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

P

rests. // // Foreign coin of size of 20

p fell from my wallet in stopping taxi, // // Filled that space for y

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

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

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

Whales sing because they have a song

ight line, tied to the inexorability of

pace and // // surety of pressing the phone on the wall miles away //

// buy-in from business is not keeping

pace ) // // —but Sadik the Most Evil deposes poor Boris, and // // g

Troubled waters

/ // sorry to let them go.’ // // The

pace is always // // slow, // // charitable, // // sad. // // ‘Yes

In a charity shop

d soft mudflats: time to // // gather

pace . // // Now I rush on down the creek // // bearing loose things

d in circles up from Hell, // // Whose

pace , within the strictest measure even, // // Breaks in the drill an

// Consistency straight-ruled. // //

Pacing for the exercise alone. // // HB // // ‘Hard Black’ appears a

Three Ways of Walking

I ought to be // // Looms large as the

pack move on. // //

urkey and stale conversation // // The

pack turns their inquisitive gaze // // On me. Questions launched fro

me. // // Journey through the pictures

packed like loam, // // The rooting places of your growing soul, //

The Magic Apple Tree

unheeded, // // All that she did with

packet , pop, superseded. // // No heave-some ebb and flow. // // No

l? // // All the little fishes swim in

packs , and I’m thinking, the fuck will they do if they catch the what,

Whales sing because they have a song

r from pelt. // // Soundless patter of

padding paws. // // A pant in the night, // // Panthera Tigris gulps

He who made the Lamb

look, we can still see // // There are

pagan echoes. // //

Before Christmas

Before Christmas // // There are

pagan echoes. // // The supple green branches, // // Remembering hal

Before Christmas

all I have is cold coffee, and an empty

page . // //

[I often think of that January morning]

splattered my sleeves and the drowning

page . // // Absentmindedly I missed the jar of water, swirling brushe

[I often think of that January morning]

smile each time my fingertips turned a

page , // // and every night I watched your mind dreaming // // befor

[I often think of that January morning]

// Words run slipshod, all across the

page and onto the desk and away, // // And you try to catch them in t

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

er your thick handwriting on that white

page // // as your letters arrived, tangible amidst my dreaming. //

[I often think of that January morning]

his name // // Scans quite well on the

page ). // // Higgledy Piggledy // // Jesus of Nazareth // // Born o

cross me, transforming the body’s blank

page . // // I don’t understand why you never came back. The waves //

[I often think of that January morning]

ed my thoughts over a journal’s patient

page . // // I remember your thick handwriting on that white page //

[I often think of that January morning]

/ // Refining through fire. // // The

page is filled. I have built a pyre // // To all the words whose smok

nt to be, // // But merely that on the

page it lies, // // And in every reader the poet tries // // To fore

e who knew how to be guests. // // The

page , like linen freshly laid for tea, // // Bid hieratic welcome to

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

s, come tumbling // // back across the

page : // // Love, Time, Ever, Age. // //

ink slowly // // Seep deeper into the

page , my skin, // // Until they settle together // // Nestled in a f

Writing to explore

// // Recycled as the morning’s front-

page news, // // And we—we turn it over so you will not see. // //

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

asuring the miles decreasing with every

page // // of the novel that dwindled between your hands, as the deep

[I often think of that January morning]

will they bear fruit? // // Each spent

page something taken // // For something to be returned, // // Octob

leaves might fall

sterful mage // // So with a sigh that

page surrendered to the caresses of that pen most famously tender //

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

// // For had cheesy words ravaged the

page , then never would they have been engraved // // Upon those souls

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

owing across the virginal canvas of the

page was the fluid skill of the masterful mage // // So with a sigh t

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

d. // // For inside you are a million

pages , // // Of knowledge yet to be explored, // // I crave to be e

The Tree of Wisdom

ayers leafing through // // pages upon

pages of poetry. My blurry eyes resisted breaking // // concentration

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

tringy leather around crumbling // //

Pages // // Tapering towards well-thumbed // // Edges— // // Their

limbs and layers leafing through // //

pages upon pages of poetry. My blurry eyes resisted breaking // // co

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

, a torrent of individuality across the

page’s lush terrain, // // But never those things that have the amazi

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

always return to comfort the shore. The

pain ached in waves. // // I painted my feelings in layer upon layer

[I often think of that January morning]

// away from you, in those last days of

pain , // // another summer, home in Camberwell. // // Between the en

// buoyed by the colourless memory of

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

now, // // And spare myself the future

pain . // // But hindsight is always wise, // // Whereas such beautif

Mosquito nights

/ // As though delirium could dull the

pain . // // But out there in the dark we know they lurk, // // We se

o hold without hands. // // But serene

pain is found in the effort to learn to relinquish, // // To let go o

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

Feeling when it gets clear, // // This

pain is very wrong! // //

A Tribute to AQOH

should know // // You’re obtuse—and a

pain . Now PLEASE listen again // //

Things a man should know

ou left, for stinging slash and singing

pain // // Of lashes; a thorn halo hallows your head, // // Vice-lik

// of comfort might assuage the sharper

pain – // // some, having parted, choose to wed again. // //

? // // Dig, let loam glaze the // //

pain , till we // // forget // // your // // name. // //

Wandlebury Hill

strange trapped, // // Untranslatable

pain . // // What taste on the air // // Led you here? See her red ha

Here be dragons

// // But not yet. // // Each step is

pain // // With wings too heavy to fly // // Drenched in the love t

es, existing as echoes // // of former

pain written across me, transforming the body’s blank page. // // I d

[I often think of that January morning]

// Has she guessed that this doggerel,

painfully wrought, // // Pretentious and meaningless, is one of mine?

Wednesday Evening

now I hold the wind // // As it howls,

painlessly , through my embrace. // // If only I could feel its assaul

The Other Side of the Line

et we can make them all in micro, soft,

paint — // // Art in the age of mechanical reproduction. (Fleshly repr

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

passive // // Blood dries quicker than

paint // // But all the wide obliging sea // // Nor his watching fro

ned beauty, linen-wrapped and masked in

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

// From light to air, from pigment into

paint // // In increments of incarnation down // // to burn within t

The Magic Apple Tree

king over sidings. // // Their peeling

paint // // Maroon // // Against the odds. // // From the sidings /

refuse. // // Blood dies quicker than

paint // // Shouts the gunshot on the lake // // But the things that

// My form: beauty induced in smears of

paint . // // Yet in this well-formed image, I’m confirmed. // // You

The chicken and the egg

rising left // // the Cape Cod house’s

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

Cape Cod Morning

r gauzy face on mine // // so that, by

painted mouth and fresco eyes, // // I had to show what I wanted so t

hore. The pain ached in waves. // // I

painted my feelings in layer upon layer of blue // // until watercolo

[I often think of that January morning]

y’s wonder: // // a chorus of whispers

painted on // // the imprimatura of your skin; // // delicate cave m

// but still loved it. To test them it

painted // // over their scales or feathers as they slept // // and

ilt, // // Is man no less when odd and

painted white. // // Another having naught but shop door front, // /

Three gay rituals

t night // // Fireworks like a Pollock

painting // // As the thunderstorm struck the sea // // Years from t

light. // // Boughs form an arch, the

painting draws you in // // Under its framing fringe of rich green le

The Magic Apple Tree

he not want // // to tell? // // This

painting has a private life. // //

Cape Cod Morning

ill see // // Fireworks like a Pollock

painting // // On the festival of Ferragosto // // Years from that n

Pontius // // One could not take her

painting very seriously // // Nor his watching from the window, impas

ave a funeral suit, // // And only one

pair of black shoes, // // And who’s going to help me put new laces i

Three Pieces of Advice

r high school sits right above // // A

pair of hormone-infested jaws // // From which stomach-swirling growl

word was all it took // // to set the

pair of them off— // // it was like triple trouble! // // They simme

to die. Light // // and air, pools and

palaces , sanity // // of men and kings—all rot away, while night //

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

es straining from the windows of sunken

palazzi // // Where mosaics are defaced with algae and refuse of ages

etort. // // The days still dis-leave.

Pale envy-green, wet-yellow, gold-wrought // // Over-thought in the t

And I gaze too // // At frozen events,

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

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

t from its neck, to wilt upon each soft

pale shirt, // // teaching by strange example that the human heart //

// // // …Bleached walls stare into

pale skin, each keeping the warmth // // In while the branch outside

Snapshot Endings

des, // // Liquid time daubed on air’s

pale vellum, // // Us in the warm, in the yellow, // // The outside

Pale Yellow // // Our house is in darkness. // // I shut my eyes, bu

Bright, Pale Yellow

eyelids are glowing with // // bright,

pale yellow, // // the kind that shines through your // // skin in t

Bright, Pale Yellow

of white lights against // // bright,

pale yellow, // // the same branches that // // during the days are

Bright, Pale Yellow

y with honey // // sweetened coffee, a

palimpsest of limbs and layers leafing through // // pages upon pages

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

Pallium // // So much happens that we miss or forget, // // waking f

save // // the hair on your head from

pallor , save // // you from admiring recognition as your // // skin

Sestina to an English Teacher

m unsullied by the blood crystals on my

palm // // I am unsullied. // // Ornithologists with shears make for

Frighteningly Inert

n the stirring of senses caused by your

palm on mine. // // I’ll keep these unspecific love poems to myself,

I’ll never work for Hallmark

ed query around a new gaze, // // Your

palm pressed flat to my sole, // // Your nightbed briefly vacated. //

rtive things unfurl while forest // //

palms and fingered trees press tip and taproot // // down through dec

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

/ // So we can line pockets and grease

palms . // // The fear that we will not get up and over // // The lat

/ // and mask yourself with the pocked

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

y shall I persist? // // To that, your

pancake -batter skin is the warmest retort. // // The days still dis-l

n the splinters of the shattered window

pane . // // There was an overcrowded hospital. // // There were the

Black September

e her window, // // Hardly touched the

panes , // // Instead was broken into pieces, // // Collapsed into th

[The sun flattened]

he next train— // // Watch, as all the

panes steal your reflections. // // I look at you, across from me, on

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

ht have been a very bad move. But don’t

panic , carry on. // //

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

calculate—discuss … I see // // In the

panic hall where I’m confined // // My friends have piled up eight or

Exam Room Villanelle

// Phoenix upside—down. // // Pigeon

panicking inside an elevator. // // I can know these everythings and

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

s // // When all he draws are pots and

pans , // // Pitchers, kettles, glassware, cruets, // // Vases, ash t

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

ry. // // Rosemary for remembrance and

pansies for thoughts, // // Barbiturates for the beauties and kitchen

ndless patter of padding paws. // // A

pant in the night, // // Panthera Tigris gulps the moon. // //

He who made the Lamb

he very first time, // // Were kindred

panters of the air; // // The dead lived on in my genes and my hair /

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

aws. // // A pant in the night, // //

Panthera Tigris gulps the moon. // //

He who made the Lamb

let of steel. // // Haunch-heaving and

panting // // they dream of their freedom, // // of succulent grass

Nil Charge / Nil Return

aven can sing. // // Parodied mastery,

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

Jonathan’s Deathbed

favours // // And a line not drawn on

paper . // //

leaves might fall

rds. // // The table and children and

paper and dust appear // // Recycled as the morning’s front-page new

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

leaves rings // // slowly absorbed by

paper // // as I am threatened to be absorbed // // by the temerity

why i’m getting into Christmas

/ Its appetite carves sharp to sign the

paper , // // Cleave the land. // // In a time of dates that rot from

urther west // // Leaves and scraps of

paper cluster // // In clouds and tides to carry // // In light like

okes renowned— // // Thank God for the

paper crown. // // Young and old. // // It hides my nephew’s eyes. /

A Hymn to a Loved One

mposter // // Another hour gone // //

Paper crumpled in a heap // // I don’t have a clue! // // Another ho

es like a noose, nipping // // Natural

paper edges. // // Through the undulating skink // // Night she sulk

He who made the Lamb

would be soft, // // whole, warm. Not

paper . // // I am using scissors to cut // // a square around your f

Stone, Paper, Scissors

ps of paper // // where you lived your

paper - // // life. They are too few. // // Birth certificate. // //

Stone, Paper, Scissors

er and // // Garish Christmas wrapping

paper , // // Looking for that one item on my list. // // Trying to k

The Notes You Have Left

// Blow through the windows, wake the

paper rose. // // This is Sweet Briar, the Tudor seal, it binds // /

Sixteen Forty-Five

Paper , Scissorsi.m. Ondine - 20:8:03-12:03:04 // // You have not tur

Stone, Paper, Scissors

: // // a ticker-tape parade, // // a

paper -shower of life: // // your driving licence, swimming // // awa

Stone, Paper, Scissors

this voice // // Like saliva onto the

paper . // // The words and ink slowly // // Seep deeper into the pag

Writing to explore

sacred text, // // Flaring in ink and

paper to the floor, // // The shredded evidence of our affair // //

The Cutting Edge

to stone. // // Here are the slips of

paper // // where you lived your paper- // // life. They are too few

Stone, Paper, Scissors

lutching our briefcases // // Like the

paperwork holds the keys to victory, // // Like they’ll protect us wh

be // // it could sort of peel away in

papery layers, // // and probably seep amber. // // She’s shedding h

t to see the rest: // // a ticker-tape

parade , // // a paper-shower of life: // // your driving licence, sw

Stone, Paper, Scissors

an // // And feathers form the funeral

parade . // // A sparrow snatched from flight // // With wheeling thu

Urban bird watching

rlet skins and serpent leaves, // // A

paradise lost between her knees. // // Feet anointed and seven demons

ation and heartless damnation // // as

Paradise offers // // a thrice-empty // // shun. // // Death’s mins

Jonathan’s Deathbed

st have done: // // Alone in brand new

Paradise with infinite-ish time. // // And so they split their Garden

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

th. // // Curst to know yourself, vain

paragon , // // Your tears will recreate Cocytus and Pyriphlegethon,

amilies, workers, couples, // // Phone-

paralysed and book-engrossed, // // Pret-a-Manger munching, soul sear

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

No images allowed, the written word is

paramount , the universal word, a thrifty fox-thought, golden delighted

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// Love sent you to the desert’s hush-

parched silence. // // You held fast, though those rattling serpent-w

d we feel bored and lazy, // // And my

parents can’t tell me enough, // // That I’m wasting my life away— //

ug amid sapphires… // // Of course its

parents were disappointed // // but still loved it. To test them it

ne // // Since we went driving in your

parents ’ car. // //

dshield. // // We went driving in your

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

For A. // // We went driving in your

parents ’ car // // Out to the desert, // // Sweet like shalimar //

ng moon. // // We went driving in your

parents ’ car // // To see if we could stop the mar // // Of what we’

