival. /

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

ve or dead? Live I could raise // // a

cool half million. Dead it goes to Joe. // // If I’ve ‘been DEAD’ am

Between Life and Death

le propped against the tree trunk, kept

cool in the shade // // My brother beside me, companiable but mute //

ur hair cut day-short, // // blowing a

cool kiss, // // prone on a white toboggan, // // doubling your sp

// reflected in inky water, // // the

cool night air // // slows down time. // // Now is the time // // t

with vengeance // // second, store in

cool place until hardened into rock // // third, freeze for centuries

you bewail // // my loss – but ask my

cooling corpse to rush // // you finite proof ‘within three working d

Between Life and Death

eturn // // to the dry ground. Let the

cooling dark // // settle around and about, under and over. // // Co

n in comfort comparable to ours, // //

Coordinated purpose which only they know best, // // As we linger in

[Walcott begins Omeros]

I can shift my gaze // // from keys to

coots // // while trying to turn a phrase // // or check a reference

A Room of Her Own

d by a too-proud rooster // // twisted

copper about a girl’s wrists, her // // ankles, her throat. It squat

// The cicada’s memories discarded, a

copper effigy caves in, // // And far away green wings are flying—is

the end, caravels crashing crudely over

cor - // // al, usurping canoes claim to the crests, each sullen swell

s the beginning, caravels cresting over

cor - // // al, usurping canoes control of the crests, each rippling r

ne else’s eyes, affirm a thing, touch a

cord // // ‘umbrellas meeting sewing machines on (animated) dissectin

ns, // // Soldering patches over kneed

corduroys , // // Moulded by no volcanic hand // // Other than his ow

Frighteningly Inert

ld in a glass jar // // at our heart's

core . // // Helium and hydrogen hauled together. // // I'm not sure

n hauled together // // at our heart’s

core . // // I keep us cold in a glass jar, // // but secretly hope t

Flaw // // We are not alone. The apple

core // // left faceless perfection’s shackles to rust. // // The sh

necessary marks. // // Park-safe, the

corgi does not even pull the lead // // 2B // // ‘Two Black’ too bla

Three Ways of Walking

oss section like a burr, // // or like

cork — // // all suberised. // // It could look like // // a section

utumn. // // Now we’ve stooked up in a

corner and shed a skin or two, // // old feathers and splinters litte

runs // // From tongue to lip to lip’s

corner and streams // // Into a bead collecting at his chin’s peak. /

’Tis pity he’s a bore

s it truly subside and quietly die in a

corner like the living things? // // With dreams you wake, and feel a

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ow from the windows of the house on the

corner , madly // // yellowed and drastic; there’s a word // // for t

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

osed. // // My Grandmother sits in the

corner , // // she is watching me as I sleep, // // from the wicker c

Chair // // My Grandmother sits in the

corner . // // There is a chair there, made of wicker // // For her t

g-master. // // He lives a quiet, four-

cornered life, // // Polite, determined, and remote— // // His angel

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

e clapboards, // // but grander far, a

corniced window bay // // in darker wood. Clear morning sunlight fil

Cape Cod Morning

-willy their horns reap // // the full

cornucopia , // // gamboling gluttonous // // through the waft from t

Nil Charge / Nil Return

CAT scan for an air- // // Conditioned

corpse . A quality of care // // That might have saved you all those

o the saint; // // The ram-head of the

corpse cracks a smile. // // Silk sheets in the houses of ill-repute

/ // a kestrel is plucking the flunked

corpse : // // discarding the moving-you- // // over-the-face-of-the-

still a ghastly ex-officio // // crash

corpse ? Those ‘hoodlums scammers’ I reflect // // might just be you,

Between Life and Death

ail // // my loss – but ask my cooling

corpse to rush // // you finite proof ‘within three working days’. //

Between Life and Death

topher Isherwood // // Quickly ditched

Corpus // // With Berlin in mind. // // Wrote of his life in his //

you. I will be your umbilicalised hero.

correct and repossess and play “sleeping satellite” with my scorn tuck

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

// // An unsystematised list of every

correct proposition. // // It says nothing // // And is perfectly us

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

liness breeds like dysentery down every

corridor , // // And everything becomes impinging, a necessity for gre

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

— // // Have protests along her (warm)

corridor . // // Every Girtonian burrs like a Scot, // // At every mo

BURR (or Brrrrr)

// // open-a-fraction doors, down the

corridors , sent shivers of sunlight in criss-cross rays // // wedding

s // // Leopard-like // // Within the

corrugated cage. // // The petrified wood // // Of my great-grandmot

s this, which misguidedly discuss vieux

corse and swiss // // Had I not written this I confess with deepest r

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

n ever before. To tell the solid // //

Cost from the worthless losses; // // That five pence that isn’t wort

Vicious or Virtuous?

