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

D

Our model excludes gravitation. // //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

Dactyls // // Higgledy Piggledy // // Oedipus Tyrannus // // Murder

family, // // Lead on, Spirit. // //

Dad balances the turkey, // // He was better than his word. // // Th

A Hymn to a Loved One

olute. // // THESEUS // // I blame my

dad . Such a loser // // To marry Medea. I accused her // // Of suppr

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

hulk and his vanity // // Claimed his

dad was a sea god—insanity— // // But he did have firm pecs, and it l

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

malleable in the gloaming? // // Isn’t

Daddy proud? // // I was always earth-strewn, // // A brief interlud

Frighteningly Inert

d within the glossy blackness // // Of

Dad’s funereal car. // // Later, unpacking, // // I find a history—

laden // // with mum’s blouses, // //

dad’s old shirts and trousers, // // sorry to let them go.’ // // Th

In a charity shop

should keep me going for—wait…! // //

DAEDALUS // // I blame the King’s first commission // // He just saw

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

you, making you scream. // // But the

daggers are not daggers, // // No one can hear your screams // // An

// // I plucked from falling world two

daggers cold. // // My eyes obscured by wash, I blindly dug // // My

[What have we done]

scream. // // But the daggers are not

daggers , // // No one can hear your screams // // And no one has see

ear. // // Now the chain is a thousand

daggers , // // Piercing you, making you scream. // // But the dagger

rely // // On the dithering herds that

daily assert // // Their dependence on this concrete desert. // // T

accretions of the past // // Dully and

daily deleting, whatever is not next // // Sneering, and sniping and

The Cutting Edge

er, quieter. Let us rescue you from the

daily grind. // // We concentrate on renewal, us lot. // //

fills not-white tablecloth sea. // //

Daily no-feeling recurs in identical mornings. // // Business will go

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

Daily Planet // // All day the noise of battle rolls, // // The skir

The Daily Planet

shop to seek supplies // // becomes a

daily ritual. // // Suffolk, circa 1958 // // After the floods of fi

Walking in winter

ow I flick my wand // // some miles of

dale and moor to skip across // // and find myself in wooded Janet’s

Daydream Dale Journey

Dale Journey // // From Ilkley’s old stone bridge I trace a path //

Daydream Dale Journey

there will be more. // // More hills,

dales , crags, beaches // // more boat or cycle rides // // more walk

to brush, a hexagram // // Of blazing

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

Sixteen Forty-Five

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

dame . // //

ces’ steeds lie fallow, // // la belle

dame . // // In thrall to notions of her name, // // tame linnets nib

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

La Belle Dame // // La belle

dame shivers in the shadows, // // a green silk veil against her fram

// // Perfect formation and heartless

damnation // // as Paradise offers // // a thrice-empty // // shun.

Jonathan’s Deathbed

en shards. // // Burnished leaves line

damp concrete, // // Rejected love letters abandoned. // // I want y

Fall for————

// Descend, true nature sprouts, like

damp , decant- // // ing fungus. Brutish, British, you’re out of // /

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

ed my boots, water breaking // // into

damp dust around my knees and my smile breaking // // into laughter,

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// // Blackened soles, he lies back in

damp grass // // And wonders when on earth all this will end. // //

ness. I walk // // Barefoot across the

damp ground of my thoughts, // // Squelch the compost of old text mes

[I am almost 25 years old]

tside plumbing blues and blacks. // //

Damp limestone humming and spectral, // // The absence, eerie, of mou

elow, // // tendrils into the dark and

damp . Now push out above, // // buds into the waxing light, the sprin

r; // // instead I’m staring at want’s

damp shoes // // on the dark path back from college, refusing // //

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

Martha // // Dirty saucers.

Damp teatowels. // // The steady drip-drip-drip of drying plates on t

the wood through; // // Here’s to you,

damson , and cherry, and plum // // Be bearers of fruit and cheerers o

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

control them, restrict their frivolous

dance , and escape from their transcendental intrusion, // // of You.

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

en at the window // // As the branches

dance and turn, // // The startling chartreuse yellow, // // Translu

leaves might fall

at blusters is strangely keen. // // A

dance , hypnotic; long, yet savour it // // The leaves are moved, thei

g personages then, quick // // As they

dance into shape, do vacate back // // To blackn’d smog which as the

[What have we done]

, // // shining, re-combining in their

dance // // the genesis of every utterance, // // pattering the patt

poken by now, but… // // I should have

danced by now, and yet // // Legs, faltering, when I see you // // A

in the air re-sewn // // So through it

dancing branches from roots grown // // Do frame the stars, suspended

[What have we done]

as the first // // Without the old sun-

dancing Christ: // // The bread stayed bready and the wine // // Pas

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

their tongues dancing // // their legs

dancing in different tongues // // their eyeballs rolled heavenward,

Same but differenT

ag at night // // Looks in to see them

dancing in red light, // // Endeavours in but weekly shut out blunt.

Three gay rituals

ything worth more // // Than the light

dancing on this face? // // Than the certainty of a familiar shore? /

I could never be (ready)

and platforms // // while I // // Am

dancing on your blind spot // //

// Dew dappled on falling trees, // //

Dancing shoes over broken shards. // // Burnished leaves line damp co

Fall for————

they cannot speak, // // their tongues

dancing // // their legs dancing in different tongues // // their ey

Same but differenT

hout a hint of irony // // Spin’s more

dangerous // // Myth more toxic // // groundzeronineelevenwaronterro

Between experience and reality that you

dangle me from. // // Frozen winches and stays– // // I never earnes

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

tongue, dark and delicate, from a peak

dangling , // // A curled query around a new gaze, // // Your palm pr

on-yellow orbs of our mango tree // //

Dangling by such slender stalks from its laden boughs. // // We were

e trees // // I mumbled my name to the

dank moss in the bus shelter // // I mouthed my name silently on the

[I whispered my name into the trees]

al Prima Vera. // // Blake saw it too.

Dante and Beatrice // // Are bathing in it now, away upstream… // //

sted breath on misted grass. // // Dew

dappled on falling trees, // // Dancing shoes over broken shards. //

Fall for————

d to // // a woodland glade // // and

dappled shade— // // and suited too. // // That friend he’d picked /

If Chesterton had been present would he

dare suggest that an ode to cheese would have been the best // // No,

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

oles // // The wormholes lead us if we

dare // // to unimagined worlds that scare // // me. Something creep

// Watching new generations play. Then

dared // // A young voice call: ‘who’s that?’ and no-one knew. // //

al sensation // // However, no man has

dared to extol, the properties of a property so woefully dull. // //

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

can reach. // // Who is this now, who

dares me eat a peach? // // Time’s warring chariots can clatter by— /

// From the elm- // // Wood door, not

daring // // To step beyond our domain, // // Not much caring // //

ng) // // is night-mute // // and sea-

dark . // //

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

ush out below, // // tendrils into the

dark and damp. Now push out above, // // buds into the waxing light,

g inchoate affections, // // A tongue,

dark and delicate, from a peak dangling, // // A curled query around

// // And a cheer for you, inkcap, and

dark brittlegill // // And a drink for you, fungus, and your magic fr

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

he beginning of space // // the sky is

dark , but the raging fire // // of the sun marks passing time. // //

earlier trod. // // His eyes are deep

dark centre stones, // // Buried in squinting distance, // // And hi

’Tis pity he’s a bore

de, your mycelium long, // // And your

dark decomposing run all the wood through; // // Here’s to you, damso

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

es, and planted fireworks // // in the

dark edges beyond the flickering light. // // Nearly-five-year-old Co

whirl away // // into the encroaching

dark . // // Feel the earth. Feel the water return // // to the dry g

of weed on the water are like chips of

dark gold // // Under the magnesium moon. // // One night soon I wil

up in the woods, now. it’s good in the

dark , good in the dark, hoping, hoping and hoping. grind me up and sca

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

// the sky // // below us // // the

dark grass mops our toes // // // // the cold air stings my lips /

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

now. it’s good in the dark, good in the

dark , hoping, hoping and hoping. grind me up and scatter my ashes, Ba’

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

ent. // // The fire will be lit in the

dark hours of night, // // when dawn is stuck in its casual delay. //

The Dead Letter Office closes down

r the first time: // // in the dark of

dark , // // hungry every second of our lives, and // // blood-fed, o

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

d // // Are lost forever in the coming

dark , // // Impounded in some Dover Lorry Park. // // Uncase the Cam

arching apple boughs… // // The sky is

dark , intense, a stormy grey, // // But just beneath the darkness all

The Magic Apple Tree

scale for such a furious flame? // //

Dark Matter reels. Imagine it just passed, // // Expanding in a bubb

ovember the days were short, // // and

dark night fell as we built and lit the fire // // on the dark stones

e are for the first time: // // in the

dark of dark, // // hungry every second of our lives, and // // bloo

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

ring at want’s damp shoes // // on the

dark path back from college, refusing // // to look him in the eye, i

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

// to the dry ground. Let the cooling

dark // // settle around and about, under and over. // // Complete a

inst the flow. // // They dart between

dark shadows and the gleam // // Of sunlight in green water—come and

Is it a memory?

up, my love—the sky is calling. // //

Dark shapes are calling each to each: a throng // // moves north agai

Wells in winter

r, // // the fog lights catching great

dark shoals // // of rain, algorithmic complexity // // that flexes

/ lightning rods earthed. // // On the

dark side of the earth, // // in the light of a fire, // // and fain

my belly cave singing // // to the rib-

dark sky, larking my demiurge. // // Give me some time // // You wer

who // // couldn’t find his hat in the

dark so he put on the cat instead. // // Columbus was the end. He lef

we built and lit the fire // // on the

dark stones, and planted fireworks // // in the dark edges beyond the

he shepherdess, // // Down through the

dark towards the grey church spire // // In to its heart : the archin

The Magic Apple Tree

l the pain. // // But out there in the

dark we know they lurk, // // We sense their stench, as stealing thro

/ // And so to the magic of day and of

dark // // We’ll sing waes hael, waes hael, hurrah! hurrah! // //

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

u back soon. // // Warmth in 5 o’clock

dark , // // You smell like watching rain fall // // In burnt amber l

Fall for————

your hands, as the deep blue // // sky

darkened and embellished around you. You began dreaming // // as the

[I often think of that January morning]

nstances of milk-soaked silence. // //

Darkened feet tread over a foreign space // // Which whispers with fr

Vicious or Virtuous?

est, // // As we linger in our lovely,

darkening bowers // // Of bushes, trees, and living, dying flowers. /

[Walcott begins Omeros]

e rain // // Through sodden streets in

darkening December // // A journey to the magic apple tree. // // A

The Magic Apple Tree

his grave with boughs // // But in the

darkening hour they saw // // The boy without a face. // //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

eft the school. Wandering out along the

darkening lanes we went to cross the river, black and cruel. This city

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

path // // Like rain. Staining stones

darker as words attempt to fill the gap // // Between this point and

Snapshot Endings

alone, // // Life’s pawn at lifetime’s

darker edge, // // The one who gave him tone and form // // Is still

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

the year. You tell me my honey hair is

darker now, and my eyes are a deeper grey. // // You tell me it’s dif

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

er far, a corniced window bay // // in

darker wood. Clear morning sunlight fills // // the room we glimpse

Cape Cod Morning

] // // What have we done in this, our

darkest night? // // To what forgotten forest are we fell // // And

[What have we done]

ic apple tree. // // And journey also,

darkling , through your past // // Journey through your seed time and

The Magic Apple Tree

// // the embers beneath the ash were

darkly glowing, asking only // // a slight encouragement. As the day

tormy grey, // // But just beneath the

darkness all is gold: // // The slope of hills, the fields of barleyc

The Magic Apple Tree

// // We witnessed in the silence, the

darkness and the secrecy // // When to sense was to make ourselves be

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

we’re both in the abyss. // // In the

darkness I keep rewriting ‘is this the poem?’ // // Let the treasure

ght, Pale Yellow // // Our house is in

darkness . // // I shut my eyes, but // // my eyelids are glowing wit

Bright, Pale Yellow

ifferent we look—you and I, // // More

darkness in my brow than in your entirety. // // You may yet grow to

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

s difficult to love a light, when every

darkness is a reminder of their breaking. // //

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

mon Pie in Zaïre // // Further in, the

darkness is absolute. // // Fronds and furtive things unfurl while fo

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

itting tired and carefree // // In the

darkness of no-brand car’s back seats. // // Fresheners’ smell is the

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

t memory. // // Walk through the outer

darkness of the world // // Towards a buried memory of light // // W

The Magic Apple Tree

r fall. // // Walk through the present

darkness till you come // // To the stone steps, the lions, the façad

The Magic Apple Tree

d a calling; // // “Sleeper awake, the

darkness was a dream // // For you will see the Dayspring at your wak

press my eyelids from // // out of the

darkness , // // watch the brightness // // squirm, then smile, then

Bright, Pale Yellow

// // more shapes, more colours, more

darknesses // // more storms, gales, lightning bolts // // more days

linted eyes, // // Holding and held by

darling thoughts, // // Smile’s phantom echoing inchoate affections,

nows swim against the flow. // // They

dart between dark shadows and the gleam // // Of sunlight in green wa

Is it a memory?

ning, // // And as we watch, our souls

dart to and fro // // Between the lights of speech and depths below,

Is it a memory?

