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

O

d O // // O // //

[At the coinciding point of the years]

wish that i could // // SLOW DOWN ...

o ... i think i’m slowing // // down // // i // // think // // i’m

the windmill’s lament—a short play

s glowing through stained glass. // //

O little one mild. // // Lunchtime with the family, // // Lead on, S

A Hymn to a Loved One

e windmill’s lament—a short play // //

O , // // MUST i keep on going round in // // CIRCLES must i keep on

the windmill’s lament—a short play

rs // // Yawn, // // Dawn // // Five

o nine, // // Swiss time; // // An accurate // // Fate. // // Shi

Small Particles in the Small Hours

d NOW // // and O // //

O // // O // //

[At the coinciding point of the years]

NOW // // and NOW // // and

O // // O // // O // //

[At the coinciding point of the years]

O Oriens // // // // First light and then first lines along the eas

er, // // Until she falls dead. // //

O reputation, reputation, devour and swallow her whole, // // Drive h

O Valentine // // Master of love and much-loved mystery, in short. //

stone dead, // // And sailed with the

oaf , resolute. // // THESEUS // // I blame my dad. Such a loser //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

From the life which lies within. // //

Oak and hazel, beech and alder, // // What news borne on the wind? //

leaves might fall

uild my soul anew. // // As old as the

oak , as this oak tree grew // // What I know now is not then what I k

: your ancient hexagram // // Is riven

oak , for sixteen forty-five // // Has purged the kingdom, and its men

Sixteen Forty-Five

/ // Sound as a pound. // // Solid as

oak from his scalp to the ground. // // Fresh as the day although fre

BURR (or Brrrrr) // // The Girton

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

BURR (or Brrrrr)

anew. // // As old as the oak, as this

oak tree grew // // What I know now is not then what I knew. // //

ent our offerings. // // Dutiful eyes,

obedient lips, // // Voices synchronising in prayer. // // Our devot

Is there something there? // // Some

object or event which holds her stare? // // Or is it just the clarit

Cape Cod Morning

oodbye, smile of cabbie; // // Ambient

objects . // //

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

inner thought is evident: // // These

objects are his household gods, // // Found tokens of her whiter soul

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

objects surrounded me] // // Ambient objects surrounded me. // // In

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

t objects surrounded me] // // Ambient

objects surrounded me. // // In no-color, no-shape cup waiter serves

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

with Ikea instructions. // // Ambient

objects surrounded us. // // Long into night we’re sitting tired and

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

ions, kneels on the slender deck, makes

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

cker than paint // // But all the wide

obliging sea // // Nor his watching from the window, chin-heavy // /

es, and // // blood-fed, or starved to

oblivion // // in five minutes. // // The patterns the night frosted

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

blue-eyed Sufi, upright and serious and

oblivious . // // Promise me—let’s run when you can run and talk when

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

s, // // Seeming deathless, // // Are

obscured by Middle-Eastern tales // // Of a boy-king. // // Seeming

Before Christmas

bering half-forgotten lives, // // Are

obscured by Middle-Eastern tales. // // The supple green branches, //

Before Christmas

world two daggers cold. // // My eyes

obscured by wash, I blindly dug // // My place, lifting my molten bod

[What have we done]

a, with hair the colour of honey // //

obscuring itself across my vision, and in the air my grey // // scarf

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

eckled by starlight: You smoke-sigh and

observe // // What? I stare at you looking. Blank! Crack open the six

. // // But yesterday, waking early, I

observed // // open-a-fraction doors, down the corridors, sent shiver

w city. // // Now you are relegated to

observer , // // My gallery of waves framed behind glass. // // And I

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

Ostara didn’t need viscera wrenched by

obsessed obsidian. // // The Sun will keep turning. We just need to s

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

d text messages between my toes, // //

Obsessive over the kind of love they want reserved // // For romance

[I am almost 25 years old]

idn’t need viscera wrenched by obsessed

obsidian . // // The Sun will keep turning. We just need to stay here.