// // Like they’ll protect us when our

cosy lives explode. // // Mental muscles flex and pose in minimalist

uilt like the house // // of weathered

Cotswold stone. // // The box and holly // // were magnificent, but

// // tasting the words themselves lke

cottage cheese // // To Eliot, difficult, in cold collations // // C

Cheese is the medium

/ // from Creamy keats with his mossed

cottage trees // // tasting the words themselves lke cottage cheese /

Cheese is the medium

w me to fade this way: // // Wind-beat

cotton , holes at the knee, // // Day into day, into day // // Into n

I could never be (ready)

y. // // My mistake was suggesting the

cotton — // // Though to let him get lost seemed too rotten. // // No

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ploughing // // a red trough. // // I

cough a protest. No bird sings. // //

is moon-silvered skinny feet. // // He

coughs with surprise at the cold rigidity of the ground— // // I have

// Which three therapists and a college

counsellor failed to spot, // // But I feel like I want to be entirel

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

sans rhyme it’s prose, // // obtusely

count ictūs with fingers stunt’d; // // numb’d ass’nance, ’lision; la

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

count your chickens // // … but if the chicken // // is just the egg

Don’t count your chickens

and your hand sleight // // And don’t

count your winnings ’til you’re in the clear. // // Play your men lik

e watered. // // Seasons and years are

counted and timed. // // Philosophies are aired, // // temple column

22 May 1998 // // The ballot-slips are

counted in // // And somewhere someone’s saying yes. // // Even the

In a charity shop // // Sat behind the

counter , // // old watches spread, // // bracelets, teaspoons // //

In a charity shop

// sat, hunch-huddled // // behind the

counter , // // was because she had no other cause, // // no-one else

In a charity shop

o his chest. // // Wrists, shackled by

counterfeit silver, // // Steeled against the disgrace of a head bowe

Vicious or Virtuous?

// As the hadrons collide, // // I’m

counting beside // // The flickering green // // Of my screen. // /

Small Particles in the Small Hours

I should // // not be doing // // is

counting // // my eggs. // //

Don’t count your chickens

See this: // // the large, dilapidated

country house // // that is my mother’s next big venture after // //

year it snows on Boxing Day. // // The

country road not cleared for days // // —and then of course it snows

Walking in winter

nimals to the surprise of the quiet

couples and the wistful young mothers to the surprise of the small

[I whispered my name into the trees]

// Accompanying us: families, workers,

couples , // // Phone-paralysed and book-engrossed, // // Pret-a-Mang

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

here have passed away. // // Handfast

couples picked their path and left you // // Deserted. Only bramble b

kids to school. // // Pointy hats—and

couplets —fade like leaves // // In fashion’s autumn, following this r

In Defence of Evolution

ould // // smile and tease and pass on

courage , save // // our grades and your dignity, your // // inspirat

Sestina to an English Teacher

d a fight. Clothes pegs. // // He, of

course , always hated sentiment, // // and she never had much time for

// // just the earth. // // Later, of

course , // // another priest came // // who stood over the dragon //

pless walk // // at dawn, choosing our

course by instinct, taking // // left or right according to our whim,

r has a jealous moon.] // // How’s the

course ? // // Coursing. // // [And tossing and turning and tumbling

Whales sing because they have a song

em on my list. // // Trying to keep on

course , despite // // The best attempts of two wheels // // To end

The Notes You Have Left

force // // beyond imagination; and of

course // // extracted from my fickle memory— // // elusive and illu

Daydream Dale Journey

// Make sure to come up for air. // //

Course . // // Good one. // // I use humour—I’m used to humour. // /

Whales sing because they have a song

llege 1913). // // The Reigate lab, of

course // // has a source // // of pure water: a still. // // Gard

There must be moonshine

of old air. Hear from you soon? // //

Course . // // [I missed you] // //

Whales sing because they have a song

ot cleared for days // // —and then of

course it snows again. // // One afternoon for one brief hour // //

Walking in winter

re graves dug amid sapphires… // // Of

course its parents were disappointed // // but still loved it. To te

in. // // Like everything you wear, of

course , it’s mine. // // You’ve taken residence beneath my skin, //

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

u’re everyone in your dreams. // // Of

course I’ll continue to sing, because you do crazy things // // To ge

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

fine plan. // // We also need money—of

course private finance will // // jump to join in, but needs time to

Troubled waters

it. // // You know what I mean. // //

Course . // // You always alone? // // Not in fair weather. // // [M

Whales sing because they have a song

moon.] // // How’s the course? // //

Coursing . // // [And tossing and turning and tumbling me into the wee

Whales sing because they have a song

autumn frost. // // 1am, and Woodlands

court // // is the same as it always is: // // at once a place to be

[The sash rattles up]

ard. // // Still just me and Woodlands

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

[The sash rattles up]

Outside. // // Despite cuff, coins and

courtesy , the circle // // Will inhale. The peak reaching skywards, e

Vicious or Virtuous?