// Reflex that deflects skilful asking

darts , // // I wonder if I have no choice but to be selfish, presumpt

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

ite // // Bernard Shaw, the voluptuous

Darwin , the natty Disraeli. // // Youth wins, // // Confines the nob

Bearded Thoughts

gush full spate. // // Now my headlong

dash abates—where I once was, the waders team, rich foraging is // //

/ Nimble Nimrods, the nil // // make a

dash for the mountain, // // turn and bellow their challenge // // f

Nil Charge / Nil Return

e a sage, // // And I bet I’d get more

dates // // Than WB Yeats // // For all his talk of old men’s lust a

// Cleave the land. // // In a time of

dates that rot from inside out // // And will not dry // // The boat

h part-drawn shades, // // Liquid time

daubed on air’s pale vellum, // // Us in the warm, in the yellow, //

// and promised stories told // // of

daughters , lovers old, trapeze // // swingers and graffiti. // // In

luc bat to mr. beam

/ // and look up flight-times for your

daughter’s plane. // // Your life defined by the whistle of the kettl

forms against the wire brush // // of

David’s thick black hair, // // staying in place until at home // //

Walking in winter

it. // // Too much strain // // For

dawn brain; // // And does matter // // Matter // // That much? //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

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

dawn , choosing our course by instinct, taking // // left or right acc

ke beaches touched by waves // // From

dawn far into the nights, before the words // // Began to stick and m

[My face is old now]

in the Small Hours // // Yawn, // //

Dawn // // Five o nine, // // Swiss time; // // An accurate // //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

Where birds once chorused a dew bright

dawn . // // Immortality // // Is in time, our blood coloured autumn.

, // // Beyond your long last line the

dawn is breaking”. // //

in the dark hours of night, // // when

dawn is stuck in its casual delay. // // All letters not claimed will

The Dead Letter Office closes down

se // // and still // // as midwinter

dawn . // // It completes a turn in the air // // with slow brute gra

ead. // // In the prehistoric, melting

dawn , // // stretched her gauzy face on mine // // so that, by paint

ire; // // (too hopeful by half in the

dawning ). // // End-tale: November song seeks mist-blue port, so //

Columbus was the end. He left the quiet

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

smell of their burning will herald the

day . // //

The Dead Letter Office closes down

// The world would start again the next

day . // // A clockwork Abraham, ready every morning with his flint //

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

// // mimic your steps; growing day by

day , // // a cursive script’s embrace // // in which to rest—safe in

luc bat to mr. beam

Is this the poem? // // On Valentines

Day a kick from the stomach, the tender // // Violence of a body’s ri

ts, stained now with black, what if one

day all the books drew blanks? // // There’d be nothing to write abou

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

calp to the ground. // // Fresh as the

day although freckled and browned // // And frowned. // // With the

c fruits— // // And so to the magic of

day and of dark // // We’ll sing waes hael, waes hael, hurrah! hurrah

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

the living, do not kill // // another

day .” // // And yet you stay // // inside my head, and take away my

day // // Another day // // to feel your ever-present absence, still

// // Over-thought in the tail-end; by

day at poet’s sea of glass and fire; // // (too hopeful by half in th

Autumn // // The

day breaks slowly on the hills of green // // Everything turned stran

slowly // // mimic your steps; growing

day by day, // // a cursive script’s embrace // // in which to rest—

luc bat to mr. beam

g. // // Did I love enough? use every

day ? // // Days for seeing you in different ways. // // Days enough

ughts, // // In the early evening now,

day dead, // // And there’s no song on or cold coffee left, // // An

nute. // // At the slow end of a forty

day fast // // unpeel the digits from your onion fist // // and mask

before // // The furnaces by night and

day —for me. // // Now my achievement’s lauded as the best: // // To

/ // After two years’ pay, this is the

day // // He finally comes to Gaza (with chums). // // Avoids being

memory, for good or ill, // // another

day . // // I cannot say // // whether I have the necessary skill //

w // // Of white from top-to-toe. Each

day I feel // // My bones grow old with waiting for the feel // // O

[My face is old now]

ay my skin will be stripped enough. one

day I get to cry Kri’at Shema lying down. I get unbelief. one day I wi

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

t Shema lying down. I get unbelief. one

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

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

steady ground // // Whales singing the

day in // // The heart trips and is under way // //

ight on water // // Whales singing the

day in // // You hold your hand in mine // // Shoeless feet and unst

-beat cotton, holes at the knee, // //

Day into day, into day // // Into night. Try not to think of me, //

I could never be (ready)

ton, holes at the knee, // // Day into

day , into day // // Into night. Try not to think of me, // // Though

I could never be (ready)

at the knee, // // Day into day, into

day // // Into night. Try not to think of me, // // Though you might

I could never be (ready)

els // // The evening before Christmas

day . // // Men and listening children // // Wait for the ring of a b

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

l its warmth. // // [You’d brighten my

day more.] / [Too long.] / [ Winter has a jealous moon.] // // How’s

Whales sing because they have a song

. it’s waiting there for you. maybe one

day my skin will be stripped enough. one day I get to cry Kri’at Shema

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

d now you never are. // // Nothing all

day nothing // // Until a night of nothing following that day. // //

[So snow falls outside]

Wednesday // // Another

day of fresh cigarette burns, // // not failing to hit the side of a

eydale // // they passed the following

day . // // Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, // // and such great

kan scene. // // It may be the coldest

day of the year // // but no Murder of absurd black penguins // // c

why i’m getting into Christmas

// // And so they thought of what two-

day -old Adam must have done: // // Alone in brand new Paradise with i

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

eze this: // // you with your hair cut

day -short, // // blowing a cool kiss, // // prone on a white tobogga

ashy Victorian tear, // // Finding the

day so new and so odd, // // With the gain of the world and the loss

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

Until a night of nothing following that

day . // // Sometimes at night I drift. // // Small and high up. //

[So snow falls outside]

dden from its hidden source; // // The

Day -Spring, the eternal Prima Vera. // // Blake saw it too. Dante and

uished, empty, spent; the beauty of the

day submerged in silence. Buses, bicycles, cold commuters, they passed

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

2-3 // // This year it snows on Boxing

Day . // // The country road not cleared for days // // —and then of

Walking in winter

// expecting to find it cold, but every

day // // the embers beneath the ash were darkly glowing, asking only

The Daily Planet // // All

day the noise of battle rolls, // // The skirmishes and wars, // //

The Daily Planet

// waiting for the gong // // and one

day to be asked. // // My own—a set of two— // // shared only with m

A Room of Her Own

Another day // // Another

day // // to feel your ever-present absence, still // // to find a w

suppose tomorrow’s still // // another

day // // to find a way. // //

Silence // // Came to stay one

day . // // Unpacked her bags, // // and hung her quiet fripperies //

// // a slight encouragement. As the

day went on, // // we generated quantities of fuel // // and built a

Wild Mountain Thyme // // Christmas

day . // // We’re all at my gran’s house, // // The full, Catholic-si

Wild Mountain Thyme

// // // My mother always said, “one

day you might // // Play when the stakes trump the game, and then dea

love poems to myself, // // Hoping one

day you’ll understand that I’m not so inventive // // And when I give

I’ll never work for Hallmark

then, treat ourselves to a fancy dress

daydream // // and puff that renovation brick-dust from our lungs. //

Daydream Dale Journey // // From Ilkley’s old stone bridge I trace a

Daydream Dale Journey

e fire once begun // // would last for

days and days. Each morning I came down, // // expecting to find it

. And although you’d been sat there for

days and days waiting for me to come back, the tea was still hot. And

[So the moon was there]

Mary had to do was wait. Give it three

days and He’ll return // // And bring salvation and sunshine and the

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

// // The country road not cleared for

days // // —and then of course it snows again. // // One afternoon f

Walking in winter

he same branches that // // during the

days are // // bloodshot. // // How can you sleep in this // // bli

Bright, Pale Yellow

Am I the waiting well? // // For rainy

days are far between, // // In restless Asphodel. // // If what they

Who am I, Bernard?

lue, // // artificially structuring my

days around coffee // // before falling asleep in the hope I would av

[I often think of that January morning]

// In a late summer’s haze // // Now,

days become shorter // // And we know that soon, // // Another flock

Magnetic Mountain

e from there. // // The light of other

days can shine // // on any past and redefine // // our history, and

ce begun // // would last for days and

days . Each morning I came down, // // expecting to find it cold, but

or seeing you in different ways. // //

Days enough for giving and receiving. // // Did I give enough? // //

d I love enough? use every day? // //

Days for seeing you in different ways. // // Days enough for giving a

or too straight, too curly.’ // // In

days gone by it was the fashion, Sweeney did bad business. // // You

Bearded Thoughts

that was forty years ago // // —these

days his hair is white all through.) // // ‘Every mile is two’? no,

Walking in winter

Apple Sunday // // Dog-

days in autumn—what other days were there, really? // // All three re

days it’s all I Am Legend without a hint of irony // // Spin’s more d

Remains a vivid memory of my childhood

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

ain // // away from you, in those last

days of pain, // // another summer, home in Camberwell. // // Betwee

rms, gales, lightning bolts // // more

days of sun or rain or passing cloud // // more meetings with old fri

can no longer vouch // // for working

days , or if my real malaise // // might just be musing if I’m wanted

Between Life and Death

/ Between the endpoints there were many

days // // —or should have been—for many kinds of loving. // // Did

years // // Where minutes, hours, and

days run not to time // // But to a vivid centre— // // There stands

[At the coinciding point of the years]

skin is the warmest retort. // // The

days still dis-leave. Pale envy-green, wet-yellow, gold-wrought // //

esting // // The concrete wave. // //

Days stretch out, like a wingspan // // And feathers form the funeral

Urban bird watching

smile and portion and peel // // these

days to savour, or discard; not feed the eternal angelic fight. // //

hough you’d been sat there for days and

days waiting for me to come back, the tea was still hot. And so we jus

[So the moon was there]

cause, // // no-one else to spend her

days // // watching, and so thought she might // // hide the fact //

In a charity shop

k shingle beach. // // In November the

days were short, // // and dark night fell as we built and lit the fi

ay // // Dog-days in autumn—what other

days were there, really? // // All three removed their clothes, as se

eft me stuck in a maze to the end of my

days // // Where it stinks. I’d give gold for some fresh air. // //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ke flint to raise a good fire. I tally

days with snowdamp sticks. // //

ud like a dream, // // ‘There are some

days ,’ she says, // // ‘when the rails look like // // lives cluster

In a charity shop

was a dream // // For you will see the

Dayspring at your waking, // // Beyond your long last line the dawn i

you finite proof ‘within three working

days ’. // // In limbo here I can no longer vouch // // for working d

Between Life and Death

n the wood and you, // // There is the

day’s newspaper, blazoned with // // The spin of a world that isn’t

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

name that meant all things // // that

dazzle and move and wave; // // small but unending—Ondine. // // But

Stone, Paper, Scissors

rth and fire between them: // // these

dazzling coloured images of flames. // // Should I wonder if my eyes

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

// your compass with its swinging fleur-

de -lys // // watched by the crystal prism’s sharp-cut eye? // // It

Compass Reading

There must be moonshine // // Fin

de siècle. // // Ethel Sargant, botanist // // (Girton student 1880s

There must be moonshine

caught his eye and struck him blind and

dead . // // A winged beast can be so underhanded; // // its pupils w

stery // // ruled their ambitions, now

dead and now done with // // since no-one remembers—no— // // nobody

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ovided a thread, left her brother stone

dead , // // And sailed with the oaf, resolute. // // THESEUS // //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

s, // // In the early evening now, day

dead , // // And there’s no song on or cold coffee left, // // And th

live in morbidity, // // Submissive or

dead , // // Are you too far to see ? // // But shouldn’t we strive f

[She points to the sky]

light // // The truth is that they’re

dead because they’re shite. // //

In Defence of Evolution

// // Of long forgotten lust; // //

Dead gods rise and so I // // Dispense with this your justice // //

// There was a lull— // // But he was

dead : // // had died three hours after his arrival, // // was buried

Black September

// // His confidence shaken, near shot

dead , // // he thought of some words that Pol Pot said, // // and he

The Failing of the Cheese

I can destroy, // // Look, the sun is

dead . // // I killed it then, just then. // // Inside it was a nothi

[So snow falls outside]

, new gold mines, new laws and a people

dead . // // Ieri- Land of the Hummingbird, give no thanks for majesty

// // So that the Earth stops spinning

dead in its gait, // // So that I’m launched 3,000 miles in a single

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

could raise // // a cool half million.