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

Things a man should know // // You’re

obtuse —and a pain. Now PLEASE listen again // //

Things a man should know

you claim sans rhyme it’s prose, // //

obtusely count ictūs with fingers stunt’d; // // numb’d ass’nance, ’l

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

dge crematorium, // // dressed for the

occasion , // // we read the flower-borne messages // // and talked t

oil through an engine, // // with the

occasional stinge // // stopping // // to rifle through the // // p

In a charity shop

mes sound a bit nice?’ // // Everybody

occasionally dreams of apocalypse. // // Sometimes your routine just

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

at the branches. // // The world swam

occasionally , // // Left hand knotted in a white tissue, // // The r

[The sun flattened]

h dittoed offspring. Yet it will // //

occasionally not breed true. Now strife: // // the different dittoes

ould not be allowed // // to remain in

occupation of that space. // // And so, for two successive summer hol

in a week or two // // A miracle will

occur , // // A sonnet or tetrameter will appear as if by magic, // /

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

be, // // so passed I through, life’s

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

[What have we done]

o the land, I open my maw // // to the

ocean : I have no feet. There’ll be time to meet— // // now my flesh b

ore my unconscious swallowed me like an

ocean of blue. // // The sadness settled once you’d left. I became bl

[I often think of that January morning]

s fantasy. True awakening floats on the

ocean of sleep. // // 8. // // MacCullough must be ridiculed! // //

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

The fire which leapt over us // // The

ocean rolling beneath us // // Like seeing a humpback breach // // G

t Skellig slate grey and wet // // The

ocean rolling beneath us // // Your tears mingling with the rain //

ck // // To blackn’d smog which as the

ocean shifts // // Over itself, a growing potion, thick // // To per

[What have we done]

ll grasp the last whispers. // // Over

ocean , the storm sullen // // Slowly starts to disperse. // // Take

Who am I, Bernard?

hrough // // the sourness of their own

oceans . But drinking warm earl grey // // tea with you, all I could t

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

air, and back to the little room where

October seeps through // // the window frame. The city is a puddle of

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// For something to be returned, // //

October’s secret left unspoken // // Only the names which I have lear

leaves might fall

// To where, in street-side window the

octogenarian sits: caught // // in the—“today there’s been fifteen ho

atter built, // // Is man no less when

odd and painted white. // // Another having naught but shop door fron

Three gay rituals

d snow.” // // Why snow? That seems an

odd thing to say, right? I mean // // what about the women come and g

// POLONIUS Very like a whale. // //

Odd things have strewn the floors today: quicksand clumps, capsized me

r, // // Finding the day so new and so

odd , // // With the gain of the world and the loss of God. // //

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

kward guilt. // // A soft man from the

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

Three gay rituals

een // // Everything turned strangely,

oddly quiet // // The wind that blusters is strangely keen. // // A

d, bric-a-brac, // // bits and pieces,

odds and ends, junk, old rope. // // Boarding passes from times they

paint // // Maroon // // Against the

odds . // // From the sidings // // He cannot see // // The sea //

Ode to a map of the world // // Here’s to failure, here’s to fear, //

Ode to a map of the world

n present would he dare suggest that an

ode to cheese would have been the best // // No, in fact I am sure we

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

g to be less alive, // // To lose this

odium before I lose myself entirely. // // My nails dig red crescents

nd mask yourself with the pocked palm’s

odour , // // the musk and slip of six weeks’ work, either // // must

Dactyls // // Higgledy Piggledy // //

Oedipus Tyrannus // // Murdered his father // // And knocked up his

A hand will skim mine as we present our

offerings . // // Dutiful eyes, obedient lips, // // Voices synchroni

heartless damnation // // as Paradise

offers // // a thrice-empty // // shun. // // Death’s minstrel foll

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// // When you dismiss my bitter words

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

The Dead Letter

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

The Dead Letter Office closes down

down // // // // // The dead letter

office is closing down // // because of a failure of management, //

The Dead Letter Office closes down

// with a still? Local // // excise

officer takes to // // dropping by unannounced. // // Catch them at

There must be moonshine

from the surround- // // ing shops and

offices , has seemed a sign— // // not of the town’s past, but of your

eathing hate, // // Who prostitute the

offices of state, // // Reduce the common people to despair, // // A

// // Met mean Binyamin // // In the

offices running // // His fighting machine. // // He whispered sweet

tal muscles flex and pose in minimalist

offices . // // Soldiers making a killing on the stock exchange // //

// // and rich, or still a ghastly ex-

officio // // crash corpse? Those ‘hoodlums scammers’ I reflect // /

Between Life and Death

Fatherland // // He is an island

offshore . // // There are no bridges between here and there. // // O

is it fair // // to leave them, as the

offspring of divorce, // // with burdens that they never sought to be

and fill // // the world with dittoed

offspring . Yet it will // // occasionally not breed true. Now strife:

// Sizzling at every edge and spitting ’

oft . // // My open’d eyes do look around the wood, // // The ghoulis

[What have we done]

// On a weekly basis, // // Almost as

often as him trying to teach me to change the laces in my shoes, // /

Three Pieces of Advice

the brain trying to crystallize, but so

often falls at the first hurdle, // // Snaps like a rope whipping in

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ords // // Were nature, these forms so

often taught that you could // // chat in verse, speak in poetry, you

Sestina to an English Teacher

often think of that January morning] // // I often think of that Janu

[I often think of that January morning]

think of that January morning] // // I

often think of that January morning together, dreaming // // of nothi

[I often think of that January morning]

r Alan, // // I don’t suppose you have

often thought // // Dear Alan, // // I saw a man on the bus who I th

r Alan, // // I don’t suppose you have

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

what I achieved. // // Disappointment,

often , when // // Faced with the end result // // The big idea no lo

Falling Is Like This

Joy Ride // // // //

Oh , and to freeze this: // // you with your hair cut day-short, // /

- // // ed in Portugal, but when land (

oh finally, land!) bid their seek- // // ing end, Portugal could only

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

te’s only made by breaking eggs. // //

Oh ! must you leave so early? We had hoped // // You’d stay and see th

hear the Song, beyond the notes // //

Oh onwards, onwards, draw us on // // Into the ever-flowing flow //

lt figures. // // and the girl’s like:

oh , shit // //

/ // As I put their books away, // //

Oh sod the lot! I’d better be myself. // //

moment where opposites attract. // //

Oh take me back to the start. // //

The Scientist // //

Oh take me back to the start, // // at the moment where opposites att

work, // // ye fill the night; // //

Oh time; // // ye slip, slip, slip away, // // Slipping slipping, sl

’d itch // // if I’d no stitch. // //

Oh ! why // // did I // // pick // // Nick? // //

Oh work] // // “Oh work, // // ye fill the night; // // Oh time; //

[Oh work] // // “

Oh work, // // ye fill the night; // // Oh time; // // ye slip, sli

c vase // // And small black-stoppered

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

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

a // // blinding from refracted // //

oil -light off tarmac. As you // // fingertipped your way through //

luc bat to mr. beam

ng-stick is a divining-rod // // or an

oil rig, thudding into the ground // // to draw up lubrication for he

d be merry! // // Fat boar bubbling in

oil spit, and the lamb is bled // // drink! to winter! and be merry.

Drink and be merry

Everything’s easy. // // It slips like

oil through an engine, // // with the occasional stinge // // stoppi

In a charity shop

f to touch what ran below in streams of

oily debris, further than I could fathom and far enough to fall at fro

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

A time when my shadow didn’t leave the

oily residue // // Of embarrassment on everything it touched, my mout

[I am almost 25 years old]