// but me nonetheless. // // Here, the

courtyard is blank. // // Still just a courtyard. // // Still just m

[The sash rattles up]

courtyard is blank. // // Still just a

courtyard . // // Still just me and Woodlands court, // // separate b

[The sash rattles up]

hing you’d expect // // of a Cambridge

courtyard : // // the library, the chapel, // // the fluster of light

[The sash rattles up]

/ Then back to skirt the edge of Malham

Cove , // // with fields below and limestone crags above; // // desce

Daydream Dale Journey

// // skittering onto the // // drain

cover // // // // … // // above us // // white stars pierce //

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

o find the case and lift the dull brown

cover // // To see, at first, your image in the glass. // // You see

The Magic Apple Tree

ers grew about his head // // Campions

covered his outspread hair // // And mildew took the place of tears /

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ound, under sky, // // from marsh just

covered in the slack: time to let it dry. // // Now I cut new rivule

Notes // // // // At first they were

covered in words: critical diatribes // // in small. Then they took o

// // Kat couldn’t do Tuesdays, so you

covered instead— // // put out the biscuits, the chairs, the cat, //

ame route again // // Until your notes

covered it like yellow bricks. // //

The Notes You Have Left

eneath its reasonable limits // // And

covering the hard brown earth. // // Blurry, out of focus and unfeeli

est // // in sour milk // // the sick

cow // // and the blight // // that had fallen on the vineyard. //

// and heave clods of wet grass. // //

cowbwebs catch on tongue and mesh eyes // // blinking on a pimpled tr

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

fire, burning so bright, a bird // //

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

the Marianas, old souls dwell in robber

crabs , // // But still their young steal shells to hide in—is this th

the pool. Sand shivered a hermit // //

crab’s claw from its recycled shell, while a translucent team // // o

Just a Small Fish

int of sharp velars // // That cut and

crack and cold consume, // // And leave nothing but a blackened gloom

my head. Above it to my heart // // A

crack in distance shone—’twas my ember. // // The flame brought me to

[What have we done]

// What? I stare at you looking. Blank!

Crack open the sixth seal // // Whilst you speak the weather of our l

soil // // misting in the middle of a

cracked caramel carpet // // a burial mound where boots crunch beech

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

ry of items, // // A register for each

cracked piece // // Of souvenir china: // // The white and yellow ho

He was better than his word. // // The

crackers sound, the jokes renowned— // // Thank God for the paper cro

A Hymn to a Loved One

// // warmed by un-canned laughter and

crackling fire-breath // // (Sound-bites for both now!)— // // becau

aint; // // The ram-head of the corpse

cracks a smile. // // Silk sheets in the houses of ill-repute // //

f hope, a sense of fear, a bough // //

Cracks like fire, burning so bright, a bird // // Cozied in its nest,

/ The ice with which I rose grew weary,

crack’d // // So softly and remorselessly, compact // // No more as

[What have we done]

// It represented such a fine-wrought

craft // // and skill, and yet I never thought you deft // // enough

Compass Reading

t a sideshow: all the while // // the

crafty sea is also digging down // // beneath the piles. Then one st

Walking in winter

// // with fields below and limestone

crags above; // // descend the steps to reach the valley floor— // /

Daydream Dale Journey

will be more. // // More hills, dales,

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

y blurred and ill-conceived, // // But

cram enough inside and surely in a week or two // // A miracle will o

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

The full, Catholic-size family, // //

Cramped into the front room // // Like chestnuts in an oven. // // B

Wild Mountain Thyme

/ No heave-some ebb and flow. // // No

cramping bend to lunar bow. // // No woman ruled by orbing tyrant que

/ // Might, if we built a Babel enough

crane . // // Bums are falling off our kids: ruthless in cutting off w

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

e air // // (or so it seems to me), to

crash back down— // // you must be nimble. // // Later we discover /

Walking in winter

h, or still a ghastly ex-officio // //

crash corpse? Those ‘hoodlums scammers’ I reflect // // might just be

Between Life and Death

und by the // // Endlessness repeating

crashed -crushed // // Ideas, the waiting of night upon night, // //

But a great big black wave // // That

crashes over you // // And you try to gasp for breath, but you can’t

O // // Columbus was the end, caravels

crashing crudely over cor- // // al, usurping canoes claim to the cre

ls, and it all comes // // Beautifully

crashing down, // // Life flying in. // // Everything I Ever See Was

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ts are a maelstrom, a cacophony, // //

Crashing , shrieking, // // Half longing, half caution. // // Should

/ // —his tasseled hat // // and pink

cravat — // // just gazed at Nick, // // and Nick at him, // // whil

knowledge yet to be explored, // // I

crave to be equal to your wisdom, // // But instead I find my mind is

The Tree of Wisdom

d yet, // // I carry on, as though I’m

craving more. // // My shoes have turned a whole new shade of wet. //

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

casual. // // His humour still hasn’t

crawled // // Out of the bathroom. // // Mock anti-Semitism, amusing

itled] // // There is something // //

Crawling at the back of your mind. // // You feel it growing, growing

by the outside, // // The outside that

crawls and seethes in me, // // The outside that is me, // // Is my

Frighteningly Inert

e I’ll continue to sing, because you do

crazy things // // To get back what you need. // // So that HAL migh

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

nything unusual - // // And the sheets

creak in the night as you wrap up warm with worn-out future thoughts,

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// That five pence that isn’t worth the

creak // // Of bones to pick up. // // A camera lens whirs to focus

Vicious or Virtuous?