ng every sign-post from the text // //

Paring all the parts that point away // // To something other than ou

The Cutting Edge

ood’s playroom mat, // // And Rome and

Paris too have roads that swerve and rise and fall, // // So why does

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

. // // Over the bus as it rounds Hyde

Park , // // Down border-lanes, and further west // // Leaves and scr

That makes all necessary marks. // //

Park -safe, the corgi does not even pull the lead // // 2B // // ‘Two

Three Ways of Walking

k, // // Impounded in some Dover Lorry

Park . // // Uncase the Camembert, bring out the Brie, // // The prec

sh my uncle’s transgression but feta or

parmesan now THAT is the question’ // // Would our souls not be repul

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

modic tone—only heaven can sing. // //

Parodied mastery, pantomime mystery // // ruled their ambitions, now

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ing, // // Swaying like fans // // Or

parroting particulars // // Drowned in champagne. // // The carnival

e questions posed are so unkind: // //

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

Exam Room Villanelle

st! and be merry! // // Sanitized warm

parsnip smells tender goose and the great pudding // // drink! to

Drink and be merry

of candidates only attempted the first

part and were unable to earn any of the marks. Of the rest many did no

This Boy’s in Love—Section C

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

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

of choice. // // *Section C includes a

Part divided into sub-parts each with several options describing those

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

/ // Sodium light slit sliding through

part -drawn shades, // // Liquid time daubed on air’s pale vellum, //

g against the grain. // // The hardest

part is to grow another nature. // //

ld book I see a yellow square, read the

part // // marked, and am amazed at my predictability. // // // //

ll intercourse. // // In truth I’d not

part now, no more would you, // // but each of us, faced by the jugge

that. // // I mean, sure, to be frank,

part of me’s always wondered // // What it might be like to be tied u

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

he dust-white room are children. // //

Part of the news they lie upon, they can’t // // Look out at me, beca

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

r we scatter the ashes // // in a wild

part of the old South London cemetery. // // Perhaps I should plant /

r a sick sis. // // When a Hero formed

part of the tribute // // The girl fell for the muscular he-brute: //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

And now someone new // // playing the

part , such Jungian subtext— // // you are a child a gang of children

many did not progress beyond the second

part , with many simply claiming incorrectly that the second derivative

the sharper pain – // // some, having

parted , choose to wed again. // //

Particles in the Small Hours // // Yawn, // // Dawn // // Five o ni

Small Particles in the Small Hours

their sheen into a certain shade // //

Particular and unrepeatable. // // Some golden essence seems to conce

The Magic Apple Tree

unched // // Body. One of the crowd in

particular // // Distinct, only, because it looks // // Forlorn enou

Vicious or Virtuous?

/ Swaying like fans // // Or parroting

particulars // // Drowned in champagne. // // The carnival has come

draft of things, // // lost in a cold,

particulate light. // // Is this the drowning which was meant? // //

tion C includes a Part divided into sub-

parts each with several options describing those actions that might be

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

Those who did manage to solve the early

parts of the question were generally quite successful with the rest of

ost from the text // // Paring all the

parts that point away // // To something other than our circled self.

The Cutting Edge

. On his 13th birthday we had that big

party down the pub, // // and for her 21st, well she was away at uni,

ence, and my life bereft. // // Dinner

Party . Jerusalem, 21 January 2009 // // ‘I’ll take your coat. Ehud wi

ome miles are ten, while others swiftly

pass . // //

Walking in winter

e-glass doors. // // Through these you

pass and up a flight of stairs, // // To find the case and lift the d

The Magic Apple Tree

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

pass . // // Gaudete. // // Candles glowing through stained glass. //

A Hymn to a Loved One

? Should we mass- // // Protest the by-

pass if the Vogons know // // The earth is mostly harmless, with a pa

agedy, could // // smile and tease and

pass on courage, save // // our grades and your dignity, your // //

Sestina to an English Teacher

From BAE. Do please sit here and Tzipi,

pass // // The red to Gordon. I’m afraid the view just now // // Is

arnish it all I can do // // is let it

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

flect, despairing, that all things must

pass . // // Unless, emboldened by our revelry, // // We make a stand

w when it blunders // // Around in the

passages —just losing weight // // So it ends as a snack—not my feast

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

in the chest. // // If he who fell at

Passchendaele had seen // // My suit and gown, would death have seeme

had, the arrogant cad, // // But time

passed —and I hadn’t a lot on. // // Concluding this long anamnesis //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

. // // The feet that passed here have

passed away. // // Handfast couples picked their path and left you //

// Dark Matter reels. Imagine it just

passed , // // Expanding in a bubble that you know // // Soaped Tita

g the old sublime; // // The dogs that

passed , for the very first time, // // Were kindred panters of the ai

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

r own caked shoes. // // The feet that

passed here have passed away. // // Handfast couples picked their pat

worlds do not let flowing be, // // so

passed I through, life’s ocean dropp’d on me, // // and with my britt

[What have we done]

ooked for no eternal flame. // // Just

passed on far more heat than light. // //

late modernity. // // None came. Time

passed . She left the door ajar— // // She thought she’d heard the bre

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

Matter explodes. Growth’s spiraling has

passed // // The comprehendable. A lash of light // // That forges,

In Swale- and Wensleydale // // they

passed the following day. // // Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, /

bread stayed bready and the wine // //

Passed up its chance to be divine; // // Outside our window the cedar

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

. Buses, bicycles, cold commuters, they

passed us by as we stood on the bridge, suspended sense of solid pavem

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

/ Take out the book before the faceless

passengers // // And fill my mind // // To bridge the gap // // And

Poems on the Underground

the // // Strangers that are the other

passengers . // // And thoughts begin to press into my mind // // Of

Poems on the Underground

scores of ‘excuse me please’ // // As

passengers // // Cross and recross the gap // // As if they would //

Poems on the Underground

g, would // // Even smile at the other

passengers . // // Shrill beep as the // // Doors open, the // // Tr

Poems on the Underground

ease // // Make a gap // // Among the

passengers ) // // Take out the book before the faceless passengers //

Poems on the Underground

those that would. // // They buzz like

passengers , the // // words that please the mind, // // navigate the

Poems on the Underground

how I would // // Negotiate the other

passengers // // Without too many ‘please’, // // ‘Thank you’ and ‘e

Poems on the Underground

You look back at me. // // The moment

passes , and we turn anywhere: // // fear reflects between our eyes, /

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

this the poem? // // The cloud shadow

passes , but in its chill I remember - // // What if he had got that k

// with slow brute grace, // // then

passes , // // catseyes like bouquets // // thrown into the night beh

d ends, junk, old rope. // // Boarding

passes from times they went for broke. // // Gifts they could never b

lly // // Will be quenched before your

passing bell is rung. // // But now I need the poets who grew old //

// // Going around, and around, // //

Passing by our narrative. // // Isn’t this war ? // // She points to

[She points to the sky]

ng we can see, // // Gray street lamps

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

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

olts // // more days of sun or rain or

passing cloud // // more meetings with old friends // // more talks,

Fall for———— // //

Passing Fall in tattooed cold, // // Misted breath on misted grass. /

Fall for————

hat, // // really, // // she was just

passing the time, // // that the whole reason she was // // sat, hun

In a charity shop

the raging fire // // of the sun marks

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

u can look for me forever // // on the

passing trains and platforms // // while I // // Am dancing on your

I know not what I’ve done! // // This

passion ! // // Compassion! // // I will surrender // // My love, su

e holds your sceptre-spear. // // What

passion . High and clear and far, the song // // Called you; in triune

f this, as readers will foresee is that

passion is the stuff immortality is made on. // // Not cheese. // //

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

oing to give our heat away? // // That

passion never gains, we just lose it to our loves? // // That there’s

Three Pieces of Advice

e // // And fell, and dropp’d beneath,

pass’d ’neath my toes // // To endless death, rinsing me feet to nose

[What have we done]

gas and dust that veils, then flickers

past // // A Milky Way of twinkling roseate light— // // Shape-shift

unned and I am shut out too, // // The

past and custom are no friend of ours. // // Yet in determination pro

Three gay rituals

/ // And peer. Myopic view, fragmented

past // // And impotent. Neutrino looks on Mass. // // So was the pr

t of other days can shine // // on any

past and redefine // // our history, and that is where // // the wor

ross the scene, // // Barricading your

past before it intrudes // // In the vitality of your present. // //

The Other Side of the Line

seemed a sign— // // not of the town’s

past , but of your fine // // bones, feather-forming in the fast- //

s hum through the reeds, // // Winding

past colonnades and the ruins of markets, // // Coiling round temple

/ // Cutting through accretions of the

past // // Dully and daily deleting, whatever is not next // // Snee

The Cutting Edge

dless: // // unpenned letters from the

past , encrypted // // in a knowledge of the reader that was me. // /

ar Finnegan’s Lake riverrun,

past Eve’s and Adam’s // // sins of the sons are visited upon the fat

nd journey also, darkling, through your

past // // Journey through your seed time and your summer // // And

The Magic Apple Tree

t // // Syrupy fingertips // // Slide

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

// // A Universe of fire. One second’s

past — // // Matter explodes. Growth’s spiraling has passed // // The

/ Between this point and somewhere just

past my horizon. // // Body aching, waiting, for my chalk outline. Th

Snapshot Endings

, but her eyes // // Stare through me,

past my skin, to the scream stuck // // In my throat. // // Her ches

// The earth is mostly harmless, with a

past // // Of telephonic hygiene? It never forms // // Intelligence,

a long time ago, // // Feet, turning,

past sloppy kisses // // And out the door. // //

/ and she never had much time for times

past . // // So the half-full tin of strawberry mints // // must mean

// // Play it, Sam. // // BBC1, half

past ten. // // Here’s lookin’ at you, kid. // //

A Hymn to a Loved One

there you lie—innocently // // Staring

past the camera’s smitten gaze, // // While Bush stares out from und

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

lummeting down Castle Hill today // //

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

living history, we are too close to the

past , // // The razor might not last, the bomb might fall, // // The

Bearded Thoughts

isen blush. // // We must not rush now

past the wee hours of // // waiting on fronted news, the foreplay ten

Aubade to Girton

f my seven skins; // // A chronicle of

past unbuttonings. // // I need these layers, this heraldry // // Th

ar from cheering: // // that while the

past // // will last and last, // // the future is fast disappearing

y fulfilled. Their writing binds // //

Past with present: a poet’s hexagram // // Of ever-living fire and un

Sixteen Forty-Five

gs, and sadder looks longingly out at a

patch of grass with the sun on it and a rabbit or two - pretty scene,

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

verse to new versions, // // Soldering

patches over kneed corduroys, // // Moulded by no volcanic hand // /

Frighteningly Inert

. // // Question his fitness as // //

Paterfamilias ; // // Son-wise, he’s probably // // Better than some.

Dolls’ House // // A house gestated in

paternal love // //

The Christmas Dolls’ House

rom Ilkley’s old stone bridge I trace a

path // // against the stream, back up the river Wharfe, // // to Bo

Daydream Dale Journey

ud and thistle bloom // // We pick our

path along the hollow way // // Handfast; we unscroll your youth //

y. // // Handfast couples picked their

path and left you // // Deserted. Only bramble blooms; only ivy stray

// The treasures to be found along my

path // // are elemental: water, sky and earth // // and rock and ai

Daydream Dale Journey

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

path back from college, refusing // // to look him in the eye, it cou

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

Wells in winter // // We take the

path beside the wood—the fir // // and silver birch along the dunes t

Wells in winter

nding // // The lows into dry soil. My

path has not yet led // // In one direction or the other, but I see a

Vicious or Virtuous?

d Lack; // // But drown’d out is their

path —it floats adrift. // // They crumble in atop themselves, debris

[What have we done]

// for maybe thirty years. A winding

path // // leads from the glazed back door // // through box and hol

r air. // // Beyond the scree the open

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

Daydream Dale Journey

tches forward, dripping hungrily on the

path // // Like rain. Staining stones darker as words attempt to fill

Snapshot Endings

. // // Death’s minstrel followed this

path of destruction to // // find out their instrument, plucked on it

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ered on my face, // // As I traced our

path to this point. // // “Feel better soon” // // Wrapped in layer

The Notes You Have Left

r it // // The leaves are moved, their

path unbroken now // // The stillness stops, my heart has now left th

// // As streetlights guide my yellow

path : // // Your silhouette stands beyond their glow. // // Red, whi

// Fearless and shameless and hopeless,

pathetically // // wanting no more and // // expecting no // // les

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// // He is in its arches and secluded

pathways . // // Each crescendo blasts my mind to whiteness. // // Wh

and poured my thoughts over a journal’s

patient page. // // I remember your thick handwriting on that white p

[I often think of that January morning]

drawn. // // Under the window, on the

patio table, // // a kestrel is plucking the flunked corpse: // // d

Patrimony // // My grandad tended to old men when young, // // The k

essed-at others who—she’d heard— // //

Patrolled the streets of late modernity. // // None came. Time passed

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

ps of water from pelt. // // Soundless

patter of padding paws. // // A pant in the night, // // Panthera Ti

He who made the Lamb

overlapping amplitudes of bliss, // //

pattering into patterns, into persons, into us, // // conscious harmo

the genesis of every utterance, // //

pattering the pattern of the Tree. // // Summon the summoners, and le

is mold self-grown, // // My practic’d

pattern forged a way its own // // And I, the more I let my way be sh

[What have we done]

f every utterance, // // pattering the

pattern of the Tree. // // Summon the summoners, and let them sing. /

ht, // // White-gold light, suspending

patterned navy seats. // // Accompanying us: families, workers, coupl

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

stranded sea monkeys // // Maybe they

patternize to someone else’s eyes, affirm a thing, touch a cord // //

primeval winds // // a billion random

patterns form—until // // an accidental spiral sequence finds // //

litudes of bliss, // // pattering into

patterns , into persons, into us, // // conscious harmonics, singing f

vion // // in five minutes. // // The

patterns the night frosted on car windows // // will be water and unr

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

e in that filthy glass // // Will only

pause briefly, // // Or be eclipsed by the shuttered windows of the n

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

k I just want to really feel. // // Un-

pause . Furl my sparrow wings poised at the precipice and reel // // B

above again and // // the blood below.