/ I’m sure it’s not abnormal. Otherwise

OK Cupid would think twice // // About having one of its stupid quest

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

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

old Adam must have done: // // Alone in brand new Paradise with infin

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

her, wasn’t it? // // Like a breath of

old air. Hear from you soon? // // Course. // // [I missed you] //

Whales sing because they have a song

mered down when he was about five years

old , // // and she would have been, what, eight? yeah, eight. // //

no gems nor coins nor jewels; just the

old // // and weathered hills, created by some force // // beyond im

Daydream Dale Journey

/ // But now I need the poets who grew

old // // And wore the bottoms of their trousers rolled, // // I nee

art, must build my soul anew. // // As

old as the oak, as this oak tree grew // // What I know now is not th

of the reader that was me. // // In an

old book I see a yellow square, read the part // // marked, and am am

And why not wriggle our toes in bits of

old bran and chaff // // mixed up with sawdust from our new cut beams

Déjeuner // // I thought Nick

old , // // but devilish. // // He’s in a raffish // // urban mould

e Failing of the Cheese // // A hungry

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

The Failing of the Cheese

sperson // // (spokesnake?) // // for

old , chaotic // // Mother Earth. // // But they came // // nonethel

anch to branch, preserving those // //

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

more than signs— // // Trust that the

old choices hold wordlessly. // //

// A modern phoenix // // risen from

old coal-grate ash // // so I can shift my gaze // // from keys to c

A Room of Her Own

ickering light. // // Nearly-five-year-

old Colin // // needed a lavatory, and I had to leave the fire for a

edded evidence of our affair // // Our

old , embarassing affair with God. // // And God himself will follow s

The Cutting Edge

ey hole. // // That was before she was

old enough // // To join their business in the living room. // // Sh

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

a tunnel’s vulgar arrival. // // Those

old eyes are achingly familiar. // // —‘Please change here, for…’— //

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

laced with rust that blooms // // From

old fashioned, swan-necked cycles. // // The pinked sky of dinner has

// Misshapen, shitten, and matted with

old feather. // //

[No point, she said]

a corner and shed a skin or two, // //

old feathers and splinters litter our floorboards. // // Ooh go on th

Limerick // // There was an

old Fellow of Girton // // who always made love with his shirt on. //

here’s to fear, // // To the monster,

old fiend, that I can hear, // // Whispering across the sea, // // A

Ode to a map of the world

for one more. // // Now it happens my

old friend is crowned mayor of London, he // // goes by the rubrik of

Troubled waters

passing cloud // // more meetings with

old friends // // more talks, more silences // // more sleeps, more

d, // // Kid: you’re twenty-four years

old . // // Get over it. You swim or you drown, // // Kid. She swims

Did you bury her yet?

// No point, she said, in keeping the

old girls— // // Grey in the wattle, scabbed about the arse // // Ea

[No point, she said]

ms of the house in my head, // // that

old haunt still knocking about breaking // // things scratching walls

t these words tether us together to our

old home. // // Home is a name spoken well, // // By stranger or gra

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

[I am almost 25 years

old ] // // I am almost 25 years old. I cannot remember a time // //

[I am almost 25 years old]

years old] // // I am almost 25 years

old . I cannot remember a time // // When I didn’t feel, beneath my cl

[I am almost 25 years old]

s shirt on. // // Saying “Now that I’m

old , // // I do feel the cold— // // and my breathing is rather unce

Not enough months to make a difference

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

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

/ Taken when you were only three months

old . // // In it you’re lying on the sun-warmed, deep-veined wood //

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

d for the paper crown. // // Young and

old . // // It hides my nephew’s eyes. // // God bless us, everyone.

A Hymn to a Loved One

our backs— // // the city ragged like

old // // lace, all behind us. // // Your jeans were rusty // // re

Tridente, 10th September

g. // // Old woman wobbles back to her

old man. // //

e for belief in life after death // //

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

Patrimony // // My grandad tended to

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

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

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

down Castle Hill today // // past the

old motte, I cast away // // all such signs. May the new // // and b

// In burnt amber light, // // With an

old movie in the background— // // I’m not around this week. // // P

Fall for————

[My face is old now] // // My face is

old now, frost and snow // // Crustate my hairs and eyebrows, a great

[My face is old now]

old now] // // My face is old now, frost and snow // // Crustate my

[My face is old now]

, or fine luck, I’ve noticed: // // an

old one dies, a young one stumbles mumbling onto the stage. // // The

n-warmed, deep-veined wood // // Of an

old pine table. Between the wood and you, // // There is the day’s ne

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

he acne-crusted vicar’s son— // // the

old podiatrist next door, // // ‘Eternal Footman’, snickers on, // /

[the typist puts her knickers on]