A trifle(with double

cream ) // // Dr Foster went to Gloucester // // for a summer spin— /

e we’re all fixing // // Absences with

cream , whiskey, // // Guinness, the whole room // // A-glow. // //

Wild Mountain Thyme

He maps out his face and hair // // In

creams and gels. // // His teeth are polished by professionals, // /

m all and sample every sort // // from

Creamy keats with his mossed cottage trees // // tasting the words th

Cheese is the medium

ellow Victorian tobacco-stains upon the

creamy -white // // Bernard Shaw, the voluptuous Darwin, the natty Dis

Bearded Thoughts

ng that I’d rather wear // // Than the

crease of your brow emblazoned in my hair. // // And you, around that

Riddle // // Come find me in a

crease sea-squalls cannot reach // // Waves are my shelter, I’m not f

Like a trap the hand snaps shut, // //

Creases more, // // Folds into itself. // // A cloud steps aside for

[The sun flattened]

late into lonely doubt. // // Coloured

creases of downy skin // // and the tactless scratch of green biro. /

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

build myself like honeycomb. Wax might

create candlelight, // // but for now my light is stored, and the sli

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

take a poet with supreme imagination to

create from cheese an immortal sensation // // However, no man has da

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

rom It, as we do not really know how to

create poetry or account for its spontaneous creation. Look, really lo

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

o my clothes. // // I taste the jigsaw

created by leaves overhead, // // With the clammy fingers of shade th

ust the old // // and weathered hills,

created by some force // // beyond imagination; and of course // //

Daydream Dale Journey

out the light. // // We studied mass,

created form, // // And looked for no eternal flame. // // Just pass

e poetry or account for its spontaneous

creation . Look, really look—we are nothing, we have nothing, everythin

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

g the future his signature flaw. // //

Creation stutters through faltering hands // // —The shuttle shatters

/ // Molly, his wife, would pursue his

creation with // // care and affecting mathematic precision to // //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

the unknown. // // They say that each

creature must find its way to this tree // // And that each life is a

[At the coinciding point of the years]

ts abounding moment // // And that the

creature , transfixed by its time-blown boughs, // // Will find itself

[At the coinciding point of the years]

the inside, nightmares can be sensitive

creatures — // // ‘You go!’ ‘Now me!’ ‘Whose turn for riding?’ Is this

ming in the night, I can no more // //

credit clairvoyance for what was simply love // // than I could moral

Credit in the city // // Penthoused // //

Credit in the city

her pace. // // Now I rush on down the

creek // // bearing loose things left afloat. // // Behind each moor

bark wildly at the moon. // // Bitter

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

l’esprit d’escalier

push against my trickle home, // // to

creep back in when I have gone. It’s time: my end has come. // // No

worlds that scare // // me. Something

creepily malign’s // // through there, and space and time // // seem

! tous n’est ce que vanité! // // But,

creeping further in, she finds a tree // // ablaze with fragrant lemo

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

gots do their deadly work, // // Those

creeping politicians breathing hate, // // Who prostitute the offices

blackened words into dead wood; // //

Cremates Glede-eyes garnet // // Tightens coils, wrenches words // /

o down to the basement // // —the real

crematorium — // // and see her consigned to the flames. // // (I com

.) // // Standing around the Cambridge

crematorium , // // dressed for the occasion, // // we read the flowe

nother twenty one years, // // another

crematorium . // // This time Judith has chosen the music, // // a Be

. rust // // me down // // within the

crepusc // // -ular tone, the tusk // // is ground // // into the s

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

ches and secluded pathways. // // Each

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

e are but notes the piano plays. // //

Crescendo —jump a major fifth— // // And down the tone I never can hea

yself entirely. // // My nails dig red

crescents in my skin as I strike // // At her face, connecting with t

at least) // // To Mellbreak’s deepest

crest // //

// Columbus was the beginning, caravels

cresting over cor- // // al, usurping canoes control of the crests, e

battle wound, // // Just resting, feet

cresting // // The concrete wave. // // Days stretch out, like a win

Urban bird watching

// al, usurping canoes control of the

crests , each rippling roll rock- // // ing him closer to the exotic E

// // al, usurping canoes claim to the

crests , each sullen swelling rock- // // ing him closer to the pristi

ning our youth // // To be fed to that

Cretan abuser. // // I’m a man at his best where there’s fighting //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

