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

L

fter // // producing six of us. // //

L -shaped the house; enclosed within its arms // // a walled garden, l

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

la belle dame. // //

the princes’ steeds lie fallow, // //

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

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

La Belle Dame // //

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

// // three recipes for Prometheus (a

lá Kafka) // // first, secure firmly to large rock, add eagle and ser

is true, // // « Quand la sage montre

la Lune, l’imbécile regarde son doigt. » // // // // Point A. Point

[She points to the sky]

// What we say is true, // // « Quand

la sage montre la Lune, l’imbécile regarde son doigt. » // // // //

[She points to the sky]

e // // nature’s glory. He renamed you

La Trinitaria, holy // // Trinity, and then conquered and claimed you

// state His glory. This land I name,

La Trinitaria, holy // // Trinity. Let’s alight now and claim her in

La Trinitaria // // ONE // // Columbus was the beginning, caravels

(Girton student 1880s) // // builds a

lab in her garden // // in Reigate, on her way to // // recognition,

There must be moonshine

irton College 1913). // // The Reigate

lab , of course // // has a source // // of pure water: a still. //

There must be moonshine

easide semi. // // Each item carefully

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

e woollen lapels // // As proof of our

labour . // // After the red dust had settled // // (at least for a w

Magnetic Mountain

e,” etc. // // To some other wide-eyed

labour -eager chosen one // // I shall leave this garden instructionle

Aubade to Girton

ue austerity; // // Just so my father,

labouring before // // The furnaces by night and day—for me. // // N

n set fire to // // the produce of our

labours . // // A box or holly root, smouldering slowly, // // will b

in crinkled shirts, // // A break from

labs and analysing dirts; // // A break from hoping father just would

Three gay rituals

ion. // // The sequel was building the

labyrinth // // To conceal where that big baby hybrid is, // // Whos

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

// // the city ragged like old // //

lace , all behind us. // // Your jeans were rusty // // red, too shor

Tridente, 10th September

/ // to drain the chains of pools that

lace the spreading sands and soft mudflats: time to // // gather pac

e you can’t wear quirky May Ball maroon-

laced shoes // // To bury your mother. // // And me realising there’

Three Pieces of Advice

lope down towards // // A still canal,

laced with rust that blooms // // From old fashioned, swan-necked cyc

// And who’s going to help me put new

laces in, // // Because you can’t wear quirky May Ball maroon-laced s

Three Pieces of Advice

as him trying to teach me to change the

laces in my shoes, // // Increasing in frustration exponentially (I t

Three Pieces of Advice

perfect brew’d. My bones grow Ache and

Lack ; // // But drown’d out is their path—it floats adrift. // // Th

[What have we done]

g show tunes to test my voice // // Or

lack thereof, because there isn’t anything worse // // Than boredom.

The Notes You Have Left

I keep remembering. // // Maybe it’s a

lacuna of my // // sleepless mind, // // Or a sly’d promise of the /

l’esprit d’escalier

angling by such slender stalks from its

laden boughs. // // We were so young when we smoothed the bark with o

rily stand // // Still constant, fruit-

laden , generous and sun-browned // // Golden, swollen mangoes unpicke

/ // and people come in, // // binbag-

laden // // with mum’s blouses, // // dad’s old shirts and trousers,

In a charity shop

Troubled waters // // The good

Lady Lumley is pondering glumly. “I // // need a new project to keep

Troubled waters

by a mother-serpent // // from an egg

laid by a too-proud rooster // // twisted copper about a girl’s wrist

ts. // // The page, like linen freshly

laid for tea, // // Bid hieratic welcome to those gods, // // Or gho

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

eries // // between the places where I

laid my head. // // In the prehistoric, melting dawn, // // stretche

n’s flesh // // flash-fried, seasoned,

laid out, sprinkled with ash. // //

und grace at last in the depths of your

lair . // // She’ll stone you back // // Without a care. // //

a desert-plain, // // The pitch-white

lake bed bare of life, // // All mountains and hills around, // // N

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

paint // // Shouts the gunshot on the

lake // // But the things that heaven takes, // // Human things that

near Finnegan’s

Lake riverrun, past Eve’s and Adam’s // // sins of the son

He who made the

Lamb // // Columbo-standard, // // Crouching cold-nose, // // Eyes

He who made the Lamb

Fat boar bubbling in oil spit, and the

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

Drink and be merry

the feeble // // the rabid // // the

lame // // looking for folk answers // // to folk problems // // an

ater // // Things, and left our brains

lame , // // Reduced to an inability to cater // // For our inner sel

s, with a hateful maggot’s mind. // //

Lame understanding wretch who thinks rhymes wrench’t // // sufficiént

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

the hundrum: // // you watching and I,

lamely , pretending // // to read. Then you were bending // // your m

the windmill’s

lament —a short play // // O, // // MUST i keep on going round in //

the windmill’s lament—a short play

/ will be burnt to the sound of a piped

lament . // // The manager wouldn’t deal with the mail // // and was

The Dead Letter Office closes down

Diorama // // Sheets of water

laminate the windows // // as if to reverse // // the myth of glass,

ly thing we can see, // // Gray street

lamps passing by show no-texture of headrests. // // Foreign coin of

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

mmer spin— // // and liked a lass from

Lancashire ; // // so milk-white was her skin. // // In Cheddar Gorge

// // Our dialect, sweet sister of our

land . // //

in Portugal, but when land (oh finally,

land !) bid their seek- // // ing end, Portugal could only tip its hat

// // you should’ve written The Waste

Land first time round Nickerson. // //

[the typist puts her knickers on]

ain praise // // state His glory. This

land I name, La Trinitaria, holy // // Trinity. Let’s alight now and

t far off off-shore // // Close to the

land , I open my maw // // to the ocean: I have no feet. There’ll be t

rp to sign the paper, // // Cleave the

land . // // In a time of dates that rot from inside out // // And wi

shed round // // a sun-warmed pillowed

land of // // South Georgia sunsets, and // // bougainvillea blooms;

luc bat to mr. beam

ew laws and a people dead. // // Ieri-

Land of the Hummingbird, give no thanks for majesty // // or those th

y mock- // // ed in Portugal, but when

land (oh finally, land!) bid their seek- // // ing end, Portugal coul

ious or Virtuous? // // Metallic disks

land on a surface // // Causing a sound more recognisable // // Than

Vicious or Virtuous?

// // Our dialect, sweet sister of our

land . // // Our learning is denied at your command. // // They are n

// // Our dialect, sweet sister of our

land . // // The poor must grow their food amongst the sand // // Whi

// // Our dialect, sweet sister of our

land . // // When you dismiss my bitter words offhand, // // Both you

in the mind // // Of every thinker it

lands upon, // // Contrasting gentle with the strong // // Emotions

d air. // // Our viewing of the cinema

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

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

s around, // // Nothing living in this

landscape // // Save mustangs high up in the hills. // // Surely a t

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

uld feel its assault, maybe // // This

landscape wouldn’t remind me of you. // // Faith, as delicate as I, c

The Other Side of the Line

// Icarus, spread-eagled in the cycling

lane . // // With borrowed wings a hedgehog // // Sprawls upon the pa

Urban bird watching

it rounds Hyde Park, // // Down border-

lanes , and further west // // Leaves and scraps of paper cluster //

hool. Wandering out along the darkening

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

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

o name, it exists, it shines outside of

language and concept. // // 2. // // After a little while, looking i

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

Envoy // // // Oppression’s

language does not understand, // // For in the name of Mammon, you st

ds you make me use: // // Oppression’s

language does not understand. // // Hear! Our songs of love, our live

everything to lose. // // Oppression’s

language does not understand // // Our dialect, sweet sister of our l

resplendent views: // // Oppression’s

language does not understand. // // You claim it “impedes progress” a

edium of their work. // // We drink in

language with our mothers milk // // But poets curdle words until the

Cheese is the medium

differenT // // they prefer to sing in

languages they cannot speak, // // their tongues dancing // // their

Same but differenT

do you // // understand Karagiozis the

lantern // // behind a stretched sheet, can you feel the rods // //

// high on your bristling Harris Tweed

lapel . // // The smell of disappointment and of smoke. // // Your (s

Compass Reading

ess glimmering // // On coarse woollen

lapels // // As proof of our labour. // // After the red dust had se

Magnetic Mountain

armth of the fire, // // listen to the

lapping of the water, // // and gaze into space. // // We have the s

h on arms of chairs, // // Settle into

laps of relatives. // // Fields of Athenry tails off, // // (Too slo

Wild Mountain Thyme

ath // // Old man sits bespectacled in

laptop moth-light. Rendered absurd— // // warmed by un-canned laughte

mage of what I ought to be // // Looms

large as the pack move on. // //

but fire). // // See this: // // the

large , dilapidated country house // // that is my mother’s next big v

nd fully the situation being studied. A

large proportion of candidates only attempted the first part and were

á Kafka) // // first, secure firmly to

large rock, add eagle and serve hot liver with vengeance // // second

small, // // And yet, // // Much too

large to fit inside your head. // // You want to escape // // But yo

A loop of stern faces around a desk too

large // // To make contact with anything other than // // Words. Ea

Vicious or Virtuous?

or hackney cab: // // ‘That one is too

large , too small, cut close or not at all; // // This one here too gi

Bearded Thoughts

ings and the whale, // // You were the

lark and yours the song // // I sang in jail. // // Give me some tim

sharp and Geoffrey Hill is sour // //

Larkin ascerbic, Tennyson has power // // (But only late at night, ta

Cheese is the medium

ave singing // // to the rib-dark sky,

larking my demiurge. // // Give me some time // // You were the sea,

has passed // // The comprehendable. A

lash of light // // That forges, through its surge, the casts of form

inging slash and singing pain // // Of

lashes ; a thorn halo hallows your head, // // Vice-like; your pierced

sea, you the surge, // // You were the

lashings and the whale, // // You were the lark and yours the song //

ain of the wave-thick // // tentacular

lashings at surge; // // and I in my belly cave singing // // to the

/ for a summer spin— // // and liked a

lass from Lancashire; // // so milk-white was her skin. // // In Che

our shiny new lives, however long they

last . // //

appy now. // // Success comes sweet at

last . // // All I want to do is cut you up. // // My hands snip snip

[So snow falls outside]

// // that while the past // // will

last and last, // // the future is fast disappearing. // //

grace. // // And then he breathed his

last blue breath // // And left it in the shining air // // And left

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

w // // I can see the evening’s // //

last blue twilight, // // pressed between // // stormclouds like a f

o the note stays unfinished. // // One

last breath drawn, shakily, then I end something // // For the first

Snapshot Endings

// // like a sponge-print. // // The

last breath out is the first to be drawn. // // Under the window, on

to drain // // away from you, in those

last days of pain, // // another summer, home in Camberwell. // // B

sunken armchair left // // Empty since

last December, // // Just over twelve months now. // // Our voices w

Wild Mountain Thyme

red, // // now stuck, // // cinder at

last ebb // // ignites arena morn: // // I war dirt-up, image-bled,

Hercules et Oracle

e with Champagne, // // Drink down the

last few bottles that remain, // // As though delirium could dull the

ever. The fire once begun // // would

last for days and days. Each morning I came down, // // expecting to

s of the sunset hour. // // Softly the

last gondolier, dipping his hands // // For ablutions, kneels on the

ming hair, // // Having found grace at

last in the depths of your lair. // // She’ll stone you back // // W

ell kiss and then we’re done // // One

last kiss,—and another one— // // Perhaps just one more little kiss,

[A Farewell Kiss]

at your waking, // // Beyond your long

last line the dawn is breaking”. // //

pass through and hope // // I get one

last look. // //

ing, waiting, for my chalk outline. The

last mark I’ll make, // // White and pure, unlike the life taking it’

Snapshot Endings

ewly-broken foetus-leaves // // In the

last May bursts of spring. // // Till now there’s only been a fist, /

/ Led you here? See her red hair // //

Last night, gaping smile, // // Sharp with the earth’s slow // // Bl

Here be dragons

like a stage curtain, // // and it is

last night on the M56, // // heading west, somewhere near Chester, //

n for riding?’ Is this the poem? // //

Last night’s kiss a broken bridge—now we’re both in the abyss. // //

, wearing each step forward // // Into

last night’s night I cut // // Myself with familiar awkwardness // /

/ // the shivering sceptic, afraid, at

last , of ghosts? // //

to plunge and sink, // // Pour out the

last of this Burgundian wine // // Before those wretched wreckers dra

ould have Prometheus again. We had that

last Saturday. I like it. // // But I can’t taste it anymore.

in eulogies // // and we imagine their

last seconds // // like the one whose dog slept on // // their chest

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

e and pure, unlike the life taking it’s

last steps. // // // // …Screeching brakes and crunching metal as g

Snapshot Endings

to the past, // // The razor might not

last , the bomb might fall, // // Then all we’d have left would be bea

Bearded Thoughts

he tree, // // And through the tree at

last , the buried light. // // Boughs form an arch, the painting draws

The Magic Apple Tree

hat while the past // // will last and

last , // // the future is fast disappearing. // //

ildly at the moon. // // Bitter Creek,

last time // // You said this was the only way. // // Just please ar

l’esprit d’escalier

urn a gem-like flame. // // If you are

last to leave, put out the light. // // We studied mass, created form

ith here. // // 3, told over the phone

last week, with me complaining about a getting a nosebleed on // // A

Three Pieces of Advice

ng for is undone, // // I’ll grasp the

last whispers. // // Over ocean, the storm sullen // // Slowly start

Who am I, Bernard?

re: // // 222 deaths in Cambridgeshire

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

// // Conserved and published, now at

last you know // // We hold you treasure, evermore to teach. // //

his bough, // // Which here and now at

last , you recognise. // // This is your own, your ancient apple tree

The Magic Apple Tree

ness of your mother’s side. And now, at

last , // // you’re out. And though I dreamed I saw // // your coming

only way. // // Just please arrive too

late . // // Ariel. I am a wait. // // So light a fire to the fang //

l’esprit d’escalier

ic, Tennyson has power // // (But only

late at night, taken with port) // // I like them all and sample ever

Cheese is the medium

late // // Doze on my arm while it fades, // // Sodium light slit sl

you’d roll your eyes and tell me we’re

late for dinner. // // So I’ll tuck my mind back inside itself, and l

I’ll never work for Hallmark

// // and built a roaring blaze. Then

late into the night // // I fed it all the bits that it had missed: /

heard— // // Patrolled the streets of

late modernity. // // None came. Time passed. She left the door ajar—

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

rn, // // Silently roaring // // In a

late summer’s haze // // Now, days become shorter // // And we know

Magnetic Mountain

n the wishing bone // // and learn too

late that one and one make none // //

[Maybe it’s just the

latent sign] // // Maybe it’s just the latent sign // // Of some per

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

latent sign] // // Maybe it’s just the

latent sign // // Of some perversion of a submissive kind // // Whic

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

the Earth // // just the earth. // //

Later , of course, // // another priest came // // who stood over the

ss // // Of Dad’s funereal car. // //

Later , unpacking, // // I find a history— // // My history— // // O

down— // // you must be nimble. // //

Later we discover // // that that was just a sideshow: all the while

Walking in winter

sly waited with my coffee. // // Hours

later we lay on the floor of your house, sipping sleepy coffee // //

[I often think of that January morning]

emory we needed. // // So three months

later , we met again // // on a Suffolk shingle beach. // // In Novem

why people have // // funeral pyres.)

Later we scatter the ashes // // in a wild part of the old South Lond

ther, and a place to talk. // // Years

later we went back and made the same unchartered // // trip, remember

upon my face. // // Twenty three years

later , when my mother died // // we had the proper formal funeral. //

we will not get up and over // // The

latest life hurdle means we grab and claw // // For the meagre protec

h letter // // in return he translates

Latin eulogies // // and we imagine their last seconds // // like th

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

day—for me. // // Now my achievement’s

lauded as the best: // // To get inky fingers in a Cambridge college

longing in the back of my mouth, you’d

laugh . // // After all, love is universal and you can bet whatever I

I’ll never work for Hallmark

he common people to despair, // // And

laugh as they invest their funds elsewhere. // // The lights are goin

I cry for things I never had // // And

laugh at memories I never made. // // I can be a leader, a fighter, /

Writing to explore

// Let’s sit cross-legged at home and

laugh at our crooked little fingers. // // Promise me—don’t compromis

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

// // Blowing out more stars with her

laugh . // // It’s not that weird, right? // // It’s like how I don’t

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

r in that embrace. // // I should have

laughed by now, at this. // // Eyes, rolling, at artificial sparkle /

d: // // Its fag ends and canisters of

laughing gas. // //

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

s. // // My bursting flight of spotlit

laughing on the pavement // // dries to sighs in seconds. // // It’s

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

ered absurd— // // warmed by un-canned

laughter and crackling fire-breath // // (Sound-bites for both now!)—

ht. // // Still I turn from peat-smoke

laughter and librarian’s plight // // To where, in street-side window

knees and my smile breaking // // into

laughter , before stumbling barefoot back to your house. // // I remem

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

nquisitive gaze // // On me. Questions

launched from all directions // // As my hands grasp blindly for a wh

ng dead in its gait, // // So that I’m

launched 3,000 miles in a single second straight, // // So fast that

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

Firedrake // // Inspiration,

lava of the imagination, // // Rises, magma moltenly golden // // Ha

rly-five-year-old Colin // // needed a

lavatory , and I had to leave the fire for a while // // to take him t

om tassels // // the cap of each i let

lavender and thistle // // sprout from its neck, to wilt upon each s

rontery // // And imposed the jungle’s

law entirely // // On the dithering herds that daily assert // // Th

Floating up seemingly by force ’gainst

law // // Of Newton. Each light-ray does one ice thaw, // // Reflect

[What have we done]

/ // Venality that spurns your natural

law . // // What a pitiful way for a predator to die, // // Alone in

ot chocolate, // // play tennis on the

lawn , // // talk of equality and love, // // the fight to win our ri

A Room of Her Own

// A coloured strip made // // By the

lawnmower . // //

f falling down, // // The sound of the

lawnmowers // // Outside the windows, // // High-up, grass-cutting,

range new religion, new gold mines, new

laws and a people dead. // // Ieri- Land of the Hummingbird, give no

od beneath the willow // // In June he

lay among the yarrow // // Pollen gilding him with yellow // // Yell

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ight // // as they did over the sea. I

lay awake and kept them company with honey // // sweetened coffee, a

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

d with my coffee. // // Hours later we

lay on the floor of your house, sipping sleepy coffee // // as your g

[I often think of that January morning]

It was just a small fish. // // So we

lay on the rock in the heat and watched the sea’s magic // // unfold

Just a Small Fish

re till the stars turned blue // // He

lay there till his breath ran cold // // The boy without a face. //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

llow crowning him with grace. // // He

lay there till the grass grew high // // He lay there till the stars

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

here till the grass grew high // // He

lay there till the stars turned blue // // He lay there till his brea

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

// “Feel better soon” // // Wrapped in

layer after layer, like I’m // // Experiencing that first childhood s

The Notes You Have Left

ter soon” // // Wrapped in layer after

layer , like I’m // // Experiencing that first childhood snow. // //

The Notes You Have Left

// I painted my feelings in layer upon

layer of blue // // until watercolours splattered my sleeves and the

[I often think of that January morning]

warm enough to melt // // the topmost

layer . The frost returns // // to make a crust. The next two months

Walking in winter

waves. // // I painted my feelings in

layer upon layer of blue // // until watercolours splattered my sleev

[I often think of that January morning]

is seen and heard // // Rolling Rs and

layering up— // // Nothing else works for the College bird. // // Th

BURR (or Brrrrr)

// it could sort of peel away in papery

layers , // // and probably seep amber. // // She’s shedding her leav

tened coffee, a palimpsest of limbs and

layers leafing through // // pages upon pages of poetry. My blurry ey

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

past unbuttonings. // // I need these

layers , this heraldry // // That codes and siphons off and binds me h

nt’d; // // numb’d ass’nance, ’lision;

laziness , it shows. // // Descend, true nature sprouts, like damp, de

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

cigarette, // // And we feel bored and

lazy , // // And my parents can’t tell me enough, // // That I’m wast

and that is where // // the wormholes

lead . // //

-safe, the corgi does not even pull the

lead // // 2B // // ‘Two Black’ too black?—what sun beyond that shad

Three Ways of Walking

e, by cute design, // // the wormholes

lead , // // I have a very real fear // // there’s no assured escape

/ // Lunchtime with the family, // //

Lead on, Spirit. // // Dad balances the turkey, // // He was better

A Hymn to a Loved One

he strong stag, // // its only hope to

lead the quick spear into the subtle mist. // // You strike flint to

ort and venison, // // And turn life’s

lead to poems of pure gold. // // I need the poets now, who match my

Wormholes // // The wormholes

lead us if we dare // // to unimagined worlds that scare // // me. S

earn to relinquish, // // To let go of

leaden years as though a mouthful of smoke, // // To find new ways to

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

emories I never made. // // I can be a

leader , a fighter, // // A voice of reason, an echo // // Of some th

Writing to explore

ly impacted’ // // But meets ‘business

leaders ’—which means he won’t need us— // // He’s in with top brass a

be thirty years. A winding path // //

leads from the glazed back door // // through box and holly grown to

. // // Beyond the scree the open path

leads on, // // a gentler walk, to bare bleak Malham Tarn. // // The

Daydream Dale Journey

offee, a palimpsest of limbs and layers

leafing through // // pages upon pages of poetry. My blurry eyes resi

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

lf-taught infant can contrive // // To

lean a pile of lines towards the left. // // You’d have to be a fool

In Defence of Evolution

// // Haloed by Hawara sun you saw him

lean // // To read the writing, say that you had been // // A teache

e finding their way home. // // People

leaning against this horizontal barrier // // Willing it to disappear

eemed so sad, but all you did was turn,

leaning over and reaching out as if to touch what ran below in streams

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

// the room we glimpse inside. A woman

leans // // upon a table in the window, looks // // out into sunligh

Cape Cod Morning

at brooch. // // Or if she ever // //

leant back on her stool // // and realised that, // // really, // /

In a charity shop

that I could feel a fear trembling and

leaping between my synapses. In all six hundred and forty muscles, and

[So the moon was there]

he light you buried for so long // //

Leaps up in you to life and resurrection. // //

The Magic Apple Tree

vigate by auspice // // The fire which

leapt over us // // Perseid gleams between the stars // // Like seei

a humpback breach // // The fire which

leapt over us // // The ocean rolling beneath us // // Like seeing a

f the metrical forms, // // So easy to

learn . // // I digress. // // I always digress. // // I apologise.

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

t serene pain is found in the effort to

learn to relinquish, // // To let go of leaden years as though a mout

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

futures on the wishing bone // // and

learn too late that one and one make none // //

oken // // Only the names which I have

learned . // // Now I listen at the window // // As the branches danc

leaves might fall

t, sweet sister of our land. // // Our

learning is denied at your command. // // They are not mine, these wo

// Walking, hopping, stirring earthly

leas , // // Serenading us among our garden’s yields, // // When flyi

[Walcott begins Omeros]

breeze // // And snow to lie upon the

lease // // Leaving its white grace. // // And then he breathed his

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

eems a poor // // fit for me, it is at

least a Fire. // // The others too I love—Earth, Water, Air—but Fire

ter the red dust had settled // // (at

least for a while) // // We asked ourselves: // // Had we been decei

Magnetic Mountain

rs left in him yet. // // This man, at

least , has nothing to be ashamed about. // // Certainly, he would nev

cis, white, male, hetero, // // but at

least it won’t talk to me on the train. // // This might have been a

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

t for man. He’ll greet my coat with the

least of concern, // // once the knife scores the surface, finds a sn

// // I should have smiled by now, at

least . // // Teeth, showing, to break the ice // // And cut the tens

e’s extinction means egality. // // At

least that’s how it seems to those who see // // Pentameter as breath

In Defence of Evolution

is tragic, it is all tragic, // // At

least , that’s what I’m told, that even the comedy is tragic, // // We

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ge // // To depths unknown (in feet at

least ) // // To Mellbreak’s deepest crest // //

s in, if it doesn’t kill me // // I at

least want to be rendered catatonic by the impact. // // I want someo

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

/ Feel free to argue with me. // // At

least when you read me I’m not there to reply, cannot defend, cannot e

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ked recipe books— // // Tough, stringy

leather around crumbling // // Pages // // Tapering towards well-th

/ // There for you, // // Or ready to

leave . // //

I could never be (ready)

// but it’s warm inside // // so we

leave // //

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

ps to reach the valley floor— // // to

leave behind, for now, the wilder moor. // // The treasures to be fou

Daydream Dale Journey

but this. // // No do not flee! Do not

leave me! // // Stay! Desert not him who loves thee! // // Cruel one

// // // // We talk less now— // //

Leave notes that are no more than signs— // // Trust that the old cho

and crack and cold consume, // // And

leave nothing but a blackened gloom, // // Of faces lost and undefine

eck. // // I mean wrecked as in ended.

Leave nothing intact. As in, if it doesn’t kill me // // I at least w

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

rmest retort. // // The days still dis-

leave . Pale envy-green, wet-yellow, gold-wrought // // Over-thought i

m-like flame. // // If you are last to

leave , put out the light. // // We studied mass, created form, // //

e by breaking eggs. // // Oh! must you

leave so early? We had hoped // // You’d stay and see the fireworks w

d the sundering sea, // // For soon we

leave that fast-receding shore // // And revelries like this will be

// // needed a lavatory, and I had to

leave the fire for a while // // to take him to the house. // // I a

ber // // A time when my shadow didn’t

leave the oily residue // // Of embarrassment on everything it touche

[I am almost 25 years old]

-culture reference, // // She turns to

leave the polystyrene cemetery, // // Blonde hair flicking like a sna

hildren think, and is it fair // // to

leave them, as the offspring of divorce, // // with burdens that they

here but near. // // Here they want to

leave , // // There, the sound of boots make me dry heave. // // Sout

Ode to a map of the world

labour-eager chosen one // // I shall

leave this garden instructionless. // // I will slip off the window o

Aubade to Girton

her will never understand” why I had to

leave tonight. Clancy got loose and ran through an alley with keef, ke

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

Fallen // // Scarlet skins and serpent

leaves , // // A paradise lost between her knees. // // Feet anointed

taproot // // down through decomposing

leaves and drenching mist. // // This is where the good things go to

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

n border-lanes, and further west // //

Leaves and scraps of paper cluster // // In clouds and tides to carry

soil and loam, // // To the litter of

leaves and the mulch and the muck— // // To the lifter of leaves, of

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

ypnotic; long, yet savour it // // The

leaves are moved, their path unbroken now // // The stillness stops,

Under its framing fringe of rich green

leaves , // // Beyond the music of the shepherdess, // // Down throu

The Magic Apple Tree

y seep amber. // // She’s shedding her

leaves for // // the winter now, // // but she’ll be blooming, // /

root-tree written in the deeps, // //

leaves from the tale-tree lifted, swift and free, // // shining, re-c

her nature’s grand exit, // // and its

leaves have all been lost in transit, // // and the birds and the bra

into the bed, // // The stain anxiety

leaves , I cannot remember // // A time when my shadow didn’t leave th

[I am almost 25 years old]

ture is always ironic. // // These are

leaves I write on, // // Where the dendrites of the mind // // Grow

// Pointy hats—and couplets—fade like

leaves // // In fashion’s autumn, following this rule. // // And wel

In Defence of Evolution

y-percent // // Of newly-broken foetus-

leaves // // In the last May bursts of spring. // // Till now there’

the other // // As the tree drops its

leaves like yellow coin: // // NOW // // and NOW // /

[At the coinciding point of the years]

es over broken shards. // // Burnished

leaves line damp concrete, // // Rejected love letters abandoned. //

Fall for————

Leaves 22 May 1998 // // The ballot-slips are counted in // // And so

ar more valuable // // Than your self,

leaves me reversing // // Those steps made in slippered feet. // /

The Notes You Have Left

leaves might fall // // What news borne on the wind? // // What wing

leaves might fall

h and the muck— // // To the lifter of

leaves , of branches and bloom // // May your sap run quick and your b

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

eneath my clothes and the fallen // //

Leaves of my skin, the seeping rot of loneliness. I walk // // Barefo

[I am almost 25 years old]

// // sweep the kitchen floor and the

leaves off the drive, // // do the Sainsburys’ run, give Mum a call,

s. // // I taste the jigsaw created by

leaves overhead, // // With the clammy fingers of shade that you are

open window // // drinking coffee that

leaves rings // // slowly absorbed by paper // // as I am threatened

why i’m getting into Christmas

my genes and my hair // // And the tea-

leaves showed me nothing to fear; // // But I cried a splashy Victori

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

cates. Time and flux goes ahead of him,

leaving him in the dust. He revels joylessly and mechanically in the p

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

/ And snow to lie upon the lease // //

Leaving its white grace. // // And then he breathed his last blue bre

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

/ // But your line stands, reinforced,

leaving me // // Gripping the tatters of hope in my fist. // // With

The Other Side of the Line

rote your address and, as such, will be

leaving this letter here, on this bench, for you to collect //

arth, // // time lives in fire, // //

leaving us the water and the air. // //

/ // (Too slow, // // Too sad) // //

Leaving us to decide on // // Another song. // // Granny’s keeping h

Wild Mountain Thyme

lows into dry soil. My path has not yet

led // // In one direction or the other, but I see a turn // // Befo

Vicious or Virtuous?

in. // // What taste on the air // //

Led you here? See her red hair // // Last night, gaping smile, // //

Here be dragons

// // The snow has reached the window

ledge . // // No promise of a BA gown // // can keep me warm, // //

A Room of Her Own

// And you, voyeur, // // approach the

ledge to find // // the girl poised and primed // // as she flees th

ut their managers, // // rule up their

ledgers , // // and enter an integer // // each purposeful stride. //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

up from the city // // dragging their

ledgers and pens // // for the annual nil return. // // Nil, wild-ey

Nil Charge / Nil Return

n and ready, // // braced with crossed

ledgers // // and steelily smiling, // // the nilherds encircle //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

f fumes and dust and waste, and she was

left a- // // mid the disappointing debris of the world: // // Its f

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

n the creek // // bearing loose things

left afloat. // // Behind each moored boat runs a wake: time to gush

one, // // locked up behind us when we

left // // and then went home to get the dinner on. // // Tomorrow—t

/ And there’s no song on or cold coffee

left , // // And there’s no dusty sheets or torn curtains // // Or yo

ng on the speaker, // // A cold coffee

left by my side. // // You sing along to your favourite lyrics, // /

swell around // // The sunken armchair

left // // Empty since last December, // // Just over twelve months

Wild Mountain Thyme

We are not alone. The apple core // //

left faceless perfection’s shackles to rust. // // The shuttle flits

ng, the music of the spheres // // You

left , for stinging slash and singing pain // // Of lashes; a thorn ha

// The world swam occasionally, // //

Left hand knotted in a white tissue, // // The right hanging, somethi

[The sun flattened]

lar he-brute: // // Provided a thread,

left her brother stone dead, // // And sailed with the oaf, resolute.

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

d left it in the shining air // // And

left his stiffened body there // // The boy without a face. // // Hi

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

. // // The sadness settled once you’d

left . I became blue, // // artificially structuring my days around co

[I often think of that January morning]

ant it to. // // And he has some years

left in him yet. // // This man, at least, has nothing to be ashamed

e the weather’s hot, // // Only we are

left in its throes, // // Now, bursar, now, let us warm our toes. //

BURR (or Brrrrr)

reathed his last blue breath // // And

left it in the shining air // // And left his stiffened body there //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

od // // I can’t even remember where I

left it near Finnegan’s Lake ri

e subject of Lindt. // // All of which

left just me. You gave that up for Lent. // //

Chocolate Sonnet

// // as if there were any doors still

left locked // // anything not yet broken, so tell me // // contrary

The Notes You Have

Left // // “Make yourself at home” // // I eased my two feet, too sm

The Notes You Have Left

s need for a bull to caress her. // //

Left me stuck in a maze to the end of my days // // Where it stinks.

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

run as ‘First’ to ‘Tenth’ from right to

left . // // Milan and Barcelona and Vienna and Berlin // // All give

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ash are black MIDI: // // All that is

left of bird song. // // Phoenix upside—down. // // Pigeon panicking

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

id the minstrel, “The only thing // //

Left of this life is its sweet melody. So // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee

Jonathan’s Deathbed

stry, // // by which // // all that’s

left of us // // is sold off. // //

In a charity shop

he magpie pecks out her eye. // // the

left one, I think. // // I don’t actually remember that well. // //

g our course by instinct, taking // //

left or right according to our whim, or how the light // // was caugh

or love, for greater // // Things, and

left our brains lame, // // Reduced to an inability to cater // // F

rn tucked in a mason jar, the one thing

left . she only hears whispers, “I just think of him as a child” and I

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

oked sadly through // // me, and I was

left swallowing saltwater streams under fluorescent light. // // Autu

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// below and to the right. And rising

left // // the Cape Cod house’s painted clapboard side. // // At cen

Cape Cod Morning

e woods grew pretty // // Local people

left the city // // Moved by long forgotten pity // // For their lov

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ity. // // None came. Time passed. She

left the door ajar— // // She thought she’d heard the breath of the u

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

/ The stillness stops, my heart has now

left the pit. // // A sense of hope, a sense of fear, a bough // //

nstead. // // Columbus was the end. He

left the quiet dawns behind, left too // // a strange new religion, n

2 // // Early in the evening, we

left the school. Wandering out along the darkening lanes we went to cr

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

of hope in my fist. // // With nothing

left to fight for, I battle. // // Your line, not for emphasis, but d

The Other Side of the Line

he end. He left the quiet dawns behind,

left too // // a strange new religion, new gold mines, new laws and a

to be returned, // // October’s secret

left unspoken // // Only the names which I have learned. // // Now I

leaves might fall

within its arms // // a walled garden,

left untended // // for maybe thirty years. A winding path // // le

b might fall, // // Then all we’d have

left would be beards to compare, // // Men, women, and children all.

Bearded Thoughts

Handfast couples picked their path and

left you // // Deserted. Only bramble blooms; only ivy strays // //

efore // // Everything snapped and you

left , you walked away. // // So I struggle to find an end, an epilogu

The Other Side of the Line

// To lean a pile of lines towards the

left . // // You’d have to be a fool to feel bereft // // Because old

In Defence of Evolution

// // congregate this afternoon as my

leg // // slumbers in the warmth of the radiator // // and the snow

why i’m getting into Christmas

these days it’s all I Am

Legend without a hint of irony // // Spin’s more dangerous // // Myt

w. // // All I know is that the age of

legends is reduced to droplets of pity wept by the few that can see yo

u have mastered, // // Let’s sit cross-

legged at home and laugh at our crooked little fingers. // // Promise

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

// Special four-seater sections (extra

legroom ). // // Framed by filtering sun, picking your lip. // // You

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

// their tongues dancing // // their

legs dancing in different tongues // // their eyeballs rolled heavenw

Same but differenT

ould have danced by now, and yet // //

Legs , faltering, when I see you // // And her in that embrace. // //

be wrong // // and when their lips and

legs lock together in an unbreakable twist // // their kisses aren’t

Same but differenT

/ And as the seal starts to weep and my

legs start to give, // // I don’t want her to pay any attention. //

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

did best her // // with a slice of Red

Leicester , // // but history judged he was not fed. // // So the cat

The Failing of the Cheese

illy came. // // They lingered long in

Leicestershire ; // // red was the evening sky. // // By Derby town t

Lemon Pie in Zaïre // // Further in, the darkness is absolute. // //

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

inds a tree // // ablaze with fragrant

lemon -yellow suns, // // and, picking four of the brightest ripest on

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

tere edge of the real // // And in the

lengthening shadow of the unknown. // // They say that each creature

[At the coinciding point of the years]

The moment when the child looks and the

lens // // Looks and the newspaper image blithely grins // // Into a

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

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

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

Vicious or Virtuous?

a bulk // // beyond my comprehension;

lensed eyes ‘big // // as saucers’ x-ray-burning to my five- // // y

Compass Reading

f photography literal, // // Purgatory

lenses your beauty. // // Glacial. Tangled in cables. // // Spirit,

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

ich left just me. You gave that up for

Lent . // //

Chocolate Sonnet

Their camouflage of grease spots // //

Leopard -like // // Within the corrugated cage. // // The petrified w

rld, dragonlike, I was, I think, // //

less a hatchling, head under my own wing, // // and more an egg, fram

re // // Harder, longer. Trying to be

less alive, // // To lose this odium before I lose myself entirely. /

e a gap // // There, though if it were

less busy I wouldn’t mind // // Standing, would // // Even smile at

Poems on the Underground

live, // // To commit love to memories

less fallible than our own, // // To find new ways to hold, // // To

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

g, framed by a serpentine // // mouth;

less folded in your body and scent // // than I was fried by a blast

here we started. // // // // We talk

less now— // // Leave notes that are no more than signs— // // Trust

yet he knows // // It cannot be // //

Less than close by. // //

/ That tilled the salty earth // // No

less than home. // // The burden of Egypt, // // The burden of the d

nd you change skin; // // Are more and

less than human. // // I read the unspeakable // // Between the line

no more and // // expecting no // //

less . // // Tim was their orphan, withdrawn with elation at // // en

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ile away, the ideal me, // // A little

less wary, a little more loved, // // Turns away and continues onward

e oddest matter built, // // Is man no

less when odd and painted white. // // Another having naught but shop

Three gay rituals

r, graft the machine under skin, // //

Let code-lines mesh with genotyping—is this the poem? // // Millennia

ice, // // For such cold worlds do not

let flowing be, // // so passed I through, life’s ocean dropp’d on me

[What have we done]

Ebb tide // // First I carefully

let go // // just as far as I can reach // // the flotsam brought in

ffort to learn to relinquish, // // To

let go of leaden years as though a mouthful of smoke, // // To find n

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

ithout sin cast the first stone, // //

Let her without skin be the first to cry. // // Rosemary for remembra

frowned. // // With the royal standard

let him be crowned. // // He’s the real thing. He’s renowned. // //

suggesting the cotton— // // Though to

let him get lost seemed too rotten. // // Now I wish that I had, the

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

anointed and seven demons rise, // //

Let him without sin cast the first stone, // // Let her without skin

// // Who could cast a bronze bull to

let his Queen pull, // // And commit all her sins of emission. // //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

earth or air, // // Accept it all and

let it be for good. // // Start with the very breath you breathe in n

rusion, // // of You. // // 6. // //

Let It come freely, and look what nonsense it writes! How it is determ

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

d the moon, they loved it enough to not

let it drown, and so I was safe. And so I started swimming and swimmin

[So the moon was there]

rsh just covered in the slack: time to

let it dry. // // Now I cut new rivulets // // to drain the chains o

ll tuck my mind back inside itself, and

let it linger // // On the stirring of senses caused by your palm on

I’ll never work for Hallmark

would tarnish it all I can do // // is

let it pass through and hope // // I get one last look. // //

row the canopy too // // to the winds,

let it whirl away // // into the encroaching dark. // // Feel the ea

d from tassels // // the cap of each i

let lavender and thistle // // sprout from its neck, to wilt upon ea

But who gave you your face? // // Dig,

let loam glaze the // // pain, till we // // forget // // your //

Wandlebury Hill

mth? // // That can’t be right. // //

Let me check the textbook again. // // 2, said half-jokingly on holid

Three Pieces of Advice

vene. // // The horizon, I know, won’t

let me forget— // // That is its place, to encroach— // // Everythin

I could never be (ready)

. use blunt, hoping, hoping and hoping.

let me hear the sound of joy and gladness so that the bones you crushe

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

my breath held deep but soft, // // I

let my body fall again, be wash’d // // Into direction mapp’d by play

[What have we done]

a way its own // // And I, the more I

let my way be shown, // // Did seem to rise that water made of stone.

[What have we done]

longing, half caution. // // Should I

let myself sink into the caressing depths // // Or fight to the lung-

ards, into the heart, // // And now we

let our voices rise // // And let the music now hold sway // // In h

// to earth, as far away as it will go.

Let the browns // // and reds and golds replace the greens. Now throw

water return // // to the dry ground.

Let the cooling dark // // settle around and about, under and over. /

ew up rotas, tidied up upstairs, // //

let the flower-arrangers in when they came at one, // // locked up be

in which sailors drown at sea because I

let the glass ring on and // // on—the noise the dream-world appropri

d now we let our voices rise // // And

let the music now hold sway // // In harmony, it shows the way // //

ep rewriting ‘is this the poem?’ // //

Let the treasure maps go Marcus. The boundary between two // // Thing

isten to music whilst I work // // And

let the words go on like I’m not there. // // I hate doing it, but I

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

with his // // cold rubber fingers and

let their priest bless by its // // psalmodic tone—only heaven can si

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ld shirts and trousers, // // sorry to

let them go.’ // // The pace is always // // slow, // // charitable

In a charity shop

Tree. // // Summon the summoners, and

let them sing. // // The summoners will summon Everything. // //

o think of me, // // Though you might,

let this waste of sea intervene. // // The horizon, I know, won’t let

I could never be (ready)

/ Into the ever-flowing flow // // And

let us fall, and let us grow, // // One thought, one heart, one voice

lowing flow // // And let us fall, and

let us grow, // // One thought, one heart, one voice, one song. // /

// All enduring is our failure, // //

Let us keep it near. // //

Ode to a map of the world

gone // // and we’re lighter, quieter.

Let us rescue you from the daily grind. // // We concentrate on renew

in its throes, // // Now, bursar, now,

let us warm our toes. // //

BURR (or Brrrrr)

brings its audience to tears // // Or

lets them feel or empathise. // // For the writer may agree, but he l

nd, as such, will be leaving this

letter here, on this bench, for you to collect // // Dear Alan, // /

ols // // extracting and brushing each

letter // // in return he translates Latin eulogies // // and we ima

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

Letter Office closes down // // // // // The dead letter office is

The Dead Letter Office closes down

closes down // // // // // The dead

letter office is closing down // // because of a failure of managemen

The Dead Letter Office closes down

oreplay tense, // // the hot slit in a

letter , the shriek. // // I have never treasured the fingerprint //

Aubade to Girton

ine damp concrete, // // Rejected love

letters abandoned. // // I want you to feel the same, but— // // I’l

Fall for————

iting on that white page // // as your

letters arrived, tangible amidst my dreaming. // // I huddled by the

[I often think of that January morning]

. Now they’re wordless: // // unpenned

letters from the past, encrypted // // in a knowledge of the reader t

’ve been busy. // // Amidst these love

letters littered, // // Lost in curdled red // // I’ve been busy, to

Fall for————

s stuck in its casual delay. // // All

letters not claimed will be chastened to ash // // and the smell of t

The Dead Letter Office closes down

ier to describe my feelings in scrawled

letters // // Than in conversations, so the note stays unfinished. //

Snapshot Endings

?) // // But then, just as I feel like

letting go, // // My home appears, a home that I can keep. // // You

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

banked-up track // // behind the wall,

level with the top, // // running the gauntlet of the winter storm. /

Walking in winter

Leviathan // // I, in the belly of the whale fast, // // fasting, fe

Tell me have you seen Schiele’s // //

Levitation , the curled toes the moment // // of departure, are you af

thout words, uncouth, unkind // // and

lewd ; you onanistic waste of shame, // // pretentious, with a hateful

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

y! // // Turkey on a platter from John

Lewis , cinnamon infused bread sauce and incongruous prosecco // // dr

Drink and be merry

cut chalk and // // turf scalped red,

ley lines and hillforts, // // invasions and massacres, all the savag

Wandlebury Hill

en forty-five— // // Until the Lord of

Liberty arose // // And drew the temple down on English tongues. //

Sixteen Forty-Five

ill I turn from peat-smoke laughter and

librarian’s plight // // To where, in street-side window the octogena

tion // // Bolting blind the top-floor

library – // // Like a vitreous slogan of a monument, // // Reading.

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

// of a Cambridge courtyard: // // the

library , the chapel, // // the fluster of lights // // in windows of

[The sash rattles up]

per-shower of life: // // your driving

licence , swimming // // awards, your grade three flute— // // all, a

Stone, Paper, Scissors

full trickling // // downwards to slug

lickings on empty bird box // // with flightless eggshells mouldering

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

n, // // dribbles in excitement // //

licks his lips and gets his slippers on // // as she indulges in a sp

[the typist puts her knickers on]

y settled down // // on purple sage to

lie . // // A Cheshire cat accosted them, // // then walked his wild

. // // They took you away, at night I

lie awake and call. // // I think about the time we met, how long ago

[My face is old now]

, // // the sedge, the princes’ steeds

lie fallow, // // la belle dame. // // In thrall to notions of her n

d can’t // // Seem true. But there you

lie —innocently // // Staring past the camera’s smitten gaze, // //

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

time. // // Now is the time // // to

lie on the earth, // // smell the air, // // feel the warmth of the

f night upon night, // // An expectant

lie on the grass, // // White at first, newly-mowed, // // Shorn ben

// It’s true. // // He had to // //

Lie , to prove there was // // A hideous threat to all the World. //

hideous threat to all the World? // //

Lie ? To prove there was // // He had to. // // ‘It’s true’ // // Li

tter my ashes, Ba’al Hadad, I submit. I

lie to you like a dog, like Shaitan or Kafir soft in your ear, and I c

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

nge the disc, it is not a record (I did

lie to you once), // // And see if this one fits, but // // It misfi

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

form upon the breeze // // And snow to

lie upon the lease // // Leaving its white grace. // // And then he

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

children. // // Part of the news they

lie upon, they can’t // // Look out at me, because their faces are /

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

// He had to. // // ‘It’s true’ // //

Lied // // Blair // //

Fibbing // // Blair // //

Lied , // // It’s true. // // He had to // // Lie, to prove there wa

, // // But merely that on the page it

lies , // // And in every reader the poet tries // // To foreground s

dges and her // // Blackened soles, he

lies back in damp grass // // And wonders when on earth all this will

// // For the writer may agree, but he

lies , // // He put no thought into that verb, // // But to tell the

ing and middle finger, // // Taste the

lies on your tongue— // // I’ve been busy. // // Amidst these love l

Fall for————

n we doubt // // that somewhere herein

lies some deep philosophy? // // Voices, ipods, phones speak out— //

atly severed // // From the life which

lies within. // // Oak and hazel, beech and alder, // // What news b

leaves might fall

e Mrs. // // I’ll-settle-for-a-jack-in-

lieu -of-an-ace; // // You’re dumber than most, and that’s a hell of a

nly // // words could // // save your

life . // //

Sestina to an English Teacher

ell? // // This painting has a private

life . // //

Cape Cod Morning

ans and secrets // // blood! wriggling

life ! a name! love! // // Candles, hats—shake the snow from your coat

Drink and be merry

// Scientist says: meme for belief in

life after death // // Old man sits bespectacled in laptop moth-light

/ Your young voice brought old words to

life , // // age only antique, frailty perceivable only // // by sigh

Sestina to an English Teacher

// // The pitch-white lake bed bare of

life , // // All mountains and hills around, // // Nothing living in

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

Life and Death // // // // // // // // // Dear Wayne of Interp

Between Life and Death

for so long // // Leaps up in you to

life and resurrection. // //

The Magic Apple Tree

the different dittoes must compete for

life . // // Another billion random changes: all // // —or almost all

l me enough, // // That I’m wasting my

life away— // // But your room is my escape, // // You, with my hear

ing hearts— // // Then silence, and my

life bereft. // // Dinner Party. Jerusalem, 21 January 2009 // // ‘I

for your daughter’s plane. // // Your

life defined by the whistle of the kettle; // // Rhythmed by the clin

/ // Beautifully crashing down, // //

Life flying in. // // Everything I Ever See Was Comin’ Or Goin’ Away.

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

o, unknown to anyone, // // This still

life has two untold names: // // It is: The Virgin and her Child; //

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

l not get up and over // // The latest

life hurdle means we grab and claw // // For the meagre protection of

ation, your endless, relentless love of

life . // // I never could work out if // // you hated my words, //

Sestina to an English Teacher

ce on-line. // // This is the en-suite

life . // // I thought I’d fledged, // // abandoned the embarrassment

A Room of Her Own

lent stone— // // And in the fabric of

life , I weave my name // // For these are the things we can call our

se dying words with your // // endless

life . I wondered if your // // thinning blood resented life, // // w

Sestina to an English Teacher

/ voice, your image, tried to save your

life — // // if only // // words could // // save your life. // //

Sestina to an English Teacher

ith Berlin in mind. // // Wrote of his

life in his // // Autobiographies, // // Loved for his funny // //

It is difficult to look and experience

life in this way. It has no name, it exists, it shines outside of lang

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

s way to this tree // // And that each

life is a movement towards contemplation // // Of its abounding momen

[At the coinciding point of the years]

way. // // I hear you say, // // “But

life is for the living, do not kill // // another day.” // // And ye

el, “The only thing // // Left of this

life is its sweet melody. So // // Fiddle-dee fiddle-dee fiddle-dee f

Jonathan’s Deathbed

orm // // Is still the guardian of his

life // // Is still the keeper of his soul. // // And so, unknown to

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

rest. // // The man has not wasted his

life — // // It’s been well-spent, and’s gone exactly as he meant it t

ll was well; // // the end, the moment

life just seemed to drain // // away from you, in those last days of

a-Manger munching, soul searching, love-

life listing. // // The death rattle of the track’s devouring // //

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

ecessity for greed and proof of love or

life , no loafing here. // // And people don’t look at the sky anymore

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// // He lives a quiet, four-cornered

life , // // Polite, determined, and remote— // // His angel sisters

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

you kept your faith // // that all of

life still boils down to love. // //

make, // // White and pure, unlike the

life taking it’s last steps. // // // // …Screeching brakes and cru

Snapshot Endings

// skin faded, white. That was not your

life . // // That shadow of your life was only— // // is only—the mem

Sestina to an English Teacher

// where you lived your paper- // //

life . They are too few. // // Birth certificate. // // Death certifi

Stone, Paper, Scissors

nd one // // turtles and all reptilian

life thus thrown // // into the evolving curve of modern flight // /

// // To hear the Word which sings of

life // // To hear the Song, beyond the notes // // Oh onwards, onwa

, // // My knife no place to cling, my

life to stow. // // I swim through slush of half-solid and rise, //

[What have we done]

he You Only Live Once Manual. // // My

life was compromised // // in an instant // // when all I’d ever wan

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

t your life. // // That shadow of your

life was only— // // is only—the memory of kind words // // fixed to

Sestina to an English Teacher

e old so neatly severed // // From the

life which lies within. // // Oak and hazel, beech and alder, // //

leaves might fall

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

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

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

life , with ceramic vase // // And small black-stoppered oil caster. /

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

if your // // thinning blood resented

life , // // words mocking your condition—if // // you knew we saw yo

Sestina to an English Teacher

r-tape parade, // // a paper-shower of

life : // // your driving licence, swimming // // awards, your grade

Stone, Paper, Scissors

// gawping students, that define your

life . // // Your young voice brought old words to life, // // age on

Sestina to an English Teacher

olling of crusts. // // The revival of

lifeless hands. // // The utensils that outlive them. // //

en young, // // The kind who’d spent a

lifetime in the pit // // And come away with bruises and black lung /

at stone shrines were built // // Many

lifetimes before us // // And, if we look, we can still see // // Th

Before Christmas

ds himself alone, // // Life’s pawn at

lifetime’s darker edge, // // The one who gave him tone and form //

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

like port and venison, // // And turn

life’s lead to poems of pure gold. // // I need the poets now, who ma

/ // bullet-proof hideout their // //

life’s melody. // // “Fiddle-dee-dee,” said the minstrel, “The only t

Jonathan’s Deathbed

/ To adjust myself, realise // // That

Life’s not all drinks deals and drunken romances. // //

flowing be, // // so passed I through,

life’s ocean dropp’d on me, // // and with my brittle bones and star

[What have we done]

t though he finds himself alone, // //

Life’s pawn at lifetime’s darker edge, // // The one who gave him ton

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

e rods // // are they strong enough to

lift a stained glass // // skull, my black eyes my light eyes, this a

turbed // // your red coat an aegis to

lift // // cigarettes to your many mouths that // // breathe words d

why i’m getting into Christmas

of stairs, // // To find the case and

lift the dull brown cover // // To see, at first, your image in the g

The Magic Apple Tree

deeps, // // leaves from the tale-tree

lifted , swift and free, // // shining, re-combining in their dance //

d the mulch and the muck— // // To the

lifter of leaves, of branches and bloom // // May your sap run quick

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

by wash, I blindly dug // // My place,

lifting my molten body’s mold // // By hand, hardening to the rocks e

[What have we done]

/ // Just passed on far more heat than

light . // //

eaceful sleep: a gate, // // A door, a

light , a face, the clouds ’come snow // // Appear and I do choose to

[What have we done]

that I do not slit this throat. // //

Light a fire to the fang. // //

l’esprit d’escalier

e. // // Ariel. I am a wait. // // So

light a fire to the fang // // that cannot be reached, // // So that

l’esprit d’escalier

his is where the good things go to die.

Light // // and air, pools and palaces, sanity // // of men and king

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

way // // To reach beyond—to touch the

light // // And now the song bursts from our throats // // And now o

O Oriens // // // // First

light and then first lines along the east // // To touch and brush a

ides and sixty-three violent crimes”—tv-

light // // and wonder: do I have it, or no? this meme of after-night

and the stars wouldn’t shed me as much

light // // as they did over the sea. I lay awake and kept them compa

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ing saltwater streams under fluorescent

light . // // Autumn in Cambridge, and the stars wouldn’t shed me as m

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

away upstream… // // So every trace of

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

etween our consciousness // // And the

light beyond, // // Quenched any wistfulness // // For light, for lo

nd through the tree at last, the buried

light . // // Boughs form an arch, the painting draws you in // // Un

The Magic Apple Tree

declare our love to be an energy saving

light bulb, // // It takes its time to warm up, and can, apparently,

I’ll never work for Hallmark

open ripped apart. // // Then the

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

ere anything worth more // // Than the

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

I could never be (ready)

// Looks in to see them dancing in red

light , // // Endeavours in but weekly shut out blunt. // // They all

Three gay rituals

r mind, your hands! You stroked me into

light … // // Eternal concept, crystalline, unknown… // // But I can’

The chicken and the egg

ed glass // // skull, my black eyes my

light eyes, this arched spine, // // do you remember what Kierkegaard

ur favourite lyrics, // // Hazy summer

light filters through torn curtains. // // You shed dust from your ey

distress signal—fossilised. The camera

light // // flashed seconds before waves flooded my boots, water brea

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

hite lights guide their journey, // //

Light foliage for their constant “go”. // // I feel very far from hom

// Quenched any wistfulness // // For

light , for love, for greater // // Things, and left our brains lame,

antically, // // blotted with beads of

light , // // for shadowed gifts. As slowly // // the strange words

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

hange. // // Seeking the return of the

light , // // Great stone shrines were built. // // All humans feel t

Before Christmas

w can you sleep in this // // blinding

light ? // // How could you // // bear to // // close your eyes, //

Bright, Pale Yellow

there’s the crux, // // right in that

light , hush’d // // lull brown, // // deep among your dusk // // he

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

/ // The gate, the door, the face, the

light , I fall // // Upon a bed of compact mist, all soft, // // My h

[What have we done]

stival // // Seeking the return of the

light // // Is but one of many. // // All humans feel the change. //

Before Christmas

beyond my shoulder blades. An unsteady

light // // is flickering between needling trees; history assures me

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

eate candlelight, // // but for now my

light is stored, and the slightest knock bleeds a honey // // that wi

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ngs, // // lost in a cold, particulate

light . // // Is this the drowning which was meant? // // My tilt-shi

In clouds and tides to carry // // In

light like a welcome guest. // //

in the dark edges beyond the flickering

light . // // Nearly-five-year-old Colin // // needed a lavatory, and

/ Your bath—calm as the sun’s unknowing

light , // // New but not news, a sign that all is right. // // The l

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

e dark side of the earth, // // in the

light of a fire, // // and faint starlight from space // // reflecte

o assured escape from there. // // The

light of other days can shine // // on any past and redefine // // o

// And join the boy who bathes in the

light of the moon. // //

// blinding from refracted // // oil-

light off tarmac. As you // // fingertipped your way through // // m

luc bat to mr. beam

st // // To touch and brush a sheen of

light on water // // As though behind the sky itself they traced //

foretell the future // // The wake of

light on water // // Curved ache of a clear horizon // // You hold y

ld your hand in mine // // The wake of

light on water // // Whales singing the day in // // You hold your h

// // Idea that we have any power to

light // // One candle’s guttering sickly flame // // And peer. Myop

emingly moves o’er all; // // A slight

light pigments the cold pond harsh, // // Revealing smokey lines of m

[What have we done]

ther die in his voice. hurry boy, “your

light points to the sky”. he says it’s a figure, a luminescent metapho

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

orce ’gainst law // // Of Newton. Each

light -ray does one ice thaw, // // Reflecting light through perfect d

[What have we done]

Soaped Titan in his bath. He loved the

light // // Refracted—'til it burst—became a mass // // Of scum. For

ld man sits bespectacled in laptop moth-

light . Rendered absurd— // // warmed by un-canned laughter and crackl

// // A Milky Way of twinkling roseate

light — // // Shape-shifting, whispers ‘there is more to know’. // //

moves north against the fading evening

light . // // Slanting lines are forming, breaking, forming // // ord

Wells in winter

on my arm while it fades, // // Sodium

light slit sliding through part-drawn shades, // // Liquid time daube

tuned by too bright, // // White-gold

light , suspending patterned navy seats. // // Accompanying us: famili

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

er to restart the solar system with the

light // // That emanates always from her eyes. // // I want her to

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ed // // The comprehendable. A lash of

light // // That forges, through its surge, the casts of forms— // /

rays // // wedding chimes of line and

light that got through to me. // // I don’t always want to be having

These colours seem to fall from Eden’s

light , // // The air they shine through breathes a change in them, //

The Magic Apple Tree

re? // // Or is it just the clarity of

light , the glowing // // grass and trees outside her window, warming

Cape Cod Morning

na // // Abyss. A nanosecond’s blazing

light , // // The herald to a straining fecund mass // // Unleashed.

out above, // // buds into the waxing

light , the spring rain. Throw open // // the fire-coloured temptation

Because old verse forms rarely see the

light // // The truth is that they’re dead because they’re shite. //

In Defence of Evolution

ancient apple tree, // // The fall of

light through branches and the fling // // And curve of colour on the

The Magic Apple Tree

nto the canopy, // // Sprinkling their

light through ground, through sky, through all. // //

[What have we done]

ay does one ice thaw, // // Reflecting

light through perfect diamond form, // // Shining direct into eachoth

[What have we done]

lled me a diamond in a world of coal. A

light // // through the mist, softly luminous and guiding people thro

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ssence seems to concentrate // // From

light to air, from pigment into paint // // In increments of incarnat

The Magic Apple Tree

l. // // A surety of sound and shining

light // // To beat the breast against // // And worship waist-deep

onform, a crime to confront. // // The

light trickled through, // // A liquid reminiscent of // // Our desp

right according to our whim, or how the

light // // was caught. After time we found coffee and wine, // // a

// Of post-modern serfdom. // // The

light was rarely shown, // // We scuttled around behind // // Doors

/ If you are last to leave, put out the

light . // // We studied mass, created form, // // And looked for no

// You tell me it’s difficult to love a

light , when every darkness is a reminder of their breaking. // //

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

world // // Towards a buried memory of

light // // Whose faded trace no photograph records. // // You glimp

The Magic Apple Tree

atching rain fall // // In burnt amber

light , // // With an old movie in the background— // // I’m not arou

Fall for————

ancient apple tree // // And here the

light you buried for so long // // Leaps up in you to life and resur

The Magic Apple Tree

es) // // again I imagine it forked by

lightening , white above again and // // the blood below. Pause.

to get her liquors on) // // gets her

lighter , gets her gas, // // runs down the hallway, quick as one //

[the typist puts her knickers on]

Our grist is long gone // // and we’re

lighter , quieter. Let us rescue you from the daily grind. // // We co

from bank holidays // // At Dungeness

Lighthouse ; // // The rusty sweet tin of icing tips, // // Individua

t blister of a moon, // // A thumbtack

lighting the midges and her // // Blackened soles, he lies back in da

ill find itself returned to the perfect

lightness of itself // // And to the infinity of the other // // As

[At the coinciding point of the years]

e darknesses // // more storms, gales,

lightning bolts // // more days of sun or rain or passing cloud // /

// // Words catch my mouth, bitter as

lightning —is this the poem? // // The cicada’s memories discarded, a

d, // // temple columns spaced, // //

lightning rods earthed. // // On the dark side of the earth, // // i

ite branches in a // // flash of white

lights against // // bright, pale yellow, // // the same branches th

Bright, Pale Yellow

nvest their funds elsewhere. // // The

lights are going out, drain one more glass // // Reflect, despairing,

somewhere near Chester, // // the fog

lights catching great dark shoals // // of rain, algorithmic complexi

s spongy carpets the window clad in

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

Drink and be merry

Bridge // // Red and white

lights guide their journey, // // Light foliage for their constant “g

never hear because I feel // // future

lights heating, burning brighter now // // that her kerosene eyes hav

why i’m getting into Christmas

rary, the chapel, // // the fluster of

lights // // in windows of work-stale rooms. // // Stepping out, //

[The sash rattles up]

/ but all I could hear was the smash of

lights inside me breaking, // // and the low buzzing of machines bene

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ouls dart to and fro // // Between the

lights of speech and depths below, // // The silent depths where touc

Is it a memory?

still see // // A harbour adorned with

lights // // On the festival of Ferragosto // // If I close my eyes

under way // // A harbour adorned with

lights // // Shoeless feet and unsteady ground // // If I close my e

pick this time to fall in love. // //

Lights still flickering on the tree, // // I ain’t sleepy either. //

A Hymn to a Loved One

seem // // Translucent in the glancing

lights that show // // Where their quick-stirring forms are flickerin

Is it a memory?

We were all alone with our // // Camel

lights watching the floating moon. // // We went driving in your pare

// meets a magpie on the road. // //

like , a big fucking magpie. // // and this magpie says: can you help

sence has awoken? // // Your glance is

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

A Token // // Your glance is

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

ken face to face; // // Your glance is

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

ce seeing each other, wasn’t it? // //

Like a breath of old air. Hear from you soon? // // Course. // // [I

Whales sing because they have a song

ee and wine, // // a waiter who looked

like a brother, and a place to talk. // // Years later we went back a

me // // Noises fell in puddles // //

Like a building falling // // Brick by brick. // // I couldn’t make

[So snow falls outside]

dy. // // I imagined its cross section

like a burr, // // or like cork— // // all suberised. // // It coul

el. // // POLONIUS By th’mass and it’s

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

see that cloud? That’s almost in shape

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

// // Perhaps it seems archaic, rather

like a caveman or some troglodyte. // // We are too sophisticated now

Bearded Thoughts

// // A child’s voice deepens, // //

Like a changeling held // // Over the flame, some strange trapped, //

Here be dragons

in the air my grey // // scarf waving

like a distress signal—fossilised. The camera light // // flashed sec

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

es, Ba’al Hadad, I submit. I lie to you

like a dog, like Shaitan or Kafir soft in your ear, and I can change.

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

// She looks up, // // thinking aloud

like a dream, // // ‘There are some days,’ she says, // // ‘when the

In a charity shop

dry // // The boat rocks on the water

like a drum. // //

ial Profiling // // Love set you going

like a fat gold clock (watch!) ticking // // Boxes on an Apollo check

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

// pressed between // // stormclouds

like a flower, // // holding for an instant // // it trembles // //

t sitting there, looking blankly at me,

like a globe spinning so fast that all the colours blurred into white.

[So the moon was there]

// // It lingers violently // //

like a good Pollock should, // // hanging on a nail inside my eyelids

/ Of shapes pinnate and toothed, // //

Like a hand, lobed or broken, // // When will they bear fruit? // //

leaves might fall

ever wash from my hands. I guard myself

like a honeycomb house. // // I wonder about your house by the sea, a

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

/ And the smell of the raw earth // //

like a jolt // // in the clockwork // // of memory. // // Not here,

[The sash rattles up]

ur hair. // // You could trace a line,

like a long sleek ribbon, through all lived history // // that would

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

ng, spluttering, crying // // his name

like a love-song, // // a meaningless // // thing. // // Molly, his

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// // Crouching cold-nose, // // Eyes

like a noose, nipping // // Natural paper edges. // // Through the u

He who made the Lamb

Years from that night // // Fireworks

like a Pollock painting // // As the thunderstorm struck the sea //

se my eyes I still see // // Fireworks

like a Pollock painting // // On the festival of Ferragosto // // Ye

? // // And why do all the names sound

like a robot filled them in? // // The avenues just run as ‘First’ to

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

falls at the first hurdle, // // Snaps

like a rope whipping in a breeze on a desert-plain, // // The pitch-w

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

corridor. // // Every Girtonian burrs

like a Scot, // // At every moment the burring grows, // // Thrushes

BURR (or Brrrrr)

// all suberised. // // It could look

like // // a section of spalted trunk— // // blackstrap coaly seams

ong for water and a sky of blue. // //

Like a seed I want to grow. But all I have is cold coffee, and an empt

[I often think of that January morning]

rything breaks over me in waves. // //

Like a seed listening to echoes through earth, I long for water and a

[I often think of that January morning]

sun seems spent: // // The blasts drop

like a shutter’s blink and break // // The moment when the child look

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

e cemetery, // // Blonde hair flicking

like a snake’s tongue. // // But her stylish-yet-affordable boots //

ur // // Shallow depth of field // //

Like a spirit waiting for its clay; // // Because the abstractions of

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

m flesh through feathers pressed // //

like a sponge-print. // // The last breath out is the first to be dra

too clear. // // A wave breaks over us

like a stage curtain, // // and it is last night on the M56, // // h

lready finished yours. // // Would you

like a top up? // //

// // Mundane, a gaudy colour. // //

Like a trap the hand snaps shut, // // Creases more, // // Folds int

[The sun flattened]

ing blind the top-floor library– // //

Like a vitreous slogan of a monument, // // Reading. // // Pride was

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

a weasel. // // POLONIUS It is backed

like a weasel. // // HAMLET Or like a whale? // // POLONIUS Very lik

el indeed. // // HAMLET Methinks it is

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

ouds and tides to carry // // In light

like a welcome guest. // //

T Or like a whale? // // POLONIUS Very

like a whale. // // Odd things have strewn the floors today: quicksan

backed like a weasel. // // HAMLET Or

like a whale? // // POLONIUS Very like a whale. // // Odd things hav

need to sing; just wait instead. // //

Like a Wiccan would wait, because she knew // // That such a thing as

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

at you // // (only out of you // // (

Like a window)); // // My pride clings like // // The pixillating co

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

concrete wave. // // Days stretch out,

like a wingspan // // And feathers form the funeral parade. // // A

Urban bird watching

woodlouse] // // // // time rolls up

like a woodlouse and the skies // // go white, and nothing hurts the

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

like a woodlouse] // // // // time rolls up like a woodlouse and th

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

the first way I saw it; // // lost

like all beauty. // // But knowing that to hold on // // would tarni

// before my unconscious swallowed me

like an ocean of blue. // // The sadness settled once you’d left. I b

[I often think of that January morning]

ging low in the sky. And it looked just

like an orb, or an egg, or an eye. And it was just sitting there, look

[So the moon was there]

hen, the // // Doors clamp tight shut,

like an oyster, (Would // // Someone please // // Make a gap // //

Poems on the Underground

ble beneath the map // // of her skin,

like // // an unmade bed. // // ‘Couldn’t you just sit,’ I ask, //

In a charity shop

er knew the flow // // And ebb of love

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

[My face is old now]

short. // // You denied yourself, and

like beads loosed from tassels // // the cap of each i let lavender a

himmering nylon stockings curled // //

Like bindweed. Deposited, blooming with the taint // // Of former st

, that our love flows through me // //

Like blood, that I pine for you, and yearn for you, // // And can tas

I’ll never work for Hallmark

ellophane sea and scattered // // doll-

like bodies, their tiny faces // // far too clear. // // A wave brea

ce, // // then passes, // // catseyes

like bouquets // // thrown into the night behind us. // // And now,

// // of you. The thoughts still hurt.

Like bruises, existing as echoes // // of former pain written across

[I often think of that January morning]

e volumes shelved, // // Her thoughts,

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

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

// Cramped into the front room // //

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

Wild Mountain Thyme

/ The speckles of weed on the water are

like chips of dark gold // // Under the magnesium moon. // // One ni

the poets now, who match my age, // //

Like Coleridge I could become a sage, // // And I bet I’d get more da

ts cross section like a burr, // // or

like cork— // // all suberised. // // It could look like // // a se

s. // // Descend, true nature sprouts,

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

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

e are, // // And the loneliness breeds

like dysentery down every corridor, // // And everything becomes impi

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ust as my memories of you began to feel

like echoes, // // you came home. Measuring the miles decreasing with

[I often think of that January morning]

Isle-knit embrace invites me in. // //

Like everything you wear, of course, it’s mine. // // You’ve taken re

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

High-up, grass-cutting, // // Swaying

like fans // // Or parroting particulars // // Drowned in champagne.

for this open sore: // // Verse forms,

like fashions, fit the time they fix— // // You can’t revive a worn-o

In Defence of Evolution

a sense of fear, a bough // // Cracks

like fire, burning so bright, a bird // // Cozied in its nest, snuggl

orms // // Intelligence, to burn a gem-

like flame. // // If you are last to leave, put out the light. // //

ood-screen here, // // His face is set

like flint, // // For stony silence. // // He gives his back to the

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

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

like friends with time.’ // // Everything’s easy. // // It slips lik

In a charity shop

ut he did have firm pecs, and it looked

like good sex— // // But I did seek a bit more humanity. // // My mi

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

I’m here; he knows // // What I sound

like , he knows // // I can swim. He knows, // // He knows— // // Di

Did you bury her yet?

’s still there but it just doesn’t feel

like home anymore // // yeah, tell me about it, but just don’t tell m

eaking // // me, and so I build myself

like honeycomb. Wax might create candlelight, // // but for now my li

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

It’s not that weird, right? // // It’s

like how I don’t enjoy a yoga class until my knees are at my ears, //

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ellor failed to spot, // // But I feel

like I want to be entirely destroyed by love. // // Not like that. //

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

exquisitely ice-etched selves drowned,

like ice cubes // // in scotch, or scotch in a stomach. // // That i

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

knees are at my ears, // // and I feel

like if I rock back and inch, I’ll tumble and my bones will clatter. /

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

repetition rather than by thought. Just

like in nature’s murmuring, Dionysus rules and Apollo is asleep! // /

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

in. We had that last Saturday. I

like it. // // But I can’t taste it anymore. // // Let’s see, ah yes

’s chest, and tear out his heart // //

Like it didn’t belong there, because it was the only way // // The wo

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

tells us he is having an affair. // //

Like I’d know // // I think— // // He is no loathsome sprezzateur //

n” // // Wrapped in layer after layer,

like I’m // // Experiencing that first childhood snow. // // Humming

The Notes You Have Left

t I work // // And let the words go on

like I’m not there. // // I hate doing it, but I // // Shut my ears

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

l. // // Pointy hats—and couplets—fade

like leaves // // In fashion’s autumn, following this rule. // // An

In Defence of Evolution

sleep?) // // But then, just as I feel

like letting go, // // My home appears, a home that I can keep. // /

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

knew how to be guests. // // The page,

like linen freshly laid for tea, // // Bid hieratic welcome to those

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

’ she says, // // ‘when the rails look

like // // lives clustered into the clothes, some // // afternoons w

In a charity shop

d. She was right. // // The rails were

like // // lives woven in cloth, // // a tapestry, // // by which /

In a charity shop

// Journey through the pictures packed

like loam, // // The rooting places of your growing soul, // // The

The Magic Apple Tree

ur hand, // // cold, // // now rests.

like malagas // // through the dust it only // // digs deeper. // /

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

oss the sea, // // A name a little bit

like « me ». // // To the East, to the West, // // I wish a witch wo

Ode to a map of the world

// // In my throat. // // Her chest,

like mine, heaves with caged spite // // Threatening to escape. Getti

ing to make you love me again // // Is

like notating birdsong. // // I made you the ideal theory: // // An

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

le adult figures. // // and the girl’s

like : oh, shit // //

// Everything’s easy. // // It slips

like oil through an engine, // // with the occasional stinge // // s

In a charity shop

es at our backs— // // the city ragged

like old // // lace, all behind us. // // Your jeans were rusty //

Tridente, 10th September

t can one compare each specimen, // //

Like one might have done sitting in an omnibus or hackney cab: // //

Bearded Thoughts

hools now, fumbling for the East Indies

like one who // // couldn’t find his hat in the dark so he put on the

machinery // // Like you, that stalked

like one who had // // Mastered the hunt with effortless effrontery /

can there be // // Between two worlds

like ours? // // Could I be lost in Venus, // // Could you be found

The Daily Planet

they burst through their binding // //

like overwound springs; // // nilly-willy their horns reap // // the

Nil Charge / Nil Return

And those that would. // // They buzz

like passengers, the // // words that please the mind, // // navigat

Poems on the Underground

ters like Tennyson, // // Who improve,

like port and venison, // // And turn life’s lead to poems of pure go

n while the branch outside knocks, drum-

like , // // Pounding out a rhythm in harmony with cold machinery. //

Snapshot Endings

der if new children might // // Monkey-

like prance from branch to branch, preserving those // // Old childho

d, dripping hungrily on the path // //

Like rain. Staining stones darker as words attempt to fill the gap //

Snapshot Endings

// From the lips of this voice // //

Like saliva onto the paper. // // The words and ink slowly // // See

Writing to explore

// // To imagine // // (your contours

like sand-dunes // // against the beige of my fingertips // // again

// The ocean rolling beneath us // //

Like seeing a humpback breach // // Great Skellig slate grey and wet

Perseid gleams between the stars // //

Like seeing a humpback breach // // The fire which leapt over us //

dad, I submit. I lie to you like a dog,

like Shaitan or Kafir soft in your ear, and I can change. if it will m

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

ding me of things that are // // Sweet

like shalimar, // // And of things that are gone // // Since we went

// // Out to the desert, // // Sweet

like shalimar // // On the radio, the sandy scar // // Of dunes on t

e from turning sour, while // // Sweet

like shalimar // // Played on over things that were // // Wrong, tha

// That dusky silence hit // // Sweet

like shalimar. // // We were all alone with our // // Camel lights w

die young, // // That you must expire

like Shelley, // // Or the fire in your belly // // Will be quenched

d, // // hunch-huddled, // // a child-

like smile almost // // discernable beneath the map // // of her ski

In a charity shop

look inside, and find you here, // //

Like spring, eternal spring, inside my heart. // //

[My face is old now]

in different ways. // // I see it all,

like spring it follows // // All before. Even now, after all these ye

[My face is old now]

ssikan, your juniper hair // // shines

like strands of the sun resting // // upon my shoulder. // // and th

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

ousers rolled, // // I need characters

like Tennyson, // // Who improve, like port and venison, // // And t

entirely destroyed by love. // // Not

like that. // // I mean, sure, to be frank, part of me’s always wonde

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

assicist, that type of beard that looks

like that of Hercules // // On plaster casts. // // No longer when w

Bearded Thoughts

t on blocks because they planned it out

like that // // (You don’t get perpendiculars in nature, after all).

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ed arch // // piercing the wall, built

like the house // // of weathered Cotswold stone. // // The box and

uly subside and quietly die in a corner

like the living things? // // With dreams you wake, and feel as if yo

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

nd we imagine their last seconds // //

like the one whose dog slept on // // their chest to keep it warm //

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

t line, clutching our briefcases // //

Like the paperwork holds the keys to victory, // // Like they’ll prot

Like a window)); // // My pride clings

like // // The pixillating condensation // // Bolting blind the top-

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

// // His // // Voice // // Opening

like the sky opens round // // -ing a road as you reach a bay and the

y useless // // And is perfect, // //

Like the thing that you were. // // The morning still falls // // An

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

// And squalls through your hair // //

Like the wind that I cannot contain by // // Mapping its every minusc

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

ate at night, taken with port) // // I

like them all and sample every sort // // from Creamy keats with his

Cheese is the medium

they had wars but not

like these did they ever ask the question // // What we cooking

rwork holds the keys to victory, // //

Like they’ll protect us when our cosy lives explode. // // Mental mus

// What kind of fool deceives himself

like this? // //

The chicken and the egg

’re done, // // We know we can’t go on

like this… // //

[A Farewell Kiss]

’re done, // // We know we can’t go on

like this. // // Farewell—farewell—our time is gone, // // A farewel

[A Farewell Kiss]

Like This // // Teetering on the edge of // // A big idea. // // Ea

Falling Is Like This

ast-receding shore // // And revelries

like this will be no more. // // Re-fill my glass, and this time with

always wondered // // What it might be

like to be tied up, or otherwise encumbered, // // Or maybe forced to

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// I think— // // I should very much

like to hold you // // over // // a // // volcano. // //

set the pair of them off— // // it was

like triple trouble! // // They simmered down when he was about five

boys scrambled up, toecurling-wise and

like two young // // Eves, in a flurry of speckled limbs lobbed apple

light in green water—come and go // //

Like us from depth to height—suddenly seem // // Translucent in the g

Is it a memory?

mth in 5 o’clock dark, // // You smell

like watching rain fall // // In burnt amber light, // // With an ol

Fall for————

llapsed into the shattered trees // //

Like water flows down drains. // // If there had been a bird // // N

[The sun flattened]

es the tenderness of nature. What is he

like ? What is his name? I don’t know and could only marvel: he exists,

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

mouflage of grease spots // // Leopard-

like // // Within the corrugated cage. // // The petrified wood //

gain // // Until your notes covered it

like yellow bricks. // //

The Notes You Have Left

her // // As the tree drops its leaves

like yellow coin: // // NOW // // and NOW // // an

[At the coinciding point of the years]

e a worn-out box of tricks. // // Just

like you can’t wear medieval sleeves // // Or habits while you bike y

In Defence of Evolution

The Cutting Edge // // At my back,

like you, I always hear // // The edge, the cutting edge is coming ne

The Cutting Edge

ors come for me. // // For at my back,

like you, I always here // // The cutting edge, the edge is coming ne

The Cutting Edge

honed piece of mortal machinery // //

Like you, that stalked like one who had // // Mastered the hunt with

u’re in the clear. // // Play your men

like your cards, dear, and never // // Keep your cards in hand after

l). // // The streets of London slalom

like your childhood’s playroom mat, // // And Rome and Paris too have

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

nd go // // you’ve got that in you not

like your father. // // Stiff from the night before and still drunk /

eath, but you can’t // // And it feels

like your head will explode // // And the watery sounds take control

orn halo hallows your head, // // Vice-

like ; your pierced side holds your sceptre-spear. // // What passion.

nk. Enough buns // // and you’ll look

like you’ve one in the oven. // // Teacakes were taboo. I wasn’t eve

Chocolate Sonnet

er // // for a summer spin— // // and

liked a lass from Lancashire; // // so milk-white was her skin. // /

in. And although the skies never really

liked the moon, they loved it enough to not let it drown, and so I was

[So the moon was there]

) // // They’d say it was tragic, most

likely . // // I think the sky is tragic, // // I think it is tragic

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// To that glorious future, // // His

likeness glimmering // // On coarse woollen lapels // // As proof of

Magnetic Mountain

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS

LIKETO BE HERE IN THIS PLACE // // black // // frost // // black //

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

t seems fine chance will be // // And,

likewise to two falling trees, my bone, // // Unseen or seen, did spa

[What have we done]

/ // I will slip off the window of her

lily -ridden house and // // pursue the sunrise with a net of silver c

Aubade to Girton

w // // For the final stroke // // In

Lily’s masterpiece. // //

‘within three working days’. // // In

limbo here I can no longer vouch // // for working days, or if my rea

Between Life and Death

/ // sweetened coffee, a palimpsest of

limbs and layers leafing through // // pages upon pages of poetry. My

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ng // // Eves, in a flurry of speckled

limbs lobbed apples her way. // // She spat the pips, for they could

Limerick // // There was an old Fellow of Girton // // who always ma

lham Cove, // // with fields below and

limestone crags above; // // descend the steps to reach the valley fl

Daydream Dale Journey

plumbing blues and blacks. // // Damp

limestone humming and spectral, // // The absence, eerie, of mountain

ing over crystalline tarmac. // // The

limestone’s awake, the vestibules are glowing, // // The Sun, gentle,

ed, // // Shorn beneath its reasonable

limits // // And covering the hard brown earth. // // Blurry, out of

t’s a hell of a lot // // There are no

limits and we’re all in boy // // and I’ll take you for all that you’

(Worth mending, Nan said, it’s genuine

Limoges ); // // The milk jug from bank holidays // // At Dungeness L

ode in their sockets, // // And as I’m

limping blind through Siberia, // // I want her to restart the solar

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// allowed to bring up the subject of

Lindt . // // All of which left just me. You gave that up for Lent. /

Chocolate Sonnet

edge of // // A big idea. // // Each

line , a step, // // Towards that moment // // Where it takes off. //

Falling Is Like This

iss-cross rays // // wedding chimes of

line and light that got through to me. // // I don’t always want to b

saic! My judicious removal of selected

line breaks was universally acknowledged to be the making of this poem

e meet with Blight, // // Whose knived

line carv’s out a trace, a Well // // Cascading in with all its might

[What have we done]

triped tie // // Marching to the front

line , clutching our briefcases // // Like the paperwork holds the key

// // As my pen moves blankly line to

line // // Controlled by the wrist of an amputee, // // I fear I am

Exam Room Villanelle

broken shards. // // Burnished leaves

line damp concrete, // // Rejected love letters abandoned. // // I w

Fall for————

The Other Side of the

Line // // “I drew a line under you today.” // // You spat in my fac

The Other Side of the Line

l, but can’t fain it: // // With every

line I hate the bugger more. // // And so my theory for this open sor

In Defence of Evolution

riting to explore // // When I write a

line I wonder // // Just exactly where it came from // // And if it’

Writing to explore

ith your hair. // // You could trace a

line , like a long sleek ribbon, through all lived history // // that

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

a list of wedding favours // // And a

line not drawn on paper. // //

leaves might fall

eft to fight for, I battle. // // Your

line , not for emphasis, but division, // // Pushes me back. You’re th

The Other Side of the Line

s, a sign that all is right. // // The

line of bodies on the table in // // The dust-white room are children

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

on the stock exchange // // So we can

line pockets and grease palms. // // The fear that we will not get up

mind // // As I try to get my brain on

line , // // Searching amongst my fact-debris. // // In the inky hall

Exam Room Villanelle

h or vicious statement. // // But your

line stands, reinforced, leaving me // // Gripping the tatters of hop

The Other Side of the Line

t was in fairly strict ballad form—four-

line stanzas, three tetrameter and one trimeter, rhymed ABAB. How pro

Before those wretched wreckers draw the

line // // That severs, and condemns us to decline, // // Before the

ur waking, // // Beyond your long last

line the dawn is breaking”. // //

a phrase // // or check a reference on-

line . // // This is the en-suite life. // // I thought I’d fledged,

A Room of Her Own

xtended in front, walking in a straight

line , tied to the inexorability of pace and // // surety of pressing

confined // // As my pen moves blankly

line to line // // Controlled by the wrist of an amputee, // // I fe

Exam Room Villanelle

Other Side of the Line // // “I drew a

line under you today.” // // You spat in my face. // // And swiftly

The Other Side of the Line

ne wins // // Except you, you and your

line victorious. // //

The Other Side of the Line

ipotence,’ // // Augmenting the fourth

line with discordant violence. // // The angel-song, the music of the

how to be guests. // // The page, like

linen freshly laid for tea, // // Bid hieratic welcome to those gods,

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

enhance // // That fine-boned beauty,

linen -wrapped and masked in paint? // // How many years your kohl eye

// // Only an infidel writes thirteen

lines . // //

// // // First light and then first

lines along the east // // To touch and brush a sheen of light on wat

t their Garden up in perfectly straight

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

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

chalk and // // turf scalped red, ley

lines and hillforts, // // invasions and massacres, all the savagery

Wandlebury Hill

o revisit as you swing down through the

lines and rhymes // // Of everything you see (trying so hard to relat

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

e fading evening light. // // Slanting

lines are forming, breaking, forming // // ordered chaos with a rauco

Wells in winter

read the unspeakable // // Between the

lines // // As the tongue slips on significance. // // Above the bel

once were: // // those undulating ring-

lines breathing // // age into you // // and sighing into the ground

ped // // he loved it… crossing // //

lines ” I said. // // “somethings wrong” I said, // // cutting throug

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp

Lines ” // // // // // Manhattan’s built on blocks because they pla

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

the machine under skin, // // Let code-

lines mesh with genotyping—is this the poem? // // Millennia lived to

? // // The vapours held betwixt these

lines move tight // // Into gaping personages then, quick // // As t

[What have we done]

// more curlews, more ragged, slanting

lines of geese // // more travels, journeys, voyages, expeditions //

old pond harsh, // // Revealing smokey

lines of my knife’s end. // // I’m roped on to the source, luminate,

[What have we done]

/ the seeds spun by the breeze, between

lines of sonnets, // // in the secret of the space behind the new moo

Forever stained with the Bard’s loving

lines , she found herself immortalised. // // If Chesterton had been p

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ow his sumptuous form is reduced to two

lines , // // They mark the seat of disappointment, // // Deep in my

’Tis pity he’s a bore

t can contrive // // To lean a pile of

lines towards the left. // // You’d have to be a fool to feel bereft

In Defence of Evolution

LinesA song in word-music. // // Love sent you to the desert’s hush-p

ching // // By the bone-ground my eyes

linger ; // // I am watching the boy take off his shoes, // // Slippi

which only they know best, // // As we

linger in our lovely, darkening bowers // // Of bushes, trees, and li

[Walcott begins Omeros]

my mind back inside itself, and let it

linger // // On the stirring of senses caused by your palm on mine. /

I’ll never work for Hallmark

// then to Caerphilly came. // // They

lingered long in Leicestershire; // // red was the evening sky. // /

I can never not see it again. // // It

lingers violently // // like a good Pollock should, // // hangin

und this table, // // A crowd of faces

linked by tinsel and blood, // // While the ideal me waves from a mil

// // recognition, fellowships // // (

Linnean Society 1904, // // Girton College 1913). // // The Reigate

There must be moonshine

all to notions of her name, // // tame

linnets nibble for to follow // // and trade with her their needs, (a

/ For example, in my mind: here comes a

lion , then an elephant, and presently, a bear. I did not ask them to c

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

you come // // To the stone steps, the

lions , the façade, // // The white Museum with its plate-glass doors.

The Magic Apple Tree

e juice that runs // // From tongue to

lip to lip’s corner and streams // // Into a bead collecting at his c

’Tis pity he’s a bore

/ Framed by filtering sun, picking your

lip . // // You’ve handed me back the earbuds we were sharing, // //

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

/ // poor yew transplanted // // wide-

lipped pots // // ornamental // // shape clipped // // wind curves

yew needs dried blood in spring

he curse of your name dribbling from my

lips // // And clotting on my neck. // // I know now you walk as a m

dribbles in excitement // // licks his

lips and gets his slippers on // // as she indulges in a spot // //

[the typist puts her knickers on]

a word // // amongst the wine stained

lips and glasses, // // teabags gone furry in the heat, // // an emp

g, can’t be wrong // // and when their

lips and legs lock together in an unbreakable twist // // their kisse

Same but differenT

diphthongs dripping, from // // their

lips and // // their mother tongue the tongue of love. // // they us

Same but differenT

an ancient kin’s era // // he sees my

lips as archaeological tools // // extracting and brushing each lette

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

// // // // the cold air stings my

lips // // … // // i have a strong urge to tell you how it feels to

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

g. // // “I don’t know” spills from my

lips in a constant litany, // // Until my shame hangs, heavy, in the

// Syrupy fingertips // // Slide past

lips // // Mellow touch, a kiss // // Then our eyes meet // //

// // Drift, despair, dream // // Of

lips never to kiss // // There’s none to hold you // // Here’s Thana

rmed thoughts will drip // // From the

lips of this voice // // Like saliva onto the paper. // // The words

Writing to explore

rrection. Adonai, Adonis, open my sword

lips , then my mouth will praise you. the wild dogs cry out in the undu

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

fferings. // // Dutiful eyes, obedient

lips , // // Voices synchronising in prayer. // // Our devotion will

with her mouth // // So that I have a

lipstick smudge scar all the way round my torso. // // And as the sea

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

that runs // // From tongue to lip to

lip’s corner and streams // // Into a bead collecting at his chin’s p

’Tis pity he’s a bore

within the marsh, // // Melting into a

liquid form, they blend. // // A faded wash seemingly moves o’er all;

[What have we done]

r eyes. // // As the sky began seeping

liquid gold // // and blood rust // // we were both made from stardu

od rust // // as the sky began seeping

liquid gold, // // the kind that still refracts through your eyes. //

rs to surrender // // I take even your

liquid mirror // // Is there no more you can do // // Than whine wit

// The light trickled through, // // A

liquid reminiscent of // // Our despondent slough // // By contrast.

iding through part-drawn shades, // //

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

le shot of gin // // (needs to get her

liquors on) // // gets her lighter, gets her gas, // // runs down th

[the typist puts her knickers on]

gers stunt’d; // // numb’d ass’nance, ’

lision ; laziness, it shows. // // Descend, true nature sprouts, like

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

ideal theory: // // An unsystematised

list of every correct proposition. // // It says nothing // // And i

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

t news borne on the wind? // // Just a

list of wedding favours // // And a line not drawn on paper. // //

leaves might fall

// // Looking for that one item on my

list . // // Trying to keep on course, despite // // The best attemp

The Notes You Have Left

// You’re obtuse—and a pain. Now PLEASE

listen again // //

Things a man should know

love you so. // // But it didn’t

listen , and so I did. // // // // You did what? // //

[So the moon was there]

ames which I have learned. // // Now I

listen at the window // // As the branches dance and turn, // // The

leaves might fall

Did you bury her yet? // // // //

Listen , kid: are you, or are you not, // // The boy in the poem? //

Did you bury her yet?

d I kept digging, lungs // // Burning.

Listen , kid: // // Broken ribs aren’t worth it, // // Kid: bandages

Did you bury her yet?

lowly starts to disperse. // // Take a

listen , // // This is how the rain now sounds, // // This is how it

Who am I, Bernard?

und. // // His talents astound: // //

Listen // // to // // His // // Voice // // Opening like the sky o

e, this rhythm in your blood // // And

listen to it, ringing soft and low. // // Stay with the music, words

I picture the Ramsays’ sitting room and

listen to music whilst I work // // And let the words go on like I’m

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// feel the warmth of the fire, // //

listen to the lapping of the water, // // and gaze into space. // //

// // Lying dizzily on the cliffs, we

listened to echoes upon echoes // // of the sea incessantly singing h

[I often think of that January morning]

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

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

ng before Christmas day. // // Men and

listening children // // Wait for the ring of a bell, // // hush, pr

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

ks over me in waves. // // Like a seed

listening to echoes through earth, I long for water and a sky of blue.

[I often think of that January morning]

ger munching, soul searching, love-life

listing . // // The death rattle of the track’s devouring // // And a

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

at something worse. // // the waiting

lists are long, and you are drained. // // the billows settle low, co

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

s a punishment. // // The fire will be

lit in the dark hours of night, // // when dawn is stuck in its casua

The Dead Letter Office closes down

// and dark night fell as we built and

lit the fire // // on the dark stones, and planted fireworks // // i

know” spills from my lips in a constant

litany , // // Until my shame hangs, heavy, in the frosted air. // //

// // Make the metaphor of photography

literal , // // Purgatory lenses your beauty. // // Glacial. Tangled

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

cup to the soil and loam, // // To the

litter of leaves and the mulch and the muck— // // To the lifter of l

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

two, // // old feathers and splinters

litter our floorboards. // // Ooh go on then, treat ourselves to a fa

busy. // // Amidst these love letters

littered , // // Lost in curdled red // // I’ve been busy, too, // /

Fall for————

// But staying afloat? // // I move a

little , and the ripples run. // // Spill? // // All the little fishe

Whales sing because they have a song

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

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

Ode to a map of the world

he hills ranged all around // // —they

little care. // // Voices far across the valley sound // // through

legged at home and laugh at our crooked

little fingers. // // Promise me—don’t compromise your name, // // T

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

pples run. // // Spill? // // All the

little fishes swim in packs, and I’m thinking, the fuck will they do i

Whales sing because they have a song

ass? Why do I chiefly mourn // // that

little gap where we had always kept // // your compass with its swing

Compass Reading

unknown but home. // // Ah but before

little hands can tear at tissue // // Stille Nacht must be sung befor

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

st streets and plazas names that have a

little heft. // // To name your best street simply ‘Fifth’ must surel

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

hessikaner we fell in (or down), // //

little hessikan, your juniper hair // // shines like strands of the s

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

snatch its sound out the air. // // in

little hessikaner we fell in (or down), // // little hessikan, your j

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

reath pleads for a haven. // // I have

little hope that either will be satisfied. // // I am a fool without

other one— // // Perhaps just one more

little kiss, // // A farewell kiss—and then we’re done, // // We kno

[A Farewell Kiss]

// A mile away, the ideal me, // // A

little less wary, a little more loved, // // Turns away and continues

ideal me, // // A little less wary, a

little more loved, // // Turns away and continues onwards // // Unti

” // // So the project proceeds with a

little more priming (the // // buy-in from business is not keeping pa

Troubled waters

eful echoes. // // Even now I remember

little of reading The Waves // // except your soft smile each time my

[I often think of that January morning]

glowing through stained glass. // // O

little one mild. // // Lunchtime with the family, // // Lead on, Spi

A Hymn to a Loved One

e a dial. // // Why should I miss this

little piece of you? // //

Compass Reading

through // // the air, and back to the

little room where October seeps through // // the window frame. The c

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

Revelry // // Come fill the cup, we’ve

little time to drink, // // The ship of state’s about to plunge and s

seen your struggle. // // It’s only a

little voice in the back of your mind, // // Telling you about things

e and concept. // // 2. // // After a

little while, looking in this way becomes annoying. It just comes and

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

mself will follow soon enough; // // A

little word so easy to excise // // Another snippet for the cutting r

The Cutting Edge

// Whilst you speak the weather of our

little world // // (Wednesdays it rains; pumpkins pockmark; cushion-t

iven // // And given things can always

live again. // // The stone is rolled away, the rocks are riven // /

An Easter Triolet

And space between the // // Ones that

live as they please // // And those that would. // // They buzz like

Poems on the Underground

// // A woman fallen has no reason to

live , // // But do beware // // Something’s gotta give. // // From

so scorns Hamas. // // Where we die to

live , he has zero to give. // // Consequences. Jerusalem, 3 March 200

wanted now // // by you alive or dead?

Live I could raise // // a cool half million. Dead it goes to Joe. //

Between Life and Death

y. // // Take some distance. // // We

live in morbidity, // // Submissive or dead, // // Are you too far t

[She points to the sky]

advice // // contained in The You Only

Live Once Manual. // // My life was compromised // // in an instant

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

The chicken and the egg // // I

live ! Un-ownable, not made: revealed. // // Confused and worn, I don’

The chicken and the egg

ou say // // and my fear is I will not

live up to the task. // //

the end of the road, stop. If you can’t

live with yourself, // // Don’t. No easier to describe my feelings in

Snapshot Endings

, like a long sleek ribbon, through all

lived history // // that would show the immortal endeavour to preserv

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

red panters of the air; // // The dead

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

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

ping—is this the poem? // // Millennia

lived together, so tangled in this flesh— // // Survival does not equ

are the slips of paper // // where you

lived your paper- // // life. They are too few. // // Birth certific

Stone, Paper, Scissors

to large rock, add eagle and serve hot

liver with vengeance // // second, store in cool place until hardened

an, Bologna’s drawing-master. // // He

lives a quiet, four-cornered life, // // Polite, determined, and remo

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

en // // And here’s a given thing that

lives again. // //

An Easter Triolet

dark, // // hungry every second of our

lives , and // // blood-fed, or starved to oblivion // // in five min

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

ches, // // Remembering half-forgotten

lives , // // Are obscured by Middle-Eastern tales. // // The supple

Before Christmas

// // ‘when the rails look like // //

lives clustered into the clothes, some // // afternoons when the sun

In a charity shop

/ Like they’ll protect us when our cosy

lives explode. // // Mental muscles flex and pose in minimalist offic

tles // // In return for our shiny new

lives , however long they last. // //

// Our space is the earth, // // time

lives in fire, // // leaving us the water and the air. // //

nd. // // Hear! Our songs of love, our

lives , our blood, and // // My window on the world in all its hues: /

nce Dmitry // // Who had crowned their

lives with grace. // // They came with cakes, they came with flowers

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ight. // // The rails were like // //

lives woven in cloth, // // a tapestry, // // by which // // all th

In a charity shop

warmth, to find you sleeping, // // My

living comfort, burrowed in our bed. // // You reach across and still

ar you say, // // “But life is for the

living , do not kill // // another day.” // // And yet you stay // /

ing bowers // // Of bushes, trees, and

living , dying flowers. // //

[Walcott begins Omeros]

esent: a poet’s hexagram // // Of ever-

living fire and unseen rose. // // This is our hexagram: the Tudor ro

Sixteen Forty-Five

n black) might say. // // The beard is

living history, we are too close to the past, // // The razor might n

Bearded Thoughts

ntains and hills around, // // Nothing

living in this landscape // // Save mustangs high up in the hills. //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

r all and all for one is right // // a

living riddle of the one and one and one // // but in the ritual spli

gh // // To join their business in the

living room. // // She does not see them now. // // After all, it wa

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

de and quietly die in a corner like the

living things? // // With dreams you wake, and feel as if you’d never

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ees // // tasting the words themselves

lke cottage cheese // // To Eliot, difficult, in cold collations //

Cheese is the medium

e'll thread through your jaw— // // We'

ll build you up better than ever before. // //

from the front of your grin, // // we'

ll make you a new one of china and tin. // // After your hipbone, we'

and tin. // // After your hipbone, we'

ll put in a ball // // of steel and titanium, wedged in the hole, //

rom the wall— // // After the wires we'

ll thread through your jaw— // // We'll build you up better than ever

s, the fields of barleycorn. // // The

loaded branches of the apple tree, // // Glow red and ripe and gold a

The Magic Apple Tree

up in the hills. // // Surely a tragic

loading , // // Something to analyze here. // // Nothing can stand fo

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

for greed and proof of love or life, no

loafing here. // // And people don’t look at the sky anymore, not unl

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

who gave you your face? // // Dig, let

loam glaze the // // pain, till we // // forget // // your // // n

Wandlebury Hill

ourney through the pictures packed like

loam , // // The rooting places of your growing soul, // // The subso

The Magic Apple Tree

/ // A toast and a cup to the soil and

loam , // // To the litter of leaves and the mulch and the muck— // /

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

faced words incarnate, bastard breed of

loathing and love. // //

’d know // // I think— // // He is no

loathsome sprezzateur // // Nor some unsavvy stumbling sapeur // //

// Eves, in a flurry of speckled limbs

lobbed apples her way. // // She spat the pips, for they could choke

ur shared domain: // // the start, the

lobby of a Greek hotel // // in summer, where we met and all was well

innate and toothed, // // Like a hand,

lobed or broken, // // When will they bear fruit? // // Each spent p

leaves might fall

/ // Garden shed // // with a still?

Local // // excise officer takes to // // dropping by unannounced. /

There must be moonshine

came, and the woods grew pretty // //

Local people left the city // // Moved by long forgotten pity // //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

deciding to stay. // // We marched in

lock -step // // To that glorious future, // // His likeness glimmeri

Magnetic Mountain

ong // // and when their lips and legs

lock together in an unbreakable twist // // their kisses aren’t words

Same but differenT

/ as if there were any doors still left

locked // // anything not yet broken, so tell me // // contrary polt

angers in when they came at one, // //

locked up behind us when we left // // and then went home to get the

for the sender or sent, // // so we’re

locking the door and we’re losing the key. // // If you aimed a card,

The Dead Letter Office closes down

at It // // sees inside you // // and

lodges a piece of itself there? // // Breathless, I stand being

// // in a wild part of the old South

London cemetery. // // Perhaps I should plant // // some box or holl

ppens my old friend is crowned mayor of

London , he // // goes by the rubrik of Boris the Mad. // // He’d ado

Troubled waters

ture, after all). // // The streets of

London slalom like your childhood’s playroom mat, // // And Rome and

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

f bridges traversing the Thames here in

London , we’ve // // just thirty three—surely room for one more. // /

Troubled waters

w very different we are, // // And the

loneliness breeds like dysentery down every corridor, // // And every

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

/ Leaves of my skin, the seeping rot of

loneliness . I walk // // Barefoot across the damp ground of my though

[I am almost 25 years old]

// It’s so easy // // to deflate into

lonely doubt. // // Coloured creases of downy skin // // and the tac

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

r seen, did spark a tiny fire. // // A

lonely ember ’twas, and did require // // Some movement to its fickle

[What have we done]

am not in my perfect mind // // In the

lonely hall where I’m confined. // //

Exam Room Villanelle

the radiator // // and the snow is no

longer faintly falling // // but grows into ice as my hair is chilled

why i’m getting into Christmas

of smoke, // // To find new ways to no

longer hold. // //

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

Temple // // The moon is no

longer my goddess. // // I praise Venus with every judder. // // My

h the end result // // The big idea no

longer seems so big // // The fall, awkward // // And unspectacular.

Falling Is Like This

etting nowhere, I stare // // Harder,

longer . Trying to be less alive, // // To lose this odium before I lo

ng days’. // // In limbo here I can no

longer vouch // // for working days, or if my real malaise // // mig

Between Life and Death

ules // // On plaster casts. // // No

longer when walking down the street can one compare each specimen, //

Bearded Thoughts

// // Crashing, shrieking, // // Half

longing , half caution. // // Should I let myself sink into the caress

earn for you, // // And can taste this

longing in the back of my mouth, you’d laugh. // // After all, love i

I’ll never work for Hallmark

en why do you stagnate and // // fade,

longing to change the world? // //

[The world moves the same]

rade of sad sad songs, and sadder looks

longingly out at a patch of grass with the sun on it and a rabbit or t

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

through and hope // // I get one last

look . // //

ital. // // There were the children to

look after— // // there was no chance for her to follow him. // // T

Black September

world of things // // as I today: you

look and autumn springs. // //

and purely luminous. It is difficult to

look and experience life in this way. It has no name, it exists, it sh

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

e ridiculed! // // 9. // // Poets can

look and see something that has been secretly excluded by the precisio

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

oice and its words. // // But then you

look around // // And no one can hear it // // And no one has seen y

1. // // Don’t think. Look. Just look,

look around! Don’t be blinded by preconceptions that pretend to be the

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

spitting ’oft. // // My open’d eyes do

look around the wood, // // The ghoulish form’s tear in the air re-se

[What have we done]

) beauty looks at you // // you do not

look at It // // sees inside you // // and lodges a piece of i

is, and // // gets the Red Margaret to

look at the case. // // “It’s been a fiasco, a drain on our taxes. T

Troubled waters

o loafing here. // // And people don’t

look at the sky anymore, not unless it is tragic, // // And even if y

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

panes steal your reflections. // // I

look at you, across from me, on those // // Special four-seater secti

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

Loose Ghazal for Rumi // //

Look at you—born of halves and fulls, // // Born of earth into stalle

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

came to see you, // // which I do. You

look back at me. // // The moment passes, and we turn anywhere: // /

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

his is where I hide— // // and you can

look for me forever // // on the passing trains and platforms // //

rother’s cry. // // The virus makes me

look // // for virtue in the virtual // // but supervision faces //

A Room of Her Own

// The fight’s already started. // //

Look from above, // // We’re on the losing side. // // Isn’t this ma

[She points to the sky]

h back from college, refusing // // to

look him in the eye, it could have been a confrontation but there’s //

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

a chin. // // Perhaps we’re scared to

look history in the face, // // The bearded wonders from a bygone age

Bearded Thoughts

there’s a word // // for the desire to

look in the windows of other peoples’ homes, // // but I don’t rememb

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

ter all these years apart, // // I can

look inside, and find you here, // // Like spring, eternal spring, in

[My face is old now]

Abstract’ // // 1. // // Don’t think.

Look . Just look, look around! Don’t be blinded by preconceptions that

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

— // // all suberised. // // It could

look like // // a section of spalted trunk— // // blackstrap coaly s

days,’ she says, // // ‘when the rails

look like // // lives clustered into the clothes, some // // afterno

In a charity shop

st monk. Enough buns // // and you’ll

look like you’ve one in the oven. // // Teacakes were taboo. I wasn’

Chocolate Sonnet

/ // 1. // // Don’t think. Look. Just

look , look around! Don’t be blinded by preconceptions that pretend to

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

// // in small. Then they took on the

look of all that marginalia // // you find from the smug graffiti-wri

e news they lie upon, they can’t // //

Look out at me, because their faces are // // Rubbed out. In Beit Ha

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

e forever anxiously on the edge, on the

look out; never can we rest and say that: we have it now. Philosophers

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

r account for its spontaneous creation.

Look , really look—we are nothing, we have nothing, everything swims an

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

why does New York City from the heavens

look so flat? // // And why do all the names sound like a robot fille

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

h stares out from under you. // // You

look so nice: fresh-dressed and still warm from // // Your bath—calm

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

// Great things I can destroy, // //

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

[So snow falls outside]

// Until I hit the ground, // // And

look up at what I achieved. // // Disappointment, often, when // //

Falling Is Like This

burys’ run, give Mum a call, // // and

look up flight-times for your daughter’s plane. // // Your life defin

the open beach, in rich sea air. // //

Look up, look up, my love—the sky is calling. // // Dark shapes are c

Wells in winter

beach, in rich sea air. // // Look up,

look up, my love—the sky is calling. // // Dark shapes are calling ea

Wells in winter

its spontaneous creation. Look, really

look —we are nothing, we have nothing, everything swims and wills aroun

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

umans feel the change // // And, if we

look , we can still see. // // Great stone shrines were built // // M

Before Christmas

y lifetimes before us // // And, if we

look , we can still see // // There are pagan echoes. // //

Before Christmas

/ // 6. // // Let It come freely, and

look what nonsense it writes! How it is determined by sound, rhythm, a

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

gentle breaths. // // How different we

look —you and I, // // More darkness in my brow than in your entirety.

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

there? // // Breathless, I stand being

looked at // // immobile open ripped apart. // // Then the ligh

hes and stays– // // I never earnestly

looked at you // // (only out of you // // (Like a window)); // //

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

studied mass, created form, // // And

looked for no eternal flame. // // Just passed on far more heat than

s there, hanging low in the sky. And it

looked just like an orb, or an egg, or an eye. And it was just sitting

[So the moon was there]

nd coffee and wine, // // a waiter who

looked like a brother, and a place to talk. // // Years later we went

/ // But he did have firm pecs, and it

looked like good sex— // // But I did seek a bit more humanity. // /

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

sly mourning red petal fingernails. You

looked sadly through // // me, and I was left swallowing saltwater st

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

d at the elbows and knees. But the moon

looked so sad that I stayed there for hours and hours until it began t

[So the moon was there]

How and Why I Should Have

Looked You in the Eyes: // // Focus is the hinge // // Between exper

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

ou at each table? // // You’re already

looking at me, somehow knowing, // // Somehow wisdom in fresh eyes sh

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

ame // // he chose has cut us off from

looking at // // the focus of her gaze: does he not want // // to te

Cape Cod Morning

been, what, eight? yeah, eight. // //

Looking back, it’s flown by. On his 13th birthday we had that big par

and observe // // What? I stare at you

looking . Blank! Crack open the sixth seal // // Whilst you speak the

an eye. And it was just sitting there,

looking blankly at me, like a globe spinning so fast that all the colo

[So the moon was there]

// // the rabid // // the lame // //

looking for folk answers // // to folk problems // // and finding //

k // // who come from the hills // //

looking for folk answers // // to folk problems // // and though the

// // the old // // the rabid // //

looking for folk answers // // to folk problems // // hoping today /

Garish Christmas wrapping paper, // //

Looking for that one item on my list. // // Trying to keep on course,

The Notes You Have Left

looking // // I don’t know what makes art Art // // maybe it’s that

// // 2. // // After a little while,

looking in this way becomes annoying. It just comes and goes—we are fo

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

have hollow // // Fishbowl eyes // //

Looking over sidings. // // Their peeling paint // // Maroon // //

// BBC1, half past ten. // // Here’s

lookin ’ at you, kid. // //

A Hymn to a Loved One

break // // The moment when the child

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

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

hen the child looks and the lens // //

Looks and the newspaper image blithely grins // // Into a million mes

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

thing of // // (heart-stopping) beauty

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

ur love and your roses // // Your good

looks , better bank statements and embrace, // // Will catch me this t

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

looks chipper—it’s bigger and fitter // // And should keep me going f

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

cular // // Distinct, only, because it

looks // // Forlorn enough to be a threat to // // Something. // //

Vicious or Virtuous?

rs cold in sleeping bag at night // //

Looks in to see them dancing in red light, // // Endeavours in but we

Three gay rituals

the classicist, that type of beard that

looks like that of Hercules // // On plaster casts. // // No longer

Bearded Thoughts

n a tirade of sad sad songs, and sadder

looks longingly out at a patch of grass with the sun on it and a rabbi

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

machine clanging to a halt, // // mind

looks on in horror) // // but in the true sense: // // beating mind

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

nted past // // And impotent. Neutrino

looks on Mass. // // So was the project worth it? Should we mass- //

eans // // upon a table in the window,

looks // // out into sunlight, over grass, towards // // some distan

Cape Cod Morning

// // Blots the sky, what is // // It

looks to flower in your // // Cries, but falls fallow? // // Go hung

Here be dragons

/ pensioner-permeated racks. // // She

looks up, // // thinking aloud like a dream, // // ‘There are some d

In a charity shop

shuddering down the motorway // // to

loom as close // // and still // // as midwinter dawn. // // It com

ncessant beeping // // A granite sword

looming , // // We gaze across, to that rusty field // // Where your

Magnetic Mountain

the image of what I ought to be // //

Looms large as the pack move on. // //

ration at its // // Invasion. // // A

loop of stern faces around a desk too large // // To make contact wit

Vicious or Virtuous?

fe in? Is this the poem? // // Strange

loops writhe inside, nightmares can be sensitive creatures— // // ‘Yo

why I had to leave tonight. Clancy got

loose and ran through an alley with keef, kefir, with champagne on the

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

Loose Ghazal for Rumi // // Look at you—born of halves and fulls, //

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

ilence into sound, // // they bind and

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

I rush on down the creek // // bearing

loose things left afloat. // // Behind each moored boat runs a wake:

// You denied yourself, and like beads

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

y fat as up I rose, // // Away dropp’d

loosen hairs, my sweat it froze // // And fell, and dropp’d beneath,

[What have we done]

t start I find I face a swarm // // Of

loosen water rocks, I soon surmise // // The more I climb the softer

[What have we done]

wn on English tongues. // // Huntsman,

lord of a thousand blooded tongues // // Master of the hollow forest,

Sixteen Forty-Five

in sixteen forty-five— // // Until the

Lord of Liberty arose // // And drew the temple down on English tongu

Sixteen Forty-Five

ng dark, // // Impounded in some Dover

Lorry Park. // // Uncase the Camembert, bring out the Brie, // // Th

// Hercules et Oracle // // . // //

lose dream // // or sever // // Sov’ran // // ultra regna terra. //

Hercules et Oracle

ncestral breath, // // This is how you

lose home. // //

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

/ // That passion never gains, we just

lose it to our loves? // // That there’s no such thing as cold, just

Three Pieces of Advice

ive, // // To lose this odium before I

lose myself entirely. // // My nails dig red crescents in my skin as

/ // Both you and I have everything to

lose . // // Oppression’s language does not understand // // Our dial

ds which once we could // // Speak, to

lose our grasp on // // The reality of the wood // // And mortar whi

omise your name, // // This is how you

lose sight of the mountains, of the buffalos. // // Promise me—don’t

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

omise your name, // // This is how you

lose the ancestral breath, // // This is how you lose home. // //

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

ger. Trying to be less alive, // // To

lose this odium before I lose myself entirely. // // My nails dig red

bass-notes resound. // // He’ll never

lose time, he’s carefully wound. // // A finer example will never be

/ THESEUS // // I blame my dad. Such a

loser // // To marry Medea. I accused her // // Of suppressing the t

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

urprise gut-punch // // of the snowman

losing heart // // and losing his lunch // // all over the white hil

pot was getting hot instead of a flame

losing heat. // // So what does that say about us? // // That we’re

Three Pieces of Advice

of the snowman losing heart // // and

losing his lunch // // all over the white hillside, // // snow white

I am the moon-child broken free, // //

Losing mother and maternity. // //

// Look from above, // // We’re on the

losing side. // // Isn’t this mass extermination ? // // She points

[She points to the sky]

// so we’re locking the door and we’re

losing the key. // // If you aimed a card, or a note, or a cry // //

The Dead Letter Office closes down

ders // // Around in the passages—just

losing weight // // So it ends as a snack—not my feast on my plate. /

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

nown to you, still you bewail // // my

loss – but ask my cooling corpse to rush // // you finite proof ‘with

Between Life and Death

rs black—do you still feel // // Their

loss ? My wife stirs, // // As our son within // // Wakes, to return

Here be dragons

// With the gain of the world and the

loss of God. // //

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

ched her on Naxos, written off as a tax

loss , // // Raised black sails, and now I’m in clover. // // ARIADNE

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

he solid // // Cost from the worthless

losses ; // // That five pence that isn’t worth the creak // // Of bo

Vicious or Virtuous?

/ // and when the moment’s gone, we’re

lost and alone. // // Do we understand each other? // // Stars and e

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

but a blackened gloom, // // Of faces

lost and undefined. // // A word that initiates thoughts in the mind

s and serpent leaves, // // A paradise

lost between her knees. // // Feet anointed and seven demons rise, //

ou well // // Dear Alan, // // I have

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

s of forest, farm, and field // // Are

lost forever in the coming dark, // // Impounded in some Dover Lorry

// some earlier draft of things, // //

lost in a cold, particulate light. // // Is this the drowning which w

Then it’s your happiness again, // //

Lost in bottles and found, // // In your uneven smile, sharp teeth, /

Fall for————

dst these love letters littered, // //

Lost in curdled red // // I’ve been busy, too, // // Falling— // //

Fall for————

—maybe she // // is pensive, dreaming,

lost in reverie. // // And the artist who is showing us the scene //

Cape Cod Morning

skin in the sultry heat; // // Memory

lost in the wine-fugue, the beautiful // // Give themselves to pleasu

it, // // and its leaves have all been

lost in transit, // // and the birds and the branches are unseen. //

two worlds like ours? // // Could I be

lost in Venus, // // Could you be found in Mars, // // Then I might

The Daily Planet

remember the first way I saw it; // //

lost like all beauty. // // But knowing that to hold on // // wou

f us with our own concerns. // // I’ve

lost my keys; I’ve lost my way; // // I’ve had my chance—I have no mo

oncerns. // // I’ve lost my keys; I’ve

lost my way; // // I’ve had my chance—I have no more— // // I’m wait

sea // // The shock of a constellation

lost // // On a promontory we watched // // And the night stared bac

nds one step at a time). // // Soon we

lost our cognitive // // Sense, began to mime // // Words which once

he cotton— // // Though to let him get

lost seemed too rotten. // // Now I wish that I had, the arrogant cad

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

t—became a mass // // Of scum. For us,

lost Space and Earth and form. // // Within our bubble, Hubble shows

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

lost the receipt on which I wrote your address and, as such, will be l

now // // that her kerosene eyes have

lost their heat // // and the snows and skies of memory // // always

why i’m getting into Christmas

n have. Consequently, they died as they

lost touch with true vitality of nature. // // 3. // // But poets ha

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

ack // // The shock of a constellation

lost // // We navigate by auspice // // And the night stared back //

d. // // We concentrate on renewal, us

lot . // //

did bad business. // // You can tell a

lot about a man from his beard, so I’m told; // // His pedigree and p

Bearded Thoughts

put their books away, // // Oh sod the

lot ! I’d better be myself. // //

y new friend accept that I mix with you

lot // // Just as much for detection and wit as for wine? // // Has

Wednesday Evening

, // // But time passed—and I hadn’t a

lot on. // // Concluding this long anamnesis // // And to gather up

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

umber than most, and that’s a hell of a

lot // // There are no limits and we’re all in boy // // and I’ll ta

earplugs // // in case one snored too

loud . Two bashed half-hearts, // // the Valentine that sparked a fig

. // // And the voice grows louder and

louder // // And it’s shouting and you can’t hear anything else // /

pers things. // // And the voice grows

louder and louder // // And it’s shouting and you can’t hear anything

roar in your head and it keeps getting

louder and louder // // And you can’t stand it and you can feel pound

ur head and it keeps getting louder and

louder // // And you can’t stand it and you can feel pounding, poundi

stence in out-of-the-way places, // //

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

Bearded Thoughts

// that all of life still boils down to

love . // //

ncarnate, bastard breed of loathing and

love . // //

ak // // for Suliman, but I am well of

love . // //

The well of love

use // // A house gestated in paternal

The Christmas Dolls’ House

y. // // You tell me it’s difficult to

love a light, when every darkness is a reminder of their breaking. //

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

listic similes // // Capture all of my

love and describe it // // Badly. // //

I’ll never work for Hallmark

tles each morn, // // Affirmed by sun,

love , and drinks // // Tell me, is there anything worth more // // T

I could never be (ready)

O Valentine // // Master of

love and much-loved mystery, in short. // // You denied yourself, and

rustle through these severed strips of

love , // // And strew my heart with scraps of poetry, // // Forbidd

The Cutting Edge

im to con.” // // So if you think your

love and your roses // // Your good looks, better bank statements and

r // // with flagons, for I am well of

love . // // Apples may perhaps be comforting // // as any fruit, tho

The well of love

ompass Reading // // You could I never

love . Built of a bulk // // beyond my comprehension; lensed eyes ‘big

Compass Reading

s // // blood! wriggling life! a name!

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

Drink and be merry

riped with trust, meaningless fucks and

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

s only the ecstasy and the trembling of

love could awake him from his fantasy. True awakening floats on the oc

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

t least a Fire. // // The others too I

love —Earth, Water, Air—but Fire // // is something else again. // //

can change. if it will make you fall in

love easier I can change for you. I will be your umbilicalised hero. c

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

—for many kinds of loving. // // Did I

love enough? use every day? // // Days for seeing you in different w

told you I’d die without you, that our

love flows through me // // Like blood, that I pine for you, and year

I’ll never work for Hallmark

d any wistfulness // // For light, for

love , for greater // // Things, and left our brains lame, // // Redu

; // // There’s no way I’d promised to

love her. // // I beached her on Naxos, written off as a tax loss, //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

// of chameleon shrimps held a whiskery

love -in and hoydenish // // bivalves blew bubbles. Beneath the flushe

Just a Small Fish

y mouth, you’d laugh. // // After all,

love is universal and you can bet whatever I say // // Someone, somew

I’ll never work for Hallmark

ter Triolet // // We won’t give up our

love , it is a given // // And given things can always live again. //

An Easter Triolet

lden grain: // // We won’t give up our

love , it is a given // // And here’s a given thing that lives again.

An Easter Triolet

s are riven // // We won’t give up our

love , it is a given // // The grave is made the very gate of heaven /

An Easter Triolet

ves line damp concrete, // // Rejected

love letters abandoned. // // I want you to feel the same, but— // /

Fall for————

// I’ve been busy. // // Amidst these

love letters littered, // // Lost in curdled red // // I’ve been bus

Fall for————

Pret-a-Manger munching, soul searching,

love -life listing. // // The death rattle of the track’s devouring //

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

me, // // We pick this time to fall in

love . // // Lights still flickering on the tree, // // I ain’t sleep

A Hymn to a Loved One

we ever knew the flow // // And ebb of

love like beaches touched by waves // // From dawn far into the night

[My face is old now]

upon the stove, and my Grandmother will

love me again. Breaking // // slowly, I’m about to knock when the dre

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ue d’Oiseaux: // // Trying to make you

love me again // // Is like notating birdsong. // // I made you the

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

like I want to be entirely destroyed by

love . // // Not like that. // // I mean, sure, to be frank, part of

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

/ inspiration, your endless, relentless

love of life. // // I never could work out if // // you hated my wor

Sestina to an English Teacher

ing, a necessity for greed and proof of

love or life, no loafing here. // // And people don’t look at the sky

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

t understand. // // Hear! Our songs of

love , our lives, our blood, and // // My window on the world in all i

mine. // // I’ll keep these unspecific

love poems to myself, // // Hoping one day you’ll understand that I’m

I’ll never work for Hallmark

love // // // // Raisins are all very well in their place // // —i

The well of love

This Boy’s in

Love —Section C Part 2b (i-ixx) // // I fell into it by accident. //

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

rteen LinesA song in word-music. // //

Love sent you to the desert’s hush-parched silence. // // You held fa

y of Mechanised Racial Profiling // //

Love set you going like a fat gold clock (watch!) ticking // // Boxes

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

uttering, crying // // his name like a

love -song, // // a meaningless // // thing. // // Molly, his wife,

Jonathan’s Deathbed

sion! // // I will surrender // // My

love , surrender // // Hear me gods! I will surrender // // All // /

/ // There is a picture of you that we

love , // // Taken when you were only three months old. // // In it

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

credit clairvoyance for what was simply

love // // than I could moralise that hill. News of // // the fact o

will break the skein of water; // // I

love that bubble-burst every time. // // The cold he feels nudges at

too heavy to fly // // Drenched in the

love that screamed from my veins // // When you pierced me with your

ting, I’m sure it’s the end // // Of a

love that would flourish were it not for the curse // // Of bringing

Wednesday Evening

n the lawn, // // talk of equality and

love , // // the fight to win our rights. // // We have the vote, //

A Room of Her Own

ch sea air. // // Look up, look up, my

love —the sky is calling. // // Dark shapes are calling each to each:

Wells in winter

mile, sharp teeth, // // Your voice, I

love the sound— // // I need you. // //

Fall for————

me // // with apples, for I am well of

love . // // The usual translation is not raisins // // but flagons.

The well of love

/ // their mother tongue the tongue of

love . // // they use their words, saying eyes are the window to the s

Same but differenT

toes, // // Obsessive over the kind of

love they want reserved // // For romance but I am too porous, every

[I am almost 25 years old]

ing // // back across the page: // //

Love , Time, Ever, Age. // //

d it before. // // I could declare our

love to be an energy saving light bulb, // // It takes its time to wa

I’ll never work for Hallmark

ity that will outlive, // // To commit

love to memories less fallible than our own, // // To find new ways t

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

e // // gentle night. // // I make no

love to the girl // // on the heath, // // Releaseless, ceaseless. S

l’esprit d’escalier

note is sung // // Diminuendo—soft, my

love , // // We end where we begun. // //

ty. // // // // In a new city and in

love , we took a mapless walk // // at dawn, choosing our course by in

Fellow of Girton // // who always made

love with his shirt on. // // Saying “Now that I’m old, // // I do f

// I do, // // I suppose, // // Still

love you. // //

’t go! // // I’ll eat you up, // // I

love you so. // // But it didn’t listen, and so I did. //

[So the moon was there]

llmark // // If I could show you how I

love you with this poem // // I would, but I can’t. Not even close. M

I’ll never work for Hallmark

ce old, // // I don’t wanna be told ‘I

love you’. I want it // // To come and wreck me. // // And I don’t m

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

hurt; I’m tired; I’m bored; // // I’ve

loved and now I’m torn apart… // // These whispers of our unquiet hea

e in his // // Autobiographies, // //

Loved for his funny // // As well as his Kind. // // Higgledy Piggle

/ // and couldn’t be stopped // // he

loved it… crossing // // lines” I said. // // “somethings wrong” I s

skies never really liked the moon, they

loved it enough to not let it drown, and so I was safe. And so I start

[So the moon was there]

ents were disappointed // // but still

loved it. To test them it painted // // over their scales or feather

alentine // // Master of love and much-

loved mystery, in short. // // You denied yourself, and like beads lo

Loved One // // We wake up to Radio 3, // // Hark! the herald angels

A Hymn to a Loved One

nt ground floor flat, // // So those I

loved precipit fell // // In pulverised procession that // // Squeez

now // // Soaped Titan in his bath. He

loved the light // // Refracted—'til it burst—became a mass // // Of

/ // A little less wary, a little more

loved , // // Turns away and continues onwards // // Until the mile h

y know best, // // As we linger in our

lovely , darkening bowers // // Of bushes, trees, and living, dying fl

[Walcott begins Omeros]

by long forgotten pity // // For their

lovely Prince Dmitry // // Who had crowned their lives with grace. //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

Stormy where you are? // // Very blue.

Lovely weather. // // [Bad weather. Very blue.] // // So, how are yo

Whales sing because they have a song

ath. I wish I could be faithful. // //

Lover , brother, I have done you wrong. // // Only an infidel writes t

firm by the wrist. // // // // And,

lover , consider the running down of the strong stag, // // its only h

Sijo // // // //

Lover , the years have fine timing, or fine luck, I’ve noticed: // //

mised stories told // // of daughters,

lovers old, trapeze // // swingers and graffiti. // // In between yo

luc bat to mr. beam

ion never gains, we just lose it to our

loves ? // // That there’s no such thing as cold, just an absence of w

Three Pieces of Advice

ave me! // // Stay! Desert not him who

loves thee! // // Cruel one! Forgive me! // // I know not what I’ve

—or should have been—for many kinds of

loving . // // Did I love enough? use every day? // // Days for seei

// // Forever stained with the Bard’s

loving lines, she found herself immortalised. // // If Chesterton had

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

marshes and the sea. The sun // // is

low ahead of us, the sky is clear. // // Across the wood, onto the be

Wells in winter

ghts inside me breaking, // // and the

low buzzing of machines beneath the steady gaze of grey // // hospita

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

are drained. // // the billows settle

low , cold as a curse, // // but though the thunder roars, it will not

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

// So the moon was there, hanging

low in the sky. And it looked just like an orb, or an egg, or an eye.

[So the moon was there]

// And listen to it, ringing soft and

low . // // Stay with the music, words will come in time. // // Slow

too tired // // To have held on. Head

lowered , but her eyes // // Stare through me, past my skin, to the sc

a sweep to the slope-edge: // // horns

lowered , // // hides steaming, // // hooves pounding // // they cha

Nil Charge / Nil Return

reaching skywards, extending // // The

lows into dry soil. My path has not yet led // // In one direction or

Vicious or Virtuous?

erley ban // // and the Beatles’ first

LP ; // // strangely, though, not sex but fire). // // See this: //

dding into the ground // // to draw up

lubrication for her joints. // // Or it’s a tree long bereft of its r

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

luc bat to mr. beam

er, the years have fine timing, or fine

luck , I’ve noticed: // // an old one dies, a young one stumbles mumbl

// Sol… // // tod // // elcaro te se

lucreh * // // * ‘You flesh to atone’ (Google Translate, 2014). // //

Hercules et Oracle

// right in that light, hush’d // //

lull brown, // // deep among your dusk // // heavy sockets. rust //

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

they fought it out. // // There was a

lull — // // But he was dead: // // had died three hours after his ar

Black September

end. // // I’m roped on to the source,

luminate , warm, // // Floating up seemingly by force ’gainst law //

[What have we done]

s to the sky”. he says it’s a figure, a

luminescent metaphor for something else, but all you can see through i

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

ree gay rituals // // Through doors of

luminescent playfulness, // // On Tuesdays for the boys in crinkled s

Three gay rituals

he refrain of his digital anima, // //

Luminescent soul between muddied fingers // // —now usb 3.0 compatibl

Frighteningly Inert

A light // // through the mist, softly

luminous and guiding people through // // the sourness of their own o

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

. ‘Reality’ is clean, simple and purely

luminous . It is difficult to look and experience life in this way. It

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

Troubled waters // // The good Lady

Lumley is pondering glumly. “I // // need a new project to keep me i

Troubled waters

bb and flow. // // No cramping bend to

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

/ Arrêt. // // Anger // // art // //

Lunar // // vos rêves Roma: // // Erde… // // Sol… // // tod // /

Hercules et Oracle

wman losing heart // // and losing his

lunch // // all over the white hillside, // // snow white upon snow

/ see the whites of your ankles. // //

Lunch was hard, strong cheese // // taken amongst the bums // // in

Tridente, 10th September

glass. // // O little one mild. // //

Lunchtime with the family, // // Lead on, Spirit. // // Dad balances

A Hymn to a Loved One

true, // // « Quand la sage montre la

Lune , l’imbécile regarde son doigt. » // // // // Point A. Point B.

[She points to the sky]

// And come away with bruises and black

lung // // And purple dermal chunks of coal and grit. // // Just so

caressing depths // // Or fight to the

lung -stinging surface? // // My base animal is out for blood // // B

uff that renovation brick-dust from our

lungs . // // Blown away through our empty sails, over the fields. //

he sun rose, // // And I kept digging,

lungs // // Burning. Listen, kid: // // Broken ribs aren’t worth it,

Did you bury her yet?

at of disappointment, // // Deep in my

lungs . // // Now in his immanent radiance, // // With his flesh that

’Tis pity he’s a bore

t the precipice and reel // // Back to

lupine -winds, fire burn and chthonic cauldron bubble. Incorrigible nig

But out there in the dark we know they

lurk , // // We sense their stench, as stealing through the murk, //

rent of individuality across the page’s

lush terrain, // // But never those things that have the amazing auda

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ts // // For all his talk of old men’s

lust and rage. // // I’ve glanced awhile at poets on the shelf, // /

ttered echoes // // Of long forgotten

lust ; // // Dead gods rise and so I // // Dispense with this your j

, impious beauty; // // Below, bestial

lust // // Striped with trust, meaningless fucks and love celestial.

ain. // // Adrift on spewing, insipid,

lusting waters, // // Aren’t I porous and malleable in the gloaming?

Frighteningly Inert

n’s furthest edge. // // His hair is a

lustrous shadow cast by earthly forms of that abyssal goddess. // //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

as we walked through the waves. // //

Lying dizzily on the cliffs, we listened to echoes upon echoes // //

[I often think of that January morning]

ough. one day I get to cry Kri’at Shema

lying down. I get unbelief. one day I will be calx and cure, what’s in

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

// // For her to perch on. // // I am

lying in the bed, my eyes // // are closed. I can feel that she is th

// // In the water—they’ve always been

lying . Is this the poem? // // The cloud shadow passes, but in its ch

ch across // // To that person who was

lying next to us // // Only a second ago, // // Finding only shorter

y three months old. // // In it you’re

lying on the sun-warmed, deep-veined wood // // Of an old pine table.

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

owards the verge of sleep // // Where,

lying side by side, // // The angels of our planets weep // // To se

The Daily Planet

// // You sing along to your favourite

lyrics , // // Hazy summer light filters through torn curtains. // //

your compass with its swinging fleur-de-

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

Compass Reading

l’esprit d’escalier // // I keep remembering today, // // As in, //

l’esprit d’escalier

// // « Quand la sage montre la Lune,

l’imbécile regarde son doigt. » // // // // Point A. Point B. // /

[She points to the sky]