Pause . I think I just want to really feel. // // Un-pause.

ings a hedgehog // // Sprawls upon the

pavement , // // Bristles forced to comic angles. // // A pigeon’s sl

Urban bird watching

sting flight of spotlit laughing on the

pavement // // dries to sighs in seconds. // // It’s so easy // //

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

cs, // // Exquisite timpani of sole on

pavement . // // How he glitches and slides, // // How slowly my mind

’Tis pity he’s a bore

on the bridge, suspended sense of solid

pavement in smokefilled grey. I asked you why you seemed so sad, but a

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

h he finds himself alone, // // Life’s

pawn at lifetime’s darker edge, // // The one who gave him tone and f

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

elt. // // Soundless patter of padding

paws . // // A pant in the night, // // Panthera Tigris gulps the moo

He who made the Lamb

aw // // They had just funds enough to

pay and brought you here. // // Three X-rays and a CAT scan for an ai

art to give, // // I don’t want her to

pay any attention. // // She’s too busy cavorting around space, gay a

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

’ve cancelled his buses, no more will I

pay for—and // // now on the bridge I am pulling the plug.” // //

Troubled waters

to the pristine West Isles. Tears would

pay for the glor- // // y of the find in the name of God for the sake

Blair is here. // // After two years’

pay , this is the day // // He finally comes to Gaza (with chums). //

// my needlework, // // the duty to be

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

A Room of Her Own

/ impetuous thunder // // and ultimate

payment . // // Pens open and ready, // // braced with crossed ledger

Nil Charge / Nil Return

grace // // The screen on my mother’s

PC ). // // I peel them slowly, smoothly // // From these relics. //

t—safe in the sound // // of whispered

peace around. // //

luc bat to mr. beam

sh that I // // should rest in perfect

peace . I’m circumspect // // about my first response. Success and joy

Between Life and Death

// The skirmishes and wars, // // What

peace or treaty can there be // // Between two worlds like ours? //

The Daily Planet

ich as Tokaji, // // your head bobs in

peace upon a heart’s-blood bouquet. // //

n this tired state // // I fade into a

peaceful sleep: a gate, // // A door, a light, a face, the clouds ’co

[What have we done]

// Who is this now, who dares me eat a

peach ? // // Time’s warring chariots can clatter by— // // we have t

ernal sunshine // // That provides the

peacock // // its scream, // // Deep in the bosom of the // // gent

l’esprit d’escalier

// A tongue, dark and delicate, from a

peak dangling, // // A curled query around a new gaze, // // Your pa

was the beginning, he saw triplet hills

peak - // // ing out from the emerald isle’s southern shore. Behold! S

// Into a bead collecting at his chin’s

peak . // // Orange dew drop, // // Promising and frightening and //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

esy, the circle // // Will inhale. The

peak reaching skywards, extending // // The lows into dry soil. My pa

Vicious or Virtuous?

for the fraught, // // She’ll sell the

pearls in her mouth, the gold on her head, // // To afford the crowns

angelic fight. // // Still I turn from

peat -smoke laughter and librarian’s plight // // To where, in street-

rch // // I hissed my name to the cold

pebbles and the cold sand // // I roared my name to the surprise of t

[I whispered my name into the trees]

. // // and the girl says: why did you

peck out // // my eye, magpie? // // and the magpie says: fairy tale

s: no, I’m sorry. // // and the magpie

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

d—insanity— // // But he did have firm

pecs , and it looked like good sex— // // But I did seek a bit more hu

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

// By stranger or grandfather—it is a

peculiar , potent spell. // // What a beautiful and strange home you h

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

ll drunk // // I shackle myself to the

peddles and roll along quietly // // Only to return to gobbets of

hurt. // // Blind, dumb, deaf upon the

pedestal of a saint, // // by touch and instinct you descend to hide

from his beard, so I’m told; // // His

pedigree and personal grooming, how he values himself. // // But nowa

Bearded Thoughts

// // Or maybe // // it could sort of

peel away in papery layers, // // and probably seep amber. // // She

his shoes, // // Slipping them easy as

peel from his moon-silvered skinny feet. // // He coughs with surpris

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

peel them slowly, smoothly // // From these relics. // // Slowly, sm

u Break it with a smile and portion and

peel // // these days to savour, or discard; not feed the eternal ang

e in Higgs’ Field // // I keep my eyes

peeled , // // For each mil-billionth strike // // Might give the psy

Small Particles in the Small Hours

// Looking over sidings. // // Their

peeling paint // // Maroon // // Against the odds. // // From the s

ulets) // // I have tried // // (as I

peer at you sideways // // drawing my thoughts along your wooden wave

dle’s guttering sickly flame // // And

peer . Myopic view, fragmented past // // And impotent. Neutrino looks

alentine that sparked a fight. Clothes

pegs . // // He, of course, always hated sentiment, // // and she nev

// // Silent drip-drops of water from

pelt . // // Soundless patter of padding paws. // // A pant in the ni

He who made the Lamb

al words spilled from the Shakespearean

pen // // And flowing across the virginal canvas of the page was the

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

pace for scholarship // // to read and

pen and thrive, // // even without degree. // // My maths proves use

A Room of Her Own

ring praise // // Of how masterful his

pen appears, // // When it brings its audience to tears // // Or let

age surrendered to the caresses of that

pen most famously tender // // Forever stained with the Bard’s loving

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ky hall where I’m confined // // As my

pen moves blankly line to line // // Controlled by the wrist of an am

Exam Room Villanelle

who bask in the flames of that revered

pen . // // Not even Chesterton would find it hard to believe that men

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

the worthless losses; // // That five

pence that isn’t worth the creak // // Of bones to pick up. // // A

Vicious or Virtuous?

/ At frozen events, pale memory, // //

Pendant in silicon amber. // // Plain and varied multitudes of senses

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

ar // // but no Murder of absurd black

penguins // // congregate this afternoon as my leg // // slumbers in

why i’m getting into Christmas

Of bringing her here. But now someone’s

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

Wednesday Evening

her throat. It squatted, watched her,

penned // // a tribute with a claw pisswet, bloodwhorled, // // and

city // // dragging their ledgers and

pens // // for the annual nil return. // // Nil, wild-eyed and wooll

Nil Charge / Nil Return

der // // and ultimate payment. // //

Pens open and ready, // // braced with crossed ledgers // // and ste

Nil Charge / Nil Return

n // // Nobel genuflection // // …and

pension protection. // // Though, just on reflection, // // Our mode

Small Particles in the Small Hours

ping // // to rifle through the // //

pensioner -permeated racks. // // She looks up, // // thinking aloud

In a charity shop

? Or maybe nothing—maybe she // // is

pensive , dreaming, lost in reverie. // // And the artist who is showi

Cape Cod Morning

/ // Nil, wild-eyed and woolly, // //

pent in a furry fury // // at the nilherd’s final demands, // // sta

Nil Charge / Nil Return

’s how it seems to those who see // //

Pentameter as breath from nature’s throat; // // To me it’s just anot

In Defence of Evolution

Credit in the city // //

Penthoused // //

Credit in the city

e street outside change, // // and the

people // // change, and the weather // // change // // like friend

In a charity shop

e the colours of the carpet, // // and

people come in, // // binbag-laden // // with mum’s blouses, // //

In a charity shop

eligion, new gold mines, new laws and a

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

ve or life, no loafing here. // // And

people don’t look at the sky anymore, not unless it is tragic, // //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ths in Cambridgeshire last year. // //

People finding their way home. // // People leaning against this hori

es. // // (I completely understand why

people have // // funeral pyres.) Later we scatter the ashes // //

// The absence, eerie, of mountains, of

people . // // Just you, steady tread and glinted eyes, // // Holding

/ People finding their way home. // //

People leaning against this horizontal barrier // // Willing it to di

and the woods grew pretty // // Local

people left the city // // Moved by long forgotten pity // // For th

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

cacophony. // // Through air and ether

people mutter, shout, // // voices, ipods, phones speak out. // // S

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

people talking: can we doubt // // that somewhere herein lies some d

h the mist, softly luminous and guiding

people through // // the sourness of their own oceans. But drinking w

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ices of state, // // Reduce the common

people to despair, // // And laugh as they invest their funds elsewhe

never just say it, // // If you say it

people will hear, // // Then where would we be? // // In a tirade of

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

desire to look in the windows of other

peoples ’ homes, // // but I don’t remember or care what it is. I neve

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

ne point eight metres per second // //

Per second, and I’ll finally be able to stand again, // // And stop f

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

gravity back to nine point eight metres

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

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

life, // // age only antique, frailty

perceivable only // // by sight. For you these words // // Were natu

Sestina to an English Teacher

/ // Have almost reached their seventy-

percent // // Of newly-broken foetus-leaves // // In the last May bu

there, made of wicker // // For her to

perch on. // //

ven. // // Bums ache on floors, // //

Perch on arms of chairs, // // Settle into laps of relatives. // //

Wild Mountain Thyme

there, made of wicker // // For her to

perch on. // // I am lying in the bed, my eyes // // are closed. I c

r fall to me from yours, // // Were I,

perchance , in Venus // // And you, perhaps, in Mars. // // What wary

The Daily Planet

adenbombingssuicide // // Ah, to dream

perchance to sleep … Brrng! Brnng! // // No time for that sunsh

y i’m getting into Christmas // // I’m

perched inside an open window // // drinking coffee that leaves rings

why i’m getting into Christmas

omething’s gotta give. // // From your

perdition she’ll rise with flaming hair, // // Having found grace at

self, a growing potion, thick // // To

perfect brew’d. My bones grow Ache and Lack; // // But drown’d out is

[What have we done]

e thaw, // // Reflecting light through

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

[What have we done]

rld; // // The only map of his kingdom

perfect enough // // (For you) had to be // // Identical. // // I c

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

st of pink trees and it would have been

perfect , except my skin felt too big for my bones. It just hung there

[So the moon was there]

dless results embryonically won. // //

Perfect formation and heartless damnation // // as Paradise offers //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// And runs his perfect hands through

perfect hair. // // He tells us he is having an affair. // // Like I

// // Sits there, // // And runs his

perfect hands through perfect hair. // // He tells us he is having an

erience accidence. // // His poetry is

perfect . // // I sit here, and regard the man. // // I think— // //

// // Will find itself returned to the

perfect lightness of itself // // And to the infinity of the other //

[At the coinciding point of the years]

And is perfectly useless // // And is

perfect , // // Like the thing that you were. // // The morning still

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

Villanelle // // I fear I am not in my

perfect mind: // // As examiners so cruelly, // // In the chilling h

Exam Room Villanelle

my degree // // I fear I am not in my

perfect mind // // As I try to get my brain on line, // // Searching

Exam Room Villanelle

as for me // // I fear I am not in my

perfect mind // // In the lonely hall where I’m confined. // //

Exam Room Villanelle

n amputee, // // I fear I am not in my

perfect mind. // // The questions posed are so unkind: // // Parse—c

Exam Room Villanelle

your wish that I // // should rest in

perfect peace. I’m circumspect // // about my first response. Success

Between Life and Death

begin. // // A long sustained note; a

perfect third; // // Each of us with our own concerns. // // I’ve lo

ις // // Personification of God’s idle

perfection , // // Epochs before this have claimed you, // // The arc

evels joylessly and mechanically in the

perfection of his thought. Who can help this helpless man? Perhaps onl

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

/ // My boson? // // ‘Standard Model’

perfection ! // // Professorial election // // Nobel genuflection //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

ne. The apple core // // left faceless

perfection’s shackles to rust. // // The shuttle flits through warp a

feathers nor scales ever clad // // A

perfectly honed piece of mortal machinery // // Like you, that stalke

// And so they split their Garden up in

perfectly straight lines, // // And chose a brand new name to give to

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

n. // // It says nothing // // And is

perfectly useless // // And is perfect, // // Like the thing that yo

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

tructure and no plan, // // The points

perhaps are good, // // But slightly blurred and ill-conceived, // /

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

or I am well of love. // // Apples may

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

The well of love

f the old South London cemetery. // //

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

I, perchance, in Venus // // And you,

perhaps , in Mars. // // What wary orbits we must keep // // Around o

The Daily Planet

hair perhaps, or what it means. // //

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

Bearded Thoughts

One last kiss,—and another one— // //

Perhaps just one more little kiss, // // A farewell kiss—and then we’

[A Farewell Kiss]

hought. Who can help this helpless man?

Perhaps only the ecstasy and the trembling of love could awake him fro

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

ht? // // We distrust this facial hair

perhaps , or what it means. // // Perhaps it seems archaic, rather lik

Bearded Thoughts

ich // // Were excellent (Minus // //

Perhaps their mind-dulling // // Concoction which // // Constricted

y thing a beard hides is a chin. // //

Perhaps we’re scared to look history in the face, // // The bearded w

Bearded Thoughts

t. // // I am here. // // This is me.

Period . // //

[She points to the sky]

f any given room // // While doomed to

perish are humble verses such as this, which misguidedly discuss vieux

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

Embroideries and rhymes were fortune’s

perk — // // They advertised who wasn’t made for work. // // Now, bla

In Defence of Evolution

it is to be // // Skinned in something

permeable . // //

Who am I, Bernard?

/ to rifle through the // // pensioner-

permeated racks. // // She looks up, // // thinking aloud like a dre

In a charity shop

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)

it out like that // // (You don’t get

perpendiculars in nature, after all). // // The streets of London sla

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

// The fire which leapt over us // //

Perseid gleams between the stars // // Like seeing a humpback breach

// // And the night stared back // //

Perseid gleams between the stars // // We navigate by auspice // //

d of genesis, in what purgatory shall I

persist ? // // To that, your pancake-batter skin is the warmest retor

re we can stretch across // // To that

person who was lying next to us // // Only a second ago, // // Findi

ese lines move tight // // Into gaping

personages then, quick // // As they dance into shape, do vacate back

[What have we done]

d, so I’m told; // // His pedigree and

personal grooming, how he values himself. // // But nowadays it’s stu

Bearded Thoughts

Nέμεσις // //

Personification of God’s idle perfection, // // Epochs before this ha

s, // // pattering into patterns, into

persons , into us, // // conscious harmonics, singing face to face. //

t’s just the latent sign // // Of some

perversion of a submissive kind // // Which three therapists and a co

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

he house, // // anxiously mourning red

petal fingernails. You looked sadly through // // me, and I was left

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

er, fire with fire. // // Its five red

petals breed six warring tongues // // That in the silence spell our

Sixteen Forty-Five

laborate // // In the shaping of sugar

petals , // // The rising of dough, // // The rolling of crusts. //

Huntingdon Road. // // They found him,

petrified , // // Frozen in flight on tarmac soar // // No scar or ba

Urban bird watching

Within the corrugated cage. // // The

petrified wood // // Of my great-grandmother’s rolling pin, // // So

y places, // // Lounging on a bench or

pew , some character in a play // // With Brian Blessed // // Squeeze

Bearded Thoughts

f a pun, // // She presents the wooden

phallus , // // Sharpened with female power. // // Poof! // // Anoth

eld by darling thoughts, // // Smile’s

phantom echoing inchoate affections, // // A tongue, dark and delicat

in spring // // blood ancestry // //

phantoms // // graveyard cadavers // // spicing the soil // // iron

yew needs dried blood in spring

Philae // // The door of the south, // // Where frontiersmen stand a

n we rest and say that: we have it now.