Cretan Quartet—a blame game // // MINOTAUR // // I blame my mother,

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ring of a bell, // // hush, presents,

crib , Christ Kind: // // tree aspark and fizzing, in a cavern // //

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

// Stille Nacht must be sung before the

crib , // // Two verses, slow as moonrise // // Sung beside the candl

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

showed me nothing to fear; // // But I

cried a splashy Victorian tear, // // Finding the day so new and so o

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

/ // It looks to flower in your // //

Cries , but falls fallow? // // Go hungry dear fox // // Do not blood

Here be dragons

a constant battle to // // Conform, a

crime to confront. // // The light trickled through, // // A liquid

fteen homicides and sixty-three violent

crimes ”—tv-light // // and wonder: do I have it, or no? this meme of

A grapefruit squeezed // // Spoon cuts

crimson flesh // // Drops spray silent // // Zest bittersweet scent

ess, // // On Tuesdays for the boys in

crinkled shirts, // // A break from labs and analysing dirts; // //

Three gay rituals

rooms. // // Stepping out, // // the

crisp , exhilarating // // assault // // of night-time on my radiator

[The sash rattles up]

about a getting a nosebleed on // // A

crisp white formal shirt, // // And me realising that the method of e

Three Pieces of Advice

od-humoured sweat // // Along with the

crispness of a river’s skin. // // I taste the contentment of bees, /

corridors, sent shivers of sunlight in

criss -cross rays // // wedding chimes of line and light that got thro

// At first they were covered in words:

critical diatribes // // in small. Then they took on the look of all

at cheese is not sorely missed from the

critically acclaimed world of the immortal rhymists // // It would ta

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

t her dignity // // To be there in the

crook of the crown of the tree. // //

plastic tubs // // feeding yew // //

crooked elbow // // no gravestones // // poor yew transplanted // /

yew needs dried blood in spring

t cross-legged at home and laugh at our

crooked little fingers. // // Promise me—don’t compromise your name,

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

/ // The sandy bend that was my elbow,

crooked // // Round old socks long since sundered from their other ha

hell’s fire unbinds. // // But now our

cropped , uncivil Samson binds // // Five foxes, brush to brush, a hex

Sixteen Forty-Five

/ // Pots are thrown and fired, // //

crops are watered. // // Seasons and years are counted and timed. //

me please’ // // As passengers // //

Cross and recross the gap // // As if they would // // Make of the m

Poems on the Underground

rds you have mastered, // // Let’s sit

cross -legged at home and laugh at our crooked little fingers. // // P

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

xtra. // // She could just hang up her

cross , // // Pour the holy water down the sink, // // Take up the po

dors, sent shivers of sunlight in criss-

cross rays // // wedding chimes of line and light that got through to

indide her body. // // I imagined its

cross section like a burr, // // or like cork— // // all suberised.

ut along the darkening lanes we went to

cross the river, black and cruel. This city now extinguished, empty, s

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

pigeon’s slow, ungainly steps // // To

cross the road (no joke in that) // // Catch at only half way there.

Urban bird watching

// The brave and fearless warrior will

cross the road // // To avoid the reminder that success is fleeting /

the space // // and the time // // to

cross the waters, // // explore the earth, // // and send signal fir

Pens open and ready, // // braced with

crossed ledgers // // and steelily smiling, // // the nilherds encir

Nil Charge / Nil Return

Brie, // // The precious freight that

crossed the sundering sea, // // For soon we leave that fast-receding

of the road, // // not the one we were

crossing . // // and the train that was crossing // // did all the ta

crossing. // // and the train that was

crossing // // did all the talking— // // my deer, at the railroad,

couldn’t be stopped // // he loved it…

crossing // // lines” I said. // // “somethings wrong” I said, // /

bus had stopped // // at the railroad

crossing // // the driver yelled ‘quiet’ // // we kept on talking //

nds There, Given To The Dreadful Clouds

Crossing The Stars, Racing To Nowhere // // And you’re frantic - no r

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

Crossing // // “the yellow bus had stopped // // at the railroad cro

hrough the quiet. // // I watched you,

crossing // // your arms. At the Railroad // // we were stopped, //

,’ he said, // // ‘if it stays on that

crossing ’ // // then the train did the talking // // and we all went

he Lamb // // Columbo-standard, // //

Crouching cold-nose, // // Eyes like a noose, nipping // // Natural

He who made the Lamb

/ His only keepers were the fox, // //

Crouching in the purple phlox, // // The hare whose eyes at equinox /

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

se it’s supposed // // to hurt and the

crowd hear what they want to hear; // // instead I’m staring at want’

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

us on a hunched // // Body. One of the

crowd in particular // // Distinct, only, because it looks // // For

Vicious or Virtuous?

en when sat around this table, // // A

crowd of faces linked by tinsel and blood, // // While the ideal me w

the water channelling below. // // The

crowds stand restless with suspense // // to capture the flight and f

crown gall, // // they found it indide her body. // // I imagined it

// // To be there in the crook of the

crown of the tree. // //

/ Yes, I was. I was there with my

crown pulled tightly over my ears, and I was happy, really happy. I wa

[So the moon was there]

enowned— // // Thank God for the paper

crown . // // Young and old. // // It hides my nephew’s eyes. // //

A Hymn to a Loved One

// With the royal standard let him be

crowned . // // He’s the real thing. He’s renowned. // // He can run,

// // Now it happens my old friend is

crowned mayor of London, he // // goes by the rubrik of Boris the Mad

Troubled waters

eir lovely Prince Dmitry // // Who had

crowned their lives with grace. // // They came with cakes, they came

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

n gilding him with yellow // // Yellow

crowning him with grace. // // He lay there till the grass grew high

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

gold on her head, // // To afford the

crowns of Cain, the trademarks of Hester, // // Until she falls dead.