Dead it goes to Joe. // // If I’ve ‘been DEAD’ am I now resurrect //

Between Life and Death

Dead Letter Office closes down // // // // // The dead letter offi

The Dead Letter Office closes down

fice closes down // // // // // The

dead letter office is closing down // // because of a failure of mana

The Dead Letter Office closes down

f I’m wanted now // // by you alive or

dead ? Live I could raise // // a cool half million. Dead it goes to J

Between Life and Death

kindred panters of the air; // // The

dead lived on in my genes and my hair // // And the tea-leaves showed

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

marks of Hester, // // Until she falls

dead . // // O reputation, reputation, devour and swallow her whole, /

kas // // while the dear mouse dropped

dead of starvation. // //

The Failing of the Cheese

tead. // // But that wouldn’t kill the

dead . // // They are stuck in agelessness; // // She has to clamber

n everything’s been said. // // In the

dead , we stopped // // and stayed stuck in the quiet, // // the end

, // // In acrid conversation with the

dead , // // whose ghosts go round in circles down from heaven, // //

, // // Now burns blackened words into

dead wood; // // Cremates Glede-eyes garnet // // Tightens coils, wr

Rattle, // // Instilling all the Seven

Deadlies // // Plus a few extra. // // She could just hang up her cr

murk, // // Mendacious bigots do their

deadly work, // // Those creeping politicians breathing hate, // //

ad it goes to Joe. // // If I’ve ‘been

DEAD ’ am I now resurrect // // and rich, or still a ghastly ex-offici

Between Life and Death

sing of souls hurt. // // Blind, dumb,

deaf upon the pedestal of a saint, // // by touch and instinct you de

s. She // // sighs to my teeth. // //

Deafness , I watch the sea. // // See ripples. She’s watching too. //

l’esprit d’escalier

ped lament. // // The manager wouldn’t

deal with the mail // // and was an inveterate absentee, // // he ne

The Dead Letter Office closes down

alise // // That Life’s not all drinks

deals and drunken romances. // //

an, // // I hope this finds you // //

Dear Alan // //

Dear Alan // // Dear Alan, // // I hope this finds you well // // D

ose you have often thought of me // //

Dear Alan, // // I don’t suppose you have often thought // // Dear A

n this bench, for you to collect // //

Dear Alan, // // I don’t suppose you have often thought of me // //

/ // I hope this finds you well // //

Dear Alan, // // I have lost // // Dear Alan, // // I have lost the

// Dear Alan, // // I have lost // //

Dear Alan, // // I have lost the receipt on which I wrote your addres

I knew he couldn’t have been you // //

Dear Alan, // // I hope this finds you // // Dear Alan // //

Dear Alan // //

Dear Alan, // // I hope this finds you well // // Dear Alan, // //

on the bus who I thought was you // //

Dear Alan, // // I knew he couldn’t have been you // // Dear Alan, /

t suppose you have often thought // //

Dear Alan, // // I saw a man on the bus who I thought was you // //

. // // Play your men like your cards,

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

/ In their resting place— // // You—my

dear —are such a vessel // //

From Trebetherick Point

ies, but falls fallow? // // Go hungry

dear fox // // Do not bloody my door, there // // Is nothing for you

Here be dragons

thematic precision to // // better her

dear husband’s still-mortal guess. // // Fearless and shameless and h

Jonathan’s Deathbed

hen the stakes trump the game, and then

dear // // Keep your wits about you and your hand sleight // // And

acked down his Whiskas // // while the

dear mouse dropped dead of starvation. // //

The Failing of the Cheese

eath // // // // // // // // //

Dear Wayne of Interpol: I have your mail. // // Your writhing at my d

Between Life and Death

fety first – // // you’re in the trash

dear Wayne – you wongaboy – // // since you forgot to check if I was

Between Life and Death

a suffering friend // // —cancer, poor

dear , we’ll keep her in our prayers— // // sweep the kitchen floor an

/ Shut my ears to Antigone, blot out my

dear’s words. // // They can’t be talking to me. // // I’ll be inter

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

e // // You will still be beautiful in

death . // //

o few. // // Birth certificate. // //

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

Stone, Paper, Scissors

will make you // // An example in your

death . // // Curst to know yourself, vain paragon, // // Your tears

Between Life and

Death // // // // // // // // // Dear Wayne of Interpol: I hav

Between Life and Death

e your mail. // // Your writhing at my

death has deeply touched // // me. Though unknown to you, still you b

Between Life and Death

had seen // // My suit and gown, would

death have seemed a dream? // //

ne harmony you ascended. // // Amended

death . I wish I could be faithful. // // Lover, brother, I have done

// climax, nothingness. You are mewling

death . // // In truth, you stagnant, solipsistic bore, // // You’re

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

to Acheron // // Your river of woe and

death . // // Never to taste, never to touch // // Drift amidst the s

ist says: meme for belief in life after

death // // Old man sits bespectacled in laptop moth-light. Rendered

earching, love-life listing. // // The

death rattle of the track’s devouring // // And an incessant natterin

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

pass’d ’neath my toes // // To endless

death , rinsing me feet to nose. // // But just as I did to this purpo

[What have we done]

ery inch // // But ’hind did seem sure

death . ’Twas in this pinch // // I rose my head. Above it to my heart

[What have we done]

Deathbed // // Jonathan’s deathbed was strewn with salvation in // /

Jonathan’s Deathbed

Jonathan’s Deathbed // // Jonathan’s

deathbed was strewn with salvation in // // gadgets and gizmos that s

Jonathan’s Deathbed

e supple green branches, // // Seeming

deathless , // // Are obscured by Middle-Eastern tales // // Of a boy

Before Christmas

es // // Of a boy-king. // // Seeming

deathless , // // The year is born again. The festival // // Of a boy

Before Christmas

Red, white. A yellow glare: // // 222

deaths in Cambridgeshire last year. // // People finding their way ho

// a thrice-empty // // shun. // //

Death’s minstrel followed this path of destruction to // // find out

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// // They crumble in atop themselves,

debris // // From some controll’d explosion: dry and charr’d, // //

[What have we done]

touch what ran below in streams of oily

debris , further than I could fathom and far enough to fall at from a h

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

line, // // Searching amongst my fact-

debris . // // In the inky hall where I’m confined // // As my pen mo

Exam Room Villanelle

as left a- // // mid the disappointing

debris of the world: // // Its fag ends and canisters of laughing gas

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

Debris // // the imprint’s still there but it just doesn’t feel like

escend, true nature sprouts, like damp,

decant - // // ing fungus. Brutish, British, you’re out of // // step

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

ames. // // Should I wonder if my eyes

deceive me? // //

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

We asked ourselves: // // Had we been

deceived — // // or deceived ourselves? // // Today, polyester jacket

Magnetic Mountain

// // Had we been deceived— // // or

deceived ourselves? // // Today, polyester jackets, unadorned // //

Magnetic Mountain

fragile form. // // What kind of fool

deceives himself like this? // //

The chicken and the egg

// Through sodden streets in darkening

December // // A journey to the magic apple tree. // // And journey

The Magic Apple Tree

n armchair left // // Empty since last

December , // // Just over twelve months now. // // Our voices warm t

Wild Mountain Thyme

w, // // Too sad) // // Leaving us to

decide on // // Another song. // // Granny’s keeping herself busy //

Wild Mountain Thyme

/ A promise, a signpost, // // And us,

deciding to stay. // // We marched in lock-step // // To that glorio

Magnetic Mountain

Go far with that name. // // Made the

decision to // // Pseudonymous-ify: // // Called himself Woody, //

// For ablutions, kneels on the slender

deck , makes oblations // // Of shorn hair and candle wax, to the sain

ough still, warm air. // // On the top

deck of a 68 // // Voices, ipods, phones speak out— // // add to the

ere has heard it before. // // I could

declare our love to be an energy saving light bulb, // // It takes it

I’ll never work for Hallmark

trable stare, yes a million times yes I

declare ! // // Thus the sonnets of Shakespeare will forevermore consu

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

// // That severs, and condemns us to

decline , // // Before the best that Europe’s vineyards yield, // //

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002 // // Early i

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

ess tip and taproot // // down through

decomposing leaves and drenching mist. // // This is where the good t

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

our mycelium long, // // And your dark

decomposing run all the wood through; // // Here’s to you, damson, an

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

// you came home. Measuring the miles

decreasing with every page // // of the novel that dwindled between y

[I often think of that January morning]

ee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee // // -

Dee .” // //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-

dee // // -Dee.” // //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ir // // life’s melody. // // “Fiddle-

dee -dee,” said the minstrel, “The only thing // // Left of this life

Jonathan’s Deathbed

dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-

dee // // Fiddle-dee // // -Dee.” // //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-

dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee // // -Dee.” // //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-

dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee // // -Dee.” // /

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-

dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee // // -

Jonathan’s Deathbed

Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-

dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // F

Jonathan’s Deathbed

dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-

dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // F

Jonathan’s Deathbed

Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-

dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-d

Jonathan’s Deathbed

dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-

dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-d

Jonathan’s Deathbed

dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-

dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-d

Jonathan’s Deathbed

dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-

dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-d

Jonathan’s Deathbed

So // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-

dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-

dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

e is its sweet melody. So // // Fiddle-

dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fidd

Jonathan’s Deathbed

eet melody. So // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-

dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fidd

Jonathan’s Deathbed

/ // life’s melody. // // “Fiddle-dee-

dee ,” said the minstrel, “The only thing // // Left of this life is i

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// So pure and free, and // // Yet we

deemed // // It far beyond the realm // // Of serfs, and so kept awa

light, hush’d // // lull brown, // //

deep among your dusk // // heavy sockets. rust // // me down // //

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

nly it wasn’t blue today, // // It was

deep and grey when // // It appeared, the sun jumping // // From clo

[The sun flattened]

/ // Slow down your breathing. Keep it

deep and slow. // // Become an open singing-bowl, whose chime // //

hem in the net of your head, // // But

deep and troubled the head rolls inwards, implodes // // Without a so

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

the new moon. // // And elsewhere, as

deep as port, as rich as Tokaji, // // your head bobs in peace upon a

lled with wonder as they gaze // // so

deep between the colours of the flames. // // Drawn by warmth, I came

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

hat dwindled between your hands, as the

deep blue // // sky darkened and embellished around you. You began dr

[I often think of that January morning]

es. // // So on I flow, my breath held

deep but soft, // // I let my body fall again, be wash’d // // Into

[What have we done]

r be drowned. // // You strike him and

deep crystal bass-notes resound. // // He’ll never lose time, he’s ca

they earlier trod. // // His eyes are

deep dark centre stones, // // Buried in squinting distance, // // A

’Tis pity he’s a bore

breast against // // And worship waist-

deep in hands // // That tilled the salty earth // // No less than h

mark the seat of disappointment, // //

Deep in my lungs. // // Now in his immanent radiance, // // With his

’Tis pity he’s a bore

s the peacock // // its scream, // //

Deep in the bosom of the // // gentle night. // // I make no love to

l’esprit d’escalier

to the night behind us. // // And now,

deep in the wilds of the Irish Sea, // // the new year is sleeping wi

Hollow Way // // // Horse hooves sunk

deep into sticky clay. // // Between rutted mud and thistle bloom //

// // that somewhere herein lies some

deep philosophy? // // Voices, ipods, phones speak out— // // add to

/ In it you’re lying on the sun-warmed,

deep -veined wood // // Of an old pine table. Between the wood and you

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

window to shadow // // A child’s voice

deepens , // // Like a changeling held // // Over the flame, some str

Here be dragons

// through the dust it only // // digs

deeper . // // clinch my neck between your fingers, // // bore that s

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

y hair is darker now, and my eyes are a

deeper grey. // // You tell me it’s difficult to love a light, when e

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// The words and ink slowly // // Seep

deeper into the page, my skin, // // Until they settle together // /

Writing to explore

in feet at least) // // To Mellbreak’s

deepest crest // //

flame inspire. // // So moved I to my

deepest depths of will, // // With heavy heart embarking on its sea.

[What have we done]

/ Had I not written this I confess with

deepest regret, I would banish this rubbish to the first dustbin I met

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

l. // // Your writhing at my death has

deeply touched // // me. Though unknown to you, still you bewail //

Between Life and Death

runes from the root-tree written in the

deeps , // // leaves from the tale-tree lifted, swift and free, // //

g // // did all the talking— // // my

deer , at the railroad, // // done. ‘It’s him’ you said // // and I c

// // ahead, on the rail road // // a

deer had stopped // // ‘it’s gonna die,’ he said, // // ‘if it stays

sunken palazzi // // Where mosaics are

defaced with algae and refuse of ages, // // Sounding over black wave

ed yards // // of man’s best effort at

defence // // drops thirty feet into a hole. // // Cambridge, circa

Walking in winter

Defence of Evolution // // I’m thinking up a theory to explain it— //

In Defence of Evolution

// // Concealed beneath ‘I don’t know’

defence , // // Reflex that deflects skilful asking darts, // // I wo

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

read me I’m not there to reply, cannot

defend , cannot explain with a hand or description - no visual aid, //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