Philosophers and priests have all succumbed to this ennui. They redire

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

and years are counted and timed. // //

Philosophies are aired, // // temple columns spaced, // // lightning

// that somewhere herein lies some deep

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

the fox, // // Crouching in the purple

phlox , // // The hare whose eyes at equinox // // Eyed the slowly ro

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ea. // // An eco-room. // // A modern

phoenix // // risen from old coal-grate ash // // so I can shift my

A Room of Her Own

/ All that is left of bird song. // //

Phoenix upside—down. // // Pigeon panicking inside an elevator. // /

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

rgue with here. // // 3, told over the

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

Three Pieces of Advice

pace and // // surety of pressing the

phone on the wall miles away // // in a world of digit meets digits,

us: families, workers, couples, // //

Phone -paralysed and book-engrossed, // // Pret-a-Manger munching, sou

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

uths that // // breathe words down the

phone // // which I’ll never hear because I feel // // future lights

why i’m getting into Christmas

Phonecall // // HAMLET Do you see that cloud? That’s almost in shape

by our ramshackle fumbling // // with

phonemes , come tumbling // // back across the page: // // Love, Time

/ // their eyeballs rolled heavenward,

phonemes falling thick and fast // // their babble: tongues, their di

Same but differenT

deep philosophy? // // Voices, ipods,

phones speak out— // // add to the road’s cacophony. // //

top deck of a 68 // // Voices, ipods,

phones speak out— // // add to the road’s cacophony. // // Through a

le mutter, shout, // // voices, ipods,

phones speak out. // // So many people talking: can we doubt // //

our house by the sea, and how long that

photo remained through // // the year. You tell me my honey hair is d

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ry of light // // Whose faded trace no

photograph records. // // You glimpsed it once within the garden wall

The Magic Apple Tree

experience // // Make the metaphor of

photography literal, // // Purgatory lenses your beauty. // // Glaci

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

to coots // // while trying to turn a

phrase // // or check a reference on-line. // // This is the en-suit

A Room of Her Own

e first time while helping me with GCSE

Physics , and repeated // // On a weekly basis, // // Almost as often

Three Pieces of Advice

Pianissimo // // We begin. // // A long sustained note; a perfect th

sic for the ceremony // // —a Schubert

piano piece.) // // Standing around the Cambridge crematorium, // //

ing to say? // // We are but notes the

piano plays. // // Crescendo—jump a major fifth— // // And down the

looming heather, // // Warm it, // //

Pick around it. // // Our voices warm the space. // // Our voices, /

Wild Mountain Thyme

tch. // // Oh! why // // did I // //

pick // // Nick? // //

rutted mud and thistle bloom // // We

pick our path along the hollow way // // Handfast; we unscroll your y

/ Baby, come and sit with me, // // We

pick this time to fall in love. // // Lights still flickering on the

A Hymn to a Loved One

sn’t worth the creak // // Of bones to

pick up. // // A camera lens whirs to focus on a hunched // // Body.

Vicious or Virtuous?

and suited too. // // That friend he’d

picked // // —his tasseled hat // // and pink cravat— // // just ga

ve passed away. // // Handfast couples

picked their path and left you // // Deserted. Only bramble blooms; o

fragrant lemon-yellow suns, // // and,

picking four of the brightest ripest ones, // // takes yard eggs, flo

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

’t worry Karl we have a program for the

picking now: // // For there she was: weaving a registry of fifty sha

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

groom). // // Framed by filtering sun,

picking your lip. // // You’ve handed me back the earbuds we were sha

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

s // // some distant point outside the

picture frame. // // What does she see? Is there something there? //

Cape Cod Morning

And I am drunk on vertigo // // when I

picture him as St. Sebastian, // // Nailed to pine in ecstatic agony.

’Tis pity he’s a bore

ot nice’—Barbara Bush // // There is a

picture of you that we love, // // Taken when you were only three mo

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

so. // // I have no idea, // // So I

picture the Ramsays’ sitting room and listen to music whilst I work //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// changes.’ I wondered // // if she’d

pictured // // her dresses // // being brought back here, // // her

In a charity shop

uiting time. // // Journey through the

pictures packed like loam, // // The rooting places of your growing s

The Magic Apple Tree

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

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

sees inside you // // and lodges a

piece of itself there? // // Breathless, I stand being looked at /

ales ever clad // // A perfectly honed

piece of mortal machinery // // Like you, that stalked like one who h

ems, // // A register for each cracked

piece // // Of souvenir china: // // The white and yellow honey-pot

Piece of Work” // // A-rise, you poyson’d ape, and stay the same, //

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

l. // // Why should I miss this little

piece of you? // //

Compass Reading

r the ceremony // // —a Schubert piano

piece .) // // Standing around the Cambridge crematorium, // // dress

ods? // // He never tells. But in each

piece // // The inner thought is evident: // // These objects are hi

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

e panes, // // Instead was broken into

pieces , // // Collapsed into the shattered trees // // Like water fl

[The sun flattened]

esis // // And to gather up all of the

pieces : // // He turned out a bore—I was dumped on the shore // // A

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ol’s gold, bric-a-brac, // // bits and

pieces , odds and ends, junk, old rope. // // Boarding passes from tim

Pieces of Advice // // 1. Heat always travels from hot to cold. // /

Three Pieces of Advice

// Above the belt, you’re a god, // //

Pied , impious beauty; // // Below, bestial lust // // Striped with t

// … // // above us // // white stars

pierce // // the sky // // below us // // the dark grass mops our t

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

else, but all you can see through is a

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

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

screamed from my veins // // When you

pierced me with your unseen blade. // // I will see you before I die

llows your head, // // Vice-like; your

pierced side holds your sceptre-spear. // // What passion. High and c

nonsensical monosyllables; its nonsense

pierces us at once with an unease and vitality. // // 4. // // Moder

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

hat // // Squeezed, through concrete’s

piercing bars, // // Soft choking from a jagged cleft. // // A wax o

// to an iron-gated pointed arch // //

piercing the wall, built like the house // // of weathered Cotswold s

the chain is a thousand daggers, // //

Piercing you, making you scream. // // But the daggers are not dagger

ong. // // Phoenix upside—down. // //

Pigeon panicking inside an elevator. // // I can know these everythin

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

istles forced to comic angles. // // A

pigeon’s slow, ungainly steps // // To cross the road (no joke in tha

Urban bird watching

/ // Better than some. // // Higgledy

Piggledy // // Allan S. Konigsberg // // Knew that he wouldn’t // /

// As well as his Kind. // // Higgledy

Piggledy // // Brideshead Revisited: // // Nostalgic adventures //

nd promptly found fame. // // Higgledy

Piggledy // // Christopher Isherwood // // Quickly ditched Corpus //

uite well on the page). // // Higgledy

Piggledy // // Jesus of Nazareth // // Born on a solstice // // The

Double Dactyls // // Higgledy

Piggledy // // Oedipus Tyrannus // // Murdered his father // // And

// Try as they might. // // Higgledy

Piggledy // // Oscar Pistorius // // Slaughtered his girlfriend //

centrate // // From light to air, from

pigment into paint // // In increments of incarnation down // // to

The Magic Apple Tree

y moves o’er all; // // A slight light

pigments the cold pond harsh, // // Revealing smokey lines of my knif

[What have we done]

/ // distract me, or Suliman, from his

pilaf . // // But stay me not with raisins nor // // with flagons, fo

The well of love

// // or more appropriately, Suliman’s

pilaf . // // But stay me not with them, nor comfort me // // with ap

The well of love

ort me not // // with apples, nor with

pilaf . I can’t speak // // for Suliman, but I am well of love. // /

The well of love

g // // as any fruit, though Suliman’s

pilaf // // is real comfort food. But comfort me not // // with app

The well of love

ht infant can contrive // // To lean a

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

In Defence of Evolution

ere I’m confined // // My friends have

piled up eight or nine // // Close-written sheets, but as for me //

Exam Room Villanelle

parts: giant concrete blocks // // on

piles all along the shingle beach. // // The mile south to the Martel

Walking in winter

is also digging down // // beneath the

piles . Then one stormy night // // it pulls the final prop. A hundr

Walking in winter

ngers in a Cambridge college // // And

pilfer the noble classes’ ancient knowledge. // // I think again of c

of markets, // // Coiling round temple

pillars and bronze effigies, // // Usurping the old shore with the ne

n your sleepless nights, clutching your

pillow case, wishing those ‘thoughts’ away, thoughts that are not your

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

words hushed round // // a sun-warmed

pillowed land of // // South Georgia sunsets, and // // bougainville

luc bat to mr. beam

y told you sharks never turned on their

pilots —that’s your blood // // In the water—they’ve always been lying

Pimm’s // // I taste the hum of pub chatter // // And the tang of go

ngue and mesh eyes // // blinking on a

pimpled trunk // // snail-spotted and blooded // // by stagnant rece

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

th a stem in your marrow to go with the

pin // // and the splint and the stent that are where we begin. // /

/ // Of my great-grandmother’s rolling

pin , // // Solid as her steel-stern face— // // A battleship floatin

hind did seem sure death. ’Twas in this

pinch // // I rose my head. Above it to my heart // // A crack in di

[What have we done]

ws through me // // Like blood, that I

pine for you, and yearn for you, // // And can taste this longing in

I’ll never work for Hallmark

him as St. Sebastian, // // Nailed to

pine in ecstatic agony. // // ’Tis pity. // // Some ancestral memory

’Tis pity he’s a bore

rmed, deep-veined wood // // Of an old

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

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

e just sat there, and the trees weren’t

pink and the stars couldn’t sing, but we were happy. // // //

[So the moon was there]

ked // // —his tasseled hat // // and

pink cravat— // // just gazed at Nick, // // and Nick at him, // //

The exhilaration of rowers, // // The

pink heat of burnt necks and thirsty flowers. // // I taste the faint

and feel their cacoons grow // // More

pink , more soft, and in this tired state // // I fade into a peaceful

[What have we done]

eally happy. I was stood in a forest of

pink trees and it would have been perfect, except my skin felt too big

[So the moon was there]

shioned, swan-necked cycles. // // The

pinked sky of dinner has given way. // // Under the transparent blist

ngs I made years since // // Of shapes

pinnate and toothed, // // Like a hand, lobed or broken, // // When

leaves might fall

// // will be burnt to the sound of a

piped lament. // // The manager wouldn’t deal with the mail // // an

The Dead Letter Office closes down

bed apples her way. // // She spat the

pips , for they could choke you, yet // // She imagined swallowing the

er, penned // // a tribute with a claw

pisswet , bloodwhorled, // // and badinaged with her would-be saviour

. // // Higgledy Piggledy // // Oscar

Pistorius // // Slaughtered his girlfriend // // In cold-blooded rag

llness stops, my heart has now left the

pit . // // A sense of hope, a sense of fear, a bough // // Cracks li

The kind who’d spent a lifetime in the

pit // // And come away with bruises and black lung // // And purple

e air, // // And down, way down in the

pit of your stomach // // Is the fear, the absolute dread of what may

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

in a Finnish tango // // to the ship’s

pitch and yaw, // // borrowed eyes seeing // // some earlier draft o

a breeze on a desert-plain, // // The

pitch -white lake bed bare of life, // // All mountains and hills arou

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

all he draws are pots and pans, // //

Pitchers , kettles, glassware, cruets, // // Vases, ash trays, cups, a

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

I shouted my name at the empty football

pitches // // I muttered my name incessantly in the supermarket // /

[I whispered my name into the trees]

spurns your natural law. // // What a

pitiful way for a predator to die, // // Alone in the desert, strangl

an, // // Streets emptied utterly into

pits // // Girded with chalk and bone. // // Tarweed takes root and

the city // // Moved by long forgotten

pity // // For their lovely Prince Dmitry // // Who had crowned thei

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ondensed to a mere bromide. // // ’Tis

pity he’s a bore. // //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

ms of that abyssal goddess. // // ’Tis

pity he’s a bore. // // How he strides, // // Warm air turbulent //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

pity he’s a bore // // I imagine he’d wear my armour well, // // And

’Tis pity he’s a bore

anyone notice that I’m staring? // //

Pity . // // Now his sumptuous form is reduced to two lines, // // Th

’Tis pity he’s a bore

to pine in ecstatic agony. // // ’Tis

pity . // // Some ancestral memory is unseated // // From its place o

’Tis pity he’s a bore

ge of legends is reduced to droplets of

pity wept by the few that can see your footsteps in the stone. // //

// Momentary flashes of white coats and

pitying faces // // And her, sobbing, while our future drains away. /

// // My pride clings like // // The

pixillating condensation // // Bolting blind the top-floor library– /

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

d/or recommended if barriers are not in

place . // //

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

OU WHAT IT FEELS LIKETO BE HERE IN THIS

PLACE // // black // // frost // // black // // sky // // wet sto

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

// And bathing me without inside this

place . // // I close my eyes and feel their cacoons grow // // More

[What have we done]

an abyss, // // A joke, // // Or the

place I used to know. // // All I know is that the age of legends is

// Raisins are all very well in their

place // // —in muesli, say, or maybe Christmas cake, // // or more

The well of love

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

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

[What have we done]

tspread hair // // And mildew took the

place of tears // // The boy without a face. // // July came, and th

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

tral memory is unseated // // From its

place on our shared bookshelf // // When I see desire distilled in th

’Tis pity he’s a bore

// at once a place to be // // and a

place to be absent from, // // at once somewhere that is home // //

[The sash rattles up]

same as it always is: // // at once a

place to be // // and a place to be absent from, // // at once somew

[The sash rattles up]

eat and flesh below, // // My knife no

place to cling, my life to stow. // // I swim through slush of half-s

[What have we done]

won’t let me forget— // // That is its

place , to encroach— // // Everything of which I am bereft. // // Slo

I could never be (ready)

waiter who looked like a brother, and a

place to talk. // // Years later we went back and made the same uncha

d’s thick black hair, // // staying in

place until at home // // the small gas fire has warmed the room //

Walking in winter

vengeance // // second, store in cool

place until hardened into rock // // third, freeze for centuries unti

nearer to the waves, // // and to the

place where I anxiously waited with my coffee. // // Hours later we l

[I often think of that January morning]

reason why you hung around in the first

place // // Will come back to you. You knew it all along, it seems. /

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

he ships nestle // // In their resting

place — // // You—my dear—are such a vessel // //

From Trebetherick Point

n was the only thing keeping the sky in

place , you see, because the stars felt so sorry for it. But once I had

[So the moon was there]

bered, long ago destinies rolled up and

placed in possibility // // For time upon time to revisit as you swin

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ly-jumpered existence in out-of-the-way

places , // // Lounging on a bench or pew, some character in a play //

Bearded Thoughts

es packed like loam, // // The rooting

places of your growing soul, // // The subsoil of your oldest memory.