/ bits and pieces, odds and ends, junk,

old rope. // // Boarding passes from times they went for broke. // /

give it some taxpayer funding, and get

old saint // // George of the Chancel to throw in some too.” // // S

Troubled waters

// // with mum’s blouses, // // dad’s

old shirts and trousers, // // sorry to let them go.’ // // The pace

In a charity shop

snow-white. // // This is the time of

old shoes, // // when every step is new // // and every mile is two,

nd bronze effigies, // // Usurping the

old shore with the new tide. // //

of flames beneath shed skin, // // The

old so neatly severed // // From the life which lies within. // // O

leaves might fall

that was my elbow, crooked // // Round

old socks long since sundered from their other halves // // And ghost

this the poem? // // In the Marianas,

old souls dwell in robber crabs, // // But still their young steal sh

the ashes // // in a wild part of the

old South London cemetery. // // Perhaps I should plant // // some b

dream Dale Journey // // From Ilkley’s

old stone bridge I trace a path // // against the stream, back up the

Daydream Dale Journey

with me, // // Blankly dismissing the

old sublime; // // The dogs that passed, for the very first time, //

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

Sunday was the first // // Without the

old sun-dancing Christ: // // The bread stayed bready and the wine //

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

thoughts, // // Squelch the compost of

old text messages between my toes, // // Obsessive over the kind of l

[I am almost 25 years old]

onetheless // // the feeble // // the

old // // the rabid // // looking for folk answers // // to folk pr

hey very thing cheese! as it is growing

old // // They want the superb, the surreal, the mundane, a torrent o

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

-five // // Fends between adversaries.

Old tongues, // // Grown grave, recite the Prayer Book and the Rose.

Sixteen Forty-Five

tories told // // of daughters, lovers

old , trapeze // // swingers and graffiti. // // In between your tree

luc bat to mr. beam

be a fool to feel bereft // // Because

old verse forms rarely see the light // // The truth is that they’re

In Defence of Evolution

p // // Sat behind the counter, // //

old watches spread, // // bracelets, teaspoons // // neatly priced,

In a charity shop

e. Each day I feel // // My bones grow

old with waiting for the feel // // Of earth against their sides inst

[My face is old now]

ipped trunk is an ash boomerang. // //

Old woman wobbles back to her old man. // //

r life. // // Your young voice brought

old words to life, // // age only antique, frailty perceivable only /

Sestina to an English Teacher

nd me realising that he was three years

older than me when his mother died, // // That there’s still so much

Three Pieces of Advice

rowing soul, // // The subsoil of your

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

The Magic Apple Tree

ike // // Might give the psych- // //

Ological boost // // Of being the first // // Who saw the collision,

Small Particles in the Small Hours

moke but, as you // // English say, an

omelette’s only made by breaking eggs. // // Oh! must you leave so ea

[Walcott begins

Omeros ] // // Walcott begins Omeros with cutting down some cedars: //

[Walcott begins Omeros]

tt begins Omeros] // // Walcott begins

Omeros with cutting down some cedars: // // We shudder here with the

[Walcott begins Omeros]

Like one might have done sitting in an

omnibus or hackney cab: // // ‘That one is too large, too small, cut

Bearded Thoughts

rds // // You heard hissed ‘Arrogance.

Omnipotence ,’ // // Augmenting the fourth line with discordant violen

s, uncouth, unkind // // and lewd; you

onanistic waste of shame, // // pretentious, with a hateful maggot’s

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

ove and wave; // // small but unending—

Ondine . // // But finding a form to carve // // to remember you by i

Stone, Paper, Scissors

Stone, Paper, Scissorsi.m.

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

Stone, Paper, Scissors

brown fox sticks his hot sharp stink in

ones and zeroes. // // We are buggering the ineffable; Satan’s a spot

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

eir chest to keep it warm // // or the

ones holding hands // // as the sun disappears. // //

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

d, picking four of the brightest ripest

ones , // // takes yard eggs, flour, fruit of the citronnier // // an

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

gap // // And space between the // //

Ones that live as they please // // And those that would. // // They

Poems on the Underground

that you could // // say by heart—the

ones you save // // inside your head for your // // gawping students

Sestina to an English Teacher

fast // // unpeel the digits from your

onion fist // // and mask yourself with the pocked palm’s odour, //

y skull. // // Your eyes are plastered

onto mine. // // I can’t tell whether I want them there // // Or whe

e sky is clear. // // Across the wood,

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

Wells in winter

rror pool, // // Wherefrom they bounce

onto the canopy, // // Sprinkling their light through ground, through

[What have we done]