for your // // gawping students, that

define your life. // // Your young voice brought old words to life, /

Sestina to an English Teacher

your daughter’s plane. // // Your life

defined by the whistle of the kettle; // // Rhythmed by the clink-cli

seconds. // // It’s so easy // // to

deflate into lonely doubt. // // Coloured creases of downy skin // /

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

don’t know’ defence, // // Reflex that

deflects skilful asking darts, // // I wonder if I have no choice but

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

// It’s democratic, stylish, and it’s

deft : // // Any half-taught infant can contrive // // To lean a pile

In Defence of Evolution

and skill, and yet I never thought you

deft // // enough to use so delicate a dial. // // Why should I miss

Compass Reading

ompanied by the ineffectual whirring of

defunct machinery] // //

the windmill’s lament—a short play

Microgynon // //

Defy the moon suck, Cnut unheeded, // // All that she did with packet

nd primed. // // Evadne the unseizable

defying Iphis, // // she jumps // // to meet the water channelling b

er song seeks mist-blue port, so // //

Defying stormy-weather and determinism both, tonight // // I only say

ned // // For three grim hours. For my

degree // // I fear I am not in my perfect mind // // As I try to ge

Exam Room Villanelle

and pen and thrive, // // even without

degree . // // My maths proves useful: // // I can assess my scanty n

A Room of Her Own

Déjeuner // // I thought Nick old, // // but devilish. // // He’s i

// // when dawn is stuck in its casual

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

The Dead Letter Office closes down

apologies instead of typing // // and

deleting , admit my ugly want as the drummer // // sweats because it’s

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

ions of the past // // Dully and daily

deleting , whatever is not next // // Sneering, and sniping and snippi

The Cutting Edge

/ Back to the justification, // // The

deliberate slow conundrum of complexity (if only I could remember thos

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

hought you deft // // enough to use so

delicate a dial. // // Why should I miss this little piece of you? //

Compass Reading

dn’t remind me of you. // // Faith, as

delicate as I, can // // Tear with a sharp breath or vicious statemen

The Other Side of the Line

// the imprimatura of your skin; // //

delicate cave magic revealed // // by the flickering torch // // of

e affections, // // A tongue, dark and

delicate , from a peak dangling, // // A curled query around a new gaz

here. But now someone’s penned // // A

delicate sonnet—to me—and it’s hers. // //

Wednesday Evening

d childhood traditions of tree climbing

delight // // Fruit eating and the inevitably ripped clothes. // //

sal word, a thrifty fox-thought, golden

delighted kept at bay from the quiet and rustling examination halls. /

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

w bottles that remain, // // As though

delirium could dull the pain. // // But out there in the dark we know

Hot] // // Hot. // // Too hot. // //

Delirium freely falls around my head, // // Tuxedoed and awaiting rec

Delphi // // I think we have to conclude // // that the Greeks // /

lf)-importance never recognized, // //

demanding silence for each wireless news: // // vainglorious hope the

Compass Reading

urry fury // // at the nilherd’s final

demands , // // stamp in a sweep to the slope-edge: // // horns lower

Nil Charge / Nil Return

squinting distance, // // And his skin

demarcates the Sun’s furthest edge. // // His hair is a lustrous shad

’Tis pity he’s a bore

// // to the rib-dark sky, larking my

demiurge . // // Give me some time // // You were the sea, you the su

, seems fittest to survive. // // It’s

democratic , stylish, and it’s deft: // // Any half-taught infant can

In Defence of Evolution

war dirt-up, image-bled, // // if nine

demon ever did, god-won // // Arrêt. // // Anger // // art // // L

Hercules et Oracle

r knees. // // Feet anointed and seven

demons rise, // // Let him without sin cast the first stone, // // L

// Mutely cry out for someone // // To

demonstrate a melody // // In the supermarket tills’ // // Incessant

Magnetic Mountain

retched, // // A dirigible anchored to

demotic towers - // // Half-deserted, effluvial. // // A surety of s

and gin. // // I thought if I, // //

demurely stripped, // // I’d catch Nick’s eye // // and he’d be grip

are leaves I write on, // // Where the

dendrites of the mind // // Grow branching thoughts, bear fruit. //

n // // with waiting in dissention and

denial . // // What will our children think, and is it fair // // to

ter of our land. // // Our learning is

denied at your command. // // They are not mine, these words you make

uch-loved mystery, in short. // // You

denied yourself, and like beads loosed from tassels // // the cap of

strung out in series and enfolded into

dense coils, // // Chopped up and worn away until I forget how it sou

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

alphabet soup // // Served iambic, al

dente , but as yet unsigned. // // Will my new friend accept that I mi

Wednesday Evening

n, the curled toes the moment // // of

departure , are you afraid do you // // understand Karagiozis the lant

ng herds that daily assert // // Their

dependence on this concrete desert. // // They shudder at your distin

eeping and spreading, mycorrhizal in my

dependency on // // Your voice, all 25 years of me dissolving into th

[I am almost 25 years old]

g pace) // // —but Sadik the Most Evil

deposes poor Boris, and // // gets the Red Margaret to look at the ca

Troubled waters

stockings curled // // Like bindweed.

Deposited , blooming with the taint // // Of former stages of my seven

loat in the blur of your // // Shallow

depth of field // // Like a spirit waiting for its clay; // // Becau

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

n water—come and go // // Like us from

depth to height—suddenly seem // // Translucent in the glancing light

Is it a memory?

// // Between the lights of speech and

depths below, // // The silent depths where touch is everything. //

Is it a memory?

ne happy. // // Shadowed-masses in the

depths hum through the reeds, // // Winding past colonnades and the r

nspire. // // So moved I to my deepest

depths of will, // // With heavy heart embarking on its sea. // // T

[What have we done]

/ // Having found grace at last in the

depths of your lair. // // She’ll stone you back // // Without a car

ld I let myself sink into the caressing

depths // // Or fight to the lung-stinging surface? // // My base an

y // // Through water’s edge // // To

depths unknown (in feet at least) // // To Mellbreak’s deepest crest

ech and depths below, // // The silent

depths where touch is everything. // //

Is it a memory?

// red was the evening sky. // // By

Derby town they settled down // // on purple sage to lie. // // A Ch

ly claiming incorrectly that the second

derivative of xx is aa and the second derivative of yy is -gg. // //

d derivative of xx is aa and the second

derivative of yy is -gg. // // Those who did manage to solve the earl

ing, // // And a wonderful point to be

derived . // // For inside you are a million pages, // // Of knowled

The Tree of Wisdom

ruises and black lung // // And purple

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

// Earth's arrogance, its invitation to

descend . // // A face has been fixed, and focuses below, // // yet d

[A spinning spider]

below and limestone crags above; // //

descend the steps to reach the valley floor— // // to leave behind, f

Daydream Dale Journey

saint, // // by touch and instinct you

descend to hide among // // the seeds spun by the breeze, between lin

ce, ’lision; laziness, it shows. // //

Descend , true nature sprouts, like damp, decant- // // ing fungus. Br

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

hnological advance, // // Its virtual

descendants grace // // The screen on my mother’s PC). // // I peel

miles // // Capture all of my love and

describe it // // Badly. // //

I’ll never work for Hallmark

t even close. My vocabulary // // Can

describe many things, but the thoughts that race // // Through my hea

I’ll never work for Hallmark

th yourself, // // Don’t. No easier to

describe my feelings in scrawled letters // // Than in conversations,

Snapshot Endings

nto sub-parts each with several options

describing those actions that might be permitted and/or recommended if

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

t defend, cannot explain with a hand or

description - no visual aid, // // No images allowed, the written wor

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

not flee! Do not leave me! // // Stay!

Desert not him who loves thee! // // Cruel one! Forgive me! // // I

rden of Egypt, // // The burden of the

desert of the sea. // // Fatness sluiced clean, // // Streets emptie

s like a rope whipping in a breeze on a

desert -plain, // // The pitch-white lake bed bare of life, // // All

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

a predator to die, // // Alone in the

desert , strangled by a tie. // //

in your parents’ car // // Out to the

desert , // // Sweet like shalimar // // On the radio, the sandy scar

/ // Their dependence on this concrete

desert . // // They shudder at your distinctive stride // // As your

nchored to demotic towers - // // Half-

deserted , effluvial. // // A surety of sound and shining light // //

s picked their path and left you // //

Deserted . Only bramble blooms; only ivy strays // // Through the holl

word-music. // // Love sent you to the

desert’s hush-parched silence. // // You held fast, though those ratt

espair // // but follow where, by cute

design , // // the wormholes lead, // // I have a very real fear //

e’d seen, // // choosing again without

design . We ended in the same bar // // with the same familiar waiter

// // The Boris is happy. “We need a

designer with // // boldness and vision—I know just the man. // // H

Troubled waters

our shared bookshelf // // When I see

desire distilled in the juice that runs // // From tongue to lip to l

’Tis pity he’s a bore

ire that’s generated by this ennui: the

desire for Truth, something that doesn’t change and they can have. Con

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

ld find it hard to believe that men can

desire more from art that cheese // // They want their soul to be gen

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ey redirected themselves and pursue the

desire that’s generated by this ennui: the desire for Truth, something

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

inds // // The aged with their heart’s

desire , the rose // // With senseless fear: your ancient hexagram //

Sixteen Forty-Five

drastic; there’s a word // // for the

desire to look in the windows of other peoples’ homes, // // but I do

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

irmations: // // I am in control of my

desires // // I am unsullied by the blood crystals on my palm // //

Frighteningly Inert

ed awhile at poets on the shelf, // //

Desiring this man’s style or that man’s wealth, // // But tonight I s

pshod, all across the page and onto the

desk and away, // // And you try to catch them in the net of your hea

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// // // Nil Charge // // High above

desk -jockey Cardiff // // the wild wind // // from the heights of Gw

Nil Charge / Nil Return

. // // A loop of stern faces around a

desk too large // // To make contact with anything other than // //

Vicious or Virtuous?

ate, // // Reduce the common people to

despair , // // And laugh as they invest their funds elsewhere. // //

er glare // // suggests I need not now

despair // // but follow where, by cute design, // // the wormholes

/ // This I give to you. // // Drift,

despair , dream // // Of lips never to kiss // // There’s none to hol

n’t have a clue! // // Another hour in

despair // // It was so easy before // //

an keep me warm, // // but I shall not

despair // // now men can come to tea. // // An eco-room. // // A m

A Room of Her Own

t, drain one more glass // // Reflect,

despairing , that all things must pass. // // Unless, emboldened by ou

ge… // // Ah! Nihilist nil, // // nil

desperandum . // // Bannockburn dreaming – // // this is their Balacl

Nil Charge / Nil Return

ly open from the // // Outside. // //

Despite cuff, coins and courtesy, the circle // // Will inhale. The p

Vicious or Virtuous?

list. // // Trying to keep on course,

despite // // The best attempts of two wheels // // To end this tr

The Notes You Have Left

rs’ I reflect // // might just be you,

despite your wish that I // // should rest in perfect peace. I’m circ

Between Life and Death

// A liquid reminiscent of // // Our

despondent slough // // By contrast. It seemed // // So pure and fre

Destination (and beginning—for G) // // From random junctures in prime

gs had been sung, // // That genius is

destined to die young, // // That you must expire like Shelley, // /

// Of poems half-remembered, long ago

destinies rolled up and placed in possibility // // For time upon tim

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ll’d explosion: dry and charr’d, // //

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

[What have we done]

// Ha ha ha. // // Great things I can

destroy , // // Look, the sun is dead. // // I killed it then, just t

[So snow falls outside]

udes you, // // your essay // // will

destroy you. // //

all unaccountable post // // should be

destroyed before it is sent: // // forgetting the details won’t be ex

The Dead Letter Office closes down

/ But I feel like I want to be entirely

destroyed by love. // // Not like that. // // I mean, sure, to be fr

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

nightstand, and four dozen roses I once

destroyed . I’m up in the woods, now. it’s good in the dark, good in th

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

Death’s minstrel followed this path of

destruction to // // find out their instrument, plucked on its string

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ver-the-face-of-the-water wings, // //

detaching the head, and ploughing // // a red trough. // // I cough

sound as it drops. // // I replay too

detailed memory waiter’s goodbye, smile of cabbie; // // Ambient obje

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

es formally feature // // insufficient

details to impart one specific viable // // meaning and are instead c

efore it is sent: // // forgetting the

details won’t be excused, // // and we may read it out as a punishmen

The Dead Letter Office closes down

ix with you lot // // Just as much for

detection and wit as for wine? // // Has she guessed that this dogger

Wednesday Evening

om are no friend of ours. // // Yet in

determination progress flowers— // // An open habit jointly stitched

Three gay rituals

iet, four-cornered life, // // Polite,

determined , and remote— // // His angel sisters keep watch over // /

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

look what nonsense it writes! How it is

determined by sound, rhythm, and repetition rather than by thought. Ju

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

t, so // // Defying stormy-weather and

determinism both, tonight // // I only say: there’s not much to repor

R (or Brrrrr) // // The Girton oak has

developed a burr // // Under the bark it is seen and heard // // Rol

BURR (or Brrrrr)

ultural constructions // // onto which

developing minds can project anxieties // // and sexual confusion wit

r // // I thought Nick old, // // but

devilish . // // He’s in a raffish // // urban mould // // not suite

me // // and somewhere that is utterly

devoid of remembrance. // // It’s everything you’d expect // // of a

[The sash rattles up]

ces synchronising in prayer. // // Our

devotion will be irrefutable. // // We will shed worldliness // // F

dead. // // O reputation, reputation,

devour and swallow her whole, // // Drive her mad within the recesses

// // The death rattle of the track’s

devouring // // And an incessant nattering of the doors that continue

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

song // // Where birds once chorused a

dew bright dawn. // // Immortality // // Is in time, our blood colou

/ Misted breath on misted grass. // //

Dew dappled on falling trees, // // Dancing shoes over broken shards.