The Magic Apple Tree

// Not here, but elsewhere, // // the

places were // // myself: // // different ages, different // // moo

[The sash rattles up]

her quiet fripperies // // between the

places where I laid my head. // // In the prehistoric, melting dawn,

ng me myself from hide. Hide? // // No

plaice . He’ll gobble me up instead with haste // // An uncooked morse

// // Pendant in silicon amber. // //

Plain and varied multitudes of senses strung out in series and enfolde

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

a rope whipping in a breeze on a desert-

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

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

—could I but find the words to make it

plain . // // Two book-ends bracket our shared domain: // // the star

s and preparedness] // // The room was

plainness and preparedness: // // The private put away, the volumes s

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

plainness and preparedness] // // The room was plainness and prepared

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

After the Rise // // The

plaintive notes of accordion-song on the waters, // // The voices str

my revision, it has no structure and no

plan , // // The points perhaps are good, // // But slightly blurred

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// Heatherwick’s sure to produce a fine

plan . // // We also need money—of course private finance will // //

Troubled waters

if you thought it was, // // You must

plan what you say, // // Control what you say. // // You can never j

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

e someone’s saying yes. // // Even the

plane tree’s drop-earrings // // Have almost reached their seventy-pe

ook up flight-times for your daughter’s

plane . // // Your life defined by the whistle of the kettle; // // R

ther autumn’s dying. // // But now the

planes are suddenly spread. // // Over the bus as it rounds Hyde Park

fingertips // // against the straight

planes of your edges) // // To imagine you as you once were: // // t

Planet // // All day the noise of battle rolls, // // The skirmishes

The Daily Planet

side by side, // // The angels of our

planets weep // // To see two worlds collide. // //

The Daily Planet

anhattan’s built on blocks because they

planned it out like that // // (You don’t get perpendiculars in natur

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ant // // Bringing a message I had not

planned // // Screaming in my mind for release. // // Until I cry fo

Writing to explore

ondon cemetery. // // Perhaps I should

plant // // some box or holly. // //

the fire // // on the dark stones, and

planted fireworks // // in the dark edges beyond the flickering light

Planting of Fruit Trees // // We sing waes hael, waes hael, hurrah! h

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

is—to mix the genes around. // // The

plants , the fish, the dinosaurs, the apes // // advance across the ge

t looks like that of Hercules // // On

plaster casts. // // No longer when walking down the street can one c

Bearded Thoughts

tti-stained carpet // // With a smile,

plastered on my face, // // As I traced our path to this point. // /

The Notes You Have Left

hoes off my skull. // // Your eyes are

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

missed our stop. // // Coffee-stained

plastic floor, its frailty tuned by too bright, // // White-gold ligh

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

// // good for scattering // // from

plastic tubs // // feeding yew // // crooked elbow // // no gravest

yew needs dried blood in spring

o it ends as a snack—not my feast on my

plate . // // Ah! this one looks chipper—it’s bigger and fitter // //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

açade, // // The white Museum with its

plate -glass doors. // // Through these you pass and up a flight of st

The Magic Apple Tree

// The steady drip-drip-drip of drying

plates on the draining board // // as you pray for strength, head in

he gap // // Between the train and the

platform , the gap // // Constricting in a press of bodies that would

Poems on the Underground

orever // // on the passing trains and

platforms // // while I // // Am dancing on your blind spot // //

stmas! and be merry! // // Turkey on a

platter from John Lewis, cinnamon infused bread sauce and incongruous

Drink and be merry

, // // Casablanca’s on again.” // //

Play it, Sam. // // BBC1, half past ten. // // Here’s lookin’ at you

A Hymn to a Loved One

the windmill’s lament—a short

play // // O, // // MUST i keep on going round in // // CIRCLES mus

the windmill’s lament—a short play

calised hero. correct and repossess and

play “sleeping satellite” with my scorn tucked in a mason jar, the one

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

. // // We share hot chocolate, // //

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

A Room of Her Own

s birthed! She’s birthed!”)—children at

play — // // The carter’s mare as she wheezes on through; // // The t

stared // // Watching new generations

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

always said, “one day you might // //

Play when the stakes trump the game, and then dear // // Keep your wi

on a bench or pew, some character in a

play // // With Brian Blessed // // Squeezed into the frame, the dus

Bearded Thoughts

// // I’m not around this week. // //

Play with that same flowing vein, // // Running between the knuckles

Fall for————

nnings ’til you’re in the clear. // //

Play your men like your cards, dear, and never // // Keep your cards

while // // Sweet like shalimar // //

Played on over things that were // // Wrong, that heartbreaking song

als // // Through doors of luminescent

playfulness , // // On Tuesdays for the boys in crinkled shirts, // /

Three gay rituals

wash’d // // Into direction mapp’d by

playing drums. // // One knife’s whisk’d out my hand, flies back and

[What have we done]

rs to the surprise of the small boy

playing in the street // // // // I heard the reply and it was ter

[I whispered my name into the trees]

o we become? And now someone new // //

playing the part, such Jungian subtext— // // you are a child a gang

of London slalom like your childhood’s

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

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

say? // // We are but notes the piano

plays . // // Crescendo—jump a major fifth— // // And down the tone I

a heartfelt sigh. // // As the violin

plays triplets // // The final note is sung // // Diminuendo—soft, m

// All give their greatest streets and

plazas names that have a little heft. // // To name your best street

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

// // year infant guilt. Fruitless to

plead my case // // into that microphone I could not reach, // // hi

Compass Reading

r blood // // But my saccharine breath

pleads for a haven. // // I have little hope that either will be sati

gods of Underground will hear my silent

pleas // // To clear a seat or two and make a gap // // There, thoug

Poems on the Underground

e certainty of a familiar shore? // //

Please , allow me to fade this way: // // Wind-beat cotton, holes at t

I could never be (ready)

tween the // // Ones that live as they

please // // And those that would. // // They buzz like passengers,

Poems on the Underground

said this was the only way. // // Just

please arrive too late. // // Ariel. I am a wait. // // So light a f

l’esprit d’escalier

drink! // // to Christmas! // // and,

please , be merry. // //

Drink and be merry

ld eyes are achingly familiar. // // —‘

Please change here, for…’— // //

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

arelessly into the hopeful abyss // //

please come and claim it—take it back— // // you wasted ink and were

The Dead Letter Office closes down

o sink, and I said // // // //

Please don’t go! // // I’ll eat you up, // // I love you so. // //

[So the moon was there]

// Of poetry and other things, how they

please , // // Hope that the gods of Underground will hear my silent p

Poems on the Underground

ow // // You’re obtuse—and a pain. Now

PLEASE listen again // //

Things a man should know

, like an oyster, (Would // // Someone

please // // Make a gap // // Among the passengers) // // Take out

Poems on the Underground

and you’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]

s generous supplies // // From BAE. Do

please sit here and Tzipi, pass // // The red to Gordon. I’m afraid t

like passengers, the // // words that

please the mind, // // navigate the gap of have-been and would. // /

Poems on the Underground

/ Train disgorging scores of ‘excuse me

please ’ // // As passengers // // Cross and recross the gap // // A

Poems on the Underground

her passengers // // Without too many ‘

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

Poems on the Underground

the beautiful // // Give themselves to

pleasure , and are alone happy. // // Shadowed-masses in the depths hu

process was not at all fair. // // The

pledges from business are far from what’s needed. The // // real pub

Troubled waters

lame // // From Alpha Caeli’s rim; the

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

rom peat-smoke laughter and librarian’s

plight // // To where, in street-side window the octogenarian sits: c

r wings, // // detaching the head, and

ploughing // // a red trough. // // I cough a protest. No bird sings

smiters // // His cheeks to them that

pluck out the hair, // // His spring is come to shame and spitting, /

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

tle bones and star roll’d dice // // I

plucked from falling world two daggers cold. // // My eyes obscured b

[What have we done]

on to // // find out their instrument,

plucked on its string with his // // cold rubber fingers and let thei

Jonathan’s Deathbed

on the patio table, // // a kestrel is

plucking the flunked corpse: // // discarding the moving-you- // //

// now on the bridge I am pulling the

plug .” // //

Troubled waters

Here’s to you, damson, and cherry, and

plum // // Be bearers of fruit and cheerers of hearts— // // And a c

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

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

plumbing blues and blacks. // // Damp limestone humming and spectral,

g something no great shakes. // // So,

plummeting down Castle Hill today // // past the old motte, I cast aw

nk, // // The ship of state’s about to

plunge and sink, // // Pour out the last of this Burgundian wine //

nstilling all the Seven Deadlies // //

Plus a few extra. // // She could just hang up her cross, // // Pour

fist // // and mask yourself with the

pocked palm’s odour, // // the musk and slip of six weeks’ work, eith

he stock exchange // // So we can line

pockets and grease palms. // // The fear that we will not get up and

d // // (Wednesdays it rains; pumpkins

pockmark ; cushion-thief strikes) // // again I imagine it forked by l

cne-crusted vicar’s son— // // the old

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

[the typist puts her knickers on]

is just a matter of timing. Is this the

poem ? // //

Reinforced(not a concrete

poem ) // // After the chip from the front of your grin, // // we'll

y acknowledged to be the making of this

poem . — AG // //

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

, or are you not, // // The boy in the

poem ? // // He knows I’m here; he knows // // What I sound like, he

Did you bury her yet?

ing muse, because // // When I write a

poem , I can be // // Just exactly who I mean to be // // And then so

Writing to explore

could show you how I love you with this

poem // // I would, but I can’t. Not even close. My vocabulary // /

I’ll never work for Hallmark

away green wings are flying—is this the

poem ? // // In the Marianas, old souls dwell in robber crabs, // //

When my assistant first presented this

poem , it was in fairly strict ballad form—four-line stanzas, three tet

!’ ‘Whose turn for riding?’ Is this the

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

-lines mesh with genotyping—is this the

poem ? // // Millennia lived together, so tangled in this flesh— // /

do you hear someone crying? Is this the

poem ? // // On Valentines Day a kick from the stomach, the tender //

ts have not given in to this ennui. The

poem restores us to the experience of reality, if only for a brief mom

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

olence of a body’s ripening—is this the

poem ? // // Soon, make the screen a mirror, graft the machine under s

f he had got that knife in? Is this the

poem ? // // Strange loops writhe inside, nightmares can be sensitive

mouth, bitter as lightning—is this the

poem ? // // The cicada’s memories discarded, a copper effigy caves in

—they’ve always been lying. Is this the

poem ? // // The cloud shadow passes, but in its chill I remember - //

ung steal shells to hide in—is this the

poem ? // // The smallest matryoshka doll is always so hard to open. /

al does not equal dividing. Is this the

poem ? // // They told you sharks never turned on their pilots—that’s

darkness I keep rewriting ‘is this the

poem ?’ // // Let the treasure maps go Marcus. The boundary between tw

elf thinking while writing ‘is this the

poem ?’ // // Words catch my mouth, bitter as lightning—is this the po

o and now I can’t remember how to write

poems // // because I just want to scream them until I’m hoarse, //

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

ith worn-out future thoughts, // // Of

poems half-remembered, long ago destinies rolled up and placed in poss

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

venison, // // And turn life’s lead to

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

Poems on the Underground // // Rush hour and my fear for how I would

Poems on the Underground

// // I’ll keep these unspecific love

poems to myself, // // Hoping one day you’ll understand that I’m not

I’ll never work for Hallmark

truth would greatly disturb // // The

poem’s appeal or mystery. // // As the importance is not whether it w

it lies, // // And in every reader the

poet tries // // To foreground something strange and new. // //

ed by the precision of reason. The true

poet , who I call the major man, is a man of night, revery, and murmuri

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

mmortal rhymists // // It would take a

poet with supreme imagination to create from cheese an immortal sensat

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

s begin to press into my mind // // Of

poetry and other things, how they please, // // Hope that the gods of

Poems on the Underground

by Man, as you might think, but by It.

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

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

/ // And strew my heart with scraps of

poetry , // // Forbidden hopes and shards of mystery. // // They rus

The Cutting Edge

ing // // Brought my new friend to the

Poetry Group // // To sit on a sofa, our fingers entwined, // // Whi

Wednesday Evening

anything. They preceded us, autonomous.

Poetry is not made by Man, as you might think, but by It. Poetry came

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

es not experience accidence. // // His

poetry is perfect. // // I sit here, and regard the man. // // I thi

fing through // // pages upon pages of

poetry . My blurry eyes resisted breaking // // concentration until th

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

as we do not really know how to create

poetry or account for its spontaneous creation. Look, really look—we a

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

ou could // // chat in verse, speak in

poetry , you could save // // these dying words with your // // endle

Sestina to an English Teacher

ugh must be ridiculed! // // 9. // //

Poets can look and see something that has been secretly excluded by th

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

nguage with our mothers milk // // But

poets curdle words until they bite, // // With substance and a flavou

Cheese is the medium

Cheese is the medium // //

Poets have been silent about cheese // // Because whilst every subje

Cheese is the medium

itality of nature. // // 3. // // But

poets have not given in to this ennui. The poem restores us to the exp

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

Poets in Ageor A Study of Reading Habits // // At first I used to wis

o poems of pure gold. // // I need the

poets now, who match my age, // // Like Coleridge I could become a sa

and rage. // // I’ve glanced awhile at

poets on the shelf, // // Desiring this man’s style or that man’s wea

bell is rung. // // But now I need the

poets who grew old // // And wore the bottoms of their trousers rolle

iting binds // // Past with present: a

poet’s hexagram // // Of ever-living fire and unseen rose. // // Thi

Sixteen Forty-Five

Over-thought in the tail-end; by day at

poet’s sea of glass and fire; // // (too hopeful by half in the dawni

ile regarde son doigt. » // // // //

Point A. Point B. // // Starting in A going to B. // // Words fumble

[She points to the sky]

mpt to fill the gap // // Between this

point and somewhere just past my horizon. // // Body aching, waiting,

Snapshot Endings

e text // // Paring all the parts that

point away // // To something other than our circled self. // // I k

The Cutting Edge

de son doigt. » // // // // Point A.