are scales beneath a sheepskin you are

crow’s // // feet in a mirror, so many questions // // interrogate m

wrenches words // // Tightens coils, a

crucible // // Refining through fire. // // The page is filled. I ha

/ It misfits, kills a bell in a burning

crucible . // // The cat yowls, and it all comes // // Beautifully cr

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

Columbus was the end, caravels crashing

crudely over cor- // // al, usurping canoes claim to the crests, each

well they do, for both were classed and

cruel : // // Embroideries and rhymes were fortune’s perk— // // They

In Defence of Evolution

! Desert not him who loves thee! // //

Cruel one! Forgive me! // // I know not what I’ve done! // // This p

s we went to cross the river, black and

cruel . This city now extinguished, empty, spent; the beauty of the day

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

my perfect mind: // // As examiners so

cruelly , // // In the chilling hall where I’m confined, // // Tell u

Exam Room Villanelle

s, // // Pitchers, kettles, glassware,

cruets , // // Vases, ash trays, cups, and bowls. // // What does he

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

heir path—it floats adrift. // // They

crumble in atop themselves, debris // // From some controll’d explosi

[What have we done]

t, difficult, in cold collations // //

Crumbling and stuffed with other folk’s quotations.. // //

Cheese is the medium

e girl poised and primed, // // ground

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

s— // // Tough, stringy leather around

crumbling // // Pages // // Tapering towards well-thumbed // // Ed

Crummock Water // // Wend your way // // Towards the edge // // Whe

or my bones. It just hung there softly,

crumpled at the elbows and knees. But the moon looked so sad that I st

[So the moon was there]

The Box // // The box arrived— // //

Crumpled cardboard, // // Raw-edged— // // Wrapped within the glossy

r // // Another hour gone // // Paper

crumpled in a heap // // I don’t have a clue! // // Another hour in

arpet // // a burial mound where boots

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

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

my radiator-warmed skin // // And the

crunch of the season underfoot // // And the smell of the raw earth /

[The sash rattles up]

pursue the sunrise with a net of silver

crunching aphids. // // I will char those swatches dotted with herds

Aubade to Girton

. // // // // …Screeching brakes and

crunching metal as gravity falls away. // // Tumbling upwards, being

Snapshot Endings

our necessary task to fight // // And

crush this evil force. We did appreciate // // Your quiet support, a

joy and gladness so that the bones you

crushed can rejoice. it’s waiting there for you. maybe one day my skin

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

he // // Endlessness repeating crashed-

crushed // // Ideas, the waiting of night upon night, // // An expec

Crushed // // My thoughts are a maelstrom, a cacophony, // // Crashi

er. The frost returns // // to make a

crust . The next two months // // are clear and fine and bitter cold.

Walking in winter

/ Every step, // // your foot upon the

crust , you think // // ‘This time, it will hold my weight.’ // // Bu

Walking in winter

face is old now, frost and snow // //

Crustate my hairs and eyebrows, a great flow // // Of white from top-

[My face is old now]

unshaven merchants, and // // the acne-

crusted vicar’s son— // // the old podiatrist next door, // // ‘Eter

[the typist puts her knickers on]

rising of dough, // // The rolling of

crusts . // // The revival of lifeless hands. // // The utensils that

pon my shoulder. // // and there’s the

crux , // // right in that light, hush’d // // lull brown, // // dee

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

in my mind for release. // // Until I

cry for things I never had // // And laugh at memories I never made.

Writing to explore

ll be stripped enough. one day I get to

cry Kri’at Shema lying down. I get unbelief. one day I will be calx an

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

yester jackets, unadorned // // Mutely

cry out for someone // // To demonstrate a melody // // In the super

Magnetic Mountain

my mouth will praise you. the wild dogs

cry out in the undulating skink night, “mother will never understand”