Fall for————

cting at his chin’s peak. // // Orange

dew drop, // // Promising and frightening and // // Does anyone noti

’Tis pity he’s a bore

deft // // enough to use so delicate a

dial . // // Why should I miss this little piece of you? // //

Compass Reading

language does not understand // // Our

dialect , sweet sister of our land. // //

f energy and youth, I choose // // Our

dialect , sweet sister of our land. // // Our learning is denied at yo

of Mammon, you still bruise // // Our

dialect , sweet sister of our land. // // The poor must grow their foo

n the world in all its hues: // // Our

dialect , sweet sister of our land. // // When you dismiss my bitter w

// // Reflecting light through perfect

diamond form, // // Shining direct into eachother’s face, // // Beam

[What have we done]

ouse. // // I remember you called me a

diamond in a world of coal. A light // // through the mist, softly lu

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

A battleship floating // // Above the

diaphanous sea // // Of her Victorian dress. // // She sits still ab

st they were covered in words: critical

diatribes // // in small. Then they took on the look of all that marg

d with my brittle bones and star roll’d

dice // // I plucked from falling world two daggers cold. // // My e

[What have we done]

and the fire // // And the misting-up

Dickensian window. // // Bravely, someone intones // // The first no

Wild Mountain Thyme

// What a pitiful way for a predator to

die , // // Alone in the desert, strangled by a tie. // //

n blade. // // I will see you before I

die // // Face to face. // // I do, // // I suppose, // // Still l

r footsteps in the stone. // // I will

die here. // // I know. // // But not yet. // // Each step is pain

ar you, // // I suppose. // // I will

die here, I think. // // I know not if this is an abyss, // // A jok

Apathy // // I could

die here, I think. // // I know now your real name. // // I could fo

nder, does it truly subside and quietly

die in a corner like the living things? // // With dreams you wake, a

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

anymore // // I watched my grandfather

die in his voice. hurry boy, “your light points to the sky”. he says i

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

// This is where the good things go to

die . Light // // and air, pools and palaces, sanity // // of men and

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

otch in a stomach. // // That is it—to

die , not in the customary sense // // (machine clanging to a halt, //

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

ss and so scorns Hamas. // // Where we

die to live, he has zero to give. // // Consequences. Jerusalem, 3 Ma

or unoriginal. // // If I told you I’d

die without you, that our love flows through me // // Like blood, tha

I’ll never work for Hallmark

sung, // // That genius is destined to

die young, // // That you must expire like Shelley, // // Or the fir

/ a deer had stopped // // ‘it’s gonna

die ,’ he said, // // ‘if it stays on that crossing’ // // then the t

e and they can have. Consequently, they

died as they lost touch with true vitality of nature. // // 3. // //

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

ree years older than me when his mother

died , // // That there’s still so much that I can’t do, // // That I

Three Pieces of Advice

ull— // // But he was dead: // // had

died three hours after his arrival, // // was buried in an unmarked g

Black September

wenty three years later, when my mother

died // // we had the proper formal funeral. // // (She had chosen t

e luck, I’ve noticed: // // an old one

dies , a young one stumbles mumbling onto the stage. // // There will

weep away this red refuse. // // Blood

dies quicker than paint // // Shouts the gunshot on the lake // // B

and // // Not enough months to make a

difference old, // // I don’t wanna be told ‘I love you’. I want it /

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

/ the places were // // myself: // //

different ages, different // // moods, different company, // // but

[The sash rattles up]

different ages, different // // moods,

different company, // // but me nonetheless. // // Here, the courtya

[The sash rattles up]

not breed true. Now strife: // // the

different dittoes must compete for life. // // Another billion random

e // // myself: // // different ages,

different // // moods, different company, // // but me nonetheless.

[The sash rattles up]

duds. Nevertheless // // ten thousand

different species rise and fall // // and rise again. Great populatio

s shame of not doing, rather than doing

different - // // The half-formed house // // Of the brain trying to

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

differenT // // they prefer to sing in languages they cannot speak, /

Same but differenT

es dancing // // their legs dancing in

different tongues // // their eyeballs rolled heavenward, phonemes fa

Same but differenT

very day? // // Days for seeing you in

different ways. // // Days enough for giving and receiving. // // Di

words // // Began to stick and move in

different ways. // // I see it all, like spring it follows // // All

[My face is old now]

rities abound, and you realise how very

different we are, // // And the loneliness breeds like dysentery down

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

arble by two gentle breaths. // // How

different we look—you and I, // // More darkness in my brow than in y

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

// always something I could have done

differently . // // There is // // nothing // // in between. // //

ed risks and hazards. // // You see it

differently . // // You claim I would have read Section C* // // more

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

// always something I could have done

differently . // // You tell me there is // // no possibility of pres

re)”; // // next head: “bet you were a

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

Aubade to Girton

ves lke cottage cheese // // To Eliot,

difficult , in cold collations // // Crumbling and stuffed with other

Cheese is the medium

lean, simple and purely luminous. It is

difficult to look and experience life in this way. It has no name, it

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

a deeper grey. // // You tell me it’s

difficult to love a light, when every darkness is a reminder of their

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ill. But who gave you your face? // //

Dig , let loam glaze the // // pain, till we // // forget // // your

Wandlebury Hill

I lose myself entirely. // // My nails

dig red crescents in my skin as I strike // // At her face, connectin

y? Did you, or did you not, // // Keep

digging — // // All night— // // I kept digging. The sun rose, // //

Did you bury her yet?

the while // // the crafty sea is also

digging down // // beneath the piles. Then one stormy night // // i

Walking in winter

igging. The sun rose, // // And I kept

digging , lungs // // Burning. Listen, kid: // // Broken ribs aren’t

Did you bury her yet?

igging— // // All night— // // I kept

digging . The sun rose, // // And I kept digging, lungs // // Burning

Did you bury her yet?

he wall miles away // // in a world of

digit meets digits, // // space and time exploded // // to a single

// // Horrified by the refrain of his

digital anima, // // Luminescent soul between muddied fingers // //

Frighteningly Inert

pt the non-existent tick // // Of your

digital clock, resting next to my head. // // “No milk” // // Pushi

The Notes You Have Left

d of a forty day fast // // unpeel the

digits from your onion fist // // and mask yourself with the pocked p

s away // // in a world of digit meets

digits , // // space and time exploded // // to a single // // point

what she’d have given—anything but her

dignity // // To be there in the crook of the crown of the tree. //

ourage, save // // our grades and your

dignity , your // // inspiration, your endless, relentless love of lif

Sestina to an English Teacher

orms, // // So easy to learn. // // I

digress . // // I always digress. // // I apologise. // // It is tra

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

earn. // // I digress. // // I always

digress . // // I apologise. // // It is tragic, it is all tragic, //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

essed skeptics // // run workshops and

digs // // and stand in the temple // // announcing // // UNESCO //

// // through the dust it only // //

digs deeper. // // clinch my neck between your fingers, // // bore t

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

re). // // See this: // // the large,

dilapidated country house // // that is my mother’s next big venture

e, // // apportion rationed quires and

dilute ink. // // The snow has reached the window ledge. // // No pr

A Room of Her Own

snows and skies of memory // // always

diminishing make it seem // // that right now sitting here coffee ca

why i’m getting into Christmas

ts // // The final note is sung // //

Diminuendo —soft, my love, // // We end where we begun. // //

one heart, one voice, one song. // //

Diminuendo — // // soft soft, come down— // // The ebb and flow of me

Dimming // // Four bare feet in the wet grass; he and she, // // Hav

loat downstairs, put on the tea. // //

Ding dong, ding dong, merrily. // // We enter mass to bands of brass,

A Hymn to a Loved One

airs, put on the tea. // // Ding dong,

ding dong, merrily. // // We enter mass to bands of brass, // // We

A Hymn to a Loved One

necked cycles. // // The pinked sky of

dinner has given way. // // Under the transparent blister of a moon,

ft // // and then went home to get the

dinner on. // // Tomorrow—the same. // // find a bunch of flowers fo

hen silence, and my life bereft. // //

Dinner Party. Jerusalem, 21 January 2009 // // ‘I’ll take your coat.

ll your eyes and tell me we’re late for

dinner . // // So I’ll tuck my mind back inside itself, and let it lin

I’ll never work for Hallmark

ttending prayer // // and, dressed for

dinner , // // waiting for the gong // // and one day to be asked. //

A Room of Her Own

round. // // The plants, the fish, the

dinosaurs , the apes // // advance across the generations. Each // //

This reality is primitive, musical, and

Dionysiac . Nature chants in nonsensical monosyllables; its nonsense pi

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

on the shore // // And now I have wed

Dionysus // //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ought. Just like in nature’s murmuring,

Dionysus rules and Apollo is asleep! // // 7. // // The awkward heav

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

Diorama // // Sheets of water laminate the windows // // as if to re

ast // // their babble: tongues, their

diphthongs dripping, from // // their lips and // // their mother to

Same but differenT

ur youth // // When ash-keyed branches

dipped and prayed // // Not to hollows, but hellos—the crying of news

hour. // // Softly the last gondolier,

dipping his hands // // For ablutions, kneels on the slender deck, ma

ts along your wooden wave-shapes // //

dipping into knot warps and sanded-down blemishes) // // To imagine /

Dipping my toe // // This is where s/he wants me to stay.

[She points to the sky]

gh perfect diamond form, // // Shining

direct into eachother’s face, // // Beaming an endless web around my

[What have we done]

body fall again, be wash’d // // Into

direction mapp’d by playing drums. // // One knife’s whisk’d out my h

[What have we done]

. My path has not yet led // // In one

direction or the other, but I see a turn // // Before me and hope, so

Vicious or Virtuous?

// On me. Questions launched from all

directions // // As my hands grasp blindly for a white flag. // // “

ica. // // The sky stretched, // // A

dirigible anchored to demotic towers - // // Half-deserted, effluvial

end sandal’d feet scuffling back on the

dirt they earlier trod. // // His eyes are deep dark centre stones, /

’Tis pity he’s a bore

// // ignites arena morn: // // I war

dirt -up, image-bled, // // if nine demon ever did, god-won // // Arr

Hercules et Oracle

// // A break from labs and analysing

dirts ; // // A break from hoping father just would guess. // // In E

Three gay rituals

Dirty saucers. Damp teatowels. // // The steady drip-drip-drip of dry

o the smell of smoke, // // Midday, in

dirty sheets with window open, // // Your newest song on the speaker,

e warmest retort. // // The days still

dis -leave. Pale envy-green, wet-yellow, gold-wrought // // Over-thoug

elieu and brie // // Fixing anyone who

disagrees with an impenetrable stare, yes a million times yes I declar

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

horizontal barrier // // Willing it to

disappear — // // But still I don’t know which way is home. // // My

low. // // Red, white, and black words

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

moving, // // Clanking, as you try to

disappear . // // Now the chain is a thousand daggers, // // Piercing

ast and last, // // the future is fast

disappearing . // //

he ones holding hands // // as the sun

disappears . // //

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

// a girdle of the globe. It gleams and

disappears , // // cloud-eclipsed, and closer than it seems. // //

[A spinning spider]

ires… // // Of course its parents were

disappointed // // but still loved it. To test them it painted // /

ste, and she was left a- // // mid the

disappointing debris of the world: // // Its fag ends and canisters o

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

Harris Tweed lapel. // // The smell of

disappointment and of smoke. // // Your (self)-importance never recog

Compass Reading

two lines, // // They mark the seat of

disappointment , // // Deep in my lungs. // // Now in his immanent ra

’Tis pity he’s a bore

And look up at what I achieved. // //

Disappointment , often, when // // Faced with the end result // // Th

Falling Is Like This

w it all turns out. // // I change the

disc , it is not a record (I did lie to you once), // // And see if th

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

in hand after you’re quite done; // //

Discard and shuffle quickly if you’re clever // // And find a new hap

nd peel // // these days to savour, or

discard ; not feed the eternal angelic fight. // // Still I turn from

// Destin’d to be the waste fate does

discard . // // Yet, time allowed, what seems fine chance will be //

[What have we done]

the poem? // // The cicada’s memories

discarded , a copper effigy caves in, // // And far away green wings a

Skins // // Sedimentary;

discarded sleeves and scarves // // The sandy bend that was my elbow,

is plucking the flunked corpse: // //

discarding the moving-you- // // over-the-face-of-the-water wings, //

// // a child-like smile almost // //

discernable beneath the map // // of her skin, like // // an unmade

In a charity shop

o his // // Point of the ring, without

disclosing the secrets // // He holds to his chest. // // Wrists, sh

Vicious or Virtuous?

// // Augmenting the fourth line with

discordant violence. // // The angel-song, the music of the spheres /

a trolley through the stacks // // Of

discounted washing powder and // // Garish Christmas wrapping paper,

The Notes You Have Left

Hail, Holy Houston: A

Discourse on the Anxiety of Mechanised Racial Profiling // // Love se

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

A Regrettably Cheesy

Discourse // // // // // // // Transport yourself to the moment

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ls not be repulsed by the inadequacy of

discourses on mozzarella, richelieu and brie // // Fixing anyone who

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

// you must be nimble. // // Later we

discover // // that that was just a sideshow: all the while // // t

Walking in winter

ore we stagger through the exit, // //

Discover that we might yet wreck their brexit. // //

which I float, // // Does drift away,

discovering below’t // // A pool of stillness, dotted with specs chro

[What have we done]

d are so unkind: // // Parse—calculate—

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

Exam Room Villanelle

verses such as this, which misguidedly

discuss vieux corse and swiss // // Had I not written this I confess

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

fingers entwined, // // While we help

disentangle some alphabet soup // // Served iambic, al dente, but as

Wednesday Evening

rth-strewn, // // A brief interlude of

disequilibrium . // // This pumice golem was never sacred // // In th

Frighteningly Inert

the // // Doors open, the // // Train

disgorging scores of ‘excuse me please’ // // As passengers // // Cr

Poems on the Underground

feit silver, // // Steeled against the

disgrace of a head bowed // // By superior hands into a prayer, in th

Vicious or Virtuous?