s run slipshod, all across the page and

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

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

sky // // wet stones // // skittering

onto the // // drain cover // // // // … // // above us // // w

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

e lips of this voice // // Like saliva

onto the paper. // // The words and ink slowly // // Seep deeper int

Writing to explore

one dies, a young one stumbles mumbling

onto the stage. // // There will come a time when the new year is hel

e instead cultural constructions // //

onto which developing minds can project anxieties // // and sexual co

/ The sea brims until it breaks— // //

Onward —I watch the wake— // // And further—the ships nestle // // In

From Trebetherick Point

ng, beyond the notes // // Oh onwards,

onwards , draw us on // // Into the ever-flowing flow // // And let u

— // // And don’t go sharp— // // And

onwards , forwards, into the heart, // // And now we let our voices ri

ar the Song, beyond the notes // // Oh

onwards , onwards, draw us on // // Into the ever-flowing flow // //

loved, // // Turns away and continues

onwards // // Until the mile has become two // // And the image of w

plinters litter our floorboards. // //

Ooh go on then, treat ourselves to a fancy dress daydream // // and p

ration, ever building, swelling, // //

Oozing towards the battlegrounds ahead. // // The clash where flesh m

The Other Side of the Line

terday, waking early, I observed // //

open -a-fraction doors, down the corridors, sent shivers of sunlight in

e snow // // Appear and I do choose to

open all, // // The gate, the door, the face, the light, I fall // /

[What have we done]

o break those systems down: // // It’s

open and adaptive and it’s free: // // The dodo royals are dragged ab

In Defence of Evolution

/ // and ultimate payment. // // Pens

open and ready, // // braced with crossed ledgers // // and steelily

Nil Charge / Nil Return

rnard? // // Welcome to absence, these

open // // Arms stretched as sundown. // // Echo calls of words unsp

Who am I, Bernard?

m her eyes. // // I want her to cut me

open at the waist with her clavicle // // And put me back together an

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

d. Eastwards we turn, // // along the

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

Wells in winter

ck // // Of a car who’s doors can only

open from the // // Outside. // // Despite cuff, coins and courtesy,

Vicious or Virtuous?

termination progress flowers— // // An

open habit jointly stitched anew. // //

Three gay rituals

st matryoshka doll is always so hard to

open . // // Hold it to your ear, do you hear someone crying? Is this

ant her to say something back. // // I

open my eyes // // She is not there. The room is empty. // // There

f off-shore // // Close to the land, I

open my maw // // to the ocean: I have no feet. There’ll be time to m

ls and an incorrection. Adonai, Adonis,

open my sword lips, then my mouth will praise you. the wild dogs cry o

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

clear air. // // Beyond the scree the

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

Daydream Dale Journey

tand being looked at // // immobile

open ripped apart. // // Then the light changes or goes out altoget

Keep it deep and slow. // // Become an

open singing-bowl, whose chime // // Is richness rising out of emptin

more. // // And so my theory for this

open sore: // // Verse forms, like fashions, fit the time they fix— /

In Defence of Evolution

loured earths. // // In forests and in

open spaces // // there are times // // when the imagination fires.

he waxing light, the spring rain. Throw

open // // the fire-coloured temptations, welcome in // // the roami

t? I stare at you looking. Blank! Crack

open the sixth seal // // Whilst you speak the weather of our little

nattering of the doors that continue to

open , // // The sweltering smell of morbid recycled air. // // Our v

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

// // Shrill beep as the // // Doors

open , the // // Train disgorging scores of ‘excuse me please’ // //

Poems on the Underground

Christmas // // I’m perched inside an

open window // // drinking coffee that leaves rings // // slowly abs

why i’m getting into Christmas

// Midday, in dirty sheets with window

open , // // Your newest song on the speaker, // // A cold coffee lef

r throats // // And now our hearts are

opened wide // // To hear the Word which sings of life // // To hear

/ // to // // His // // Voice // //

Opening like the sky opens round // // -ing a road as you reach a bay

/ // Voice // // Opening like the sky

opens round // // -ing a road as you reach a bay and the sought-for s

every edge and spitting ’oft. // // My

open’d eyes do look around the wood, // // The ghoulish form’s tear i

[What have we done]

driveway come the caws // // Of rooks

opposed to any sawing of their trees, // // Choosing, building, flyin

[Walcott begins Omeros]