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

// Let her without skin be the first to

cry . // // Rosemary for remembrance and pansies for thoughts, // //

ck // // to teddy and a baby brother’s

cry . // // The virus makes me look // // for virtue in the virtual /

A Room of Her Own

// If you aimed a card, or a note, or a

cry // // too carelessly into the hopeful abyss // // please come an

The Dead Letter Office closes down

/ // brings rumbling forest drums that

cry vanité! // // vanité! tous n’est ce que vanité! // // But, creep

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

/ // Fiddling, jittering, spluttering,

crying // // his name like a love-song, // // a meaningless // // t

Jonathan’s Deathbed

old it to your ear, do you hear someone

crying ? Is this the poem? // // On Valentines Day a kick from the sto

d // // Not to hollows, but hellos—the

crying of news // // (“She’s birthed! She’s birthed!”)—children at pl

drowned. // // You strike him and deep

crystal bass-notes resound. // // He’ll never lose time, he’s careful

ging fleur-de-lys // // watched by the

crystal prism’s sharp-cut eye? // // It represented such a fine-wroug

Compass Reading

with wheels’ folly, // // Gliding over

crystalline tarmac. // // The limestone’s awake, the vestibules are g

me into light… // // Eternal concept,

crystalline , unknown… // // But I can’t reach or feel your fragile fo

The chicken and the egg

med house // // Of the brain trying to

crystallize , but so often falls at the first hurdle, // // Snaps like

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

hird, freeze for centuries until // //

crystallized into meaningless // // serve cold and forgotten // // A

ires // // I am unsullied by the blood

crystals on my palm // // I am unsullied. // // Ornithologists with

Frighteningly Inert

ely ice-etched selves drowned, like ice

cubes // // in scotch, or scotch in a stomach. // // That is it—to d

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

today: quicksand clumps, capsized melon

cubes , stranded sea monkeys // // Maybe they patternize to someone el

from the // // Outside. // // Despite

cuff , coins and courtesy, the circle // // Will inhale. The peak reac

Vicious or Virtuous?

c viable // // meaning and are instead

cultural constructions // // onto which developing minds can project

turns to dust. // // With a casual pop-

culture reference, // // She turns to leave the polystyrene cemetery,

el, waes hael, hurrah! hurrah! // // A

cup and a toast to seed, sapling, and snag— // // A toast and a cup t

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

I swam back to you, and you’d made me a

cup of tea—chamomile tea—because I was cold. And although you’d been s

[So the moon was there]

sapling, and snag— // // A toast and a

cup to the soil and loam, // // To the litter of leaves and the mulch

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

ounded me. // // In no-color, no-shape

cup waiter serves // // My tea. Sugar bowl fills not-white tablecloth

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

Revelry // // Come fill the

cup , we’ve little time to drink, // // The ship of state’s about to p

was a problem // // In the under-stair

cupboard // // Of post-modern serfdom. // // The light was rarely sh

ery judder. // // My body is a hymn to

Cupid ; // // He is in its arches and secluded pathways. // // Each c

’m sure it’s not abnormal. Otherwise OK

Cupid would think twice // // About having one of its stupid question

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

sware, cruets, // // Vases, ash trays,

cups , and bowls. // // What does he see in jugs and jars? // // What

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

editions // // more books, more coffee

cups // // more tragedies, comedies, histories // // more shapes, mo

with our mothers milk // // But poets

curdle words until they bite, // // With substance and a flavour of t

Cheese is the medium

e love letters littered, // // Lost in

curdled red // // I’ve been busy, too, // // Falling— // // Could y

Fall for————

lief: // // Heat-treatment is the only

cure ; // // Everyone should give the bursar grief— // // Have protes

BURR (or Brrrrr)

et unbelief. one day I will be calx and

cure , what’s inside will be me. // //

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

from our new cut beams! // // We’re a

curio . Grain shovel is propped up all ornamental, // // dusted cogs v

ft by spray // // she floats above the

curl and spume of sea, and then // // the girl poised and primed //

e has seen your struggle. // // So you

curl up inside your head, // // Feeling much too small, // // And ye

And ghostly shimmering nylon stockings

curled // // Like bindweed. Deposited, blooming with the taint // /

elicate, from a peak dangling, // // A

curled query around a new gaze, // // Your palm pressed flat to my so

u seen Schiele’s // // Levitation, the

curled toes the moment // // of departure, are you afraid do you //

walks, more bluebell woods // // more

curlews , more ragged, slanting lines of geese // // more travels, jou

eraph spiralled down // // In circling

curlicues of sacred text, // // Flaring in ink and paper to the floor

The Cutting Edge

ch domestic heirloom bearing // // The

curly script of a generation // // Framed by the dusty yellow // //

r the colour hair, or too straight, too

curly .’ // // In days gone by it was the fashion, Sweeney did bad bus

Bearded Thoughts

ith this. // // I just mean that in my

current state, 19 years and // // Not enough months to make a differe

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

/ In the glaring static of hidden foamy

currents . // //

Frighteningly Inert

/ // the billows settle low, cold as a

curse , // // but though the thunder roars, it will not rain. // // y

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

that would flourish were it not for the

curse // // Of bringing her here. But now someone’s penned // // A d

Wednesday Evening

ndane to say // // And expire with the

curse of your name dribbling from my lips // // And clotting on my ne

// And how, so root and branch do both

curse spell, // // Where fog, encoal’d, imbues with cloud our sight,

[What have we done]