Vicious or Virtuous? // // Metallic

disks land on a surface // // Causing a sound more recognisable // /

Vicious or Virtuous?

eet sister of our land. // // When you

dismiss my bitter words offhand, // // Both you and I have everything

its head along with me, // // Blankly

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

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

// // Dead gods rise and so I // //

Dispense with this your justice // // (It is not vengeance but justic

I am one of those dread ancients // //

Dispensing justice, not mercy // // I grant you, then, your justice /

he storm sullen // // Slowly starts to

disperse . // // Take a listen, // // This is how the rain now sounds

Who am I, Bernard?

r pressed? // // And so the big words,

dispossessed // // by our ramshackle fumbling // // with phonemes, c

Shaw, the voluptuous Darwin, the natty

Disraeli . // // Youth wins, // // Confines the noble beard to a //

Bearded Thoughts

s meeting sewing machines on (animated)

dissecting tables’, as it were. // // But yesterday, waking early, I

eeve; we’re worn // // with waiting in

dissention and denial. // // What will our children think, and is it

ng // // concentration until the walls

dissolved around me, the small house // // of my room washed away on

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

n // // Your voice, all 25 years of me

dissolving into the bed, // // The stain anxiety leaves, I cannot rem

[I am almost 25 years old]

ze. // // But the sly cat would not be

dissuaded , // // and probably thought that he’d made it // // when h

The Failing of the Cheese

ntre stones, // // Buried in squinting

distance , // // And his skin demarcates the Sun’s furthest edge. //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

Above it to my heart // // A crack in

distance shone—’twas my ember. // // The flame brought me to my feet

[What have we done]

She points to the sky. // // Take some

distance . // // We live in morbidity, // // Submissive or dead, //

[She points to the sky]

e. // // I stand, figureless, grey and

distant , // // My frustration, ever building, swelling, // // Oozing

The Other Side of the Line

nlight, over grass, towards // // some

distant point outside the picture frame. // // What does she see? Is

Cape Cod Morning

ared bookshelf // // When I see desire

distilled in the juice that runs // // From tongue to lip to lip’s co

’Tis pity he’s a bore

. One of the crowd in particular // //

Distinct , only, because it looks // // Forlorn enough to be a threat

Vicious or Virtuous?

ete desert. // // They shudder at your

distinctive stride // // As your polished black shoes emerge stealthi

t flagons. Flagons might indeed // //

distract me, or Suliman, from his pilaf. // // But stay me not with r

The well of love

Gaza (with chums). // // Avoids being

distracted where it’s ‘badly impacted’ // // But meets ‘business lead

u’d slipped away? // // The Washington

distraction must have helped. // // So good of you to come and help u

air my grey // // scarf waving like a

distress signal—fossilised. The camera light // // flashed seconds be

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ket Square on a Friday night? // // We

distrust this facial hair perhaps, or what it means. // // Perhaps it

Bearded Thoughts

// But to tell the truth would greatly

disturb // // The poem’s appeal or mystery. // // As the importance

// Christopher Isherwood // // Quickly

ditched Corpus // // With Berlin in mind. // // Wrote of his life in

the jungle’s law entirely // // On the

dithering herds that daily assert // // Their dependence on this conc

f again, and fill // // the world with

dittoed offspring. Yet it will // // occasionally not breed true. Now

true. Now strife: // // the different

dittoes must compete for life. // // Another billion random changes:

en fixed, and focuses below, // // yet

diurnal as a druid, one drinks from the Sun. // // Threaded with thou

[A spinning spider]

// the girl poised and primed // // to

dive // // is gone, sunk without trace // // to greet the water chan

oice. // // *Section C includes a Part

divided into sub-parts each with several options describing those acti

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

s flesh— // // Survival does not equal

dividing . Is this the poem? // // They told you sharks never turned o

rteen-and-a-half mile Eden seemed to be

divine . // // And so they thought of what two-day-old Adam must have

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

/ // He is reduced to an X. // // The

divine condensed to a mere bromide. // // ’Tis pity he’s a bore. //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

wine // // Passed up its chance to be

divine ; // // Outside our window the cedar tree // // Shook its head

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

Wooden // // Her walking-stick is a

divining -rod // // or an oil rig, thudding into the ground // // to

// // Your line, not for emphasis, but

division , // // Pushes me back. You’re there, but I’m still here //

The Other Side of the Line

// to leave them, as the offspring of

divorce , // // with burdens that they never sought to bear? // // It

walked through the waves. // // Lying

dizzily on the cliffs, we listened to echoes upon echoes // // of the

[I often think of that January morning]

ten pity // // For their lovely Prince

Dmitry // // Who had crowned their lives with grace. // // They came

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

and adaptive and it’s free: // // The

dodo royals are dragged about the town // // And rhyme’s extinction m

In Defence of Evolution

Apple Sunday // //

Dog -days in autumn—what other days were there, really? // // All thre

an // // ultra regna terra. // // Now

dog , did re-venom Eden // // infidel beg! // // Am I putrid, raw //

Hercules et Oracle

al Hadad, I submit. I lie to you like a

dog , like Shaitan or Kafir soft in your ear, and I can change. if it w

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

last seconds // // like the one whose

dog slept on // // their chest to keep it warm // // or the ones hol

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

tiersmen stand and watch // // Elbowed

dog -wise against the rumour // // Of Africa. // // The sky stretched

wine? // // Has she guessed that this

doggerel , painfully wrought, // // Pretentious and meaningless, is on

Wednesday Evening

then my mouth will praise you. the wild

dogs cry out in the undulating skink night, “mother will never underst

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

dismissing the old sublime; // // The

dogs that passed, for the very first time, // // Were kindred panters

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

montre la Lune, l’imbécile regarde son

doigt . » // // // // Point A. Point B. // // Starting in A going t

[She points to the sky]

and busted city slickers on // // the

dole , unshaven merchants, and // // the acne-crusted vicar’s son— //

[the typist puts her knickers on]

he poem? // // The smallest matryoshka

doll is always so hard to open. // // Hold it to your ear, do you hea

// cellophane sea and scattered // //

doll -like bodies, their tiny faces // // far too clear. // // A wave

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

The Christmas Dolls’ House

r, not daring // // To step beyond our

domain , // // Not much caring // // Whether there was a // // World

be out of fashion nowadays— // // The

domain of eccentric professors or men with knitted jumpers // // (big

Bearded Thoughts

// // Two book-ends bracket our shared

domain : // // the start, the lobby of a Greek hotel // // in summer,

Tridente, 10th September // // With

domes at our backs— // // the city ragged like old // // lace, all b

Tridente, 10th September

/ // In scratchy biro ink. // // Each

domestic heirloom bearing // // The curly script of a generation //

ught of what two-day-old Adam must have

done : // // Alone in brand new Paradise with infinite-ish time. // /

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

is // // always something I could have

done differently. // // There is // // nothing // // in between. //

is // // always something I could have

done differently. // // You tell me there is // // no possibility of

p your cards in hand after you’re quite

done ; // // Discard and shuffle quickly if you’re clever // // And f

e of sleep // // When all our wars are

done , // // Falling towards the verge of sleep // // Where, lying si

The Daily Planet

could stop the mar // // Of what we’d

done from turning sour, while // // Sweet like shalimar // // Played

[What have we done] // // What have we

done in this, our darkest night? // // To what forgotten forest are w

[What have we done]

// // my deer, at the railroad, // //

done . ‘It’s him’ you said // // and I could hear in the quiet // //

, // // A farewell kiss and then we’re

done // // One last kiss,—and another one— // // Perhaps just one mo

[A Farewell Kiss]

ch specimen, // // Like one might have

done sitting in an omnibus or hackney cab: // // ‘That one is too lar

Bearded Thoughts

Forgive me! // // I know not what I’ve

done ! // // This passion! // // Compassion! // // I will surrender

, // // A farewell kiss—and then we’re

done , // // We know we can’t go on like this… // //

[A Farewell Kiss]

] // // A farewell kiss—and then we’re

done , // // We know we can’t go on like this. // // Farewell—farewel

[A Farewell Kiss]

done ] // // What have we done in this, our darkest night? // // To w

[What have we done]

ruled their ambitions, now dead and now

done with // // since no-one remembers—no— // // nobody heard from t

Jonathan’s Deathbed

faithful. // // Lover, brother, I have

done you wrong. // // Only an infidel writes thirteen lines. // //

downstairs, put on the tea. // // Ding

dong , ding dong, merrily. // // We enter mass to bands of brass, //

A Hymn to a Loved One

put on the tea. // // Ding dong, ding

dong , merrily. // // We enter mass to bands of brass, // // We stand

A Hymn to a Loved One

e and a flavour of their own: // // So

Donne is sharp and Geoffrey Hill is sour // // Larkin ascerbic, Tenny

Cheese is the medium

nd souls of any given room // // While

doomed to perish are humble verses such as this, which misguidedly dis

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

, past sloppy kisses // // And out the

door . // //

into a peaceful sleep: a gate, // // A

door , a light, a face, the clouds ’come snow // // Appear and I do ch

[What have we done]

// After the grip of the hinge of the

door — // // After the blood has been wiped from the wall— // // Afte

// None came. Time passed. She left the

door ajar— // // She thought she’d heard the breath of the unknown— /

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

er or sent, // // so we’re locking the

door and we’re losing the key. // // If you aimed a card, or a note,

The Dead Letter Office closes down

r’s son— // // the old podiatrist next

door , // // ‘Eternal Footman’, snickers on, // // dribbles in excite

[the typist puts her knickers on]

. // // Another having naught but shop

door front, // // Who shivers cold in sleeping bag at night // // Lo

Three gay rituals

t away // // From the elm- // // Wood

door , not daring // // To step beyond our domain, // // Not much car

Philae // // The

door of the south, // // Where frontiersmen stand and watch // // El

/ // If I can only reach the red front

door , porridge warm with honey // // sits upon the stove, and my Gran

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

hoose to open all, // // The gate, the

door , the face, the light, I fall // // Upon a bed of compact mist, a

[What have we done]

hungry dear fox // // Do not bloody my

door , there // // Is nothing for you // // In this night. Redshift /

Here be dragons

of the unknown— // // But through the

door there only swept a gust // // Of fumes and dust and waste, and s

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

path // // leads from the glazed back

door // // through box and holly grown to full maturity // // to an

// But still at night, I tiptoe to the

door // // To rustle through these severed strips of love, // // An

The Cutting Edge

omething seemed greater // // Than the

door we ranged // // Behind, but never in front. // // It seemed a c

// // We scuttled around behind // //

Doors and were blown // // About by the winds of change. // // Somet

ayer, in the back // // Of a car who’s

doors can only open from the // // Outside. // // Despite cuff, coin

Vicious or Virtuous?

nd, // // Waiting for when, the // //

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

Poems on the Underground

arly, I observed // // open-a-fraction

doors , down the corridors, sent shivers of sunlight in criss-cross ray

Three gay rituals // // Through

doors of luminescent playfulness, // // On Tuesdays for the boys in c

Three gay rituals

ngers. // // Shrill beep as the // //

Doors open, the // // Train disgorging scores of ‘excuse me please’ /

Poems on the Underground

ry of pain, // // as if there were any

doors still left locked // // anything not yet broken, so tell me //

/ // And an incessant nattering of the

doors that continue to open, // // The sweltering smell of morbid rec

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

/ The white Museum with its plate-glass

doors . // // Through these you pass and up a flight of stairs, // //

The Magic Apple Tree

hids. // // I will char those swatches

dotted with herds of woollen teeth. // // I will close your goddamn c

Aubade to Girton

ing below’t // // A pool of stillness,

dotted with specs chrome: // // The stars. They glitter ’gainst my mi

[What have we done]

double cream) // // Dr Foster went to Gloucester // // for a summer

Double Dactyls // // Higgledy Piggledy // // Oedipus Tyrannus // //

g, puts her sneakers on, // // downs a

double shot of gin // // (needs to get her liquors on) // // gets he

[the typist puts her knickers on]

// prone on a white toboggan, // //

doubling your speed, and again; // // the surprise gut-punch // // o

s so easy // // to deflate into lonely

doubt . // // Coloured creases of downy skin // // and the tactless s

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

// If there had been a bird // // No

doubt she would have seen it. // // She gazed blankly at the branches

[The sun flattened]

// // So many people talking: can we

doubt // // that somewhere herein lies some deep philosophy? // // V

ve // // over the sink. sing miserere,

doubt // // the notes, your voice too much your own. believe // // t

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

needs, (all fame, // // all hopes will

doubtless end in shallow // // graves), share confessions of their sh

g of sugar petals, // // The rising of

dough , // // The rolling of crusts. // // The revival of lifeless ha

my eye as I enter the kitchen: // // a

dove , sprawled wide in its this— // // is-my-beloved-son yawn. // //

e coming dark, // // Impounded in some

Dover Lorry Park. // // Uncase the Camembert, bring out the Brie, //

/ handbag, puts her sneakers on, // //

downs a double shot of gin // // (needs to get her liquors on) // //

[the typist puts her knickers on]

/ Hark! the herald angels. // // Float

downstairs , put on the tea. // // Ding dong, ding dong, merrily. //

A Hymn to a Loved One

agnant recess overfull trickling // //

downwards to slug lickings on empty bird box // // with flightless eg

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

onely doubt. // // Coloured creases of

downy skin // // and the tactless scratch of green biro. // // I hav

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

Café oh late // //

Doze on my arm while it fades, // // Sodium light slit sliding throug

h champagne on the nightstand, and four

dozen roses I once destroyed. I’m up in the woods, now. it’s good in t

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

A trifle(with double cream) // //

Dr Foster went to Gloucester // // for a summer spin— // // and like

orrowed eyes seeing // // some earlier

draft of things, // // lost in a cold, particulate light. // // Is t

d it’s free: // // The dodo royals are

dragged about the town // // And rhyme’s extinction means egality. //

In Defence of Evolution

/ // insinuate up from the city // //

dragging their ledgers and pens // // for the annual nil return. //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

r priest came // // who stood over the

dragon // // speaking powerful words // // not a reader of riddles /

ined at the centre // // of the world,

dragonlike , I was, I think, // // less a hatchling, head under my own

dragons // // Wake as three screams take // // Flight, from window t

Here be dragons

the end, the moment life just seemed to

drain // // away from you, in those last days of pain, // // another

tones // // skittering onto the // //

drain cover // // // // … // // above us // // white stars pierc

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

the case. // // “It’s been a fiasco, a

drain on our taxes. The // // tendering process was not at all fair.