Point B. // // Starting in A going to B. // // Words fumble along th

[She points to the sky]

time exploded // // to a single // //

point // // Could this induce a comparable feeling in you? // // Who

that HAL might set gravity back to nine

point eight metres per second // // Per second, and I’ll finally be a

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

ce, // // As I traced our path to this

point . // // “Feel better soon” // // Wrapped in layer after layer,

The Notes You Have Left

ye, // // Far and away, // // I get a

point I can’t convey. // // What we say is true, // // « Quand la sa

[She points to the sky]

From Trebetherick

Point // // I hold the hazy shades at bay— // // The sun sits sessil

From Trebetherick Point

Foregrounded // // A starting

point of sharp velars // // That cut and crack and cold consume, //

ch man seeks to draw eyes to his // //

Point of the ring, without disclosing the secrets // // He holds to h

Vicious or Virtuous?

[At the coinciding

point of the years] // // At the coinciding point of the years // //

[At the coinciding point of the years]

of the years] // // At the coinciding

point of the years // // Where minutes, hours, and days run not to ti

[At the coinciding point of the years]

l, warm air, // // clear to my vantage

point on higher ground. // // Voices far across the valley sound. //

over grass, towards // // some distant

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

Cape Cod Morning

[No point, she said] // // No

point , she said, in keeping the old girls— // // Grey in the wattle,

[No point, she said]

point , she said] // // No point, she said, in keeping the old girls—

[No point, she said]

s on an Apollo checklist; stuck at some

point , still. // // Don’t worry Karl we have a program for the pickin

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

s understanding, // // And a wonderful

point to be derived. // // For inside you are a million pages, // /

The Tree of Wisdom

o full maturity // // to an iron-gated

pointed arch // // piercing the wall, built like the house // // of

yelashed with heavy grasses. // // His

pointed foot will break the skein of water; // // I love that bubble-

as no structure and no plan, // // The

points perhaps are good, // // But slightly blurred and ill-conceived

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

trive for equality instead ? // // She

points to the sky, // // And I, with my prying eye, // // Far and aw

[She points to the sky]

e points to the sky] // // // // She

points to the sky. // // From above you’ll see the truth. // // That

[She points to the sky]

ie in his voice. hurry boy, “your light

points to the sky”. he says it’s a figure, a luminescent metaphor for

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

ive. // // Isn’t this war ? // // She

points to the sky. // // See from up there, // // The fight’s alread

[She points to the sky]

points to the sky] // // // // She points to the sky. // // From a

[She points to the sky]

’t this mass extermination ? // // She

points to the sky. // // Take some distance. // // We live in morbid

[She points to the sky]

le you bike your kids to school. // //

Pointy hats—and couplets—fade like leaves // // In fashion’s autumn,

In Defence of Evolution

roach the ledge to find // // the girl

poised and primed // // as she flees the water channelling below. //

the flight and fall of // // the girl

poised and primed. // // Evadne the unseizable defying Iphis, // //

Acapulco // // The girl

poised and primed, // // ground crumbling beneath her feet // // to

spume of sea, and then // // the girl

poised and primed // // to dive // // is gone, sunk without trace //

// // Un-pause. Furl my sparrow wings

poised at the precipice and reel // // Back to lupine-winds, fire bur

Poker face // // // // My mother always said, “one day you might //

d, // // he thought of some words that

Pol Pot said, // // and he almost did best her // // with a slice of

The Failing of the Cheese

rom tear gas // // Thrown by Apartheid

police . // // And me realising that he was three years older than me

Three Pieces of Advice

your distinctive stride // // As your

polished black shoes emerge stealthily // // And know the simple tie,

n creams and gels. // // His teeth are

polished by professionals, // // Shirts meticulously casual. // // H

ves a quiet, four-cornered life, // //

Polite , determined, and remote— // // His angel sisters keep watch ov

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

heir deadly work, // // Those creeping

politicians breathing hate, // // Who prostitute the offices of state

In June he lay among the yarrow // //

Pollen gilding him with yellow // // Yellow crowning him with grace.

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

from that night // // Fireworks like a

Pollock painting // // As the thunderstorm struck the sea // // Year

yes I still see // // Fireworks like a

Pollock painting // // On the festival of Ferragosto // // Years fro

ingers violently // // like a good

Pollock should, // // hanging on a nail inside my eyelids. // // Is

’s almost in shape like a camel. // //

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

ET Methinks it is like a weasel. // //

POLONIUS It is backed like a weasel. // // HAMLET Or like a whale? //

. // // HAMLET Or like a whale? // //

POLONIUS Very like a whale. // // Odd things have strewn the floors t

yet broken, so tell me // // contrary

poltergeist what is it you // // see in my mind’s silvered folds, and

// or deceived ourselves? // // Today,

polyester jackets, unadorned // // Mutely cry out for someone // //

Magnetic Mountain

eference, // // She turns to leave the

polystyrene cemetery, // // Blonde hair flicking like a snake’s tongu

r down the sink, // // Take up the pom-

pom instead. // // But that wouldn’t kill the dead. // // They are s

water down the sink, // // Take up the

pom -pom instead. // // But that wouldn’t kill the dead. // // They a

So, how are you? // // Small fish, big

pond . // // But staying afloat? // // I move a little, and the rippl

Whales sing because they have a song

// // A slight light pigments the cold

pond harsh, // // Revealing smokey lines of my knife’s end. // // I’

[What have we done]

have never been this close. // // The

pond is a tight circle of moon, eyelashed with heavy grasses. // // H

d waters // // The good Lady Lumley is

pondering glumly. “I // // need a new project to keep me in trim— //

Troubled waters

// // and Nick at him, // // while he

pontif - // // icated through the whiff // // of sweat and gin. //

challenge. He slows down, stops, waits,

pontificates . Time and flux goes ahead of him, leaving him in the dust

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

Pontius // // One could not take her painting very seriously // // N

// Sharpened with female power. // //

Poof ! // // Another metaphor turns to dust. // // With a casual pop-

rift away, discovering below’t // // A

pool of stillness, dotted with specs chrome: // // The stars. They gl

[What have we done]

am // // that trickled the head of the

pool . Sand shivered a hermit // // crab’s claw from its recycled shel

Just a Small Fish

// And back they swim into that mirror

pool , // // Wherefrom they bounce onto the canopy, // // Sprinkling

[What have we done]

things go to die. Light // // and air,

pools and palaces, sanity // // of men and kings—all rot away, while

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

rivulets // // to drain the chains of

pools that lace the spreading sands and soft mudflats: time to // //

// // —but Sadik the Most Evil deposes

poor Boris, and // // gets the Red Margaret to look at the case. //

Troubled waters

/ but the riddle himself // // and the

poor came // // the feeble // // the rabid // // the lame // // lo

for a suffering friend // // —cancer,

poor dear, we’ll keep her in our prayers— // // sweep the kitchen flo

// My sign is Aries. Though it seems a

poor // // fit for me, it is at least a Fire. // // The others too I

that has anything to say // // to the

poor folk of Greece. // // But I’ve always thought // // that there’

be said // // for the wisdom // // of

poor folk // // who come from the hills // // looking for folk answe

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

poor must grow their food amongst the sand // // Whilst colonists enj

oked elbow // // no gravestones // //

poor yew transplanted // // wide-lipped pots // // ornamental // //

yew needs dried blood in spring

/ // This question was generally quite

poorly attempted, with many candidates not able to understand fully th

hor turns to dust. // // With a casual

pop -culture reference, // // She turns to leave the polystyrene cemet

d, // // All that she did with packet,

pop , superseded. // // No heave-some ebb and flow. // // No cramping

e and fall // // and rise again. Great

populations press // // against their boundaries. The vital stress //

nsipid, lusting waters, // // Aren’t I

porous and malleable in the gloaming? // // Isn’t Daddy proud? // //

Frighteningly Inert

eserved // // For romance but I am too

porous , every touch soaks in, // // Seeping and spreading, mycorrhiza

[I am almost 25 years old]

If I can only reach the red front door,

porridge warm with honey // // sits upon the stove, and my Grandmothe

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

like Tennyson, // // Who improve, like

port and venison, // // And turn life’s lead to poems of pure gold. /

moon. // // And elsewhere, as deep as

port , as rich as Tokaji, // // your head bobs in peace upon a heart’s

the silverware cadences vibrate the

port // // drink to Christ! and be merry! // // Sanitized warm parsn

Drink and be merry

// (But only late at night, taken with

port ) // // I like them all and sample every sort // // from Creamy

Cheese is the medium

End-tale: November song seeks mist-blue

port , so // // Defying stormy-weather and determinism both, tonight /

// // my time, the college’s time, the

porter’s time,” etc. // // To some other wide-eyed labour-eager chose

Aubade to Girton

/ // but you Break it with a smile and

portion and peel // // these days to savour, or discard; not feed the

e sake of gold. They mock- // // ed in

Portugal , but when land (oh finally, land!) bid their seek- // // ing

land!) bid their seek- // // ing end,

Portugal could only tip its hat. Columbus would sail // // again. Col

explode. // // Mental muscles flex and

pose in minimalist offices. // // Soldiers making a killing on the st

n my perfect mind. // // The questions

posed are so unkind: // // Parse—calculate—discuss … I see // // In

Exam Room Villanelle

g ago destinies rolled up and placed in

possibility // // For time upon time to revisit as you swing down thr

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

. // // You tell me there is // // no

possibility of preservation - // // but secretly hope there is. // /

// but secretly hope there is // // no

possibility of preservation. // // You tell me there is // // always

nd snipping, // // Excising every sign-

post from the text // // Paring all the parts that point away // //

The Cutting Edge

// // must mean a sentry asleep at the

post : // // how else to explain, sheltered by the brimming chest, //

f that marvellous invention, // // The

post -it note // // (The survivor of technological advance, // // It

Post -it Notes // // // // At first they were covered in words: crit

racal zone // // springing the bird to

post -Jurassic flight // // to trade in futures on the wishing bone //

/ In the under-stair cupboard // // Of

post -modern serfdom. // // The light was rarely shown, // // We scut

s. // // From now on all unaccountable

post // // should be destroyed before it is sent: // // forgetting t

The Dead Letter Office closes down

the whole room // // A-glow. // // A

postcard with the robin // // And the snow and the fire // // And th

Wild Mountain Thyme

d sweet nothings // // And proffered a

posy . // // She clutched it and simpered. // // The future seemed ro

/ // he thought of some words that Pol

Pot said, // // and he almost did best her // // with a slice of Red

The Failing of the Cheese

the one), // // Every time I thought a

pot was getting hot instead of a flame losing heat. // // So what doe

Three Pieces of Advice

hina: // // The white and yellow honey-

pot // // With matching spoon; // // The miniature tea pot // // (W

atching spoon; // // The miniature tea

pot // // (Worth mending, Nan said, it’s genuine Limoges); // // The

ranger or grandfather—it is a peculiar,

potent spell. // // What a beautiful and strange home you have been g

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

an shifts // // Over itself, a growing

potion , thick // // To perfect brew’d. My bones grow Ache and Lack; /

[What have we done]

eedom and equality, // // Drinking the

potions // // The world forced us // // To drink, potions which //

// The world forced us // // To drink,

potions which // // Were excellent (Minus // // Perhaps their mind-d

y he draws // // When all he draws are

pots and pans, // // Pitchers, kettles, glassware, cruets, // // Vas

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

// when the imagination fires. // //

Pots are thrown and fired, // // crops are watered. // // Seasons an

oor yew transplanted // // wide-lipped

pots // // ornamental // // shape clipped // // wind curves // //

yew needs dried blood in spring

one. The blade which breaks. // // The

potter’s hand that slips and scores // // his mark into the waiting c

ound // // Our release from this human

pound . // //

Pound // // Existence was a problem // // In the under-stair cupboar

d] // // He’s sound. // // Sound as a

pound . // // Solid as oak from his scalp to the ground. // // Fresh

n’t stand it and you can feel pounding,

pounding // // But it’s only your head // // Hitting the wall, then

ranch outside knocks, drum-like, // //

Pounding out a rhythm in harmony with cold machinery. // // A continu

Snapshot Endings

And you can’t stand it and you can feel

pounding , pounding // // But it’s only your head // // Hitting the w

d, // // hides steaming, // // hooves

pounding // // they charge… // // Ah! Nihilist nil, // // nil despe

Nil Charge / Nil Return

tate’s about to plunge and sink, // //

Pour out the last of this Burgundian wine // // Before those wretched

he could just hang up her cross, // //

Pour the holy water down the sink, // // Take up the pom-pom instead.

use me’s slips from my mind // // As I

pour with them into the // // Carriage, step across the gap // // Be

Poems on the Underground

me and made coffee, // // then sat and

poured my thoughts over a journal’s patient page. // // I remember yo

[I often think of that January morning]

ar // // with the same familiar waiter

pouring wine, awed and appalled // // by our own consistency, but bac

the stacks // // Of discounted washing

powder and // // Garish Christmas wrapping paper, // // Looking for

The Notes You Have Left

ur // // Larkin ascerbic, Tennyson has

power // // (But only late at night, taken with port) // // I like t

Cheese is the medium

n phallus, // // Sharpened with female

power . // // Poof! // // Another metaphor turns to dust. // // With

e we form // // Idea that we have any

power to light // // One candle’s guttering sickly flame // // And p

o stood over the dragon // // speaking

powerful words // // not a reader of riddles // // but the riddle hi

edge too steep // // And I’m immortal,

powerless , // // Until I hit the ground, // // And look up at what I

Falling Is Like This

xtensive with ‘unconscious will’, ‘pure

power ’, ‘exhilaration’ ‘beating heart’ and ’fresh blood’. This reality

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

Nasty Piece of Work” // // A-rise, you

poyson’d ape, and stay the same, // // you weasel without words, unco

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

ngers and shallow nails // // Of proud

practicality . // // We are already comfortable // // In each other’s

ial sparkle // // And hearts as target

practice . // // I should have gone a long time ago, // // Feet, turn

th finds his mold self-grown, // // My

practic’d pattern forged a way its own // // And I, the more I let my

[What have we done]