For every action there is an equal and

opposite reaction. // // In between // // nothing, // // there is /

o the start, // // at the moment where

opposites attract, // // for this is where we begin. // // We were b

re we begin, // // at the moment where

opposites attract. // // Oh take me back to the start. // //

Oppression’s language does not understand, // // For in the name of M

ne, these words you make me use: // //

Oppression’s language does not understand. // // Hear! Our songs of l

u and I have everything to lose. // //

Oppression’s language does not understand // // Our dialect, sweet si

lonists enjoy resplendent views: // //

Oppression’s language does not understand. // // You claim it “impede

the dust illuminated between // // My

optic nerve and all those that seek its attention. // // Again, again

Frighteningly Inert

ivided into sub-parts each with several

options describing those actions that might be permitted and/or recomm

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

// // // // // // // Hercules et

Oracle // // . // // lose dream // // or sever // // Sov’ran // /

Hercules et Oracle

d collecting at his chin’s peak. // //

Orange dew drop, // // Promising and frightening and // // Does anyo

’Tis pity he’s a bore

in the sky. And it looked just like an

orb , or an egg, or an eye. And it was just sitting there, looking blan

[So the moon was there]

to lunar bow. // // No woman ruled by

orbing tyrant queen; // // Umbilical tangen skywards, cut clean. //

you, perhaps, in Mars. // // What wary

orbits we must keep // // Around our dying sun, // // Falling toward

The Daily Planet

he clouds // // And the saffron-yellow

orbs of our mango tree // // Dangling by such slender stalks from its

I hide, // // Waiting for the smell in

order to // // inhale the air that you’ve // // just dropped. // //

s are forming, breaking, forming // //

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

Wells in winter

Oriens // // // // First light and then first lines along the east

arefully labelled // // With owner and

origin immortalized // // In scratchy biro ink. // // Each domestic

a curio. Grain shovel is propped up all

ornamental , // // dusted cogs very still above sleeping bodies. Our g

splanted // // wide-lipped pots // //

ornamental // // shape clipped // // wind curves // // moles tubers

yew needs dried blood in spring

n my palm // // I am unsullied. // //

Ornithologists with shears make for irate avians // // With wings cli

Frighteningly Inert

ng no // // less. // // Tim was their

orphan , withdrawn with elation at // // endless results embryonically

Jonathan’s Deathbed

f her whiter soul, // // Icons for his

orphaned heart, // // Angelic messengers in clay— // // Angelic mess

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

might. // // Higgledy Piggledy // //

Oscar Pistorius // // Slaughtered his girlfriend // // In cold-blood

hing as Spring would come again. // //

Ostara didn’t need viscera wrenched by obsessed obsidian. // // The S

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

mething always exists - // // Watching

others , irregularities abound, and you realise how very different we a

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

thus. // // Some miles are ten, while

others swiftly pass. // //

Walking in winter

r me, it is at least a Fire. // // The

others too I love—Earth, Water, Air—but Fire // // is something else

e gods, // // Or ghosts, or guessed-at

others who—she’d heard— // // Patrolled the streets of late modernity

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

esumptuous, breakable. // // Do I need

others ’ breezing breath to fill my happiness? // // Glances, yeses, a

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

What it might be like to be tied up, or

otherwise encumbered, // // Or maybe forced to wear something restric

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ter. // // I’m sure it’s not abnormal.

Otherwise OK Cupid would think twice // // About having one of its st

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

nd though our unkind inactions told you

otherwise , you kept your faith // // that all of life still boils dow

are already comfortable // // In each

other’s company: // // Ready to collaborate // // In the shaping of

ickering. // // We watch and hold each

other’s hands till evening, // // And as we watch, our souls dart to

Is it a memory?

oldest memory. // // Walk through the

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

The Magic Apple Tree

// Body aching, waiting, for my chalk

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

Snapshot Endings

ifeless hands. // // The utensils that

outlive them. // //

rve, // // To find stability that will

outlive , // // To commit love to memories less fallible than our own,

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

warmed the room // // against the cold

outside . // // (But that was forty years ago // // —these days his h

Walking in winter

t,’ I ask, // // ‘and watch the street

outside change, // // and the people // // change, and the weather /

In a charity shop

o’s doors can only open from the // //

Outside . // // Despite cuff, coins and courtesy, the circle // // Wi

Vicious or Virtuous?

ttened] // // The sun flattened // //

Outside her window, // // Hardly touched the panes, // // Instead wa

[The sun flattened]

ght, the glowing // // grass and trees

outside her window, warming // // in the sun? Or maybe nothing—maybe

Cape Cod Morning

g the warmth // // In while the branch

outside knocks, drum-like, // // Pounding out a rhythm in harmony wit

Snapshot Endings

y. It has no name, it exists, it shines

outside of language and concept. // // 2. // // After a little while

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

watch you drown. // // When you exist

outside of me // // Am I the waiting well? // // For rainy days are

Who am I, Bernard?

ssed up its chance to be divine; // //

Outside our window the cedar tree // // Shook its head along with me,

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

in the warm, in the yellow, // // The

outside plumbing blues and blacks. // // Damp limestone humming and s

outside ] // // So snow falls outside, // // So they say I should be

[So snow falls outside]

now falls outside] // // So snow falls

outside , // // So they say I should be happy now. // // Success come

[So snow falls outside]

am unsullied by the outside, // // The

outside that crawls and seethes in me, // // The outside that is me,

Frighteningly Inert

at crawls and seethes in me, // // The

outside that is me, // // Is my insides. // // I am unsullied by my

Frighteningly Inert

t shorted. // // I am unsullied by the

outside , // // The outside that crawls and seethes in me, // // The

Frighteningly Inert

rass, towards // // some distant point

outside the picture frame. // // What does she see? Is there somethi

Cape Cod Morning

// The sound of the lawnmowers // //

Outside the windows, // // High-up, grass-cutting, // // Swaying lik

ut his head // // Campions covered his

outspread hair // // And mildew took the place of tears // // The bo

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

s as stone // // that we must show you

outward // // to the world. Naming // // you was not hard, we chose

Stone, Paper, Scissors

front room // // Like chestnuts in an

oven . // // Bums ache on floors, // // Perch on arms of chairs, //

Wild Mountain Thyme

and you’ll look like you’ve one in the

oven . // // Teacakes were taboo. I wasn’t even // // allowed to bri

Chocolate Sonnet

rbiturates for the beauties and kitchen

ovens for the fraught, // // She’ll sell the pearls in her mouth, the

be the new New Yorkers were just simply

overcome ; // // This thirteen-and-a-half mile Eden seemed to be divin

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

// Of mothers and grandmothers: // //

Overcooked recipe books— // // Tough, stringy leather around crumblin

ttered window pane. // // There was an

overcrowded hospital. // // There were the children to look after— //

Black September

d and blooded // // by stagnant recess

overfull trickling // // downwards to slug lickings on empty bird box

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

// I taste the jigsaw created by leaves

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

s in riffs of time and space, // // in

overlapping amplitudes of bliss, // // pattering into patterns, into

burst through their binding // // like

overwound springs; // // nilly-willy their horns reap // // the full

Nil Charge / Nil Return

e chicken and the egg // // I live! Un-

ownable , not made: revealed. // // Confused and worn, I don’t know if

The chicken and the egg

ach item carefully labelled // // With

owner and origin immortalized // // In scratchy biro ink. // // Each

t equinox // // Eyed the slowly roving

ox // // Bellowing his song of grace. // // Briers grew about his he

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

// Of Ryder and Flyte // // Awestruck

Oxonians , // // Transgenerationally, // // Can’t help but emulate, /

// // Doors clamp tight shut, like an

oyster , (Would // // Someone please // // Make a gap // // Among th

Poems on the Underground

call you back soon. // // Warmth in 5

o’clock dark, // // You smell like watching rain fall // // In burnt

Fall for————

ry morning with his flint // // At six

o’clock . Sharp. // // But maybe I don’t need to sing; just wait inste

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

nd. // // A faded wash seemingly moves

o’er all; // // A slight light pigments the cold pond harsh, // // R

[What have we done]