Troubled waters

where. // // The lights are going out,

drain one more glass // // Reflect, despairing, that all things must

// // Now I cut new rivulets // // to

drain the chains of pools that lace the spreading sands and soft mudfl

the waiting lists are long, and you are

drained . // // the billows settle low, cold as a curse, // // but th

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

drip-drip-drip of drying plates on the

draining board // // as you pray for strength, head in hands, // //

reproduction. (Fleshly reproduction is

draining .) // // The quick, brown fox sticks his hot sharp stink in o

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

// And her, sobbing, while our future

drains away. // // She stands, hunched and weary, too tired // // To

ered trees // // Like water flows down

drains . // // If there had been a bird // // No doubt she would have

[The sun flattened]

om time to time, consent a tawny arm to

drape . // //

as a muscle, // // is as much an altar

draped in bells and mistle- // // toe as an instrument whose strings

n the corner, madly // // yellowed and

drastic ; there’s a word // // for the desire to look in the windows o

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

er than // // Words. Each man seeks to

draw eyes to his // // Point of the ring, without disclosing the secr

Vicious or Virtuous?

and musicians and mathematicians // //

draw from an ancient well of that which can’t be spoken, only sung //

Same but differenT

ungry old cat (Siamese) // // tried to

draw out a mouse with some cheese. // // But his scheming was built o

The Failing of the Cheese

e // // Before those wretched wreckers

draw the line // // That severs, and condemns us to decline, // // B

rig, thudding into the ground // // to

draw up lubrication for her joints. // // Or it’s a tree long bereft

d the notes // // Oh onwards, onwards,

draw us on // // Into the ever-flowing flow // // And let us fall, a

n fifty-five; // // The man, Bologna’s

drawing -master. // // He lives a quiet, four-cornered life, // // Po

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

/ // (as I peer at you sideways // //

drawing my thoughts along your wooden wave-shapes // // dipping into

inged seed has taken root, // // Those

drawings I made years since // // Of shapes pinnate and toothed, //

leaves might fall

tween the colours of the flames. // //

Drawn by warmth, I came to see you, // // which I do. You look back a

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

f wedding favours // // And a line not

drawn on paper. // //

leaves might fall

elved, // // Her thoughts, like chairs

drawn out from table’s edge, // // Awaited those who knew how to be g

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

Sodium light slit sliding through part-

drawn shades, // // Liquid time daubed on air’s pale vellum, // // U

tays unfinished. // // One last breath

drawn , shakily, then I end something // // For the first time. // //

Snapshot Endings

The last breath out is the first to be

drawn . // // Under the window, on the patio table, // // a kestrel i

wonder why he draws // // When all he

draws are pots and pans, // // Pitchers, kettles, glassware, cruets,

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

ouse. // // The townsmen wonder why he

draws // // When all he draws are pots and pans, // // Pitchers, ket

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

/ // Boughs form an arch, the painting

draws you in // // Under its framing fringe of rich green leaves, //

The Magic Apple Tree

final breath? // // I am one of those

dread ancients // // Dispensing justice, not mercy // // I grant you

th shiftless sorrow, restless, rootless

dread . // // Instead I wake to warmth, to find you sleeping, // // M

tomach // // Is the fear, the absolute

dread of what may be. // // Words run slipshod, all across the page a

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

heard the reply and it was terrible and

dreadful and silent // //

[I whispered my name into the trees]

ong Time She Stands There, Given To The

Dreadful Clouds Crossing The Stars, Racing To Nowhere // // And you’r

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

uit and gown, would death have seemed a

dream ? // //

// slowly, I’m about to knock when the

dream drops my hand through // // the air, and back to the little roo

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// “Sleeper awake, the darkness was a

dream // // For you will see the Dayspring at your waking, // // Bey

nights between inky uterine nights—I’d

dream : // // my index finger extended in front, walking in a straight

. // // Certainly, he would never even

dream of eating meat // // that he had dropped on the floor (by accid

s I give to you. // // Drift, despair,

dream // // Of lips never to kiss // // There’s none to hold you //

Haunch-heaving and panting // // they

dream of their freedom, // // of succulent grass // // on the height

Nil Charge / Nil Return

Hercules et Oracle // // . // // lose

dream // // or sever // // Sov’ran // // ultra regna terra. // //

Hercules et Oracle

orbinladenbombingssuicide // // Ah, to

dream perchance to sleep … Brrng! Brnng! // // No time for that

emory? // // Is it a memory or another

dream // // That golden afternoon in which we walk // // Together th

Is it a memory?

r son within // // Wakes, to return to

dream —the // // Stars will wait for him. // //

Here be dragons

looks up, // // thinking aloud like a

dream , // // ‘There are some days,’ she says, // // ‘when the rails

In a charity shop

ass ring on and // // on—the noise the

dream -world appropriates for its own // // but you Break it with a sm

t last, // // you’re out. And though I

dreamed I saw // // your coming in the night, I can no more // // cr

I’m still here // // Where I’d always

dreamed of staying before // // Everything snapped and you left, you

The Other Side of the Line

d and embellished around you. You began

dreaming // // as the train travelled through snow and ever nearer to

[I often think of that January morning]

// and every night I watched your mind

dreaming // // before my unconscious swallowed me like an ocean of bl

[I often think of that January morning]

, sleeping, dreaming. // // I am still

dreaming ; everything breaks over me in waves. // // Like a seed liste

[I often think of that January morning]

s // // And chases whispers through my

dreaming head; // // Dry voices sift and fall in ash and cinders, //

f staring at the sea. Waking, sleeping,

dreaming . // // I am still dreaming; everything breaks over me in wav

[I often think of that January morning]

our letters arrived, tangible amidst my

dreaming . // // I huddled by the flickering fire and read it with my

[I often think of that January morning]

be nothing—maybe she // // is pensive,

dreaming , lost in reverie. // // And the artist who is showing us the

Cape Cod Morning

think of that January morning together,

dreaming // // of nothing as we walked through the waves. // // Lyin

[I often think of that January morning]

alling asleep in the hope I would avoid

dreaming // // of you. The thoughts still hurt. Like bruises, existin

[I often think of that January morning]

// nil desperandum. // // Bannockburn

dreaming – // // this is their Balaclava – // // heroic but futile,

Nil Charge / Nil Return

ear is sleeping within // // cyclizine

dreams , // // and I am reminded of yesterday’s wonder: // // a choru

// They rustle through me in my waking

dreams // // And so I’ll have a heart-, a head-, a handful when // /

The Cutting Edge

ore sleeps, more sleepless nights, more

dreams // // more seasons bleeding into seasons. // // Just not so m

it nice?’ // // Everybody occasionally

dreams of apocalypse. // // Sometimes your routine just gets a bit mo

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

and Freud said you’re everyone in your

dreams . // // Of course I’ll continue to sing, because you do crazy t

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

t we miss or forget, // // waking from

dreams of the house in my head, // // that old haunt still knocking a

ner like the living things? // // With

dreams you wake, and feel as if you’d never shut your eyes, never ever

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// With wings too heavy to fly // //

Drenched in the love that screamed from my veins // // When you pier

// down through decomposing leaves and

drenching mist. // // This is where the good things go to die. Light

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

go on then, treat ourselves to a fancy

dress daydream // // and puff that renovation brick-dust from our lun

diaphanous sea // // Of her Victorian

dress . // // She sits still above the mantelpiece // // In my Nan’s

der you. // // You look so nice: fresh-

dressed and still warm from // // Your bath—calm as the sun’s unknowi

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

ls, // // attending prayer // // and,

dressed for dinner, // // waiting for the gong // // and one day to

A Room of Her Own

round the Cambridge crematorium, // //

dressed for the occasion, // // we read the flower-borne messages //

red // // if she’d pictured // // her

dresses // // being brought back here, // // her son thinking // //

In a charity shop

The Other Side of the Line // // “I

drew a line under you today.” // // You spat in my face. // // And s

The Other Side of the Line

th black, what if one day all the books

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

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

il the Lord of Liberty arose // // And

drew the temple down on English tongues. // // Huntsman, lord of a th

Sixteen Forty-Five

e biscuits, the chairs, the cat, // //

drew up rotas, tidied up upstairs, // // let the flower-arrangers in

‘Eternal Footman’, snickers on, // //

dribbles in excitement // // licks his lips and gets his slippers on

[the typist puts her knickers on]

And expire with the curse of your name

dribbling from my lips // // And clotting on my neck. // // I know n

dried blood in spring // // blood ancestry // // phantoms // // gra

yew needs dried blood in spring

oots wait // // for spring // // when

dried blood scatters // //

yew needs dried blood in spring

from the window, impassive // // Blood

dries quicker than paint // // But all the wide obliging sea // // N

spotlit laughing on the pavement // //

dries to sighs in seconds. // // It’s so easy // // to deflate into

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

/ Never to taste, never to touch // //

Drift amidst the scattered echoes // // Of long forgotten lust; //

the cloud on which I float, // // Does

drift away, discovering below’t // // A pool of stillness, dotted wit

[What have we done]

eps slipping // // to the ghosts which

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

tice) // // This I give to you. // //

Drift , despair, dream // // Of lips never to kiss // // There’s none

g that day. // // Sometimes at night I

drift . // // Small and high up. // // With my hands I try and cut th

[So snow falls outside]

test measure even, // // Breaks in the

drill and rhythm of a bell… // // Were I to wake alone I would be wee

. // // You reach across and still the

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

Drink and be merry // // Fur fire and we are safe against the

Drink and be merry

losed against the great grey sky // //

drink ! and be merry! // // Green spindles stick to socks a silent

Drink and be merry

the snow from your coat, uncle— // //

drink ! and be merry! // // Hymns rattle around the silverware cade

Drink and be merry

afe against the cold, cold night // //

drink ! and be merry! // // Warm, mellow bread breath chanting an

Drink and be merry

// // Yeah. Drink water? // // Can’t

drink anything without it. // // You know what I mean. // // Course.

Whales sing because they have a song

s, and this time with Champagne, // //

Drink down the last few bottles that remain, // // As though delirium

kcap, and dark brittlegill // // And a

drink for you, fungus, and your magic fruits— // // And so to the mag

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

/ ‘I’ll take your coat. Ehud will fix a

drink . // // How was the flight? Few noticed that you’d slipped away?

he very medium of their work. // // We

drink in language with our mothers milk // // But poets curdle words

Cheese is the medium

ns // // The world forced us // // To

drink , potions which // // Were excellent (Minus // // Perhaps their

Come fill the cup, we’ve little time to

drink , // // The ship of state’s about to plunge and sink, // // Pou

are cadences vibrate the port // //

drink to Christ! and be merry! // // Sanitized warm parsnip smells t

Drink and be merry

er goose and the great pudding // //

drink ! to Christ! and be merry. // // silence unspoken fear grit

Drink and be merry

nd the queen’s speech, naturally // //

drink to Christmas! and be merry! // // Turkey on a platter from John

Drink and be merry

d sauce and incongruous prosecco // //

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

Drink and be merry

breath chanting and a song // //

drink to winter! and be merry! // // Fat boar bubbling in oil spit, a

Drink and be merry

n oil spit, and the lamb is bled // //

drink ! to winter! and be merry. // // joy, pride swelling in the bell

Drink and be merry

humour—I’m used to humour. // // Yeah.

Drink water? // // Can’t drink anything without it. // // You know w

Whales sing because they have a song

’m perched inside an open window // //

drinking coffee that leaves rings // // slowly absorbed by paper //

why i’m getting into Christmas

// // Of freedom and equality, // //

Drinking the potions // // The world forced us // // To drink, potio

/ the sourness of their own oceans. But

drinking warm earl grey // // tea with you, all I could taste was pur

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

elf, realise // // That Life’s not all

drinks deals and drunken romances. // //

low, // // yet diurnal as a druid, one

drinks from the Sun. // // Threaded with thoughts that thistle-scratc

[A spinning spider]

morn, // // Affirmed by sun, love, and

drinks // // Tell me, is there anything worth more // // Than the li

I could never be (ready)

cers. Damp teatowels. // // The steady

drip -drip-drip of drying plates on the draining board // // as you pr

Damp teatowels. // // The steady drip-

drip -drip of drying plates on the draining board // // as you pray fo

/ // In the undergrowth. // // Silent

drip -drops of water from pelt. // // Soundless patter of padding paws

He who made the Lamb

in. // // If half-formed thoughts will

drip // // From the lips of this voice // // Like saliva onto the pa

Writing to explore

teatowels. // // The steady drip-drip-

drip of drying plates on the draining board // // as you pray for str

oken shards, // // All that remains is

dripping blood // // And an empty frame. // //

their babble: tongues, their diphthongs

dripping , from // // their lips and // // their mother tongue the to

Same but differenT

shed dust from your eyes, // // Blood

dripping from your next cigarette, // // And we feel bored and lazy,

e anticipated ending stretches forward,

dripping hungrily on the path // // Like rain. Staining stones darker

Snapshot Endings

he kitchen floor and the leaves off the

drive , // // do the Sainsburys’ run, give Mum a call, // // and look

n, devour and swallow her whole, // //

Drive her mad within the recesses of your rabbit’s hole. // // Teach

roof always down.] // // I have to go.