pings from the youngest ewe, // // who

cursed as the basket spills in sticky clay // // and scraped the mud

our steps; growing day by day, // // a

cursive script’s embrace // // in which to rest—safe in the sound //

luc bat to mr. beam

// // An example in your death. // //

Curst to know yourself, vain paragon, // // Your tears will recreate

// A wave breaks over us like a stage

curtain , // // and it is last night on the M56, // // heading west,

teeth. // // I will close your goddamn

curtains for you. // //

Aubade to Girton

// And there’s no dusty sheets or torn

curtains // // Or your voice. // // And, I wish // // We could wast

Hazy summer light filters through torn

curtains . // // You shed dust from your eyes, // // Blood dripping f

rough branches and the fling // // And

curve of colour on the golden fruit… // // All buried in the rubble o

The Magic Apple Tree

fe thus thrown // // into the evolving

curve of modern flight // // now trade in futures on the wishing bone

// Gazing from a clifftop grave // //

Curved ache of a clear horizon // // Could I foretell the future //

/ // The wake of light on water // //

Curved ache of a clear horizon // // You hold your hand in mine // /

mental // // shape clipped // // wind

curves // // moles tubers // // worm roots wait // // for spring //

yew needs dried blood in spring

glass and falling, // // Kneeling on a

cushion of broken shards, // // All that remains is dripping blood /

Wednesdays it rains; pumpkins pockmark;

cushion -thief strikes) // // again I imagine it forked by lightening,

I am shut out too, // // The past and

custom are no friend of ours. // // Yet in determination progress flo

Three gay rituals

h. // // That is it—to die, not in the

customary sense // // (machine clanging to a halt, // // mind looks

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

ot paper. // // I am using scissors to

cut // // a square around your face // // to frame. These are sharp

Stone, Paper, Scissors

rting point of sharp velars // // That

cut and crack and cold consume, // // And leave nothing but a blacken

h there, and space and time // // seem

cut and twisted everywhere. // // Though, via a chink a softer glare

// mixed up with sawdust from our new

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

Gog or // // Magog? Tell // // me of

cut chalk and // // turf scalped red, ley lines and hillforts, // //

Wandlebury Hill

ueen; // // Umbilical tangen skywards,

cut clean. // // I am the moon-child broken free, // // Losing mothe

// ‘That one is too large, too small,

cut close or not at all; // // This one here too ginger for the colou

Bearded Thoughts

freeze this: // // you with your hair

cut day-short, // // blowing a cool kiss, // // prone on a white tob

// watched by the crystal prism’s sharp-

cut eye? // // It represented such a fine-wrought craft // // and sk

Compass Reading

ays from her eyes. // // I want her to

cut me open at the waist with her clavicle // // And put me back toge

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

orward // // Into last night’s night I

cut // // Myself with familiar awkwardness // // Of searching eyes a

lack: time to let it dry. // // Now I

cut new rivulets // // to drain the chains of pools that lace the spr

nd spitting, // // Under the blows the

cut stones splinter // // The Green Man comes to winter, // // To th

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

high up. // // With my hands I try and

cut the sun. // //

[So snow falls outside]

h, showing, to break the ice // // And

cut the tension. // // I should have spoken by now, but… // // I sho

he sees? The frame // // he chose has

cut us off from looking at // // the focus of her gaze: does he not w

Cape Cod Morning

ity of the wood // // And mortar which

cut // // Us off from the rest of // // Humanity, drove a rut // //

eet at last. // // All I want to do is

cut you up. // // My hands snip snip in the air. // // Ha ha ha. //

[So snow falls outside]

now despair // // but follow where, by

cute design, // // the wormholes lead, // // I have a very real fear

// A grapefruit squeezed // // Spoon

cuts crimson flesh // // Drops spray silent // // Zest bittersweet s

/ set in gibbet salt, // // a red nick

cuts … // // wonder began // // // // or I // // Iron Age bred, /

Hercules et Oracle

eros] // // Walcott begins Omeros with

cutting down some cedars: // // We shudder here with the jarring nois

[Walcott begins Omeros]

Cutting Edge // // At my back, like you, I always hear // // The edg

The Cutting Edge

you, I always hear // // The edge, the

cutting edge is coming near. // // Not the blind fury // // With the

The Cutting Edge

ack, like you, I always here // // The

cutting edge, the edge is coming near. // //

The Cutting Edge

s are falling off our kids: ruthless in

cutting off waste! // // Fairy-free gardens have as many colour purpl

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

o excise // // Another snippet for the

cutting room // // A sweeping on the heap of history. // // But stil

The Cutting Edge

side the windows, // // High-up, grass-

cutting , // // Swaying like fans // // Or parroting particulars //

althy scissors of a blinded time // //

Cutting through accretions of the past // // Dully and daily deleting

The Cutting Edge

/ // “somethings wrong” I said, // //

cutting through the quiet. // // I watched you, crossing // // your

cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost] // // cyclamen in purple burs

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

n in purple bursts kiss compost] // //

cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost // // mushroom-tiled and moss-

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

a threat to // // Something. // // A

cycle of conversation fills the room // // Asking meaningless, rounda

Vicious or Virtuous?

les, crags, beaches // // more boat or

cycle rides // // more walks, more bluebell woods // // more curlews

// // From old fashioned, swan-necked

cycles . // // The pinked sky of dinner has given way. // // Under th

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening // // // // // // // // // /

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

mp. // // Icarus, spread-eagled in the

cycling lane. // // With borrowed wings a hedgehog // // Sprawls upo

Urban bird watching

the new year is sleeping within // //

cyclizine dreams, // // and I am reminded of yesterday’s wonder: //