/ // a new form of reverence // // is

practised in Greece // // the self-confessed skeptics // // run work

wash in blooms, arching skyward only to

praise // // nature’s glory. He renamed you La Trinitaria, holy // /

. // // The writer scoffs when hearing

praise // // Of how masterful his pen appears, // // When it brings

blooms, arching heavenwards in certain

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

moon is no longer my goddess. // // I

praise Venus with every judder. // // My body is a hymn to Cupid; //

open my sword lips, then my mouth will

praise you. the wild dogs cry out in the undulating skink night, “moth

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

on tragedy and elegy, words // // you

praised so much—if you would // // think I’d misunderstood if I saved

Sestina to an English Teacher

f new children might // // Monkey-like

prance from branch to branch, preserving those // // Old childhood tr

ing bathroom tiles of blood. // // you

pray for rain, but no relief. dry-heave // // over the sink. sing mis

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

tes on the draining board // // as you

pray for strength, head in hands, // // in a kitchen that isn’t yours

// // and when the time comes we will

pray for you, and try not to forget // // Stockings spongy carpets

Drink and be merry

eg you // // No flowers for my grave I

pray you // // Mercy! I implore you // // A taste to slake this thir

// When ash-keyed branches dipped and

prayed // // Not to hollows, but hellos—the crying of news // // (“S

ty to be paying calls, // // attending

prayer // // and, dressed for dinner, // // waiting for the gong //

A Room of Her Own

tongues, // // Grown grave, recite the

Prayer Book and the Rose. // // This is the trial of fire and fire, f

Sixteen Forty-Five

n: the hexagram— // // Once print, now

prayer —in sixteen forty-five // // Fends between adversaries. Old ton

Sixteen Forty-Five

d bowed // // By superior hands into a

prayer , in the back // // Of a car who’s doors can only open from the

Vicious or Virtuous?

// That any given Aztec would carve a

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

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

nt lips, // // Voices synchronising in

prayer . // // Our devotion will be irrefutable. // // We will shed w

ancer, poor dear, we’ll keep her in our

prayers — // // sweep the kitchen floor and the leaves off the drive,

nnot control nor predict anything. They

preceded us, autonomous. Poetry is not made by Man, as you might think

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

membert, bring out the Brie, // // The

precious freight that crossed the sundering sea, // // For soon we le

se. Furl my sparrow wings poised at the

precipice and reel // // Back to lupine-winds, fire burn and chthonic

und floor flat, // // So those I loved

precipit fell // // In pulverised procession that // // Squeezed, th

that has been secretly excluded by the

precision of reason. The true poet, who I call the major man, is a man

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

th // // care and affecting mathematic

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

Jonathan’s Deathbed

look, look around! Don’t be blinded by

preconceptions that pretend to be the foundation of things. ‘Reality’

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

al law. // // What a pitiful way for a

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

and added to your breaking; // // True

predators fear this world’s raw // // Venality that spurns your natur

dernity is wrong. We cannot control nor

predict anything. They preceded us, autonomous. Poetry is not made by

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

part // // marked, and am amazed at my

predictability . // // // // In a new city and in love, we took a ma

Same but differenT // // they

prefer to sing in languages they cannot speak, // // their tongues da

Same but differenT

ces where I laid my head. // // In the

prehistoric , melting dawn, // // stretched her gauzy face on mine //

ness] // // The room was plainness and

preparedness : // // The private put away, the volumes shelved, // //

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

[The room was plainness and

preparedness ] // // The room was plainness and preparedness: // // T

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

udden grace. // // And what is it your

presence has awoken? // // Your glance is like a blessing on the brok

the silence of the room // // with her

presence . // // My Grandmother fills the whole room with // // her h

d. Their writing binds // // Past with

present : a poet’s hexagram // // Of ever-living fire and unseen rose.

Sixteen Forty-Five

// Another day // // to feel your ever-

present absence, still // // to find a way. // // I hear you say, //

e of your fall. // // Walk through the

present darkness till you come // // To the stone steps, the lions, t

The Magic Apple Tree

intrudes // // In the vitality of your

present . // // I fear what was will not be again. // // I once held

The Other Side of the Line

ple? // // A hand will skim mine as we

present our offerings. // // Dutiful eyes, obedient lips, // // Voic

s such beautiful moments, // // Rarely

present themselves. // //

Mosquito nights

rtalised. // // If Chesterton had been

present would he dare suggest that an ode to cheese would have been th

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

senior author: When my assistant first

presented this poem, it was in fairly strict ballad form—four-line sta

ere comes a lion, then an elephant, and

presently , a bear. I did not ask them to come, I did not even want the

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

it for the ring of a bell, // // hush,

presents , crib, Christ Kind: // // tree aspark and fizzing, in a cave

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

// // In the beat of a pun, // // She

presents the wooden phallus, // // Sharpened with female power. // /

ll me there is // // no possibility of

preservation - // // but secretly hope there is. // // I keep us col

hope there is // // no possibility of

preservation . // // You tell me there is // // always something I co

at would show the immortal endeavour to

preserve , // // To find stability that will outlive, // // To commit

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

momentary and no— // // way ever to be

preserved or pressed? // // And so the big words, dispossessed // //

nkey-like prance from branch to branch,

preserving those // // Old childhood traditions of tree climbing deli

/ // and rise again. Great populations

press // // against their boundaries. The vital stress // // express

assengers. // // And thoughts begin to

press into my mind // // Of poetry and other things, how they please,

Poems on the Underground

r // // skin in the sunshine. // // I

press my eyelids from // // out of the darkness, // // watch the bri

Bright, Pale Yellow

tform, the gap // // Constricting in a

press of bodies that would // // Never normally indulge in such proxi

Poems on the Underground

forest // // palms and fingered trees

press tip and taproot // // down through decomposing leaves and drenc

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

ts of Gwyngachu. // // They jostle and

press ’til, // // abrading the bolt-rust, // // they burst through t

Nil Charge / Nil Return

no— // // way ever to be preserved or

pressed ? // // And so the big words, dispossessed // // by our ramsh

ing’s // // last blue twilight, // //

pressed between // // stormclouds like a flower, // // holding for a

ery around a new gaze, // // Your palm

pressed flat to my sole, // // Your nightbed briefly vacated. // //

nilpelts // // the nil strain – tight

pressed // // in a circlet of steel. // // Haunch-heaving and pantin

Nil Charge / Nil Return

awn. // // Warm flesh through feathers

pressed // // like a sponge-print. // // The last breath out is the

e // // afternoons when the sun // //

presses through the dusty window // // to fade the colours of the car

In a charity shop

xorability of pace and // // surety of

pressing the phone on the wall miles away // // in a world of digit m

y to cater // // For our inner selves.

Pressured into // // Insanity, we grovelled on the ground, // // Our

if I have no choice but to be selfish,

presumptuous , breakable. // // Do I need others’ breezing breath to f

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

ne-paralysed and book-engrossed, // //

Pret -a-Manger munching, soul searching, love-life listing. // // The

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

Don’t be blinded by preconceptions that

pretend to be the foundation of things. ‘Reality’ is clean, simple and

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

ds, and did I // // invite you in do I

pretend you are // // still there when adolescence was the end // //

rum: // // you watching and I, lamely,

pretending // // to read. Then you were bending // // your mouth to

his doggerel, painfully wrought, // //

Pretentious and meaningless, is one of mine? // // She scorns me and

Wednesday Evening

d; you onanistic waste of shame, // //

pretentious , with a hateful maggot’s mind. // // Lame understanding w

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

e. // // July came, and the woods grew

pretty // // Local people left the city // // Moved by long forgotte

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ith the sun on it and a rabbit or two -

pretty scene, but where’s the tragedy? // // Back to the books, // /

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// // Reality eats // // slow-moving

prey . // //

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

// bracelets, teaspoons // // neatly

priced , // // hunch-huddled, // // a child-like smile almost // //

In a charity shop

/ And know the simple tie, knotted with

pride // // And ironed shirt that flows uneasily // // Over the tann

you // // (Like a window)); // // My

pride clings like // // The pixillating condensation // // Bolting b

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

k! to winter! and be merry. // // joy,

pride swelling in the belly fear // // the forbidden room // // g

Drink and be merry

n of a monument, // // Reading. // //

Pride was a shiver. // // I float in the blur of your // // Shallow

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

/ // cold rubber fingers and let their

priest bless by its // // psalmodic tone—only heaven can sing. // //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// // Later, of course, // // another

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

that: we have it now. Philosophers and

priests have all succumbed to this ennui. They redirected themselves a

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

rce; // // The Day-Spring, the eternal

Prima Vera. // // Blake saw it too. Dante and Beatrice // // Are bat

ly. // // But they miss the glimmer of

primal fear, // // That you master, as if it wasn’t there. // // I f

edge to find // // the girl poised and

primed // // as she flees the water channelling below. // //

and fall of // // the girl poised and

primed . // // Evadne the unseizable defying Iphis, // // she jumps /

Acapulco // // The girl poised and

primed , // // ground crumbling beneath her feet // // to meet the wa

ea, and then // // the girl poised and

primed // // to dive // // is gone, sunk without trace // // to gre

—for G) // // From random junctures in

primeval winds // // a billion random patterns form—until // // an a

the project proceeds with a little more

priming (the // // buy-in from business is not keeping pace) // // —

Troubled waters

art’ and ’fresh blood’. This reality is

primitive , musical, and Dionysiac. Nature chants in nonsensical monosy

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

forgotten pity // // For their lovely

Prince Dmitry // // Who had crowned their lives with grace. // // Th

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

gainst her frame, // // the sedge, the

princes ’ steeds lie fallow, // // la belle dame. // // In thrall to

doned their shoes some time ago, // //

Print a wide arc, then slope down towards // // A still canal, laced

supplication: the hexagram— // // Once

print , now prayer—in sixteen forty-five // // Fends between adversari

Sixteen Forty-Five

h feathers pressed // // like a sponge-

print . // // The last breath out is the first to be drawn. // // Und

ur-de-lys // // watched by the crystal

prism’s sharp-cut eye? // // It represented such a fine-wrought craft

Compass Reading

al and grit. // // Just so his father,

prisoner of war // // Then casualty of blue austerity; // // Just so

ling rock- // // ing him closer to the

pristine West Isles. Tears would pay for the glor- // // y of the fin

an. // // We also need money—of course

private finance will // // jump to join in, but needs time to come th

Troubled waters

// to tell? // // This painting has a

private life. // //

Cape Cod Morning

plainness and preparedness: // // The

private put away, the volumes shelved, // // Her thoughts, like chair

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

// A few self-confessed skeptics // //

privately thought // // that this was // // one // // great // //

tle-scratch // // and bounce back: big

prizes ! // // glossier glamour! more glorious to spend yours // // c

[A spinning spider]

// Paterfamilias; // // Son-wise, he’s

probably // // Better than some. // // Higgledy Piggledy // // Alla

ther you want my voice, my eyes. // //

Probably not. // //

peel away in papery layers, // // and

probably seep amber. // // She’s shedding her leaves for // // the w

cat would not be dissuaded, // // and

probably thought that he’d made it // // when he chose to cajole her

The Failing of the Cheese

// And my missing teeth, // // And the

probiotics , // // And the dust illuminated between // // My optic ne

Frighteningly Inert

Human Pound // // Existence was a

problem // // In the under-stair cupboard // // Of post-modern serfd

looking for folk answers // // to folk

problems // // and finding // // the man // // who came forth // /

looking for folk answers // // to folk

problems // // and though they were wrong // // about the girl on th

looking for folk answers // // to folk

problems // // hoping today // // she’d speak // // common Greek. /

return once I’d knifed him. // // The

problem’s the girl once it’s over; // // There’s no way I’d promised

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

row in some too.” // // So the project

proceeds with a little more priming (the // // buy-in from business i

Troubled waters

ain on our taxes. The // // tendering

process was not at all fair. // // The pledges from business are far

Troubled waters

oved precipit fell // // In pulverised

procession that // // Squeezed, through concrete’s piercing bars, //

my ego—the // // Heatherwick’s sure to

produce a fine plan. // // We also need money—of course private finan

Troubled waters

and dug and then set fire to // // the

produce of our labours. // // A box or holly root, smouldering slowly

mother’s next big venture after // //

producing six of us. // // L-shaped the house; enclosed within its ar

r than his own. // // Horrified by the

profanities of his family god, // // Horrified by the refrain of his

Frighteningly Inert

gels. // // His teeth are polished by

professionals , // // Shirts meticulously casual. // // His humour st

// ‘Standard Model’ perfection! // //

Professorial election // // Nobel genuflection // // …and pension pr

Small Particles in the Small Hours

owadays— // // The domain of eccentric

professors or men with knitted jumpers // // (big ideas on rocks and

Bearded Thoughts

He whispered sweet nothings // // And

proffered a posy. // // She clutched it and simpered. // // The futu

rse on the Anxiety of Mechanised Racial

Profiling // // Love set you going like a fat gold clock (watch!) tic

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

till. // // Don’t worry Karl we have a

program for the picking now: // // For there she was: weaving a regis

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

nderstand. // // You claim it “impedes

progress ” and is “bland,” // // But, full of energy and youth, I choo

of the marks. Of the rest many did not

progress beyond the second part, with many simply claiming incorrectly

nd of ours. // // Yet in determination

progress flowers— // // An open habit jointly stitched anew. // //

Three gay rituals

// // onto which developing minds can

project anxieties // // and sexual confusion without any explicit //

” // // Sadik says “The Boris’s vanity

project has // // gone off the rails. I’m not such a mug. // // I’v

Troubled waters

el to throw in some too.” // // So the

project proceeds with a little more priming (the // // buy-in from bu

Troubled waters

pondering glumly. “I // // need a new

project to keep me in trim— // // now the Gurkhas are happy—some shin

Troubled waters

utrino looks on Mass. // // So was the

project worth it? Should we mass- // // Protest the by-pass if the Vo

, here we are: // // three recipes for

Prometheus (a lá Kafka) // // first, secure firmly to large rock, add

t we cooking for tea? We could have

Prometheus again. We had that last Saturday. I like it. // //

listen from your sullen veins— // // A

promise , a signpost, // // And us, deciding to stay. // // We marche

Magnetic Mountain

h at our crooked little fingers. // //

Promise me—don’t compromise your name, // // This is how you lose sig

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

the mountains, of the buffalos. // //

Promise me—don’t compromise your name, // // This is how you lose the

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

right and serious and oblivious. // //

Promise me—let’s run when you can run and talk when words you have mas

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

has reached the window ledge. // // No

promise of a BA gown // // can keep me warm, // // but I shall not d

A Room of Her Own

/ // sleepless mind, // // Or a sly’d

promise of the // // eternal sunshine // // That provides the peacoc

l’esprit d’escalier

villea blooms; hands to hold // // and

promised stories told // // of daughters, lovers old, trapeze // //

luc bat to mr. beam

ce it’s over; // // There’s no way I’d

promised to love her. // // I beached her on Naxos, written off as a

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

’s peak. // // Orange dew drop, // //

Promising and frightening and // // Does anyone notice that I’m stari

’Tis pity he’s a bore

ock of a constellation lost // // On a

promontory we watched // // And the night stared back // // The shoc

/ // Years from that night // // On a

promontory we watched // // As the thunderstorm struck the sea // //

// // Called himself Woody, // // And

promptly found fame. // // Higgledy Piggledy // // Christopher Isher

ort, // // blowing a cool kiss, // //

prone on a white toboggan, // // doubling your speed, and again; //

// nobody heard from that // // bullet-

proof hideout their // // life’s melody. // // “Fiddle-dee-dee,” sai

Jonathan’s Deathbed

es impinging, a necessity for greed and

proof of love or life, no loafing here. // // And people don’t look a

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// On coarse woollen lapels // // As