Drive safe. // // I will, don’t worry. // // [I’ll try, don’t worry.

Whales sing because they have a song

// at the railroad crossing // // the

driver yelled ‘quiet’ // // we kept on talking // // I noticed the s

// // When from the trees in Girton’s

driveway come the caws // // Of rooks opposed to any sawing of their

[Walcott begins Omeros]

ings that are gone // // Since we went

driving in your parents’ car. // //

dunes on the windshield. // // We went

driving in your parents’ car // // And didn’t stop until we’d gone so

For A. // // We went

driving in your parents’ car // // Out to the desert, // // Sweet li

ching the floating moon. // // We went

driving in your parents’ car // // To see if we could stop the mar //

// a paper-shower of life: // // your

driving licence, swimming // // awards, your grade three flute— // /

Stone, Paper, Scissors

sheet, and withdraw, // // Back to my

drooling muse, because // // When I write a poem, I can be // // Jus

Writing to explore

aying yes. // // Even the plane tree’s

drop -earrings // // Have almost reached their seventy-percent // //

the sun seems spent: // // The blasts

drop like a shutter’s blink and break // // The moment when the child

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

g at his chin’s peak. // // Orange dew

drop , // // Promising and frightening and // // Does anyone notice t

’Tis pity he’s a bore

s that the age of legends is reduced to

droplets of pity wept by the few that can see your footsteps in the st

his Whiskas // // while the dear mouse

dropped dead of starvation. // //

The Failing of the Cheese

dream of eating meat // // that he had

dropped on the floor (by accident) // // simply because it was so exp

inhale the air that you’ve // // just

dropped . // // This is where I hide below // // your ever-reaching s

l // // excise officer takes to // //

dropping by unannounced. // // Catch them at it— // // there must be

There must be moonshine

glory of it— // // The warm egg // //

Dropping from the golden heaven of her vent // // Misshapen, shitten,

[No point, she said]

e that water made of stone. // // Away

dropp’d all my fat as up I rose, // // Away dropp’d loosen hairs, my

[What have we done]

my sweat it froze // // And fell, and

dropp’d beneath, pass’d ’neath my toes // // To endless death, rinsin

[What have we done]

’d all my fat as up I rose, // // Away

dropp’d loosen hairs, my sweat it froze // // And fell, and dropp’d b

[What have we done]

/ // so passed I through, life’s ocean

dropp’d on me, // // and with my brittle bones and star roll’d dice /

[What have we done]

rains great, warm // // Mediterranean

drops . // //

Tridente, 10th September

space for years—It makes no sound as it

drops . // // I replay too detailed memory waiter’s goodbye, smile of

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

nfinity of the other // // As the tree

drops its leaves like yellow coin: // // NOW // // and

[At the coinciding point of the years]

owly, I’m about to knock when the dream

drops my hand through // // the air, and back to the little room wher

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

In the undergrowth. // // Silent drip-

drops of water from pelt. // // Soundless patter of padding paws. //

He who made the Lamb

// // Spoon cuts crimson flesh // //

Drops spray silent // // Zest bittersweet scent // // Syrupy fingert

of man’s best effort at defence // //

drops thirty feet into a hole. // // Cambridge, circa 1966 // // One

Walking in winter

ld my weight.’ // // But every step it

drops you down // // into soft snow, up to the tops // // of your gu

Walking in winter

s off from the rest of // // Humanity,

drove a rut // // Between our consciousness // // And the light beyo

ou drown, // // Kid. She swims and you

drown . // //

Did you bury her yet?

oon, they loved it enough to not let it

drown , and so I was safe. And so I started swimming and swimming, and

[So the moon was there]

orrigible night // // in which sailors

drown at sea because I let the glass ring on and // // on—the noise t

ld. // // Get over it. You swim or you

drown , // // Kid. She swims and you drown. // //

Did you bury her yet?

ar anything else // // And nothing can

drown out this voice and its words. // // But then you look around //

unspoken— // // She hopes to watch you

drown . // // When you exist outside of me // // Am I the waiting wel

Who am I, Bernard?

// // Or parroting particulars // //

Drowned in champagne. // // The carnival has come to town, // // The

/ // our exquisitely ice-etched selves

drowned , like ice cubes // // in scotch, or scotch in a stomach. //

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

He can run, he can swim—he’ll never be

drowned . // // You strike him and deep crystal bass-notes resound. //

ercolours splattered my sleeves and the

drowning page. // // Absentmindedly I missed the jar of water, swirli

[I often think of that January morning]

, particulate light. // // Is this the

drowning which was meant? // // My tilt-shift vision // // of Prospe

My bones grow Ache and Lack; // // But

drown’d out is their path—it floats adrift. // // They crumble in ato

[What have we done]

// // A girl on a stool // // high on

drugs // // up a hill // // could hardly translate // // for a snak

focuses below, // // yet diurnal as a

druid , one drinks from the Sun. // // Threaded with thoughts that thi

[A spinning spider]

// The boat rocks on the water like a

drum . // //

// In while the branch outside knocks,

drum -like, // // Pounding out a rhythm in harmony with cold machinery

Snapshot Endings

and deleting, admit my ugly want as the

drummer // // sweats because it’s supposed // // to hurt and the cro

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

// // Into direction mapp’d by playing

drums . // // One knife’s whisk’d out my hand, flies back and falls; /

[What have we done]

ile night // // brings rumbling forest

drums that cry vanité! // // vanité! tous n’est ce que vanité! // //

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

/ Stiff from the night before and still

drunk // // I shackle myself to the peddles and roll along quietly //

lt child”; // // the next: “getting so

drunk is a waste of // // my time, the college’s time, the porter’s t

Aubade to Girton

uminated in slow motion // // And I am

drunk on vertigo // // when I picture him as St. Sebastian, // // Na

’Tis pity he’s a bore

// That Life’s not all drinks deals and

drunken romances. // //

// // From some controll’d explosion:

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

[What have we done]

th. Feel the water return // // to the

dry ground. Let the cooling dark // // settle around and about, under

/ // you pray for rain, but no relief.

dry -heave // // over the sink. sing miserere, doubt // // the notes,

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

/ // There, the sound of boots make me

dry heave. // // South of here, the sun will shine, // // And throug

Ode to a map of the world

t covered in the slack: time to let it

dry . // // Now I cut new rivulets // // to drain the chains of pools

kywards, extending // // The lows into

dry soil. My path has not yet led // // In one direction or the other

Vicious or Virtuous?

rot from inside out // // And will not

dry // // The boat rocks on the water like a drum. // //

ispers through my dreaming head; // //

Dry voices sift and fall in ash and cinders, // // In acrid conversat

ls. // // The steady drip-drip-drip of

drying plates on the draining board // // as you pray for strength, h

changes: all // // —or almost all—are

duds . Nevertheless // // ten thousand different species rise and fall

erhanded; // // its pupils were graves

dug amid sapphires… // // Of course its parents were disappointed //

lidays, // // we chopped and sawed and

dug and then set fire to // // the produce of our labours. // // A b

// My eyes obscured by wash, I blindly

dug // // My place, lifting my molten body’s mold // // By hand, har

[What have we done]

he properties of a property so woefully

dull . // // Are we not glad it was an epic cause the Greeks and Troja

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

s, // // To find the case and lift the

dull brown cover // // To see, at first, your image in the glass. //

The Magic Apple Tree

ent source of grace, if from // // the

dull hearts habit made can grow // // this flower—momentary and no— /

remain, // // As though delirium could

dull the pain. // // But out there in the dark we know they lurk, //

by childish hands // // Giving a final

dull thud as they fall to the ground. // //

ellent (Minus // // Perhaps their mind-

dulling // // Concoction which // // Constricted our mulling // //

g through accretions of the past // //

Dully and daily deleting, whatever is not next // // Sneering, and sn

The Cutting Edge

rings sing of souls hurt. // // Blind,

dumb , deaf upon the pedestal of a saint, // // by touch and instinct

a-jack-in-lieu-of-an-ace; // // You’re

dumber than most, and that’s a hell of a lot // // There are no limit

eces: // // He turned out a bore—I was

dumped on the shore // // And now I have wed Dionysus // //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

imagine // // (your contours like sand-

dunes // // against the beige of my fingertips // // against the str

On the radio, the sandy scar // // Of

dunes on the windshield. // // We went driving in your parents’ car /

e fir // // and silver birch along the

dunes that run // // between the marshes and the sea. The sun // //

Wells in winter

e milk jug from bank holidays // // At

Dungeness Lighthouse; // // The rusty sweet tin of icing tips, // //

Night she sulks, // // Two cigar butts

dunking themselves // // In the undergrowth. // // Silent drip-drops

He who made the Lamb

// lull brown, // // deep among your

dusk // // heavy sockets. rust // // me down // // within the crepu

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

stop until we’d gone so far // // That

dusky silence hit // // Sweet like shalimar. // // We were all alone

e only swept a gust // // Of fumes and

dust and waste, and she was left a- // // mid the disappointing debri

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

// The table and children and paper and

dust appear // // Recycled as the morning’s front-page news, // //

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

boots, water breaking // // into damp

dust around my knees and my smile breaking // // into laughter, befor

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

Its shadow to bloom // // In the vast,

dust -filled // // Maria of a hidden // // Moon. Now your shadow //

Here be dragons

m // // and puff that renovation brick-

dust from our lungs. // // Blown away through our empty sails, over t

through torn curtains. // // You shed

dust from your eyes, // // Blood dripping from your next cigarette, /

oof of our labour. // // After the red

dust had settled // // (at least for a while) // // We asked ourselv

Magnetic Mountain

x goes ahead of him, leaving him in the

dust . He revels joylessly and mechanically in the perfection of his th

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

// And the probiotics, // // And the

dust illuminated between // // My optic nerve and all those that seek

Frighteningly Inert

knowledge. // // I think again of coal-

dust in the chest. // // If he who fell at Passchendaele had seen //

rests. like malagas // // through the

dust it only // // digs deeper. // // clinch my neck between your fi

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

rim; the Pleiad mass // // Of gas and

dust that veils, then flickers past // // A Milky Way of twinkling ro

// And hands recall hands from silent

dust . // // The mis-struck stone. The blade which breaks. // // The

ne of bodies on the table in // // The

dust -white room are children. // // Part of the news they lie upon, t

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

Poof! // // Another metaphor turns to

dust . // // With a casual pop-culture reference, // // She turns to

would banish this rubbish to the first

dustbin I met // // And the moral of this, as readers will foresee is

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

el is propped up all ornamental, // //

dusted cogs very still above sleeping bodies. Our grist is long gone /

sed // // Squeezed into the frame, the

dusty sepia. // // We are terrified of what the beard might hide, //

Bearded Thoughts

cold coffee left, // // And there’s no

dusty sheets or torn curtains // // Or your voice. // // And, I wish

when the sun // // presses through the

dusty window // // to fade the colours of the carpet, // // and peop

In a charity shop

pt of a generation // // Framed by the

dusty yellow // // Of that marvellous invention, // // The post-it n

ine as we present our offerings. // //

Dutiful eyes, obedient lips, // // Voices synchronising in prayer. //

of your rabbit’s hole. // // Teach her

dutifully that // // A woman fallen has no reason to live, // // But

maids, // // my needlework, // // the

duty to be paying calls, // // attending prayer // // and, dressed f

A Room of Her Own

poem? // // In the Marianas, old souls

dwell in robber crabs, // // But still their young steal shells to hi

ith every page // // of the novel that

dwindled between your hands, as the deep blue // // sky darkened and

[I often think of that January morning]

rust remains // // Of another autumn’s

dying . // // But now the planes are suddenly spread. // // Over the

rs // // Of bushes, trees, and living,

dying flowers. // //

[Walcott begins Omeros]

y orbits we must keep // // Around our

dying sun, // // Falling towards the verge of sleep // // When all o

The Daily Planet

in the true sense: // // beating mind

dying with beating body. // // Five minutes after our hearts stop //

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

in poetry, you could save // // these

dying words with your // // endless life. I wondered if your // // t

Sestina to an English Teacher

e of the Beats // // I’d be Kerouac or

Dylan // // If my muse were only willin’ // // I’d be On The Road,

, // // And the loneliness breeds like

dysentery down every corridor, // // And everything becomes impinging

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ad of finlandia swiss, gubbeen and brin

d’amour ? // // And had Hamlet said ‘Forsooth, I must punish my uncle’

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

d’escalier // // I keep remembering today, // // As in, // // Today

l’esprit d’escalier

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

Catalogue d’Oiseaux: