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

M

ain, // // and it is last night on the

M 56, // // heading west, somewhere near Chester, // // the fog light

and hydrogen hauled together. // // I'

m not sure when we collected this specimen of sadness, // // the kind

Stone, Paper, Scissorsi.

m . Ondine - 20:8:03-12:03:04 // // You have not turned to stone //

Stone, Paper, Scissors

today? // // I woke up at 5. // // [P.

M .] // // Shit. How long since you’ve seen the sun? // // I still fe

Whales sing because they have a song

M , the one I sometimes contemplate // // This is where I started,

[She points to the sky]

on the ocean of sleep. // // 8. // //

MacCullough must be ridiculed! // // 9. // // Poets can look and see

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

die, not in the customary sense // // (

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

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

the offices running // // His fighting

machine . // // He whispered sweet nothings // // And proffered a pos

on, make the screen a mirror, graft the

machine under skin, // // Let code-lines mesh with genotyping—is this

by the ineffectual whirring of defunct

machinery ] // //

the windmill’s lament—a short play

nding out a rhythm in harmony with cold

machinery . // // A continuous shriek throbs against the wall // // A

Snapshot Endings

/ // A perfectly honed piece of mortal

machinery // // Like you, that stalked like one who had // // Master

breaking, // // and the low buzzing of

machines beneath the steady gaze of grey // // hospital walls. Roses

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

a cord // // ‘umbrellas meeting sewing

machines on (animated) dissecting tables’, as it were. // // But yest

// // goes by the rubrik of Boris the

Mad . // // He’d adore such a grand and flamboyant adventure—to // //

Troubled waters

and swallow her whole, // // Drive her

mad within the recesses of your rabbit’s hole. // // Teach her dutifu

// // English say, an omelette’s only

made by breaking eggs. // // Oh! must you leave so early? We had hope

preceded us, autonomous. Poetry is not

made by Man, as you might think, but by It. Poetry came from It, as we

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

shorter grass, // // A coloured strip

made // // By the lawnmower. // //

Remain within the world of which you’re

made . // // Call nothing common in the earth or air, // // Accept it

e, if from // // the dull hearts habit

made can grow // // this flower—momentary and no— // // way ever to

// We hugged goodbye. I walked home and

made coffee, // // then sat and poured my thoughts over a journal’s p

[I often think of that January morning]

perk— // // They advertised who wasn’t

made for work. // // Now, blank verse seems to break those systems do

In Defence of Evolution

is where we begin. // // We were both

made from stardust // // and blood rust // // as the sky began seepi

// and blood rust // // we were both

made from stardust. // // For this is where we begin, // // at the m

ng), // // But I turned on the charm:

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

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

for Stilton // // when, sadly, it just

made her sneeze. // // But the sly cat would not be dissuaded, // //

The Failing of the Cheese

ad // // And laugh at memories I never

made . // // I can be a leader, a fighter, // // A voice of reason, a

Writing to explore

leaves me reversing // // Those steps

made in slippered feet. // // I wasn’t sure I’d find the same route

The Notes You Have Left

, // // and probably thought that he’d

made it // // when he chose to cajole her // // with fresh Gorgonzol

The Failing of the Cheese

old Fellow of Girton // // who always

made love with his shirt on. // // Saying “Now that I’m old, // // I

tory. And I swam back to you, and you’d

made me a cup of tea—chamomile tea—because I was cold. And although yo

[So the moon was there]

eating his hammer against his new heart

made of // // iron and stealing the warmth of his ring. // // Fiddli

Jonathan’s Deathbed

own, // // Did seem to rise that water

made of stone. // // Away dropp’d all my fat as up I rose, // // Awa

[What have we done]

s empty. // // There is a chair there,

made of wicker // // For her to perch on. // //

corner. // // There is a chair there,

made of wicker // // For her to perch on. // // I am lying in the be

hat passion is the stuff immortality is

made on. // // Not cheese. // //

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

the egg // // I live! Un-ownable, not

made : revealed. // // Confused and worn, I don’t know if I’m here. //

The chicken and the egg

more tame // // The closer to the hope-

made sky I came. // // Then, as a blacksmith finds his mold self-grow

[What have we done]

’t // // Go far with that name. // //

Made the decision to // // Pseudonymous-ify: // // Called himself Wo

made the Lamb // // Columbo-standard, // // Crouching cold-nose, //

He who made the Lamb

lk. // // Years later we went back and

made the same unchartered // // trip, remembering nothing of the thin

love, it is a given // // The grave is

made the very gate of heaven // // We sowed in tears, but here’s the

An Easter Triolet

has taken root, // // Those drawings I

made years since // // Of shapes pinnate and toothed, // // Like a h

leaves might fall

ese everythings and never know how they

made you (do this). // //

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

// Is like notating birdsong. // // I

made you the ideal theory: // // An unsystematised list of every corr

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

the windows of the house on the corner,

madly // // yellowed and drastic; there’s a word // // for the desir

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

Crushed // // My thoughts are a

maelstrom , a cacophony, // // Crashing, shrieking, // // Half longin

ge was the fluid skill of the masterful

mage // // So with a sigh that page surrendered to the caresses of th

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ame, // // pretentious, with a hateful

maggot’s mind. // // Lame understanding wretch who thinks rhymes wren

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

ening December // // A journey to the

magic apple tree. // // And journey also, darkling, through your past

The Magic Apple Tree

Magic Apple Tree // // Someday make a journey through the rain // //

The Magic Apple Tree

/ And a drink for you, fungus, and your

magic fruits— // // And so to the magic of day and of dark // // We’

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

your magic fruits— // // And so to the

magic of day and of dark // // We’ll sing waes hael, waes hael, hurra

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

nnet or tetrameter will appear as if by

magic , // // Out of the magician’s hat the rainbow bunny of being abl

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

tura of your skin; // // delicate cave

magic revealed // // by the flickering torch // // of a heartbeat. /

rock in the heat and watched the sea’s

magic // // unfold to the music of wind and the glittering ebbstream

Just a Small Fish

ll, it was in the wait that we glimpsed

magic . // // We witnessed in the silence, the darkness and the secrec

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

t commission // // He just saw in me a

magician // // Who could cast a bronze bull to let his Queen pull, //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

l, meaningful // // the solar system’s

magicians and musicians and mathematicians // // draw from an ancient

Same but differenT

ppear as if by magic, // // Out of the

magician’s hat the rainbow bunny of being able to remember the names o

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

lava of the imagination, // // Rises,

magma moltenly golden // // Hardens to wordhoard-gems // // In the m

ike chips of dark gold // // Under the

magnesium moon. // // One night soon I will take off my boots, // //

Magnetic Mountain // // It was a strange attraction // // That broug

Magnetic Mountain

e. // // The box and holly // // were

magnificent , but could not be allowed // // to remain in occupation o

// Are // // you // // Gog or // //

Magog ? Tell // // me of cut chalk and // // turf scalped red, ley li

Wandlebury Hill

ys: why did you peck out // // my eye,

magpie ? // // and the magpie says: fairy tales formally feature // /

on the road. // // like, a big fucking

magpie . // // and this magpie says: can you help me? // // and the g

of symbolic colouration // // meets a

magpie on the road. // // like, a big fucking magpie. // // and this

irl says: no, I’m sorry. // // and the

magpie pecks out her eye. // // the left one, I think. // // I don’t

, a big fucking magpie. // // and this

magpie says: can you help me? // // and the girl says: no, I’m sorry.

t // // my eye, magpie? // // and the

magpie says: fairy tales formally feature // // insufficient details

space, // // except for nanny and the

maids , // // my needlework, // // the duty to be paying calls, // /

A Room of Her Own

// The manager wouldn’t deal with the

mail // // and was an inveterate absentee, // // he never could care

The Dead Letter Office closes down

// Dear Wayne of Interpol: I have your

mail . // // Your writhing at my death has deeply touched // // me. T

Between Life and Death

of the Hummingbird, give no thanks for

majesty // // or those three hills awash in blooms, arching skyward o

truly godforsaken, give thanks for His

majesty , // // these three hills awash in blooms, arching heavenwards

he piano plays. // // Crescendo—jump a

major fifth— // // And down the tone I never can hear— // // And ris

f reason. The true poet, who I call the

major man, is a man of night, revery, and murmuring, a man of repose,

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

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

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

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ost layer. The frost returns // // to

make a crust. The next two months // // are clear and fine and bitte

Walking in winter

. // // Nimble Nimrods, the nil // //

make a dash for the mountain, // // turn and bellow their challenge /

Nil Charge / Nil Return

9 years and // // Not enough months to

make a difference old, // // I don’t wanna be told ‘I love you’. I wa

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

er, (Would // // Someone please // //

Make a gap // // Among the passengers) // // Take out the book befor

Poems on the Underground

pleas // // To clear a seat or two and

make a gap // // There, though if it were less busy I wouldn’t mind /

Poems on the Underground

The Magic Apple Tree // // Someday

make a journey through the rain // // Through sodden streets in darke

The Magic Apple Tree

s, emboldened by our revelry, // // We

make a stand against their tyranny // // And, just before we stagger

rap. // // Ties, from when he tried to

make an effort // // and make her proud; and four wax-white earplugs

eapply to the inside face of the box to

make // // An inventory of items, // // A register for each cracked

faces around a desk too large // // To

make contact with anything other than // // Words. Each man seeks to

Vicious or Virtuous?

that right now sitting here coffee can

make // // do just as well I guess. // //

why i’m getting into Christmas

lied. // // Ornithologists with shears

make for irate avians // // With wings clipped, // // Clipped wires

Frighteningly Inert

barred) // // In a stench that should

make her a sick sis. // // When a Hero formed part of the tribute //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

n he tried to make an effort // // and

make her proud; and four wax-white earplugs // // in case one snored

/ // Brick by brick. // // I couldn’t

make it out. // // You were not there, // // That’s all I knew, //

[So snow falls outside]

l // // —could I but find the words to

make it plain. // // Two book-ends bracket our shared domain: // //

es of memory // // always diminishing

make it seem // // that right now sitting here coffee can make // //

why i’m getting into Christmas

u’ll come back to me. // // But please

make it soon, because I think I just called you God. // //

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

piral sequence finds // // that it can

make itself again, and fill // // the world with dittoed offspring. Y

leave, // // There, the sound of boots

make me dry heave. // // South of here, the sun will shine, // // An

Ode to a map of the world

ace, // // Will catch me this time and

make me Mrs. // // I’ll-settle-for-a-jack-in-lieu-of-an-ace; // // Y

// They are not mine, these words you

make me use: // // Oppression’s language does not understand. // //

om of the // // gentle night. // // I

make no love to the girl // // on the heath, // // Releaseless, ceas

l’esprit d’escalier

// and learn too late that one and one

make none // //

the gap // // As if they would // //

Make of the mass one mind. // // Sighing, I make up my mind, // // W

Poems on the Underground

the secrecy // // When to sense was to

make ourselves believe. // //

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

and tumbling me into the weeds.] // //

Make sure to come up for air. // // Course. // // Good one. // // I

Whales sing because they have a song

e the abstractions of experience // //

Make the metaphor of photography literal, // // Purgatory lenses your

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

ripening—is this the poem? // // Soon,

make the screen a mirror, graft the machine under skin, // // Let cod

which way is home. // // My still eyes

make their movement static, // // Constant, never reaching home. //

// // the nilherds encircle // // to

make their nil capture. // // For this year there’s no nil return. //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

lour purples raining; // // Bet we can

make them all in micro, soft, paint— // // Art in the age of mechanic

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

of the mass one mind. // // Sighing, I

make up my mind, // // Waiting for when, the // // Doors clamp tight

Poems on the Underground

re State // // Really is gonna come to

make us all meet our fate, // // You’d best make a bet I’d want that

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

or my chalk outline. The last mark I’ll

make , // // White and pure, unlike the life taking it’s last steps. /

Snapshot Endings

om the front of your grin, // // we'll

make you a new one of china and tin. // // After your hipbone, we'll

aimed you, // // The archaic gods will

make you // // An example in your death. // // Curst to know yoursel

your ear, and I can change. if it will

make you fall in love easier I can change for you. I will be your umbi

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

Catalogue d’Oiseaux: // // Trying to

make you love me again // // Is like notating birdsong. // // I made

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

The Notes You Have Left // // “

Make yourself at home” // // I eased my two feet, too small, // //

The Notes You Have Left

nd // // Unthinking choice // // That

makes all necessary marks. // // Park-safe, the corgi does not even p

Three Ways of Walking

looking // // I don’t know what

makes art Art // // maybe it’s that once I’ve seen it // // I can ne

which I am bereft. // // Slowly, time

makes its approach // // On this idle breeze, // // And summons me w

I could never be (ready)

a baby brother’s cry. // // The virus

makes me look // // for virtue in the virtual // // but supervision

A Room of Her Own

, // // Filled that space for years—It

makes no sound as it drops. // // I replay too detailed memory waiter

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

laxies and black holes and stars // //

makes no sound // // only their tongues // // sing // //

Same but differenT

ablutions, kneels on the slender deck,

makes oblations // // Of shorn hair and candle wax, to the saint; //

dline split // // in this revision one

makes one and one // // turtles and all reptilian life thus thrown //

ght // // in this revision one and one

makes one // // it holds the stress in the thoracal zone // // sprin

fact of you (your real- and rightness)

makes // // the act of meaning something no great shakes. // // So,

pact. // // I want someone whose smile

makes the sun fizzle out in modesty // // So that the Earth stops spi

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

in minimalist offices. // // Soldiers

making a killing on the stock exchange // // So we can line pockets a

// // is just the egg’s // // way of

making // // another egg // // then what I should // // not be doin

Don’t count your chickens

// Granny’s keeping herself busy // //

Making Gaelics in the kitchen, // // Keeping her mind together // //

Wild Mountain Thyme

, roundabout, questions for the sake of

making // // Noise. Repetitive exchanges of false // // Smiles and

Vicious or Virtuous?

was universally acknowledged to be the

making of this poem. — AG // //

k— // // blackstrap coaly seams // //

making the wood marbled. // // Or maybe // // it could sort of peel

thousand daggers, // // Piercing you,

making you scream. // // But the daggers are not daggers, // // No o

nd, // // cold, // // now rests. like

malagas // // through the dust it only // // digs deeper. // // cli

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

// // for working days, or if my real

malaise // // might just be musing if I’m wanted now // // by you al

Between Life and Death

ade for an eye? AI might be cis, white,

male , hetero, // // but at least it won’t talk to me on the train. //

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

. // // Then back to skirt the edge of

Malham Cove, // // with fields below and limestone crags above; // /

Daydream Dale Journey

n, // // a gentler walk, to bare bleak

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

Daydream Dale Journey

hat scare // // me. Something creepily

malign’s // // through there, and space and time // // seem cut and

ting waters, // // Aren’t I porous and

malleable in the gloaming? // // Isn’t Daddy proud? // // I was alwa

Frighteningly Inert

t understand, // // For in the name of

Mammon , you still bruise // // Our dialect, sweet sister of our land.

/ // Old woman wobbles back to her old

man . // //

y neck. // // I know now you walk as a

man angel hunter. // // I could vomit // // Blood and water upon my

d us, autonomous. Poetry is not made by

Man , as you might think, but by It. Poetry came from It, as we do not

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

fed to that Cretan abuser. // // I’m a

man at his best where there’s fighting // // (Hand to hand with a bul

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

some years left in him yet. // // This

man , at least, has nothing to be ashamed about. // // Certainly, he w

hide behind anon // // or to reflect a

man // // at twice his natural size. // // This is my space for scho

A Room of Her Own

year is nineteen fifty-five; // // The

man , Bologna’s drawing-master. // // He lives a quiet, four-cornered

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

he cut stones splinter // // The Green

Man comes to winter, // // To the harness and the harrow // // As fl

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

because it was so expensive. // // The

man does not experience accidence. // // His poetry is perfect. // /

l. // // Give me some time to blow the

man down // //

great not-me. // // Way-hey, blow the

man down // // Might and strain of the wave-thick // // tentacular l

ness. // // You can tell a lot about a

man from his beard, so I’m told; // // His pedigree and personal groo

Bearded Thoughts

d those in awkward guilt. // // A soft

man from the oddest matter built, // // Is man no less when odd and p

Three gay rituals

n immortal sensation // // However, no

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

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

doesn’t worry with the rest. // // The

man has not wasted his life— // // It’s been well-spent, and’s gone e

// boldness and vision—I know just the

man . // // He has built me some buses which boosted my ego—the // //

Troubled waters

my flesh becomes fare: // // meat for

man . He’ll greet my coat with the least of concern, // // once the kn

fect. // // I sit here, and regard the

man . // // I think— // // I should very much like to hold you // //

on. The true poet, who I call the major

man , is a man of night, revery, and murmuring, a man of repose, romanc

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

Man , Mid-Winter // // Amidst the tympanum // // His stone hair start

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

from the oddest matter built, // // Is

man no less when odd and painted white. // // Another having naught b

Three gay rituals

ue poet, who I call the major man, is a

man of night, revery, and murmuring, a man of repose, romance, and rel

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

man of night, revery, and murmuring, a

man of repose, romance, and relaxation in which he receives the tender

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

hought // // Dear Alan, // // I saw a

man on the bus who I thought was you // // Dear Alan, // // I knew h

his thought. Who can help this helpless

man ? Perhaps only the ecstasy and the trembling of love could awake hi

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

anything other than // // Words. Each

man seeks to draw eyes to his // // Point of the ring, without disclo

Vicious or Virtuous?

man should know // // You’re obtuse—and a pain. Now PLEASE listen aga

Things a man should know

r belief in life after death // // Old

man sits bespectacled in laptop moth-light. Rendered absurd— // // wa

man // // Sits there, // // And runs his perfect hands through perfe

problems // // and finding // // the

man // // who came forth // // from the earth // // had something t

bullet, stray. // // There was a young

man writhing in the splinters of the shattered window pane. // // The

Black September

tive of yy is -gg. // // Those who did

manage to solve the early parts of the question were generally quite s

ing down // // because of a failure of

management , // // and all the not-quite-never-yet notes // // will b

The Dead Letter Office closes down

the sound of a piped lament. // // The

manager wouldn’t deal with the mail // // and was an inveterate absen

The Dead Letter Office closes down

n their needling, // // call out their

managers , // // rule up their ledgers, // // and enter an integer //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

// Tangential // // To the Jura // //

Mandala . // // As the hadrons collide, // // I’m counting beside //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

lysed and book-engrossed, // // Pret-a-

Manger munching, soul searching, love-life listing. // // The death r

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

Mango Tree // // Although I have long been away, I can still see //

// And the saffron-yellow orbs of our

mango tree // // Dangling by such slender stalks from its laden bough

ably ripped clothes. // // Or does the

mango tree solitarily stand // // Still constant, fruit-laden, genero

and sun-browned // // Golden, swollen

mangoes unpicked by childish hands // // Giving a final dull thud as

Are Few Sharp Lines” // // // // //

Manhattan’s built on blocks because they planned it out like that //

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

fresh // // blooms: already one says: “

mankind cannot // // bear very much reality (wink here)”; // // next

Aubade to Girton

dress. // // She sits still above the

mantelpiece // // In my Nan’s seaside semi. // // Each item carefull

wood-grain // // which falls from the

mantelpiece in rivulets) // // I have tried // // (as I peer at you

ide your house] // // Somewhere on the

mantelpiece inside your house, // // I stand motionless within a fram

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

[Somewhere on the

mantelpiece inside your house] // // Somewhere on the mantelpiece ins

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// contained in The You Only Live Once

Manual . // // My life was compromised // // in an instant // // whe

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

eturn of the light // // Is but one of

many . // // All humans feel the change. // // Seeking the return of

Before Christmas

generally quite poorly attempted, with

many candidates not able to understand fully the situation being studi

aste! // // Fairy-free gardens have as

many colour purples raining; // // Bet we can make them all in micro,

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

e evanescent airs // // moistening the

many -coloured earths. // // In forests and in open spaces // // ther

// // Between the endpoints there were

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

e to earn any of the marks. Of the rest

many did not progress beyond the second part, with many simply claimin

ny days // // —or should have been—for

many kinds of loving. // // Did I love enough? use every day? // //

/ Great stone shrines were built // //

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

Before Christmas

resound with words I know. // // (How

many miles to go till I can sleep?) // // But then, just as I feel li

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

eeding into seasons. // // Just not so

many more. // //

aegis to lift // // cigarettes to your

many mouths that // // breathe words down the phone // // which I’ll

why i’m getting into Christmas

ces, ipods, phones speak out. // // So

many people talking: can we doubt // // that somewhere herein lies s

the other passengers // // Without too

many ‘please’, // // ‘Thank you’ and ‘excuse me’s slips from my mind

Poems on the Underground

are crow’s // // feet in a mirror, so

many questions // // interrogate me slap me try that just // // one

t progress beyond the second part, with

many simply claiming incorrectly that the second derivative of xx is a

s I sit on it, // // The tickle of its

many spears on bare toes, // // And the fragments that get stuck to m

// Of a boy-king // // Is but one of

many . // // The year is born again. The festival // // Seeking the r

Before Christmas

ose. My vocabulary // // Can describe

many things, but the thoughts that race // // Through my heart when I

I’ll never work for Hallmark

or baby-faced gangster chic, // // How

many Walts do we see in Market Square on a Friday night? // // We dis

Bearded Thoughts

wrapped and masked in paint? // // How

many years your kohl eyes must have stared // // Watching new generat

final prop. A hundred yards // // of

man’s best effort at defence // // drops thirty feet into a hole. //

Walking in winter

ghting // // (Hand to hand with a bull/

man’s exciting), // // But I turned on the charm: made her help me t

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

er // // mustard gas and ether or your

man’s flesh // // flash-fried, seasoned, laid out, sprinkled with ash

oets on the shelf, // // Desiring this

man’s style or that man’s wealth, // // But tonight I smile and say,

/ // Desiring this man’s style or that

man’s wealth, // // But tonight I smile and say, // // As I put thei

e almost // // discernable beneath the

map // // of her skin, like // // an unmade bed. // // ‘Couldn’t yo

In a charity shop

that buried the world; // // The only

map of his kingdom perfect enough // // (For you) had to be // // Id

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

map of the world // // Here’s to failure, here’s to fear, // // To t

Ode to a map of the world

// In a new city and in love, we took a

mapless walk // // at dawn, choosing our course by instinct, taking /

he wind that I cannot contain by // //

Mapping its every minuscule alteration— // // By changing everything.

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

again, be wash’d // // Into direction

mapp’d by playing drums. // // One knife’s whisk’d out my hand, flies

[What have we done]

this the poem?’ // // Let the treasure

maps go Marcus. The boundary between two // // Things is just a matte

eel carved out when I accept. // // He

maps out his face and hair // // In creams and gels. // // His teeth

car // // To see if we could stop the

mar // // Of what we’d done from turning sour, while // // Sweet lik

your name already, // // Cast in white

marble by two gentle breaths. // // How different we look—you and I,

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

ore that small hole through. // // the

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

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

trap coaly seams // // making the wood

marbled . // // Or maybe // // it could sort of peel away in papery l

give. // // Consequences. Jerusalem, 3

March 2009 // // Giggly Hillary // // Met mean Binyamin // // In th

come again’. // // The Envoy. Gaza, 1

March 2009 // // Now we must cheer, for Blair is here. // // After t

March -Wind // // All night the March wind blows about our windows //

March-Wind // // All night the

March wind blows about our windows // // And chases whispers through

// And us, deciding to stay. // // We

marched in lock-step // // To that glorious future, // // His likene

Magnetic Mountain

niforms, black suit, striped tie // //

Marching to the front line, clutching our briefcases // // Like the p

poem?’ // // Let the treasure maps go

Marcus . The boundary between two // // Things is just a matter of tim

)—children at play— // // The carter’s

mare as she wheezes on through; // // The triumphant honk of a goose

ses poor Boris, and // // gets the Red

Margaret to look at the case. // // “It’s been a fiasco, a drain on o

Troubled waters

Then they took on the look of all that

marginalia // // you find from the smug graffiti-writing reader: ‘Fou

// // In the vast, dust-filled // //

Maria of a hidden // // Moon. Now your shadow // // Blots the sky, w

Here be dragons

flying—is this the poem? // // In the

Marianas , old souls dwell in robber crabs, // // But still their youn

s hand that slips and scores // // his

mark into the waiting clay; // // Telling the future his signature fl

waiting, for my chalk outline. The last

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

Snapshot Endings

lotsam brought in on the flow: time to

mark the beach. // // Now I start to trickle back // // over wet gro

rm is reduced to two lines, // // They

mark the seat of disappointment, // // Deep in my lungs. // // Now i

’Tis pity he’s a bore

e a yellow square, read the part // //

marked , and am amazed at my predictability. // // // // In a new ci

hic, // // How many Walts do we see in

Market Square on a Friday night? // // We distrust this facial hair p

Bearded Thoughts

n I found them again // // In the meat-

market , wearing each step forward // // Into last night’s night I cut

inding past colonnades and the ruins of

markets , // // Coiling round temple pillars and bronze effigies, //

part and were unable to earn any of the

marks . Of the rest many did not progress beyond the second part, with

choice // // That makes all necessary

marks . // // Park-safe, the corgi does not even pull the lead // //

Three Ways of Walking

, but the raging fire // // of the sun

marks passing time. // // Far down below, the earth // // is mostly

ings. // // Their peeling paint // //

Maroon // // Against the odds. // // From the sidings // // He cann

Because you can’t wear quirky May Ball

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

Three Pieces of Advice

he view just now // // Is rather badly

marred by smoke but, as you // // English say, an omelette’s only mad

in the hole, // // with a stem in your

marrow to go with the pin // // and the splint and the stent that are

I blame my dad. Such a loser // // To

marry Medea. I accused her // // Of suppressing the truth—so condemni

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

in Venus, // // Could you be found in

Mars , // // Then I might search your tender wounds // // And you my

The Daily Planet

e, in Venus // // And you, perhaps, in

Mars . // // What wary orbits we must keep // // Around our dying sun

The Daily Planet

over wet ground, under sky, // // from

marsh just covered in the slack: time to let it dry. // // Now I cut

// The other comes to slush within the

marsh , // // Melting into a liquid form, they blend. // // A faded w

[What have we done]

g the dunes that run // // between the

marshes and the sea. The sun // // is low ahead of us, the sky is cl

Wells in winter

gle beach. // // The mile south to the

Martello tower, // // we walk along the banked-up track // // behind

Walking in winter

Martha // // Dirty saucers. Damp teatowels. // // The steady drip-dr

ritual splitting of the bone // // as

Martin’s morning breaks upon the night // // we trade in futures on t

s his name? I don’t know and could only

marvel : he exists, he exists, in the combustion of his heart! // //

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

amed by the dusty yellow // // Of that

marvellous invention, // // The post-it note // // (The survivor of

to stay here. // // Right? // // All

Mary had to do was wait. Give it three days and He’ll return // // An

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

d] // // Red-hot and tear-kissed under

mask // // with steel miles ahead in wait // // and then a new city.

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

digits from your onion fist // // and

mask yourself with the pocked palm’s odour, // // the musk and slip o

at fine-boned beauty, linen-wrapped and

masked in paint? // // How many years your kohl eyes must have stared

ng satellite” with my scorn tucked in a

mason jar, the one thing left. she only hears whispers, “I just think

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

e, put out the light. // // We studied

mass , created form, // // And looked for no eternal flame. // // Jus

e on the losing side. // // Isn’t this

mass extermination ? // // She points to the sky. // // Take some di

[She points to the sky]

// From Alpha Caeli’s rim; the Pleiad

mass // // Of gas and dust that veils, then flickers past // // A Mi

// // Refracted—'til it burst—became a

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

// As if they would // // Make of the

mass one mind. // // Sighing, I make up my mind, // // Waiting for w

Poems on the Underground

So was the project worth it? Should we

mass - // // Protest the by-pass if the Vogons know // // The earth i

// // And impotent. Neutrino looks on

Mass . // // So was the project worth it? Should we mass- // // Prote

// Icons for us—of weighed and measured

mass // // Ten billion years from this. Yet few’ll then know, // //

ng, ding dong, merrily. // // We enter

mass to bands of brass, // // We stand as the choirs pass. // // Gau

A Hymn to a Loved One

// // The herald to a straining fecund

mass // // Unleashed. A tongue of blinding, whippèd flame // // Sear

nes and hillforts, // // invasions and

massacres , all the savagery that // // we will. But who gave you your

Wandlebury Hill

e, and are alone happy. // // Shadowed-

masses in the depths hum through the reeds, // // Winding past colonn

s aren’t words // // and the great big

massive enormous wide universe full of galaxies and black holes and st

Same but differenT

glimmer of primal fear, // // That you

master , as if it wasn’t there. // // I foresee you stripped in your u

five; // // The man, Bologna’s drawing-

master . // // He lives a quiet, four-cornered life, // // Polite, de

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

O Valentine // //

Master of love and much-loved mystery, in short. // // You denied you

rd of a thousand blooded tongues // //

Master of the hollow forest, who binds // // The aged with their hear

Sixteen Forty-Five

ou can run and talk when words you have

mastered , // // Let’s sit cross-legged at home and laugh at our crook

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

u, that stalked like one who had // //

Mastered the hunt with effortless effrontery // // And imposed the ju

coffs when hearing praise // // Of how

masterful his pen appears, // // When it brings its audience to tears

of the page was the fluid skill of the

masterful mage // // So with a sigh that page surrendered to the care

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

/ For the final stroke // // In Lily’s

masterpiece . // //

e—only heaven can sing. // // Parodied

mastery , pantomime mystery // // ruled their ambitions, now dead and

Jonathan’s Deathbed

l can attest he would have acknowledged

mastery with silence // // For had cheesy words ravaged the page, the

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

n slalom like your childhood’s playroom

mat , // // And Rome and Paris too have roads that swerve and rise and

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

gold. // // I need the poets now, who

match my age, // // Like Coleridge I could become a sage, // // And

ribs are kindling; breathe in, strike a

match : // // the matter’s so compacted it won’t catch. // //

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

white and yellow honey-pot // // With

matching spoon; // // The miniature tea pot // // (Worth mending, Na

d broken free, // // Losing mother and

maternity . // //

creation with // // care and affecting

mathematic precision to // // better her dear husband’s still-mortal

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ar system’s magicians and musicians and

mathematicians // // draw from an ancient well of that which can’t be

Same but differenT

, // // even without degree. // // My

maths proves useful: // // I can assess my scanty nuts of coke, // /

A Room of Her Own

n—is this the poem? // // The smallest

matryoshka doll is always so hard to open. // // Hold it to your ear,

her vent // // Misshapen, shitten, and

matted with old feather. // //

[No point, she said]

uilt. // // A soft man from the oddest

matter built, // // Is man no less when odd and painted white. // //

Three gay rituals

erse of fire. One second’s past— // //

Matter explodes. Growth’s spiraling has passed // // The comprehendab

// // For dawn brain; // // And does

matter // // Matter // // That much? // // What // // Was that? //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

ary between two // // Things is just a

matter of timing. Is this the poem? // //

for such a furious flame? // // Dark

Matter reels. Imagine it just passed, // // Expanding in a bubble th

wn brain; // // And does matter // //

Matter // // That much? // // What // // Was that? // // A quicker

Small Particles in the Small Hours

breathe in, strike a match: // // the

matter’s so compacted it won’t catch. // //

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

// gadgets and gizmos that soiled his

mattress with // // beating his hammer against his new heart made of

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// through box and holly grown to full

maturity // // to an iron-gated pointed arch // // piercing the wall

ore // // Close to the land, I open my

maw // // to the ocean: I have no feet. There’ll be time to meet— //

eel or empathise. // // For the writer

may agree, but he lies, // // He put no thought into that verb, // /

n, // // Because you can’t wear quirky

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

Three Pieces of Advice

merity of this Alaskan scene. // // It

may be the coldest day of the year // // but no Murder of absurd blac

why i’m getting into Christmas

Is the fear, the absolute dread of what

may be. // // Words run slipshod, all across the page and onto the de

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

first response. Success and joy // //

may be your stated goal but safety first – // // you’re in the trash

Between Life and Death

broken foetus-leaves // // In the last

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

saw him walking in the meadow // // In

May he stood beneath the willow // // In June he lay among the yarrow

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

s, for I am well of love. // // Apples

may perhaps be comforting // // as any fruit, though Suliman’s pilaf

The well of love

details won’t be excused, // // and we

may read it out as a punishment. // // The fire will be lit in the da

The Dead Letter Office closes down

May 1998 // // The ballot-slips are counted in // // And somewhere s

tte, I cast away // // all such signs.

May the new // // and broken morning be no song of you, // // but ma

brow than in your entirety. // // You

may yet grow to resemble your mother more than mine // // But for now

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

n morning be no song of you, // // but

may you revel in this world of things // // as I today: you look and

of leaves, of branches and bloom // //

May your sap run quick and your bark hold strong— // // May your spor

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

quick and your bark hold strong— // //

May your spores spread wide, your mycelium long, // // And your dark

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

their place // // —in muesli, say, or

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

The well of love

up, or otherwise encumbered, // // Or

maybe forced to wear something restrictive, // // But that’s not even

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

/ // At six o’clock. Sharp. // // But

maybe I don’t need to sing; just wait instead. // // Like a Wiccan wo

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

maybe if I continue to sing] // // // // // // // // // And, h

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

/ // // // // // // // And, hey,

maybe if I continue to sing, that thing // // That’s on the tip of yo

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

// making the wood marbled. // // Or

maybe // // it could sort of peel away in papery layers, // // and p

/ // Today, I keep remembering. // //

Maybe it’s a lacuna of my // // sleepless mind, // // Or a sly’d pro

l’esprit d’escalier

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

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

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

Maybe it’s just the latent sign // // Of some perversion of a submiss

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

I don’t know what makes art Art // //

maybe it’s that once I’ve seen it // // I can never not see it again.

window, warming // // in the sun? Or

maybe nothing—maybe she // // is pensive, dreaming, lost in reverie.

Cape Cod Morning

an rejoice. it’s waiting there for you.

maybe one day my skin will be stripped enough. one day I get to cry Kr

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

ng // // in the sun? Or maybe nothing—

maybe she // // is pensive, dreaming, lost in reverie. // // And the

Cape Cod Morning

ly ‘Fifth’ must surely be a sin. // //

Maybe the new New Yorkers were just simply overcome; // // This thirt

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

Was Comin’ Or Goin’ Away. Same As You.

Maybe The Only Thing Is…The Knowin’ // //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

elon cubes, stranded sea monkeys // //

Maybe they patternize to someone else’s eyes, affirm a thing, touch a

walled garden, left untended // // for

maybe thirty years. A winding path // // leads from the glazed back

/ // If only I could feel its assault,

maybe // // This landscape wouldn’t remind me of you. // // Faith, a

The Other Side of the Line

Now it happens my old friend is crowned

mayor of London, he // // goes by the rubrik of Boris the Mad. // //

Troubled waters

o caress her. // // Left me stuck in a

maze to the end of my days // // Where it stinks. I’d give gold for s

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

dow] // // They saw him walking in the

meadow // // In May he stood beneath the willow // // In June he lay

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

// the sky behind the trees beyond the

meadow , // // tall grasses glowing in the morning sun // // below an

Cape Cod Morning

[They saw him walking in the

meadow ] // // They saw him walking in the meadow // // In May he sto

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ich we walk // // Together through the

meadow ? Touch and talk // // Are mingled as we sit beside the stream

Is it a memory?

and on // // the mile across the river

meadows // // to Grantchester. As we walk back // // against the wi

Walking in winter

e means we grab and claw // // For the

meagre protection of a bank balance. // // The brave and fearless war

fault the regime that I’m under: // //

Meals : fourteen a year—all frozen (by fear)— // // But the service ge

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ull tin of strawberry mints // // must

mean a sentry asleep at the post: // // how else to explain, sheltere

h 2009 // // Giggly Hillary // // Met

mean Binyamin // // In the offices running // // His fighting machin

hing without it. // // You know what I

mean . // // Course. // // You always alone? // // Not in fair weath

Whales sing because they have a song

beard might hide, // // What it might

mean if all we saw were beards upon the face, // // A Mr. Twit comple

Bearded Thoughts

and meanings multiply, // // while you

mean only you. // // Your radiance will not sleep, // // You cannot

Stone, Paper, Scissors

by love. // // Not like that. // // I

mean , sure, to be frank, part of me’s always wondered // // What it m

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ell me she was raped by a swan // // I

mean , talk about a half remembered mythic method // // I can’t even r

here I’m going with this. // // I just

mean that in my current state, 19 years and // // Not enough months t

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

oem, I can be // // Just exactly who I

mean to be // // And then some. // //

Writing to explore

hat seems an odd thing to say, right? I

mean // // what about the women come and go and talk

reck’ as in emotionally wreck. // // I

mean wrecked as in ended. Leave nothing intact. As in, if it doesn’t k

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

o come and wreck me. // // And I don’t

mean ‘wreck’ as in emotionally wreck. // // I mean wrecked as in ende

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ls to impart one specific viable // //

meaning and are instead cultural constructions // // onto which devel

es he see in jugs and jars? // // What

meaning in these kitchen goods? // // He never tells. But in each pie

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

to verse // // Scorched calfskin with

meaning // // Of the skull, once scorched soft calfskin, // // Now b

and rightness) makes // // the act of

meaning something no great shakes. // // So, plummeting down Castle H

rcling in my strange heart // // whose

meaning will forever elude you— // // tell me something else I will n

eaningless sound, vertical, horizontal,

meaningful // // the solar system’s magicians and musicians and mathe

Same but differenT

bestial lust // // Striped with trust,

meaningless fucks and love celestial. // // Two-faced words incarnate

infully wrought, // // Pretentious and

meaningless , is one of mine? // // She scorns me and my writing, I’m

Wednesday Evening

rd, I’m giving you my all, // // These

meaningless metaphors and simplistic similes // // Capture all of my

I’ll never work for Hallmark

nversation fills the room // // Asking

meaningless , roundabout, questions for the sake of making // // Noise

Vicious or Virtuous?

enturies until // // crystallized into

meaningless // // serve cold and forgotten // // Ah what do they kno

symphonies rely solely on sound // //

meaningless sound, vertical, horizontal, meaningful // // the solar s

Same but differenT

// his name like a love-song, // // a

meaningless // // thing. // // Molly, his wife, would pursue his cre

Jonathan’s Deathbed

e fixed, but that they slip // // and

meanings multiply, // // while you mean only you. // // Your radianc

Stone, Paper, Scissors

the town // // And rhyme’s extinction

means egality. // // At least that’s how it seems to those who see //

In Defence of Evolution

// But meets ‘business leaders’—which

means he won’t need us— // // He’s in with top brass and so scorns Ha

st this facial hair perhaps, or what it

means . // // Perhaps it seems archaic, rather like a caveman or some

Bearded Thoughts

silence spell our hexagram. // // War

means supplication: the hexagram— // // Once print, now prayer—in six

Sixteen Forty-Five

and over // // The latest life hurdle

means we grab and claw // // For the meagre protection of a bank bala

s not hard, we chose // // a name that

meant all things // // that dazzle and move and wave; // // small bu

Stone, Paper, Scissors

ther // // Nestled in a form I had not

meant // // Bringing a message I had not planned // // Screaming in

Writing to explore

en well-spent, and’s gone exactly as he

meant it to. // // And he has some years left in him yet. // // This

. // // Is this the drowning which was

meant ? // // My tilt-shift vision // // of Prospero’s storm: // //

As the importance is not whether it was

meant to be, // // But merely that on the page it lies, // // And in

ric rings that signify your age— // //

Meanwhile , the wind whistles in the chimney. // //

// // Whose pace, within the strictest

measure even, // // Breaks in the drill and rhythm of a bell… // //

asp, those glaciers of flame. // // To

measure scale for such a furious flame? // // Dark Matter reels. Ima

rms— // // Icons for us—of weighed and

measured mass // // Ten billion years from this. Yet few’ll then know

// fingertipped your way through // //

measured musings, down below // // your tightwires I would slowly //

luc bat to mr. beam

feel like echoes, // // you came home.

Measuring the miles decreasing with every page // // of the novel tha

[I often think of that January morning]

/ // now my flesh becomes fare: // //

meat for man. He’ll greet my coat with the least of concern, // // on

t when I found them again // // In the

meat -market, wearing each step forward // // Into last night’s night

ly, he would never even dream of eating

meat // // that he had dropped on the floor (by accident) // // simp

, soft, paint— // // Art in the age of

mechanical reproduction. (Fleshly reproduction is draining.) // // Th

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

im in the dust. He revels joylessly and

mechanically in the perfection of his thought. Who can help this helpl

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

Houston: A Discourse on the Anxiety of

Mechanised Racial Profiling // // Love set you going like a fat gold

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

me my dad. Such a loser // // To marry

Medea . I accused her // // Of suppressing the truth—so condemning our

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

tricks. // // Just like you can’t wear

medieval sleeves // // Or habits while you bike your kids to school.

In Defence of Evolution

// // when it rains great, warm // //

Mediterranean drops. // //

Tridente, 10th September

the message. // // Cheese is the very

medium of their work. // // We drink in language with our mothers mil

Cheese is the medium

medium // // Poets have been silent about cheese // // Because whils

Cheese is the medium

llow touch, a kiss // // Then our eyes

r care what it is. I never could // //

meet anyone’s eye. // //

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

an: I have no feet. There’ll be time to

meet — // // now my flesh becomes fare: // // meat for man. He’ll gre

// Really is gonna come to make us all

meet our fate, // // You’d best make a bet I’d want that wave to be s

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

fying Iphis, // // she jumps // // to

meet the water channelling below. // // Held aloft by spray // // sh

nd crumbling beneath her feet // // to

meet the water channelling below. // // The crowds stand restless wit

sight, // // Surrounding ev’ry face we

meet with Blight, // // Whose knived line carv’s out a trace, a Well

[What have we done]

a thing, touch a cord // // ‘umbrellas

meeting sewing machines on (animated) dissecting tables’, as it were.

un or rain or passing cloud // // more

meetings with old friends // // more talks, more silences // // more

a cloak of symbolic colouration // //

meets a magpie on the road. // // like, a big fucking magpie. // //

where it’s ‘badly impacted’ // // But

meets ‘business leaders’—which means he won’t need us— // // He’s in

l miles away // // in a world of digit

meets digits, // // space and time exploded // // to a single // //

nds ahead. // // The clash where flesh

meets wire and no-one wins // // Except you, you and your line victor

The Other Side of the Line

hile bearing all we’ll know; // // Its

megallanic stream expands to form // // A Universe of fire. One secon

hs unknown (in feet at least) // // To

Mellbreak’s deepest crest // //

/ // drink! and be merry! // // Warm,

mellow bread breath chanting and a song // // drink to winter! a

Drink and be merry

ingertips // // Slide past lips // //

Mellow touch, a kiss // // Then our eyes meet // //

, come down— // // The ebb and flow of

melody // // Ends on a heartfelt sigh. // // As the violin plays tri

ullet-proof hideout their // // life’s

melody . // // “Fiddle-dee-dee,” said the minstrel, “The only thing //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

out for someone // // To demonstrate a

melody // // In the supermarket tills’ // // Incessant beeping // /

Magnetic Mountain

g // // Left of this life is its sweet

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

Jonathan’s Deathbed

loors today: quicksand clumps, capsized

melon cubes, stranded sea monkeys // // Maybe they patternize to some

f hour // // the air is warm enough to

melt // // the topmost layer. The frost returns // // to make a cru

Walking in winter

aid my head. // // In the prehistoric,

melting dawn, // // stretched her gauzy face on mine // // so that,

comes to slush within the marsh, // //

Melting into a liquid form, they blend. // // A faded wash seemingly

[What have we done]

Flash News // // Scientist says:

meme for belief in life after death // // Old man sits bespectacled i

/ and wonder: do I have it, or no? this

meme of after-night // // On the threshold of genesis, in what purgat

g—is this the poem? // // The cicada’s

memories discarded, a copper effigy caves in, // // And far away gree

things I never had // // And laugh at

memories I never made. // // I can be a leader, a fighter, // // A v

Writing to explore

will outlive, // // To commit love to

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

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

g my words in echoes. // // Just as my

memories of you began to feel like echoes, // // you came home. Measu

[I often think of that January morning]

/ // As much as I tried to forget, the

memories resurfaced in echoes, // // and always I found myself starin

[I often think of that January morning]

ways came // // on Thursdays) took our

memories , why did // // he stoop to brass? Why do I chiefly mourn //

Compass Reading

heat // // and the snows and skies of

memory // // always diminishing make it seem // // that right now s

why i’m getting into Christmas

course // // extracted from my fickle

memory — // // elusive and illusive treasure, she. // //

Daydream Dale Journey

// // The final fray // // remains in

memory , for good or ill, // // another day. // // I cannot say // /

verything breathed and // // Your soft

memory immolates its body beneath my hands. // // Rings of ash are bl

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

memory ? // // Is it a memory or another dream // // That golden afte

Is it a memory?

// // ’Tis pity. // // Some ancestral

memory is unseated // // From its place on our shared bookshelf // /

’Tis pity he’s a bore

om bare skin in the sultry heat; // //

Memory lost in the wine-fugue, the beautiful // // Give themselves to

/ // is something else again. // // A

memory // // (nineteen-sixty-one or so—my teens—already // // betwee

jolt // // in the clockwork // // of

memory . // // Not here, but elsewhere, // // the places were // //

[The sash rattles up]

your life was only— // // is only—the

memory of kind words // // fixed to a comforting face that could //

Sestina to an English Teacher

ss of the world // // Towards a buried

memory of light // // Whose faded trace no photograph records. // //

The Magic Apple Tree

aniable but mute // // Remains a vivid

memory of my childhood days. // // Now far from home, I wonder if new

sheets, // // buoyed by the colourless

memory of pain, // // as if there were any doors still left locked //

Is it a memory? // // Is it a

memory or another dream // // That golden afternoon in which we walk

Is it a memory?

gaze too // // At frozen events, pale

memory , // // Pendant in silicon amber. // // Plain and varied multi

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

it drops. // // I replay too detailed

memory waiter’s goodbye, smile of cabbie; // // Ambient objects. //

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

soul, // // The subsoil of your oldest

memory . // // Walk through the outer darkness of the world // // Tow

The Magic Apple Tree

// // It had to be, but it was not the

memory we needed. // // So three months later, we met again // // on

ir, pools and palaces, sanity // // of

men and kings—all rot away, while night // // brings rumbling forest

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

he evening before Christmas day. // //

Men and listening children // // Wait for the ring of a bell, // //

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

s what he is doing // // Again. // //

Men are too foolish to fear you, // // I suppose. // // I will die h

// but I shall not despair // // now

men can come to tea. // // An eco-room. // // A modern phoenix // /

A Room of Her Own

rton would find it hard to believe that

men can desire more from art that cheese // // They want their soul t

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

l you’re in the clear. // // Play your

men like your cards, dear, and never // // Keep your cards in hand af

ust would guess. // // In Eastern Cape

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

Three gay rituals

trimony // // My grandad tended to old

men when young, // // The kind who’d spent a lifetime in the pit //

// // Upon those souls of those modern

men who bask in the flames of that revered pen. // // Not even Cheste

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

// // Has purged the kingdom, and its

men , with fire. // // Come with your houndsmen to the household fire:

Sixteen Forty-Five

/ The domain of eccentric professors or

men with knitted jumpers // // (big ideas on rocks and bones in the g

Bearded Thoughts

left would be beards to compare, // //

Men , women, and children all. // //

Bearded Thoughts

h, as stealing through the murk, // //

Mendacious bigots do their deadly work, // // Those creeping politici

// The miniature tea pot // // (Worth

mending , Nan said, it’s genuine Limoges); // // The milk jug from ban

us when our cosy lives explode. // //

Mental muscles flex and pose in minimalist offices. // // Soldiers ma

WB Yeats // // For all his talk of old

men’s lust and rage. // // I’ve glanced awhile at poets on the shelf,

y slickers on // // the dole, unshaven

merchants , and // // the acne-crusted vicar’s son— // // the old pod

[the typist puts her knickers on]

ancients // // Dispensing justice, not

mercy // // I grant you, then, your justice // // You will still be

flowers for my grave I pray you // //

Mercy ! I implore you // // A taste to slake this thirst. // // Naïve

to slake this thirst. // // Naïve one,

mercy , // // Is not something to which you should aspire, // // Do y

uld aspire, // // Do you not know that

mercy // // Is the spider’s web that catches the spider? // // All i

an X. // // The divine condensed to a

mere bromide. // // ’Tis pity he’s a bore. // //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

whether it was meant to be, // // But

merely that on the page it lies, // // And in every reader the poet t

nier // // and bakes a tarte au citron

meringuée . // //

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

n the tea. // // Ding dong, ding dong,

merrily . // // We enter mass to bands of brass, // // We stand as th

A Hymn to a Loved One

// to Christmas! // // and, please, be

merry . // //

Drink and be merry

d a song // // drink to winter! and be

merry ! // // Fat boar bubbling in oil spit, and the lamb is bled //

Drink and be merry

merry // // Fur fire and we are safe against the cold, cold ni

Drink and be merry

the great grey sky // // drink! and be

merry ! // // Green spindles stick to socks a silent great-aunt a

Drink and be merry

your coat, uncle— // // drink! and be

merry ! // // Hymns rattle around the silverware cadences vibrate t

Drink and be merry

is bled // // drink! to winter! and be

merry . // // joy, pride swelling in the belly fear // // the forb

Drink and be merry

the port // // drink to Christ! and be

merry ! // // Sanitized warm parsnip smells tender goose and the gr

Drink and be merry

pudding // // drink! to Christ! and be

merry . // // silence unspoken fear gritting the teeth and fing

Drink and be merry

rally // // drink to Christmas! and be

merry ! // // Turkey on a platter from John Lewis, cinnamon infused br

Drink and be merry

e cold, cold night // // drink! and be

merry ! // // Warm, mellow bread breath chanting and a song // /

Drink and be merry

ss. // // cowbwebs catch on tongue and

mesh eyes // // blinking on a pimpled trunk // // snail-spotted and

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

en all that I am will slide through the

mesh // // Of the world up into a vast, unyielding sky // // Untouch

[My face is old now]

chine under skin, // // Let code-lines

mesh with genotyping—is this the poem? // // Millennia lived together

// Because whilst every subject is the

message . // // Cheese is the very medium of their work. // // We dri

Cheese is the medium

form I had not meant // // Bringing a

message I had not planned // // Screaming in my mind for release. //

Writing to explore

casion, // // we read the flower-borne

messages // // and talked to relatives not seen for years. // // It

// // Squelch the compost of old text

messages between my toes, // // Obsessive over the kind of love they

[I am almost 25 years old]

for his orphaned heart, // // Angelic

messengers in clay— // // Angelic messengers who say // // That thou

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

elic messengers in clay— // // Angelic

messengers who say // // That though he finds himself alone, // // L

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

ge blithely grins // // Into a million

messy shards. // // The table and children and paper and dust appear

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

n’s yields, // // When flying to their

messy , tree-top nests, // // Settling down in comfort comparable to o

[Walcott begins Omeros]

eeded. // // So three months later, we

met again // // on a Suffolk shingle beach. // // In November the da

Greek hotel // // in summer, where we

met and all was well; // // the end, the moment life just seemed to d

ish this rubbish to the first dustbin I

met // // And the moral of this, as readers will foresee is that pass

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

call. // // I think about the time we

met , how long ago // // It was, before we ever knew the flow // // A

[My face is old now]

March 2009 // // Giggly Hillary // //

Met mean Binyamin // // In the offices running // // His fighting ma

// // …Screeching brakes and crunching

metal as gravity falls away. // // Tumbling upwards, being pulled by

Snapshot Endings

Vicious or Virtuous? // //

Metallic disks land on a surface // // Causing a sound more recognisa

Vicious or Virtuous?

”. he says it’s a figure, a luminescent

metaphor for something else, but all you can see through is a pierced

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

tractions of experience // // Make the

metaphor of photography literal, // // Purgatory lenses your beauty.

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

male power. // // Poof! // // Another

metaphor turns to dust. // // With a casual pop-culture reference, //

ng you my all, // // These meaningless

metaphors and simplistic similes // // Capture all of my love and des

I’ll never work for Hallmark

it’s like a camel indeed. // // HAMLET

Methinks it is like a weasel. // // POLONIUS It is backed like a weas

an, talk about a half remembered mythic

method // // I can’t even remember where I left it

shirt, // // And me realising that the

method of erasing blood was stated with experience, // // And me real

Three Pieces of Advice

olished by professionals, // // Shirts

meticulously casual. // // His humour still hasn’t crawled // // Out

ht set gravity back to nine point eight

metres per second // // Per second, and I’ll finally be able to stand

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

being able to remember the names of the

metrical forms, // // So easy to learn. // // I digress. // // I al

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

nti // // climax, nothingness. You are

mewling death. // // In truth, you stagnant, solipsistic bore, // //

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

// I mean, sure, to be frank, part of

me’s always wondered // // What it might be like to be tied up, or ot

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

please’, // // ‘Thank you’ and ‘excuse

me’s slips from my mind // // As I pour with them into the // // Car

Poems on the Underground

e // // of cake was suicide, and sugar

mice // // were a tensed trap, and truffles could be wrapped // // a

Chocolate Sonnet

heaven takes, // // Human things that

Michael breaks // // Will wash away his refuge. // // As he watches

ing; // // Bet we can make them all in

micro , soft, paint— // // Art in the age of mechanical reproduction.

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

Microgynon // // Defy the moon suck, Cnut unheeded, // // All that s

tless to plead my case // // into that

microphone I could not reach, // // high on your bristling Harris Twe

Compass Reading

lipped wires and frames, // // Circuit

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

Frighteningly Inert

t and waste, and she was left a- // //

mid the disappointing debris of the world: // // Its fag ends and can

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

Mid -Winter // // Amidst the tympanum // // His stone hair startles f

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

ake me up to the smell of smoke, // //

Midday , in dirty sheets with window open, // // Your newest song on t

eming deathless, // // Are obscured by

Middle -Eastern tales // // Of a boy-king. // // Seeming deathless, /

Before Christmas

forgotten lives, // // Are obscured by

Middle -Eastern tales. // // The supple green branches, // // Seeming

Before Christmas

en the knuckles of your // // Ring and

middle finger, // // Taste the lies on your tongue— // // I’ve been

Fall for————

sawdust and soil // // misting in the

middle of a cracked caramel carpet // // a burial mound where boots c

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

a moon, // // A thumbtack lighting the

midges and her // // Blackened soles, he lies back in damp grass //

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

MIDI : // // All that is left of bird song. // // Phoenix upside—down

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

shown // // the furcula might prove a

midline split // // in this revision one makes one and one // // tur

I’ve listened to too much

Midwest emo and now I can’t remember how to write poems // // because

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

oom as close // // and still // // as

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

/ // Way-hey, blow the man down // //

Might and strain of the wave-thick // // tentacular lashings at surge

slightly warped. // // Eat junk? You

might as well rummage through bins, // // barefaced as a Buddhist mon

Chocolate Sonnet

// One afterthought // // of comfort

might assuage the sharper pain – // // some, having parted, choose to

// What will you trade for an eye? AI

might be cis, white, male, hetero, // // but at least it won’t talk t

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

of me’s always wondered // // What it

might be like to be tied up, or otherwise encumbered, // // Or maybe

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

l options describing those actions that

might be permitted and/or recommended if barriers are not in place. //

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

d so I build myself like honeycomb. Wax

might create candlelight, // // but for now my light is stored, and t

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// The razor might not last, the bomb

might fall, // // Then all we’d have left would be beards to compare,

Bearded Thoughts

might fall // // What news borne on the wind? // // What winged seed

leaves might fall

y and the world. // // Careful, things

might fall // // Where the senses cannot feel— // // This is where I

round that narrow spotless nape, // //

Might , from time to time, consent a tawny arm to drape. // //

// For each mil-billionth strike // //

Might give the psych- // // Ological boost // // Of being the first

Small Particles in the Small Hours

’t talk to me on the train. // // This

might have been a very bad move. But don’t panic, carry on. // //

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

compare each specimen, // // Like one

might have done sitting in an omnibus or hackney cab: // // ‘That one

Bearded Thoughts

corpse. A quality of care // // That

might have saved you all those years ago. // // Conserved and publish

ays // // watching, and so thought she

might // // hide the fact // // in stale jumpers // // and behind /

In a charity shop

// We are terrified of what the beard

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

Bearded Thoughts

’t help but emulate, // // Try as they

might . // // Higgledy Piggledy // // Oscar Pistorius // // Slaughte

n the sky much in the way bricks // //

Might , if we built a Babel enough crane. // // Bums are falling off o

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

ot raisins // // but flagons. Flagons

might indeed // // distract me, or Suliman, from his pilaf. // // Bu

The well of love

king days, or if my real malaise // //

might just be musing if I’m wanted now // // by you alive or dead? Li

Between Life and Death

se ‘hoodlums scammers’ I reflect // //

might just be you, despite your wish that I // // should rest in perf

Between Life and Death

y not to think of me, // // Though you

might , let this waste of sea intervene. // // The horizon, I know, wo

I could never be (ready)

at the beard might hide, // // What it

might mean if all we saw were beards upon the face, // // A Mr. Twit

Bearded Thoughts

far from home, I wonder if new children

might // // Monkey-like prance from branch to branch, preserving thos

too close to the past, // // The razor

might not last, the bomb might fall, // // Then all we’d have left wo

Bearded Thoughts

// My mother always said, “one day you

might // // Play when the stakes trump the game, and then dear // //

Cartilage has shown // // the furcula

might prove a midline split // // in this revision one makes one and

nd you my battle scars, // // Then you

might pull me from my sphere // // Or fall to me from yours, // // W

The Daily Planet

ychologists (clean-shaven and in black)

might say. // // The beard is living history, we are too close to the

Bearded Thoughts

uld you be found in Mars, // // Then I

might search your tender wounds // // And you my battle scars, // //

The Daily Planet

back what you need. // // So that HAL

might set gravity back to nine point eight metres per second // // Pe

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

// // No breath remains to show how we

might speak // // Or write, approaching her in skill and elegance. //

mous. Poetry is not made by Man, as you

might think, but by It. Poetry came from It, as we do not really know

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

rough the exit, // // Discover that we

might yet wreck their brexit. // //

a Well // // Cascading in with all its

mights to Hell? // // The vapours held betwixt these lines move tight

[What have we done]

ment the burring grows, // // Thrushes

migrate where the weather’s hot, // // Only we are left in its throes

BURR (or Brrrrr)

I keep my eyes peeled, // // For each

mil -billionth strike // // Might give the psych- // // Ological boos

Small Particles in the Small Hours

’ to ‘Tenth’ from right to left. // //

Milan and Barcelona and Vienna and Berlin // // All give their greate

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ough stained glass. // // O little one

mild . // // Lunchtime with the family, // // Lead on, Spirit. // //

A Hymn to a Loved One

s covered his outspread hair // // And

mildew took the place of tears // // The boy without a face. // // J

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

k to the edge of town and on // // the

mile across the river meadows // // to Grantchester. As we walk back

Walking in winter

// // While the ideal me waves from a

mile away. // // Bloated on turkey and stale conversation // // The

gs, heavy, in the frosted air. // // A

mile away, the ideal me, // // A little less wary, a little more love

ercome; // // This thirteen-and-a-half

mile Eden seemed to be divine. // // And so they thought of what two-

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

and continues onwards // // Until the

mile has become two // // And the image of what I ought to be // //

its just right // // the spray rises a

mile into the air // // (or so it seems to me), to crash back down— /

Walking in winter

when every step is new // // and every

mile is two, // // and I’d walk twice that for you. // //

ir is white all through.) // // ‘Every

mile is two’? no, hardly thus. // // Some miles are ten, while other

Walking in winter

the tops // // of your gumboots. The

mile or two // // to the village shop to seek supplies // // becomes

Walking in winter

all along the shingle beach. // // The

mile south to the Martello tower, // // we walk along the banked-up t

Walking in winter

ear-kissed under mask // // with steel

miles ahead in wait // // and then a new city. // // Now you are rel

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

is two’? no, hardly thus. // // Some

miles are ten, while others swiftly pass. // //

Walking in winter

urety of pressing the phone on the wall

miles away // // in a world of digit meets digits, // // space and t

es, // // you came home. Measuring the

miles decreasing with every page // // of the novel that dwindled bet

[I often think of that January morning]

gait, // // So that I’m launched 3,000

miles in a single second straight, // // So fast that my eyes explode

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

dge—and now I flick my wand // // some

miles of dale and moor to skip across // // and find myself in wooded

Daydream Dale Journey

und with words I know. // // (How many

miles to go till I can sleep?) // // But then, just as I feel like le

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

/ We drink in language with our mothers

milk // // But poets curdle words until they bite, // // With substa

Cheese is the medium

said, it’s genuine Limoges); // // The

milk jug from bank holidays // // At Dungeness Lighthouse; // // The

k, resting next to my head. // // “No

milk ” // // Pushing a trolley through the stacks // // Of discounted

The Notes You Have Left

revealing // // Fleeting instances of

milk -soaked silence. // // Darkened feet tread over a foreign space /

Vicious or Virtuous?

if she had any interest // // in sour

milk // // the sick cow // // and the blight // // that had fallen

liked a lass from Lancashire; // // so

milk -white was her skin. // // In Cheddar Gorge the chaffinches // /

that veils, then flickers past // // A

Milky Way of twinkling roseate light— // // Shape-shifting, whispers

Into the asp-bored sand to rest for two

millennia . // // Haloed by Hawara sun you saw him lean // // To read

ith genotyping—is this the poem? // //

Millennia lived together, so tangled in this flesh— // // Survival do

? Live I could raise // // a cool half

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

Between Life and Death

aper image blithely grins // // Into a

million messy shards. // // The table and children and paper and dus

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

e derived. // // For inside you are a

million pages, // // Of knowledge yet to be explored, // // I crave

The Tree of Wisdom

grees with an impenetrable stare, yes a

million times yes I declare! // // Thus the sonnets of Shakespeare wi

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

st our cognitive // // Sense, began to

mime // // Words which once we could // // Speak, to lose our grasp

/ your tightwires I would slowly // //

mimic your steps; growing day by day, // // a cursive script’s embrac

luc bat to mr. beam

le // // I fear I am not in my perfect

mind : // // As examiners so cruelly, // // In the chilling hall wher

Exam Room Villanelle

ank you’ and ‘excuse me’s slips from my

mind // // As I pour with them into the // // Carriage, step across

Poems on the Underground

ee // // I fear I am not in my perfect

mind // // As I try to get my brain on line, // // Searching amongst

Exam Room Villanelle

to my feet remember // // And, half in

mind , Ascent of Cascade start. // // Behind the flow I knew there to

[What have we done]

late for dinner. // // So I’ll tuck my

mind back inside itself, and let it linger // // On the stirring of s

I’ll never work for Hallmark

, // // and every night I watched your

mind dreaming // // before my unconscious swallowed me like an ocean

[I often think of that January morning]

e excellent (Minus // // Perhaps their

mind -dulling // // Concoction which // // Constricted our mulling //

/ but in the true sense: // // beating

mind dying with beating body. // // Five minutes after our hearts sto

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

had not planned // // Screaming in my

mind for release. // // Until I cry for things I never had // // And

Writing to explore

Hardens to wordhoard-gems // // In the

mind For the scop to shape the songsmith // // The word-worm brea

e on, // // Where the dendrites of the

mind // // Grow branching thoughts, bear fruit. // // A song // //

us. // // 5. // // For example, in my

mind : here comes a lion, then an elephant, and presently, a bear. I di

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

me // // I fear I am not in my perfect

mind // // In the lonely hall where I’m confined. // //

Exam Room Villanelle

ur wisdom, // // But instead I find my

mind is flawed. // // But then to the ground fell the fruit to me,

The Tree of Wisdom

// pretentious, with a hateful maggot’s

mind . // // Lame understanding wretch who thinks rhymes wrench’t //

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

// (machine clanging to a halt, // //

mind looks on in horror) // // but in the true sense: // // beating

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

ngers, the // // words that please the

mind , // // navigate the gap of have-been and would. // //

Poems on the Underground

/ A word that initiates thoughts in the

mind // // Of every thinker it lands upon, // // Contrasting gentle

// And thoughts begin to press into my

mind // // Of poetry and other things, how they please, // // Hope t

Poems on the Underground

be it’s a lacuna of my // // sleepless

mind , // // Or a sly’d promise of the // // eternal sunshine // //

l’esprit d’escalier

itches and slides, // // How slowly my

mind renders his form. // // He exists illuminated in slow motion //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

they would // // Make of the mass one

mind . // // Sighing, I make up my mind, // // Waiting for when, the

Poems on the Underground

though if it were less busy I wouldn’t

mind // // Standing, would // // Even smile at the other passengers.

Poems on the Underground

only a little voice in the back of your

mind , // // Telling you about things you don’t want to hear. // //

This is where // //

Mind the gap // // Between your body and the world. // // Careful, t

e, // // I fear I am not in my perfect

mind . // // The questions posed are so unkind: // // Parse—calculate

Exam Room Villanelle

faceless passengers // // And fill my

mind // // To bridge the gap // // And space between the // // Ones

Poems on the Underground

thways. // // Each crescendo blasts my

mind to whiteness. // // Who will join me in the temple? // // A han

lics in the kitchen, // // Keeping her

mind together // // While we’re all fixing // // Absences with cream

Wild Mountain Thyme

one mind. // // Sighing, I make up my

mind , // // Waiting for when, the // // Doors clamp tight shut, like

Poems on the Underground

ly ditched Corpus // // With Berlin in

mind . // // Wrote of his life in his // // Autobiographies, // // L

ing // // Crawling at the back of your

mind . // // You feel it growing, growing // // Until the worm is a s

ormed image, I’m confirmed. // // Your

mind , your hands! You stroked me into light… // // Eternal concept, c

The chicken and the egg

n, // // it tumbles, trembling, traces

mindlessly // // a girdle of the globe. It gleams and disappears, //

[A spinning spider]

structions // // onto which developing

minds can project anxieties // // and sexual confusion without any ex

h // // Constricted our mulling // //

Minds one step at a time). // // Soon we lost our cognitive // // Se

ergeist what is it you // // see in my

mind’s silvered folds, and did I // // invite you in do I pretend you

n you were bending // // your mouth to

mine and mine // // was answering, and time // // stilled, and out o

in the temple? // // A hand will skim

mine as we present our offerings. // // Dutiful eyes, obedient lips,

grow to resemble your mother more than

mine // // But for now just these words tether us together to our old

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

s are finally aligned, // // So why do

mine feel ready to unwind? // //

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

// In my throat. // // Her chest, like

mine , heaves with caged spite // // Threatening to escape. Getting no

ll. // // Your eyes are plastered onto

mine . // // I can’t tell whether I want them there // // Or whether

irring of senses caused by your palm on

mine . // // I’ll keep these unspecific love poems to myself, // // H

I’ll never work for Hallmark

Pretentious and meaningless, is one of

mine ? // // She scorns me and my writing, I’m sure it’s the end // /

Wednesday Evening

the day in // // You hold your hand in

mine // // Shoeless feet and unsteady ground // // Whales singing th

awn, // // stretched her gauzy face on

mine // // so that, by painted mouth and fresco eyes, // // I had to

ar horizon // // You hold your hand in

mine // // The wake of light on water // // Whales singing the day i

ed at your command. // // They are not

mine , these words you make me use: // // Oppression’s language does n

e bending // // your mouth to mine and

mine // // was answering, and time // // stilled, and out of the hea

ke everything you wear, of course, it’s

mine . // // You’ve taken residence beneath my skin, // // And sewn o

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

// // a strange new religion, new gold

mines , new laws and a people dead. // // Ieri- Land of the Hummingbir

h the meadow? Touch and talk // // Are

mingled as we sit beside the stream // // And watch the minnows swim

Is it a memory?

from a clifftop grave // // Your tears

mingling with the rain // // Could I foretell the future // // Gazin

an rolling beneath us // // Your tears

mingling with the rain // // Great Skellig slate grey and wet // //

// // With matching spoon; // // The

miniature tea pot // // (Worth mending, Nan said, it’s genuine Limoge

// // Mental muscles flex and pose in

minimalist offices. // // Soldiers making a killing on the stock exch

n this cauldron we must know // // How

miniscule we are, before we form // // Idea that we have any power t

beside the stream // // And watch the

minnows swim against the flow. // // They dart between dark shadows a

Is it a memory?

Cretan Quartet—a blame game // //

MINOTAUR // // I blame my mother, Zeus bless her. // // She’d this n

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

hrice-empty // // shun. // // Death’s

minstrel followed this path of destruction to // // find out their in

Jonathan’s Deathbed

lody. // // “Fiddle-dee-dee,” said the

minstrel , “The only thing // // Left of this life is its sweet melody

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// So the half-full tin of strawberry

mints // // must mean a sentry asleep at the post: // // how else to

k, potions which // // Were excellent (

Minus // // Perhaps their mind-dulling // // Concoction which // //

not contain by // // Mapping its every

minuscule alteration— // // By changing everything. // // Tiny finge

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

// // Nothing to see here. Give me a

minute . // // At the slow end of a forty day fast // // unpeel the d

ted, felt cheated by // // that twenty-

minute hiatus. // // But the fire bore us no grudge, // // and welco

nd dying with beating body. // // Five

minutes after our hearts stop // // everything (nothing) // // is ni

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

minutes after our hearts stop] // // Five minutes after our hearts st

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

utes after our hearts stop] // // Five

minutes after our hearts stop // // we’ll feel where we are for the f

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

nciding point of the years // // Where

minutes , hours, and days run not to time // // But to a vivid centre—

[At the coinciding point of the years]

, or starved to oblivion // // in five

minutes . // // The patterns the night frosted on car windows // // w

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

de and surely in a week or two // // A

miracle will occur, // // A sonnet or tetrameter will appear as if by

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// I am a naked Hamlet shaving in the

mirror // // Clearing the gravel in my throat pulling // // The wire

// The stars. They glitter ’gainst my

mirror eye, // // And back they swim into that mirror pool, // // Wh

[What have we done]

he poem? // // Soon, make the screen a

mirror , graft the machine under skin, // // Let code-lines mesh with

urrender // // I take even your liquid

mirror // // Is there no more you can do // // Than whine with your

ye, // // And back they swim into that

mirror pool, // // Wherefrom they bounce onto the canopy, // // Spri

[What have we done]

row, // // So I glance instead at your

mirror , // // Rested head gentle against the cool glass, // // But b

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

eepskin you are crow’s // // feet in a

mirror , so many questions // // interrogate me slap me try that just

oat, // // Or the face you pull in the

mirror when fiddling with your hair. // // You could trace a line, li

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

/ You will never know the wilderness of

mirrors // // For you there is naught but this. // // No do not flee

call hands from silent dust. // // The

mis -struck stone. The blade which breaks. // // The potter’s hand tha

Miscellanea , fool’s gold, bric-a-brac, // // bits and pieces, odds an

f. dry-heave // // over the sink. sing

miserere , doubt // // the notes, your voice too much your own. believ

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

And see if this one fits, but // // It

misfits , kills a bell in a burning crucible. // // The cat yowls, and

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

h are humble verses such as this, which

misguidedly discuss vieux corse and swiss // // Had I not written thi

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

Hermione // // No school today.

Miss cannot teach us Greek; // // No breath remains to show how we mi

// // you wasted ink and were bound to

miss . // // From now on all unaccountable post // // should be destr

The Dead Letter Office closes down

just one illicit // // Blink and I’ll

miss it. // // Too much strain // // For dawn brain; // // And doe

Small Particles in the Small Hours

Pallium // // So much happens that we

miss or forget, // // waking from dreams of the house in my head, //

t won’t glow healthily. // // But they

miss the glimmer of primal fear, // // That you master, as if it wasn

of chicken feed. // // But that was to

miss the glory of it— // // The warm egg // // Dropping from the gol

[No point, she said]

so delicate a dial. // // Why should I

miss this little piece of you? // //

Compass Reading

/ // I fed it all the bits that it had

missed : // // fragments around the edges of the blaze. // // Even no

ity // // So that cheese is not sorely

missed from the critically acclaimed world of the immortal rhymists //

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

missed our stop. // // Coffee-stained plastic floor, its frailty tune

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

drowning page. // // Absentmindedly I

missed the jar of water, swirling brushes in my coffee. // // As much

[I often think of that January morning]

from you soon? // // Course. // // [I

missed you] // //

Whales sing because they have a song

a.] // // Long time, no see. // // [I

missed you.] // // Stormy where you are? // // Very blue. Lovely wea

Whales sing because they have a song

om the golden heaven of her vent // //

Misshapen , shitten, and matted with old feather. // //

[No point, she said]

to it by accident. // // A barrier was

missing contrary // // to the mountains of advice // // contained in

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

abjected charging cables, // // And my

missing teeth, // // And the probiotics, // // And the dust illumina

Frighteningly Inert

ht, I fall // // Upon a bed of compact

mist , all soft, // // My heart alight, the ember grown aloft, // //

[What have we done]

). // // End-tale: November song seeks

mist -blue port, so // // Defying stormy-weather and determinism both,

rld of coal. A light // // through the

mist , softly luminous and guiding people through // // the sourness o

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

hrough decomposing leaves and drenching

mist . // // This is where the good things go to die. Light // // and

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

to lead the quick spear into the subtle

mist . // // You strike flint to raise a good fire. I tally days with

did seek a bit more humanity. // // My

mistake was suggesting the cotton— // // Though to let him get lost s

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

lude // // that the Greeks // // were

mistaken . // // A girl on a stool // // high on drugs // // up a hi

/ Passing Fall in tattooed cold, // //

Misted breath on misted grass. // // Dew dappled on falling trees, //

Fall for————

tattooed cold, // // Misted breath on

misted grass. // // Dew dappled on falling trees, // // Dancing shoe

Fall for————

merwake heap of sawdust and soil // //

misting in the middle of a cracked caramel carpet // // a burial moun

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

nd the snow and the fire // // And the

misting -up Dickensian window. // // Bravely, someone intones // // T

Wild Mountain Thyme

is as much an altar draped in bells and

mistle - // // toe as an instrument whose strings sing of souls hurt.

d so much—if you would // // think I’d

misunderstood if I saved // // myself from regret, if I used them to

Sestina to an English Teacher

ant has found // // how good sex is—to

mix the genes around. // // The plants, the fish, the dinosaurs, the

// // Will my new friend accept that I

mix with you lot // // Just as much for detection and wit as for wine

Wednesday Evening

es in bits of old bran and chaff // //

mixed up with sawdust from our new cut beams! // // We’re a curio. Gr

wled // // Out of the bathroom. // //

Mock anti-Semitism, amusing Islamophobia. // // My smile is scratched

name of God for the sake of gold. They

mock - // // ed in Portugal, but when land (oh finally, land!) bid the

name of God for the sake of gold. They

mock // // him in island schools now, fumbling for the East Indies li

nning blood resented life, // // words

mocking your condition—if // // you knew we saw you through your word

Sestina to an English Teacher

Though, just on reflection, // // Our

model excludes gravitation. // // Da capo // //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

se on // // My boson? // // ‘Standard

Model ’ perfection! // // Professorial election // // Nobel genuflect

Small Particles in the Small Hours

hrown // // into the evolving curve of

modern flight // // now trade in futures on the wishing bone // // a

graved // // Upon those souls of those

modern men who bask in the flames of that revered pen. // // Not even

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

me to tea. // // An eco-room. // // A

modern phoenix // // risen from old coal-grate ash // // so I can sh

A Room of Her Own

the under-stair cupboard // // Of post-

modern serfdom. // // The light was rarely shown, // // We scuttled

n unease and vitality. // // 4. // //

Modernity is wrong. We cannot control nor predict anything. They prece

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

d— // // Patrolled the streets of late

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

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

whose smile makes the sun fizzle out in

modesty // // So that the Earth stops spinning dead in its gait, //

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

acant stomach // // Her blushed cheeks

moistened with my tears. // // Momentary flashes of white coats and p

// // blow the evanescent airs // //

moistening the many-coloured earths. // // In forests and in open spa

// My place, lifting my molten body’s

mold // // By hand, hardening to the rocks each tug, // // The upstr

[What have we done]

// // Then, as a blacksmith finds his

mold self-grown, // // My practic’d pattern forged a way its own //

[What have we done]

/ // But just as I did to this purpose

mold , // // The ice with which I rose grew weary, crack’d // // So s

[What have we done]

shape clipped // // wind curves // //

moles tubers // // worm roots wait // // for spring // // when drie

yew needs dried blood in spring

// a meaningless // // thing. // //

Molly , his wife, would pursue his creation with // // care and affect

Jonathan’s Deathbed

blindly dug // // My place, lifting my

molten body’s mold // // By hand, hardening to the rocks each tug, //

[What have we done]

of the imagination, // // Rises, magma

moltenly golden // // Hardens to wordhoard-gems // // In the mind

rs in boxes. // // I want to take this

moment and fossilise it. // // forgotten quotations unpeel from the w

s contemplation // // Of its abounding

moment // // And that the creature, transfixed by its time-blown boug

[At the coinciding point of the years]

t and all was well; // // the end, the

moment life just seemed to drain // // away from you, in those last d

// // Levitation, the curled toes the

moment // // of departure, are you afraid do you // // understand Ka

h I do. You look back at me. // // The

moment passes, and we turn anywhere: // // fear reflects between our

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

nian burrs like a Scot, // // At every

moment the burring grows, // // Thrushes migrate where the weather’s

BURR (or Brrrrr)

erience of reality, if only for a brief

moment . This reality is coextensive with ‘unconscious will’, ‘pure pow

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

nches, breathless, // // Waiting for a

moment to arrive, // // When out of your body comes understanding, /

The Tree of Wisdom

a shutter’s blink and break // // The

moment when the child looks and the lens // // Looks and the newspape

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

/ // // // Transport yourself to the

moment when these immortal words spilled from the Shakespearean pen //

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

Each line, a step, // // Towards that

moment // // Where it takes off. // // One stride too far, // // Ov

Falling Is Like This

ake me back to the start, // // at the

moment where opposites attract, // // for this is where we begin. //

r this is where we begin, // // at the

moment where opposites attract. // // Oh take me back to the start. /

habit made can grow // // this flower—

momentary and no— // // way ever to be preserved or pressed? // // A

cheeks moistened with my tears. // //

Momentary flashes of white coats and pitying faces // // And her, sob

ays wise, // // Whereas such beautiful

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

Mosquito nights

of the reflections; // // and when the

moment’s gone, we’re lost and alone. // // Do we understand each othe

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

breath you breathe in now, // // This

moment’s pulse, this rhythm in your blood // // And listen to it, rin

The Flower // //

Monday night, the tv on, // // keeping us tied to the hundrum: // //

// // one for the stomach, two for the

money . // // Nothing to see here. Give me a minute. // // At the sl

roduce a fine plan. // // We also need

money —of course private finance will // // jump to join in, but needs

Troubled waters

gh bins, // // barefaced as a Buddhist

monk . Enough buns // // and you’ll look like you’ve one in the oven.

Chocolate Sonnet

, I wonder if new children might // //

Monkey -like prance from branch to branch, preserving those // // Old

mps, capsized melon cubes, stranded sea

monkeys // // Maybe they patternize to someone else’s eyes, affirm a

ck // // In your suit, you’re urbanely

monochrome ; // // A real social animal. // // Strip off the civility

Dionysiac. Nature chants in nonsensical

monosyllables ; its nonsense pierces us at once with an unease and vita

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

Sometimes your routine just gets a bit

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

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

at the best of both worlds. // // The

monster hatched by a mother-serpent // // from an egg laid by a too-p

failure, here’s to fear, // // To the

monster , old fiend, that I can hear, // // Whispering across the sea,

Ode to a map of the world

s // // to make a crust. The next two

months // // are clear and fine and bitter cold. // // Every step, /

Walking in winter

t the memory we needed. // // So three

months later, we met again // // on a Suffolk shingle beach. // // I

last December, // // Just over twelve

months now. // // Our voices warm the space around it, // // Hide it

Wild Mountain Thyme

ld. // // Have you forgotten the early

months of silence? // // Or does that silence sit with you at each ta

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

// // Taken when you were only three

months old. // // In it you’re lying on the sun-warmed, deep-veined w

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

uch Signs // // During these slow nine

months the castle mound, // // swelling with cartoon vigour from the

t state, 19 years and // // Not enough

months to make a difference old, // // I don’t wanna be told ‘I love

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

we say is true, // // « Quand la sage

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

[She points to the sky]

ary– // // Like a vitreous slogan of a

monument , // // Reading. // // Pride was a shiver. // // I float in

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

// // different ages, different // //

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

[The sash rattles up]

night, // // Panthera Tigris gulps the

moon . // //

He who made the Lamb

the boy who bathes in the light of the

moon . // //

// Under the transparent blister of a

moon , // // A thumbtack lighting the midges and her // // Blackened

the secret of the space behind the new

moon . // // And elsewhere, as deep as port, as rich as Tokaji, // //

// But all I do is bark wildly at the

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

l’esprit d’escalier

en skywards, cut clean. // // I am the

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

at alone in the watercloured skies, the

moon could never be king. And I was king // // // // You were

[So the moon was there]

e. // // The pond is a tight circle of

moon , eyelashed with heavy grasses. // // His pointed foot will break

I know, and that’s how it saved me. The

moon filled the bits of my skin that were too big and suddenly I could

[So the moon was there]

/ [Too long.] / [ Winter has a jealous

moon .] // // How’s the course? // // Coursing. // // [And tossing a

Whales sing because they have a song

Temple // // The

moon is no longer my goddess. // // I praise Venus with every judder.

umpled at the elbows and knees. But the

moon looked so sad that I stayed there for hours and hours until it be

[So the moon was there]

-filled // // Maria of a hidden // //

Moon . Now your shadow // // Blots the sky, what is // // It looks to

Here be dragons

of dark gold // // Under the magnesium

moon . // // One night soon I will take off my boots, // // Slip out

orty muscles, and all ten toes. But the

moon saved me— // // // // But you’d already swallowed it. //

[So the moon was there]

// Slipping them easy as peel from his

moon -silvered skinny feet. // // He coughs with surprise at the cold

Microgynon // // Defy the

moon suck, Cnut unheeded, // // All that she did with packet, pop, su

ry for it. But once I had swallowed the

moon , the stars all smiled and rushed to become bubbles in the waves a

[So the moon was there]

though the skies never really liked the

moon , they loved it enough to not let it drown, and so I was safe. And

[So the moon was there]

Well, the skies became water. The

moon was the only thing keeping the sky in place, you see, because the

[So the moon was there]

the moon was there] // // So the

moon was there, hanging low in the sky. And it looked just like an orb

[So the moon was there]

moon was there] // // So the moon was there, hanging low in the

[So the moon was there]

// Camel lights watching the floating

moon . // // We went driving in your parents’ car // // To see if we

I ate it up. // // // // The

moon ? // // Yes. I just pulled it out of the sky—it’s easier th

[So the moon was there]

ir // // and see the simplicity // //

moonlight // // brings to an autumn frost. // // 1am, and Woodlands

[The sash rattles up]

re the crib, // // Two verses, slow as

moonrise // // Sung beside the candled tree. // // It was so for my

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

are this or that // // And become the

moons before we know // // What time it is, before we can stretch acr

Catch them at it— // // there must be

moonshine . // //

There must be moonshine

moonshine // // Fin de siècle. // // Ethel Sargant, botanist // //

There must be moonshine

// to leave behind, for now, the wilder

moor . // // The treasures to be found along my path // // are elemen

Daydream Dale Journey

k my wand // // some miles of dale and

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

Daydream Dale Journey

things left afloat. // // Behind each

moored boat runs a wake: time to gush full spate. // // Now my headl

y // // below us // // the dark grass

mops our toes // // // // the cold air stings my lips // // … //

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

the first dustbin I met // // And the

moral of this, as readers will foresee is that passion is the stuff im

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

hat was simply love // // than I could

moralise that hill. News of // // the fact of you (your real- and rig

to open, // // The sweltering smell of

morbid recycled air. // // Our viewing of the cinema landscape in tha

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

/ Take some distance. // // We live in

morbidity , // // Submissive or dead, // // Are you too far to see ?

[She points to the sky]

ling that sinks // // And settles each

morn , // // Affirmed by sun, love, and drinks // // Tell me, is ther

I could never be (ready)

cinder at last ebb // // ignites arena

morn : // // I war dirt-up, image-bled, // // if nine demon ever did,

Hercules et Oracle

Saudade Aubade // // the

morning after // // I’m searching for a word // // amongst the wine

Morning // // Almost accidental, but carefully composed: // // the s

Cape Cod Morning

ch signs. May the new // // and broken

morning be no song of you, // // but may you revel in this world of t

plitting of the bone // // as Martin’s

morning breaks upon the night // // we trade in futures on the wishin

// would last for days and days. Each

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

[I often think of that January

morning ] // // I often think of that January morning together, dreami

[I often think of that January morning]

ike the thing that you were. // // The

morning still falls // // And squalls through your hair // // Like t

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

dow, // // tall grasses glowing in the

morning sun // // below and to the right. And rising left // // the

Cape Cod Morning

indow bay // // in darker wood. Clear

morning sunlight fills // // the room we glimpse inside. A woman lea

Cape Cod Morning

g] // // I often think of that January

morning together, dreaming // // of nothing as we walked through the

[I often think of that January morning]

/ will be water and unremarkable in the

morning warmth; // // our exquisitely ice-etched selves drowned, like

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

// // A clockwork Abraham, ready every

morning with his flint // // At six o’clock. Sharp. // // But maybe

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

// Daily no-feeling recurs in identical

mornings . // // Business will go as usual—Routine completion guarante

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

and dust appear // // Recycled as the

morning’s front-page news, // // And we—we turn it over so you will

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

p instead with haste // // An uncooked

morsel . // // How do I taste? // //

// // better her dear husband’s still-

mortal guess. // // Fearless and shameless and hopeless, pathetically

Jonathan’s Deathbed

clad // // A perfectly honed piece of

mortal machinery // // Like you, that stalked like one who had // //

// The reality of the wood // // And

mortar which cut // // Us off from the rest of // // Humanity, drove

windows of sunken palazzi // // Where

mosaics are defaced with algae and refuse of ages, // // Sounding ove

Mosquito nights // // It would be wise to stop scratching now, // //

Mosquito nights

kiss compost // // mushroom-tiled and

moss -gilded // // a summerwake heap of sawdust and soil // // mistin

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

es // // I mumbled my name to the dank

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

[I whispered my name into the trees]

sort // // from Creamy keats with his

mossed cottage trees // // tasting the words themselves lke cottage c

Cheese is the medium

if the Vogons know // // The earth is

mostly harmless, with a past // // Of telephonic hygiene? It never fo

// Far down below, the earth // // is

mostly water. // // From across the waters // // blow the evanescent

// Old man sits bespectacled in laptop

moth -light. Rendered absurd— // // warmed by un-canned laughter and c

Poker face // // // // My

mother always said, “one day you might // // Play when the stakes tru

s: The Virgin and her Child; // // The

Mother and her only Son. // //

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

e moon-child broken free, // // Losing

mother and maternity. // //

maroon-laced shoes // // To bury your

mother . // // And me realising there’s still a street brawler inside

Three Pieces of Advice

was three years older than me when his

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

Three Pieces of Advice

/ // Twenty three years later, when my

mother died // // we had the proper formal funeral. // // (She had c

esnake?) // // for old, chaotic // //

Mother Earth. // // But they came // // nonetheless // // the feebl

/ // You may yet grow to resemble your

mother more than mine // // But for now just these words tether us to

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

bereft of its roots, // // a prop for

mother nature’s grand exit, // // and its leaves have all been lost i

worlds. // // The monster hatched by a

mother -serpent // // from an egg laid by a too-proud rooster // // t

from // // their lips and // // their

mother tongue the tongue of love. // // they use their words, saying

Same but differenT

cry out in the undulating skink night, “

mother will never understand” why I had to leave tonight. Clancy got l

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

game // // MINOTAUR // // I blame my

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

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

Christmas room is readied // // By the

mothers and God’s angels // // The evening before Christmas day. //

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

a history— // // My history— // // Of

mothers and grandmothers: // // Overcooked recipe books— // // Tough

k. // // We drink in language with our

mothers milk // // But poets curdle words until they bite, // // Wit

Cheese is the medium

the quiet couples and the wistful young

mothers to the surprise of the small boy playing in the street //

[I whispered my name into the trees]

atch over // // The stillness of their

mother’s house. // // The townsmen wonder why he draws // // When al

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

pidated country house // // that is my

mother’s next big venture after // // producing six of us. // // L-s

scendants grace // // The screen on my

mother’s PC). // // I peel them slowly, smoothly // // From these re

orming in the fast- // // ness of your

mother’s side. And now, at last, // // you’re out. And though I dream

m. // // He exists illuminated in slow

motion // // And I am drunk on vertigo // // when I picture him as S

’Tis pity he’s a bore

I’d want that wave to be set // // in

motion by my beloved, her gleaming eyes wet // // From the cold wind

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

piece inside your house, // // I stand

motionless within a frame. Wading fearlessly through // // the cold r

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

torm and tar // // shuddering down the

motorway // // to loom as close // // and still // // as midwinter

n Castle Hill today // // past the old

motte , I cast away // // all such signs. May the new // // and broke

. // // He’s in a raffish // // urban

mould // // not suited to // // a woodland glade // // and dappled

ng patches over kneed corduroys, // //

Moulded by no volcanic hand // // Other than his own. // // Horrifie

Frighteningly Inert

rd box // // with flightless eggshells

mouldering . // //

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

uring these slow nine months the castle

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

cracked caramel carpet // // a burial

mound where boots crunch beech nuts // // and heave clods of wet gras

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

Mountain // // It was a strange attraction // // That brought us her

Magnetic Mountain

s // // The first notes to // // Wild

Mountain Thyme, // // And our voices warm // // And swell around //

Wild Mountain Thyme

Mountain Thyme // // Christmas day. // // We’re all at my gran’s hou

Wild Mountain Thyme

ods, the nil // // make a dash for the

mountain , // // turn and bellow their challenge // // from the rim o

Nil Charge / Nil Return

white lake bed bare of life, // // All

mountains and hills around, // // Nothing living in this landscape //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

rier was missing contrary // // to the

mountains of advice // // contained in The You Only Live Once Manual.

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

spectral, // // The absence, eerie, of

mountains , of people. // // Just you, steady tread and glinted eyes,

/ // This is how you lose sight of the

mountains , of the buffalos. // // Promise me—don’t compromise your na

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

// he stoop to brass? Why do I chiefly

mourn // // that little gap where we had always kept // // your comp

Compass Reading

hers blacken and unpeel // // With the

mourning of the wheels. // //

Urban bird watching

unfolded in the house, // // anxiously

mourning red petal fingernails. You looked sadly through // // me, an

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

down his Whiskas // // while the dear

mouse dropped dead of starvation. // //

The Failing of the Cheese

at (Siamese) // // tried to draw out a

mouse with some cheese. // // But his scheming was built on // // he

The Failing of the Cheese

face on mine // // so that, by painted

mouth and fresco eyes, // // I had to show what I wanted so to tell.

s this the poem?’ // // Words catch my

mouth , bitter as lightning—is this the poem? // // The cicada’s memor

e an egg, framed by a serpentine // //

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

o // // the comforting wetness of your

mouth . // // My hand falls on your waist // // your body is so famil

ck together and seal the wound with her

mouth // // So that I have a lipstick smudge scar all the way round m

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

arrassment on everything it touched, my

mouth // // Soils everything, my speech smeared into your clothes, //

[I am almost 25 years old]

t, // // She’ll sell the pearls in her

mouth , the gold on her head, // // To afford the crowns of Cain, the

read. Then you were bending // // your

mouth to mine and mine // // was answering, and time // // stilled,

// // Athlete’s foot, Achilles’ heel,

mouth ulcer, // // one for the stomach, two for the money. // // Not

ai, Adonis, open my sword lips, then my

mouth will praise you. the wild dogs cry out in the undulating skink n

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

an taste this longing in the back of my

mouth , you’d laugh. // // After all, love is universal and you can be

I’ll never work for Hallmark

e dank moss in the bus shelter // // I

mouthed my name silently on the windswept tip of the hill // // //

[I whispered my name into the trees]

/ To let go of leaden years as though a

mouthful of smoke, // // To find new ways to no longer hold. // //

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

// but eyes don’t talk to God: // //

mouths do // // mouths don’t talk to God: // // tongues don’t talk t

Same but differenT

’t talk to God: // // mouths do // //

mouths don’t talk to God: // // tongues don’t talk to God // // swee

Same but differenT

to lift // // cigarettes to your many

mouths that // // breathe words down the phone // // which I’ll neve

why i’m getting into Christmas

nd. // // But staying afloat? // // I

move a little, and the ripples run. // // Spill? // // All the littl

Whales sing because they have a song

meant all things // // that dazzle and

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

Stone, Paper, Scissors

velops us, // // so it seems we barely

move at all. // // The illusion holds until // // a single truck tyr

// // This might have been a very bad

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

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

d and rise, // // The swamp up which I

move , ever more warm, // // And though at start I find I face a swarm

[What have we done]

ore the words // // Began to stick and

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

[My face is old now]

ht to be // // Looms large as the pack

move on. // //

// The vapours held betwixt these lines

move tight // // Into gaping personages then, quick // // As they da

[What have we done]

/ // Local people left the city // //

Moved by long forgotten pity // // For their lovely Prince Dmitry //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

to its fickle flame inspire. // // So

moved I to my deepest depths of will, // // With heavy heart embarkin

[What have we done]

ng, yet savour it // // The leaves are

moved , their path unbroken now // // The stillness stops, my heart ha

s home. // // My still eyes make their

movement static, // // Constant, never reaching home. // // I find t

mber ’twas, and did require // // Some

movement to its fickle flame inspire. // // So moved I to my deepest

[What have we done]

his tree // // And that each life is a

movement towards contemplation // // Of its abounding moment // // A

[At the coinciding point of the years]

all where I’m confined // // As my pen

moves blankly line to line // // Controlled by the wrist of an ampute

Exam Room Villanelle

e calling each to each: a throng // //

moves north against the fading evening light. // // Slanting lines ar

Wells in winter

ey blend. // // A faded wash seemingly

moves o’er all; // // A slight light pigments the cold pond harsh, //

[What have we done]

world moves the same] // // The world

moves the same: // // It turns but doesn’t alter // // Its alteratio

[The world moves the same]

moves the same] // // The world moves the same: // // It turns but d

[The world moves the same]

n burnt amber light, // // With an old

movie in the background— // // I’m not around this week. // // Play

Fall for————

ave is a chain, // // Keeping you from

moving , // // Clanking, as you try to disappear. // // Now the chain

ewhere. // // Reality eats // // slow-

moving prey. // //

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

// // // // // // As if the act of

moving weren’t a chore, // // As if my veins weren’t pumping acid yet

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

e flunked corpse: // // discarding the

moving -you- // // over-the-face-of-the-water wings, // // detaching

the grass, // // White at first, newly-

mowed , // // Shorn beneath its reasonable limits // // And covering

lsed by the inadequacy of discourses on

mozzarella , richelieu and brie // // Fixing anyone who disagrees with

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

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

luc bat to mr. beam

saw were beards upon the face, // // A

Mr . Twit complex, the psychologists (clean-shaven and in black) might

Bearded Thoughts

// Will catch me this time and make me

Mrs . // // I’ll-settle-for-a-jack-in-lieu-of-an-ace; // // You’re du

ample that the human heart // // is as

much a network of rooms as a muscle, // // is as much an altar draped

work of rooms as a muscle, // // is as

much an altar draped in bells and mistle- // // toe as an instrument

wirling brushes in my coffee. // // As

much as I tried to forget, the memories resurfaced in echoes, // // a

[I often think of that January morning]

tween insubstantial beings who feel too

much . // // // // …Bleached walls stare into pale skin, each keepin

Snapshot Endings

/ To step beyond our domain, // // Not

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

that I mix with you lot // // Just as

much for detection and wit as for wine? // // Has she guessed that th

Wednesday Evening

Pallium // // So

much happens that we miss or forget, // // waking from dreams of the

and elegy, words // // you praised so

much —if you would // // think I’d misunderstood if I saved // // mys

Sestina to an English Teacher

of brown. // // Ships hang in the sky

much in the way bricks // // Might, if we built a Babel enough crane.

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

idge, and the stars wouldn’t shed me as

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

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

n. // // I think— // // I should very

much like to hold you // // over // // a // // volcano. // //

O Valentine // // Master of love and

much -loved mystery, in short. // // You denied yourself, and like bea

I’ve listened to too

much Midwest emo and now I can’t remember how to write poems // // be

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

says: “mankind cannot // // bear very

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

Aubade to Girton

// Blink and I’ll miss it. // // Too

much strain // // For dawn brain; // // And does matter // // Matt

Small Particles in the Small Hours

ther died, // // That there’s still so

much that I can’t do, // // That I don’t have a funeral suit, // //

Three Pieces of Advice

ted sentiment, // // and she never had

much time for times past. // // So the half-full tin of strawberry mi

tonight // // I only say: there’s not

much to report. // //

much too small, // // And yet, // //

Much too large to fit inside your head. // // You want to escape //

lieve // // the news. can’t starve the

much -too-muchness out // // and in the hollows gnaw at something wors

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

url up inside your head, // // Feeling

much too small, // // And yet, // // Much too large to fit inside yo

d does matter // // Matter // // That

much ? // // What // // Was that? // // A quicker // // Flicker. /

Small Particles in the Small Hours

doubt // // the notes, your voice too

much your own. believe // // the news. can’t starve the much-too-much

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

// the news. can’t starve the much-too-

muchness out // // and in the hollows gnaw at something worse. // //

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

litter of leaves and the mulch and the

muck — // // To the lifter of leaves, of branches and bloom // // May

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

into sticky clay. // // Between rutted

mud and thistle bloom // // We pick our path along the hollow way //

s in sticky clay // // and scraped the

mud off of her own caked shoes. // // The feet that passed here have

anima, // // Luminescent soul between

muddied fingers // // —now usb 3.0 compatible— // // Horrified by th

Frighteningly Inert

that lace the spreading sands and soft

mudflats : time to // // gather pace. // // Now I rush on down the c

all very well in their place // // —in

muesli , say, or maybe Christmas cake, // // or more appropriately, Su

The well of love

, // // filling and unfilling the warm

mug in murky waves. // // The ink I wrote to you in was always black,

[I often think of that January morning]

// gone off the rails. I’m not such a

mug . // // I’ve cancelled his buses, no more will I pay for—and // /

Troubled waters

-clink of teaspoons against the side of

mugs . // // And though our unkind inactions told you otherwise, you k

// // To the litter of leaves and the

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

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

Concoction which // // Constricted our

mulling // // Minds one step at a time). // // Soon we lost our cogn

but that they slip // // and meanings

multiply , // // while you mean only you. // // Your radiance will no

Stone, Paper, Scissors

silicon amber. // // Plain and varied

multitudes of senses strung out in series and enfolded into dense coil

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

ve, // // do the Sainsburys’ run, give

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

ed his father // // And knocked up his

mum . // // Question his fitness as // // Paterfamilias; // // Son-w

ispered my name into the trees // // I

mumbled my name to the dank moss in the bus shelter // // I mouthed m

[I whispered my name into the trees]

/ an old one dies, a young one stumbles

mumbling onto the stage. // // There will come a time when the new ye

ome in, // // binbag-laden // // with

mum’s blouses, // // dad’s old shirts and trousers, // // sorry to l

In a charity shop

nd book-engrossed, // // Pret-a-Manger

munching , soul searching, love-life listing. // // The death rattle o

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

was a hint or flash of something // //

Mundane , a gaudy colour. // // Like a trap the hand snaps shut, // /

[The sun flattened]

They want the superb, the surreal, the

mundane , a torrent of individuality across the page’s lush terrain, //

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

red wings // // And speak the word too

mundane to say // // And expire with the curse of your name dribbling

e coldest day of the year // // but no

Murder of absurd black penguins // // congregate this afternoon as my

why i’m getting into Christmas

Piggledy // // Oedipus Tyrannus // //

Murdered his father // // And knocked up his mum. // // Question his

e their stench, as stealing through the

murk , // // Mendacious bigots do their deadly work, // // Those cree

/ filling and unfilling the warm mug in

murky waves. // // The ink I wrote to you in was always black, never

[I often think of that January morning]

jor man, is a man of night, revery, and

murmuring , a man of repose, romance, and relaxation in which he receiv

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

than by thought. Just like in nature’s

murmuring , Dionysus rules and Apollo is asleep! // // 7. // // The a

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

// is as much a network of rooms as a

muscle , // // is as much an altar draped in bells and mistle- // //

synapses. In all six hundred and forty

muscles , and all ten toes. But the moon saved me— // // // //

[So the moon was there]

r right hand slackened slightly, // //

Muscles eased and tired, not wanting everything. // // There was a hi

[The sun flattened]

n our cosy lives explode. // // Mental

muscles flex and pose in minimalist offices. // // Soldiers making a

he tribute // // The girl fell for the

muscular he-brute: // // Provided a thread, left her brother stone de

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

nd withdraw, // // Back to my drooling

muse , because // // When I write a poem, I can be // // Just exactly

Writing to explore

/ I’d be Kerouac or Dylan // // If my

muse were only willin’ // // I’d be On The Road, or in-between the sh

Museum , Cambridge // // I translate Greek words from a slab of stone

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

the lions, the façade, // // The white

Museum with its plate-glass doors. // // Through these you pass and u

The Magic Apple Tree

en in purple bursts kiss compost // //

mushroom -tiled and moss-gilded // // a summerwake heap of sawdust and

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

// // This time Judith has chosen the

music , // // a Beethoven string quartet. // // Afterwards Colin and

mal funeral. // // (She had chosen the

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

Thirteen LinesA song in word-

music . // // Love sent you to the desert’s hush-parched silence. //

let our voices rise // // And let the

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

ng face to face. // // Resounding into

music now, we trace // // in touches of a single string, our source,

f rich green leaves, // // Beyond the

music of the shepherdess, // // Down through the dark towards the gre

The Magic Apple Tree

nt violence. // // The angel-song, the

music of the spheres // // You left, for stinging slash and singing p

ed the sea’s magic // // unfold to the

music of wind and the glittering ebbstream // // that trickled the he

Just a Small Fish

the Ramsays’ sitting room and listen to

music whilst I work // // And let the words go on like I’m not there.

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ging soft and low. // // Stay with the

music , words will come in time. // // Slow down your breathing. Keep

resh blood’. This reality is primitive,

musical , and Dionysiac. Nature chants in nonsensical monosyllables; it

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

// // the solar system’s magicians and

musicians and mathematicians // // draw from an ancient well of that

Same but differenT

if my real malaise // // might just be

musing if I’m wanted now // // by you alive or dead? Live I could rai

Between Life and Death

tipped your way through // // measured

musings , down below // // your tightwires I would slowly // // mimic

luc bat to mr. beam

ith the pocked palm’s odour, // // the

musk and slip of six weeks’ work, either // // mustard gas and ether

ng living in this landscape // // Save

mustangs high up in the hills. // // Surely a tragic loading, // //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

slip of six weeks’ work, either // //

mustard gas and ether or your man’s flesh // // flash-fried, seasoned

// Glances, yeses, and the mystery of

mustard yellow tights. // // My bursting flight of spotlit laughing o

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

// everything (nothing) // // is night-

mute // // and sea-dark. // //

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

/ My brother beside me, companiable but

mute // // Remains a vivid memory of my childhood days. // // Now fa

ay, polyester jackets, unadorned // //

Mutely cry out for someone // // To demonstrate a melody // // In th

Magnetic Mountain

eps over the ruminant chomp // // of a

mutinous herd of nil. // // Below them, the sharp-suited nilherds //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

ny. // // Through air and ether people

mutter , shout, // // voices, ipods, phones speak out. // // So many

at the empty football pitches // // I

muttered my name incessantly in the supermarket // // // // I sang

[I whispered my name into the trees]

/ // May your spores spread wide, your

mycelium long, // // And your dark decomposing run all the wood throu

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

soaks in, // // Seeping and spreading,

mycorrhizal in my dependency on // // Your voice, all 25 years of me

[I am almost 25 years old]

guttering sickly flame // // And peer.

Myopic view, fragmented past // // And impotent. Neutrino looks on Ma

tly disturb // // The poem’s appeal or

mystery . // // As the importance is not whether it was meant to be, /

ne // // Master of love and much-loved

mystery , in short. // // You denied yourself, and like beads loosed f

e generative gramma // // signs of the

Mystery , inscribed arcana // // runes from the root-tree written in t

ppiness? // // Glances, yeses, and the

mystery of mustard yellow tights. // // My bursting flight of spotlit

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

ing. // // Parodied mastery, pantomime

mystery // // ruled their ambitions, now dead and now done with // /

Jonathan’s Deathbed

, // // Forbidden hopes and shards of

mystery . // // They rustle through me in my waking dreams // // And

The Cutting Edge

ony // // Spin’s more dangerous // //

Myth more toxic // // groundzeronineelevenwaronterrorbinladenbombings

dows // // as if to reverse // // the

myth of glass, // // but my gaze keeps slipping // // to the ghosts

// I mean, talk about a half remembered

mythic method // // I can’t even remember where I left it