proof of our labour. // // After the red dust had settled // // (at

Magnetic Mountain

ooling corpse to rush // // you finite

proof ‘within three working days’. // // In limbo here I can no longe

Between Life and Death

stormy night // // it pulls the final

prop . A hundred yards // // of man’s best effort at defence // // d

Walking in winter

tree long bereft of its roots, // // a

prop for mother nature’s grand exit, // // and its leaves have all be

, when my mother died // // we had the

proper formal funeral. // // (She had chosen the music for the ceremo

However, no man has dared to extol, the

properties of a property so woefully dull. // // Are we not glad it w

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

has dared to extol, the properties of a

property so woefully dull. // // Are we not glad it was an epic cause

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

th // // Born on a solstice // // The

prophecised son (/sun) // // Sceptics will tell you that, // // Astr

ires of sixteen forty-five // // Found

prophesy fulfilled. Their writing binds // // Past with present: a po

Sixteen Forty-Five

ly the situation being studied. A large

proportion of candidates only attempted the first part and were unable

An unsystematised list of every correct

proposition . // // It says nothing // // And is perfectly useless //

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

f that first bite of fruit // // While

propped against the tree trunk, kept cool in the shade // // My broth

! // // We’re a curio. Grain shovel is

propped up all ornamental, // // dusted cogs very still above sleepin

ter and one trimeter, rhymed ABAB. How

prosaic ! My judicious removal of selected line breaks was universally

/ sufficiént; you claim sans rhyme it’s

prose , // // obtusely count ictūs with fingers stunt’d; // // numb’d

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

mon infused bread sauce and incongruous

prosecco // // drink! // // to Christmas! // // and, please, be mer

Drink and be merry

? // // My tilt-shift vision // // of

Prospero’s storm: // // cellophane sea and scattered // // doll-like

politicians breathing hate, // // Who

prostitute the offices of state, // // Reduce the common people to de

he keys to victory, // // Like they’ll

protect us when our cosy lives explode. // // Mental muscles flex and

we grab and claw // // For the meagre

protection of a bank balance. // // The brave and fearless warrior wi

Nobel genuflection // // …and pension

protection . // // Though, just on reflection, // // Our model exclud

Small Particles in the Small Hours

g // // a red trough. // // I cough a

protest . No bird sings. // //

roject worth it? Should we mass- // //

Protest the by-pass if the Vogons know // // The earth is mostly harm

ould give the bursar grief— // // Have

protests along her (warm) corridor. // // Every Girtonian burrs like

BURR (or Brrrrr)

d to make an effort // // and make her

proud ; and four wax-white earplugs // // in case one snored too loud.

ble in the gloaming? // // Isn’t Daddy

proud ? // // I was always earth-strewn, // // A brief interlude of d

Frighteningly Inert

unt fingers and shallow nails // // Of

proud practicality. // // We are already comfortable // // In each o

erpent // // from an egg laid by a too-

proud rooster // // twisted copper about a girl’s wrists, her // //

lage has shown // // the furcula might

prove a midline split // // in this revision one makes one and one //

s true. // // He had to // // Lie, to

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

threat to all the World? // // Lie? To

prove there was // // He had to. // // ‘It’s true’ // // Lied // /

// even without degree. // // My maths

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

A Room of Her Own

fell for the muscular he-brute: // //

Provided a thread, left her brother stone dead, // // And sailed with

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

with an honesty which we think the skin

provides , // // But we are not honest. // // The only thing a beard

Bearded Thoughts

the // // eternal sunshine // // That

provides the peacock // // its scream, // // Deep in the bosom of th

l’esprit d’escalier

d // // Never normally indulge in such

proximity with the // // Strangers that are the other passengers. //

Poems on the Underground

oints to the sky, // // And I, with my

prying eye, // // Far and away, // // I get a point I can’t convey.

[She points to the sky]

nd let their priest bless by its // //

psalmodic tone—only heaven can sing. // // Parodied mastery, pantomim

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ame. // // Made the decision to // //

Pseudonymous -ify: // // Called himself Woody, // // And promptly fou

-billionth strike // // Might give the

psych - // // Ological boost // // Of being the first // // Who saw

Small Particles in the Small Hours

he face, // // A Mr. Twit complex, the

psychologists (clean-shaven and in black) might say. // // The beard

Bearded Thoughts

birthday we had that big party down the

pub , // // and for her 21st, well she was away at uni, wasn’t she? //

Pimm’s // // I taste the hum of

pub chatter // // And the tang of good-humoured sweat // // Along wi

ar from what’s needed. The // // real

public benefit’s not even there.” // // Sadik says “The Boris’s vanit

Troubled waters

ng // // And must stay silent for your

public with an even- // // handed air of gravitas. Our thanks, and co

l those years ago. // // Conserved and

published , now at last you know // // We hold you treasure, evermore

ip smells tender goose and the great

pudding // // drink! to Christ! and be merry. // // silence unspok

Drink and be merry

// // the window frame. The city is a

puddle of glistening yellow and grey, // // and everybody has wolf-ey

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// All around me // // Noises fell in

puddles // // Like a building falling // // Brick by brick. // // I

[So snow falls outside]

es to a fancy dress daydream // // and

puff that renovation brick-dust from our lungs. // // Blown away thro

uld cast a bronze bull to let his Queen

pull , // // And commit all her sins of emission. // // The sequel wa

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ear your throat, // // Or the face you

pull in the mirror when fiddling with your hair. // // You could trac

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

my battle scars, // // Then you might

pull me from my sphere // // Or fall to me from yours, // // Were I,

The Daily Planet

// // Coffee-stained breaths // // I

pull myself into // // the comforting wetness of your mouth. // // M

// Park-safe, the corgi does not even

pull the lead // // 2B // // ‘Two Black’ too black?—what sun beyond

Three Ways of Walking

s away. // // Tumbling upwards, being

pulled by an invisible string held // // By a clenched fist, soon to

Snapshot Endings

// The moon? // // Yes. I just

pulled it out of the sky—it’s easier than it sounds—and I swallowed it

[So the moon was there]

Yes, I was. I was there with my crown

pulled tightly over my ears, and I was happy, really happy. I was stoo

[So the moon was there]

y for—and // // now on the bridge I am

pulling the plug.” // //

Troubled waters

// // Clearing the gravel in my throat

pulling // // The wire from within taught // // I’ll hide behind my

piles. Then one stormy night // // it

pulls the final prop. A hundred yards // // of man’s best effort at

Walking in winter

ou breathe in now, // // This moment’s

pulse , this rhythm in your blood // // And listen to it, ringing soft

o those I loved precipit fell // // In

pulverised procession that // // Squeezed, through concrete’s piercin

Stagnant, charged, ion wet, // // The

pumice golem // // On and off again, // // Averse to new versions, /

Frighteningly Inert

nterlude of disequilibrium. // // This

pumice golem was never sacred // // In the glaring static of hidden f

Frighteningly Inert

cing the soil // // iron rusted // //

pump valves // // good for scattering // // from plastic tubs // //

yew needs dried blood in spring

a chore, // // As if my veins weren’t

pumping acid yet, // // I carry on, as though I’m craving more. // /

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

ttle world // // (Wednesdays it rains;

pumpkins pockmark; cushion-thief strikes) // // again I imagine it fo

Buffy // // // In the beat of a

pun , // // She presents the wooden phallus, // // Sharpened with fem

eed, and again; // // the surprise gut-

punch // // of the snowman losing heart // // and losing his lunch /

/ And had Hamlet said ‘Forsooth, I must

punish my uncle’s transgression but feta or parmesan now THAT is the q

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

sed, // // and we may read it out as a

punishment . // // The fire will be lit in the dark hours of night, //

The Dead Letter Office closes down

beast can be so underhanded; // // its

pupils were graves dug amid sapphires… // // Of course its parents we

// // By contrast. It seemed // // So

pure and free, and // // Yet we deemed // // It far beyond the realm

// // And turn life’s lead to poems of

pure gold. // // I need the poets now, who match my age, // // Like

// tea with you, all I could taste was

pure happiness and honey. // // Summer swam round, and the bees sprea

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

s coextensive with ‘unconscious will’, ‘

pure power’, ‘exhilaration’ ‘beating heart’ and ’fresh blood’. This re

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

e last mark I’ll make, // // White and

pure , unlike the life taking it’s last steps. // // // // …Screechi

Snapshot Endings

of course // // has a source // // of

pure water: a still. // // Garden shed // // with a still? Local /

There must be moonshine

things. ‘Reality’ is clean, simple and

purely luminous. It is difficult to look and experience life in this w

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

metaphor of photography literal, // //

Purgatory lenses your beauty. // // Glacial. Tangled in cables. // /

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

// On the threshold of genesis, in what

purgatory shall I persist? // // To that, your pancake-batter skin is

oak, for sixteen forty-five // // Has

purged the kingdom, and its men, with fire. // // Come with your houn

Sixteen Forty-Five

purple bursts kiss compost] // // cyclamen in purple bursts kiss comp

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

bursts kiss compost] // // cyclamen in

purple bursts kiss compost // // mushroom-tiled and moss-gilded // /

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

with bruises and black lung // // And

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

s were the fox, // // Crouching in the

purple phlox, // // The hare whose eyes at equinox // // Eyed the sl

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

Derby town they settled down // // on

purple sage to lie. // // A Cheshire cat accosted them, // // then w

Fairy-free gardens have as many colour

purples raining; // // Bet we can make them all in micro, soft, paint

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

nose. // // But just as I did to this

purpose mold, // // The ice with which I rose grew weary, crack’d //

[What have we done]

comparable to ours, // // Coordinated

purpose which only they know best, // // As we linger in our lovely,

[Walcott begins Omeros]

// // and enter an integer // // each

purposeful stride. // // Nimble Nimrods, the nil // // make a dash f

Nil Charge / Nil Return

// thing. // // Molly, his wife, would

pursue his creation with // // care and affecting mathematic precisio

Jonathan’s Deathbed

s ennui. They redirected themselves and

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

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

dow of her lily-ridden house and // //

pursue the sunrise with a net of silver crunching aphids. // // I wil

Aubade to Girton

// Now I feel the flood’s return // //

push against my trickle home, // // to creep back in when I have gone

// tendrils into the dark and damp. Now

push out above, // // buds into the waxing light, the spring rain. Th

cle // // Wake. // // Feel the water.

Push out below, // // tendrils into the dark and damp. Now push out a

not for emphasis, but division, // //

Pushes me back. You’re there, but I’m still here // // Where I’d alwa

The Other Side of the Line

xt to my head. // // “No milk” // //

Pushing a trolley through the stacks // // Of discounted washing powd

The Notes You Have Left

Pushing 60 // // My sixtieth birthday is nearing— // // brings a tho

ss and preparedness: // // The private

put away, the volumes shelved, // // Her thoughts, like chairs drawn

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

d tin. // // After your hipbone, we'll

put in a ball // // of steel and titanium, wedged in the hole, // //

the waist with her clavicle // // And

put me back together and seal the wound with her mouth // // So that

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

hoes, // // And who’s going to help me

put new laces in, // // Because you can’t wear quirky May Ball maroon

Three Pieces of Advice

riter may agree, but he lies, // // He

put no thought into that verb, // // But to tell the truth would grea

couldn’t find his hat in the dark so he

put on the cat instead. // // Columbus was the end. He left the quiet

herald angels. // // Float downstairs,

put on the tea. // // Ding dong, ding dong, merrily. // // We enter

A Hymn to a Loved One

uesdays, so you covered instead— // //

put out the biscuits, the chairs, the cat, // // drew up rotas, tidie

flame. // // If you are last to leave,

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

ut tonight I smile and say, // // As I

put their books away, // // Oh sod the lot! I’d better be myself. //

om Eden // // infidel beg! // // Am I

putrid , raw // // in Roman era, // // set in gibbet salt, // // a r

Hercules et Oracle

puts her knickers on] // // the typist puts her knickers on // // tu

[the typist puts her knickers on]

puts her knickers on] // // the typist

puts her knickers on // // turns off the record, flickers on // // t

[the typist puts her knickers on]

ch, grabs her car-keys, // // handbag,

puts her sneakers on, // // downs a double shot of gin // // (needs

[the typist puts her knickers on]

// The page is filled. I have built a

pyre // // To all the words whose smoke the sky swallowed. // //

derstand why people have // // funeral

pyres .) Later we scatter the ashes // // in a wild part of the old S

t rusty field // // Where your funeral

pyres still burn, // // Silently roaring // // In a late summer’s ha

Magnetic Mountain

// Your tears will recreate Cocytus and

Pyriphlegethon , // // Carrying your burning wails into Acheron // //