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

R

R )evolution: Easter Rising // // This Easter Sunday was the first //

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

patch of grass with the sun on it and a

rabbit or two - pretty scene, but where’s the tragedy? // // Back to

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ive her mad within the recesses of your

rabbit’s hole. // // Teach her dutifully that // // A woman fallen h

// the feeble // // the old // // the

rabid // // looking for folk answers // // to folk problems // // h

poor came // // the feeble // // the

rabid // // the lame // // looking for folk answers // // to folk p

ribe many things, but the thoughts that

race // // Through my heart when I breathe in what you breathed // /

I’ll never work for Hallmark

Discourse on the Anxiety of Mechanised

Racial Profiling // // Love set you going like a fat gold clock (watc

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

The Dreadful Clouds Crossing The Stars,

Racing To Nowhere // // And you’re frantic - no record seems to fit t

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

through the // // pensioner-permeated

racks . // // She looks up, // // thinking aloud like a dream, // //

In a charity shop

// while you mean only you. // // Your

radiance will not sleep, // // You cannot turn to stone. // // Here

Stone, Paper, Scissors

in my lungs. // // Now in his immanent

radiance , // // With his flesh that resonates with echoes // // of t

’Tis pity he’s a bore

ntre— // // There stands a tree // //

Radiant in its being. // // They say its name is ONCE and HEREAFTER /

[At the coinciding point of the years]

eg // // slumbers in the warmth of the

radiator // // and the snow is no longer faintly falling // // but g

why i’m getting into Christmas

// assault // // of night-time on my

radiator -warmed skin // // And the crunch of the season underfoot //

[The sash rattles up]

ymn to a Loved One // // We wake up to

Radio 3, // // Hark! the herald angels. // // Float downstairs, put

A Hymn to a Loved One

/ // Sweet like shalimar // // On the

radio , the sandy scar // // Of dunes on the windshield. // // We wen

, // // but devilish. // // He’s in a

raffish // // urban mould // // not suited to // // a woodland glad

For all his talk of old men’s lust and

rage . // // I’ve glanced awhile at poets on the shelf, // // Desirin

d his girlfriend // // In cold-blooded

rage . // // (Nothing too funny here, // // Uxoricidally, // // Just

ith domes at our backs— // // the city

ragged like old // // lace, all behind us. // // Your jeans were rus

Tridente, 10th September

luebell woods // // more curlews, more

ragged , slanting lines of geese // // more travels, journeys, voyages

f space // // the sky is dark, but the

raging fire // // of the sun marks passing time. // // Far down belo

ke care, ail road’ // // ahead, on the

rail road // // a deer had stopped // // ‘it’s gonna die,’ he said,

t he wasn’t quiet // // ‘it’s ail road

rail road!’ // // he kept on talking // // and couldn’t be stopped /

he yellow bus had stopped // // at the

railroad crossing // // the driver yelled ‘quiet’ // // we kept on t

all the talking— // // my deer, at the

railroad , // // done. ‘It’s him’ you said // // and I could hear in

you, crossing // // your arms. At the

Railroad // // we were stopped, // // and had long stopped talking.

vanity project has // // gone off the

rails . I’m not such a mug. // // I’ve cancelled his buses, no more w

Troubled waters

some days,’ she says, // // ‘when the

rails look like // // lives clustered into the clothes, some // // a

In a charity shop

// I smiled. She was right. // // The

rails were like // // lives woven in cloth, // // a tapestry, // //

In a charity shop

ts catching great dark shoals // // of

rain , algorithmic complexity // // that flexes // // and envelops us

oom tiles of blood. // // you pray for

rain , but no relief. dry-heave // // over the sink. sing miserere, do

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

ave // // Your tears mingling with the

rain // // Could I foretell the future // // Gazing from a clifftop

ck dark, // // You smell like watching

rain fall // // In burnt amber light, // // With an old movie in the

Fall for————

us // // Your tears mingling with the

rain // // Great Skellig slate grey and wet // // Gazing from a clif

/ Take a listen, // // This is how the

rain now sounds, // // This is how it is to be // // Skinned in some

Who am I, Bernard?

htning bolts // // more days of sun or

rain or passing cloud // // more meetings with old friends // // mor

ipping hungrily on the path // // Like

rain . Staining stones darker as words attempt to fill the gap // // B

Snapshot Endings

// and everybody has wolf-eyes in the

rain . Their irises keep breaking // // me, and so I build myself like

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// Someday make a journey through the

rain // // Through sodden streets in darkening December // // A jou

The Magic Apple Tree

buds into the waxing light, the spring

rain . Throw open // // the fire-coloured temptations, welcome in //

t though the thunder roars, it will not

rain . // // your ribs are kindling; breathe in, strike a match: // /

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

c, // // Out of the magician’s hat the

rainbow bunny of being able to remember the names of the metrical form

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// // // // // // Cookies and

rainbow , // // Did what I thought was right, // // Shunned… but I gr

A Tribute to AQOH

ree 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

/ No surprise at sundown // // when it

rains great, warm // // Mediterranean drops. // //

Tridente, 10th September

our little world // // (Wednesdays it

rains ; pumpkins pockmark; cushion-thief strikes) // // again I imagin

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

rainy days are far between, // // In restless Asphodel. // // If wha

Who am I, Bernard?

// by you alive or dead? Live I could

raise // // a cool half million. Dead it goes to Joe. // // If I’ve

Between Life and Death

subtle mist. // // You strike flint to

raise a good fire. I tally days with snowdamp sticks. // //

axos, written off as a tax loss, // //

Raised black sails, and now I’m in clover. // // ARIADNE // // I bla

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

r the floods of fifty-three // // they

raised the ramparts: giant concrete blocks // // on piles all along

Walking in winter

The well of love // // // //

Raisins are all very well in their place // // —in muesli, say, or ma

The well of love

ve. // // The usual translation is not

raisins // // but flagons. Flagons might indeed // // distract me,

The well of love

his pilaf. // // But stay me not with

raisins nor // // with flagons, for I am well of love. // // Apples

The well of love

nd candle wax, to the saint; // // The

ram -head of the corpse cracks a smile. // // Silk sheets in the house

s of fifty-three // // they raised the

ramparts : giant concrete blocks // // on piles all along the shingle

Walking in winter

I have no idea, // // So I picture the

Ramsays ’ sitting room and listen to music whilst I work // // And let

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

e big words, dispossessed // // by our

ramshackle fumbling // // with phonemes, come tumbling // // back ac

er and reaching out as if to touch what

ran below in streams of oily debris, further than I could fathom and f

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

lue // // He lay there till his breath

ran cold // // The boy without a face. // // Between the shining sil

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

to leave tonight. Clancy got loose and

ran through an alley with keef, kefir, with champagne on the nightstan

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

ompete for life. // // Another billion

random changes: all // // —or almost all—are duds. Nevertheless // /

nation(and beginning—for G) // // From

random junctures in primeval winds // // a billion random patterns fo

ures in primeval winds // // a billion

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

ross the valley sound. // // The hills

ranged all around // // —they little care. // // Voices far across t

seemed greater // // Than the door we

ranged // // Behind, but never in front. // // It seemed a constant

r those long words more better), // //

Ranging over the snow sheets, stained now with black, what if one day

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

bout it, but just don’t tell me she was

raped by a swan // // I mean, talk about a half remembered mythic met

h myself. // // For years—for, rather,

rare nights between inky uterine nights—I’d dream: // // my index fin

// // Here is Herbert, Tyndale, Eliot—

rare tongues // // Who in the fires of sixteen forty-five // // Foun

Sixteen Forty-Five

nzola … // // but the thing is, she so

rarely ate it. // // His confidence shaken, near shot dead, // // he

The Failing of the Cheese

Whereas such beautiful moments, // //

Rarely present themselves. // //

Mosquito nights

l bereft // // Because old verse forms

rarely see the light // // The truth is that they’re dead because the

In Defence of Evolution

st-modern serfdom. // // The light was

rarely shown, // // We scuttled around behind // // Doors and were b

Blind to the consequence: // // Tabula

Rasa . // //

o warm up, and can, apparently, cause a

rash , // // But you’d roll your eyes and tell me we’re late for dinne

I’ll never work for Hallmark

I’m afraid the view just now // // Is

rather badly marred by smoke but, as you // // English say, an omelet

means. // // Perhaps it seems archaic,

rather like a caveman or some troglodyte. // // We are too sophistica

Bearded Thoughts

tion with myself. // // For years—for,

rather , rare nights between inky uterine nights—I’d dream: // // my i

rmined by sound, rhythm, and repetition

rather than by thought. Just like in nature’s murmuring, Dionysus rule

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

e guilt and hideous shame of not doing,

rather than doing different - // // The half-formed house // // Of t

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

el the cold— // // and my breathing is

rather uncertain.” // //

/ // You know there’s nothing that I’d

rather wear // // Than the crease of your brow emblazoned in my hair.

y scanty nuts of coke, // // apportion

rationed quires and dilute ink. // // The snow has reached the window

A Room of Her Own

/ // drink! and be merry! // // Hymns

rattle around the silverware cadences vibrate the port // // drink

Drink and be merry

om which stomach-swirling growls // //

Rattle , // // Instilling all the Seven Deadlies // // Plus a few ext

ng, love-life listing. // // The death

rattle of the track’s devouring // // And an incessant nattering of t

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

rattles up] // // The sash rattles up // // then catches. // // I c

[The sash rattles up]

[The sash rattles up] // // The sash

rattles up // // then catches. // // I clamber clumsily // // into

[The sash rattles up]

nce. // // You held fast, though those

rattling serpent-words // // You heard hissed ‘Arrogance. Omnipotence

ng, forming // // ordered chaos with a

raucous song: // // A thousand geese are flying into night. // //

Wells in winter

ith silence // // For had cheesy words

ravaged the page, then never would they have been engraved // // Upon

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

n underfoot // // And the smell of the

raw earth // // like a jolt // // in the clockwork // // of memory.

[The sash rattles up]

ived— // // Crumpled cardboard, // //

Raw -edged— // // Wrapped within the glossy blackness // // Of Dad’s

// // infidel beg! // // Am I putrid,

raw // // in Roman era, // // set in gibbet salt, // // a red nick

Hercules et Oracle

// // True predators fear this world’s

raw // // Venality that spurns your natural law. // // What a pitifu

; lensed eyes ‘big // // as saucers’ x-

ray -burning to my five- // // year infant guilt. Fruitless to plead m

Compass Reading

gainst law // // Of Newton. Each light-

ray does one ice thaw, // // Reflecting light through perfect diamond

[What have we done]

ay and brought you here. // // Three X-

rays and a CAT scan for an air- // // Conditioned corpse. A quality o

// in the warming sunlight. Soak up the

rays and the air. // // Transform the coloured flower into coloured f

sent shivers of sunlight in criss-cross

rays // // wedding chimes of line and light that got through to me. /

e are too close to the past, // // The

razor might not last, the bomb might fall, // // Then all we’d have l

Bearded Thoughts

se, they find and are not found. // //

Re -call the river-tongues from Alph to Styx, // // summon the summone

lifted, swift and free, // // shining,

re -combining in their dance // // the genesis of every utterance, //

lries like this will be no more. // //

Re -fill my glass, and this time with Champagne, // // Drink down the

// The ghoulish form’s tear in the air

re -sewn // // So through it dancing branches from roots grown // //

[What have we done]

ultra regna terra. // // Now dog, did

re -venom Eden // // infidel beg! // // Am I putrid, raw // // in Ro

Hercules et Oracle

y opens round // // -ing a road as you

reach a bay and the sought-for sea. His sound. // //

omfort, burrowed in our bed. // // You

reach across and still the drilling bell // // And stretch and yawn a

In harmony, it shows the way // // To

reach beyond—to touch the light // // And now the song bursts from ou

// // into that microphone I could not

reach , // // high on your bristling Harris Tweed lapel. // // The sm

Compass Reading

/ // through the air and out // // of

reach . I want the rest. // // I want to hold the book // // of you.

Stone, Paper, Scissors

rystalline, unknown… // // But I can’t

reach or feel your fragile form. // // What kind of fool deceives him

The chicken and the egg

ully let go // // just as far as I can

reach // // the flotsam brought in on the flow: time to mark the bea

s me it’s a house. // // If I can only

reach the red front door, porridge warm with honey // // sits upon th

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

rags above; // // descend the steps to

reach the valley floor— // // to leave behind, for now, the wilder mo

Daydream Dale Journey

find me in a crease sea-squalls cannot

reach // // Waves are my shelter, I’m not far off off-shore // // Cl

// the world around her, far as she can

reach . // // Who is this now, who dares me eat a peach? // // Time’s

fire to the fang // // that cannot be

reached , // // So that I do not have to see the star, // // So that

l’esprit d’escalier

res and dilute ink. // // The snow has

reached the window ledge. // // No promise of a BA gown // // can ke

A Room of Her Own

tree’s drop-earrings // // Have almost

reached their seventy-percent // // Of newly-broken foetus-leaves //

movement static, // // Constant, never

reaching home. // // I find that I am not alone // // As streetlight

all you did was turn, leaning over and

reaching out as if to touch what ran below in streams of oily debris,

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

the circle // // Will inhale. The peak

reaching skywards, extending // // The lows into dry soil. My path ha

Vicious or Virtuous?

is where I hide below // // your ever-

reaching steps, // // to hear and touch and see // // what is buried

y action there is an equal and opposite

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

s is my space for scholarship // // to

read and pen and thrive, // // even without degree. // // My maths p

A Room of Her Own

th the strong // // Emotions felt when

read in whole. // // The writer scoffs when hearing praise // // Of

ils won’t be excused, // // and we may

read it out as a punishment. // // The fire will be lit in the dark h

The Dead Letter Office closes down

// I huddled by the flickering fire and

read it with my coffee, // // filling and unfilling the warm mug in m

[I often think of that January morning]

argue with me. // // At least when you

read me I’m not there to reply, cannot defend, cannot explain with a h

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ferently. // // You claim I would have

read Section C* // // more thoroughly // // if I’d truly intended to

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

// dressed for the occasion, // // we

read the flower-borne messages // // and talked to relatives not seen

/ In an old book I see a yellow square,

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

Are more and less than human. // // I

read the unspeakable // // Between the lines // // As the tongue sli

y Hawara sun you saw him lean // // To

read the writing, say that you had been // // A teacher and must be e

ing and I, lamely, pretending // // to

read . Then you were bending // // your mouth to mine and mine // //

you find from the smug graffiti-writing

reader : ‘Foucault!’, // // ‘evolution’, ‘what?’, or ‘no!’. Now they’r

// speaking powerful words // // not a

reader of riddles // // but the riddle himself // // and the poor ca

encrypted // // in a knowledge of the

reader that was me. // // In an old book I see a yellow square, read

n the page it lies, // // And in every

reader the poet tries // // To foreground something strange and new.

I met // // And the moral of this, as

readers will foresee is that passion is the stuff immortality is made

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

homeland, // // The Christmas room is

readied // // By the mothers and God’s angels // // The evening befo

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

Poets in Ageor A Study of

Reading Habits // // At first I used to wish that I were Keats // //

// // and I’d imagine you sitting and

reading my words in echoes. // // Just as my memories of you began to

[I often think of that January morning]

a vitreous slogan of a monument, // //

Reading . // // Pride was a shiver. // // I float in the blur of your

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

s. // // Even now I remember little of

reading The Waves // // except your soft smile each time my fingertip

[I often think of that January morning]

Reading // // You could I never love. Built of a bulk // // beyond m

Compass Reading

ultimate payment. // // Pens open and

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

Nil Charge / Nil Return

e next day. // // A clockwork Abraham,

ready every morning with his flint // // At six o’clock. Sharp. // /

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

I could never be (

ready ) // // Respite, (n): A feeling that sinks // // And settles ea

I could never be (ready)

// // In each other’s company: // //

Ready to collaborate // // In the shaping of sugar petals, // // The

ver be: // // There for you, // // Or

ready to leave. // //

I could never be (ready)

lly aligned, // // So why do mine feel

ready to unwind? // //

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

rnity // // At the austere edge of the

real // // And in the lengthening shadow of the unknown. // // They

[At the coinciding point of the years]

l. News of // // the fact of you (your

real - and rightness) makes // // the act of meaning something no grea

fruit, though Suliman’s pilaf // // is

real comfort food. But comfort me not // // with apples, nor with pi

The well of love

d I go down to the basement // // —the

real crematorium— // // and see her consigned to the flames. // // (

he wormholes lead, // // I have a very

real fear // // there’s no assured escape from there. // // The ligh

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

real malaise // // might just be musing if I’m wanted now // // by y

Between Life and Death

e here, I think. // // I know now your

real name. // // I could fold my shattered wings // // And speak the

are far from what’s needed. The // //

real public benefit’s not even there.” // // Sadik says “The Boris’s

Troubled waters

t, you’re urbanely monochrome; // // A

real social animal. // // Strip off the civility // // And you chang

ard let him be crowned. // // He’s the

real thing. He’s renowned. // // He can run, he can swim—he’ll never

re more than you appeared, // // But a

realisation falls upon me, // // And reveals the truth that I had fea

The Tree of Wisdom

others, irregularities abound, and you

realise how very different we are, // // And the loneliness breeds li

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

violent kisses // // To adjust myself,

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

joke // // about our failure // // to

realise // // that riddles // // are just riddles // // and the Ear

// leant back on her stool // // and

realised that, // // really, // // she was just passing the time, //

In a charity shop

rown by Apartheid police. // // And me

realising that he was three years older than me when his mother died,

Three Pieces of Advice

s stated with experience, // // And me

realising that his blood would have come from bared fists against jaws

Three Pieces of Advice

crisp white formal shirt, // // And me

realising that the method of erasing blood was stated with experience,

Three Pieces of Advice

// To bury your mother. // // And me

realising there’s still a street brawler inside him. // // And there

Three Pieces of Advice

Routine completion guarantee. // // My

reality assembles with Ikea instructions. // // Ambient objects surro

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

ing to feel I’m going somewhere. // //

Reality eats // // slow-moving prey. // //

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

n’t hold. // // Yet, when I stare into

reality // // I see a blank white sheet, and withdraw, // // Back to

Writing to explore

e poem restores us to the experience of

reality , if only for a brief moment. This reality is coextensive with

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

ality, if only for a brief moment. This

reality is coextensive with ‘unconscious will’, ‘pure power’, ‘exhilar

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

‘beating heart’ and ’fresh blood’. This

reality is primitive, musical, and Dionysiac. Nature chants in nonsens

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

Speak, to lose our grasp on // // The

reality of the wood // // And mortar which cut // // Us off from the

the hinge // // Between experience and

reality that you dangle me from. // // Frozen winches and stays– //

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

void between our wishes // // And the

reality we face // // Has never seemed greater // // Then when sat a

: “mankind cannot // // bear very much

reality (wink here)”; // // next head: “bet you were a difficult chil

Aubade to Girton

retend to be the foundation of things. ‘

Reality ’ is clean, simple and purely luminous. It is difficult to look

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

s in autumn—what other days were there,

really ? // // All three removed their clothes, as seemed appropriate,

Pause. I think I just want to

really feel. // // Un-pause. Furl my sparrow wings poised at the prec

tightly over my ears, and I was happy,

really happy. I was stood in a forest of pink trees and it would have

[So the moon was there]

was a nothing anyway, // // Surprising

really how small it was, // // How narrow its eyes became, // // But

[So snow falls outside]

wave as tall as the Empire State // //

Really is gonna come to make us all meet our fate, // // You’d best m

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

y It. Poetry came from It, as we do not

really know how to create poetry or account for its spontaneous creati

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

it again. And although the skies never

really liked the moon, they loved it enough to not let it drown, and s

[So the moon was there]

unt for its spontaneous creation. Look,

really look—we are nothing, we have nothing, everything swims and will

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

stool // // and realised that, // //

really , // // she was just passing the time, // // that the whole re

In a charity shop

Yet we deemed // // It far beyond the

realm // // Of serfs, and so kept away // // From the elm- // // Wo

springs; // // nilly-willy their horns

reap // // the full cornucopia, // // gamboling gluttonous // // th

Nil Charge / Nil Return

elics. // // Slowly, smoothly // // I

reapply to the inside face of the box to make // // An inventory of i

a leader, a fighter, // // A voice of

reason , an echo // // Of some thought you once had, // // But couldn

Writing to explore

y few, familiar voices. // // For some

reason I remember this, // // Not the torn tissue or even the treasur

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

nk, with nothing to // // Consider, no

reason on which to found // // Our release from this human pound. //

passing the time, // // that the whole

reason she was // // sat, hunch-huddled // // behind the counter, //

In a charity shop

n secretly excluded by the precision of

reason . The true poet, who I call the major man, is a man of night, re

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

fully that // // A woman fallen has no

reason to live, // // But do beware // // Something’s gotta give. //

on the tip of your tongue, // // That

reason why you hung around in the first place // // Will come back to

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

, newly-mowed, // // Shorn beneath its

reasonable limits // // And covering the hard brown earth. // // Blu

through warp and weft // // And hands

recall hands from silent dust. // // The mis-struck stone. The blade

// from the rim of their ridge. // //

Recasting the balance, // // the hill-weary nilherds // // return to

Nil Charge / Nil Return

ding fearlessly through // // the cold

receding sea, with hair the colour of honey // // obscuring itself ac

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

sea, // // For soon we leave that fast-

receding shore // // And revelries like this will be no more. // //

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

receipt on which I wrote your address and, as such, will be leaving

se, romance, and relaxation in which he

receives the tenderness of nature. What is he like? What is his name?

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

ways. // // Days enough for giving and

receiving . // // Did I give enough? // // I cannot say. // //

// // And the tree falls silent after

receiving no entry. // // // // …If you come to the end of the ro

Snapshot Endings

-spotted and blooded // // by stagnant

recess overfull trickling // // downwards to slug lickings on empty b

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

whole, // // Drive her mad within the

recesses of your rabbit’s hole. // // Teach her dutifully that // //

ers and grandmothers: // // Overcooked

recipe books— // // Tough, stringy leather around crumbling // // P

see, ah yes, here we are: // // three

recipes for Prometheus (a lá Kafka) // // first, secure firmly to lar

aries. Old tongues, // // Grown grave,

recite the Prayer Book and the Rose. // // This is the trial of fire

Sixteen Forty-Five

n a surface // // Causing a sound more

recognisable // // Than ever before. To tell the solid // // Cost fr

Vicious or Virtuous?

// // Which here and now at last, you

recognise . // // This is your own, your ancient apple tree // // And

The Magic Apple Tree

m pallor, save // // you from admiring

recognition as your // // skin faded, white. That was not your life.

Sestina to an English Teacher

// // in Reigate, on her way to // //

recognition , fellowships // // (Linnean Society 1904, // // Girton C

There must be moonshine

d my head, // // Tuxedoed and awaiting

recognition // // Of how bizarre the night can be, // // Roof fallin

ke. // // Your (self)-importance never

recognized , // // demanding silence for each wireless news: // // va

Compass Reading

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)

ts her knickers on // // turns off the

record , flickers on // // the switch, grabs her car-keys, // // hand

[the typist puts her knickers on]

. // // I change the disc, it is not a

record (I did lie to you once), // // And see if this one fits, but /

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

Nowhere // // And you’re frantic - no

record seems to fit the air, // // And down, way down in the pit of y

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// // Whose faded trace no photograph

records . // // You glimpsed it once within the garden wall, // // Th

The Magic Apple Tree

, vain paragon, // // Your tears will

recreate Cocytus and Pyriphlegethon, // // Carrying your burning wail

’ // // As passengers // // Cross and

recross the gap // // As if they would // // Make of the mass one mi

Poems on the Underground

tablecloth sea. // // Daily no-feeling

recurs in identical mornings. // // Business will go as usual—Routine

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

, // // The sweltering smell of morbid

recycled air. // // Our viewing of the cinema landscape in that filth

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

ldren and paper and dust appear // //

Recycled as the morning’s front-page news, // // And we—we turn it o

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

ed a hermit // // crab’s claw from its

recycled shell, while a translucent team // // of chameleon shrimps h

Just a Small Fish

branches of the apple tree, // // Glow

red and ripe and gold and bow themselves // // To bless the fruitful

The Magic Apple Tree

Red and white lights guide their journey, // // Light foliage for the

// But you seem unperturbed // // your

red coat an aegis to lift // // cigarettes to your many mouths that /

why i’m getting into Christmas

se myself entirely. // // My nails dig

red crescents in my skin as I strike // // At her face, connecting wi

s proof of our labour. // // After the

red dust had settled // // (at least for a while) // // We asked our

Magnetic Mountain

a house. // // If I can only reach the

red front door, porridge warm with honey // // sits upon the stove, a

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

on the air // // Led you here? See her

red hair // // Last night, gaping smile, // // Sharp with the earth’

Here be dragons

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

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

[Red-hot and tear-kissed] // //

Red -hot and tear-kissed under mask // // with steel miles ahead in wa

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

etters littered, // // Lost in curdled

red // // I’ve been busy, too, // // Falling— // // Could you come

Fall for————

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

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

The Failing of the Cheese

me of cut chalk and // // turf scalped

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

Wandlebury Hill

// // Looks in to see them dancing in

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

Three gay rituals

deposes poor Boris, and // // gets the

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

Troubled waters

ra, // // set in gibbet salt, // // a

red nick cuts… // // wonder began // // // // or I // // Iron Ag

Hercules et Oracle

in the house, // // anxiously mourning

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

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

nother, fire with fire. // // Its five

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

Sixteen Forty-Five

chin-heavy // // Will sweep away this

red refuse. // // Blood dies quicker than paint // // Shouts the gun

ase sit here and Tzipi, pass // // The

red to Gordon. I’m afraid the view just now // // Is rather badly mar

us. // // Your jeans were rusty // //

red , too short. I could // // see the whites of your ankles. // // L

Tridente, 10th September

aching the head, and ploughing // // a

red trough. // // I cough a protest. No bird sings. // //

lingered long in Leicestershire; // //

red was the evening sky. // // By Derby town they settled down // //

very far from home. // // Red, white.

Red , white. A yellow glare: // // 222 deaths in Cambridgeshire last y

ouette stands beyond their glow. // //

Red , white, and black words disappear. // // I’m not so far away from

/ // I feel very far from home. // //

Red , white. Red, white. A yellow glare: // // 222 deaths in Cambridge

r days can shine // // on any past and

redefine // // our history, and that is where // // the wormholes le

have all succumbed to this ennui. They

redirected themselves and pursue the desire that’s generated by this e

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

s it will go. Let the browns // // and

reds and golds replace the greens. Now throw the canopy too // // to

s nothing for you // // In this night.

Redshift // // The stars black—do you still feel // // Their loss? M

Here be dragons

prostitute the offices of state, // //

Reduce the common people to despair, // // And laugh as they invest t

hings, and left our brains lame, // //

Reduced to an inability to cater // // For our inner selves. Pressure

oes // // of the sublime, // // He is

reduced to an X. // // The divine condensed to a mere bromide. // //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

ll I know is that the age of legends is

reduced to droplets of pity wept by the few that can see your footstep

Pity. // // Now his sumptuous form is

reduced to two lines, // // They mark the seat of disappointment, //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

ed-masses in the depths hum through the

reeds , // // Winding past colonnades and the ruins of markets, // //

arrow wings poised at the precipice and

reel // // Back to lupine-winds, fire burn and chthonic cauldron bubb

m: made her help me to arm— // // And

reel in my return once I’d knifed him. // // The problem’s the girl o

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ch a furious flame? // // Dark Matter

reels . Imagine it just passed, // // Expanding in a bubble that you

ying to turn a phrase // // or check a

reference on-line. // // This is the en-suite life. // // I thought

A Room of Her Own

dust. // // With a casual pop-culture

reference , // // She turns to leave the polystyrene cemetery, // //

/ // Tightens coils, a crucible // //

Refining through fire. // // The page is filled. I have built a pyre

o need to hide behind anon // // or to

reflect a man // // at twice his natural size. // // This is my spac

A Room of Her Own

going out, drain one more glass // //

Reflect , despairing, that all things must pass. // // Unless, embolde

ash corpse? Those ‘hoodlums scammers’ I

reflect // // might just be you, despite your wish that I // // shou

Between Life and Death

/ and faint starlight from space // //

reflected in inky water, // // the cool night air // // slows down t

ach light-ray does one ice thaw, // //

Reflecting light through perfect diamond form, // // Shining direct i

[What have we done]

sion protection. // // Though, just on

reflection , // // Our model excludes gravitation. // // Da capo //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

uch or even speak, // // afraid of the

reflections ; // // and when the moment’s gone, we’re lost and alone.

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

Reflections // // Her hand rests on her now vacant stomach // // Her

Reflections // // High up above, at the edges of the air // // and t

// Watch, as all the panes steal your

reflections . // // I look at you, across from me, on those // // Spe

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

sses, and we turn anywhere: // // fear

reflects between our eyes, // // without words or comforts. // // We

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

beneath ‘I don’t know’ defence, // //

Reflex that deflects skilful asking darts, // // I wonder if I have n

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

urrounding spectra // // blinding from

refracted // // oil-light off tarmac. As you // // fingertipped your

luc bat to mr. beam

in his bath. He loved the light // //

Refracted —'til it burst—became a mass // // Of scum. For us, lost Spa

l Fish // // It was just a small fish,

refracting the gold of a sunbeam // // until our shadows converged an

Just a Small Fish

of sadness, // // the kind that still

refracts through your eyes. // // As the sky began seeping liquid gol

liquid gold, // // the kind that still

refracts through your eyes. // // I’m not sure when we collected this

his family god, // // Horrified by the

refrain of his digital anima, // // Luminescent soul between muddied

Frighteningly Inert

ichael breaks // // Will wash away his

refuge . // // As he watches from the window // // For the final stro

n-heavy // // Will sweep away this red

refuse . // // Blood dies quicker than paint // // Shouts the gunshot

here mosaics are defaced with algae and

refuse of ages, // // Sounding over black waves of the sunset hour. /

t a tree so generous // // Could never

refuse us its ripe children to eat // // For, if it could, it would f

// on the dark path back from college,

refusing // // to look him in the eye, it could have been a confronta

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

etry is perfect. // // I sit here, and

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

uand la sage montre la Lune, l’imbécile

regarde son doigt. » // // // // Point A. Point B. // // Starting

[She points to the sky]

of the wonders, // // Can’t fault the

regime that I’m under: // // Meals: fourteen a year—all frozen (by fe

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

// // An inventory of items, // // A

register for each cracked piece // // Of souvenir china: // // The w

ow: // // For there she was: weaving a

registry of fifty shades of brown. // // Ships hang in the sky much i

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

// or sever // // Sov’ran // // ultra

regna terra. // // Now dog, did re-venom Eden // // infidel beg! //

Hercules et Oracle

not written this I confess with deepest

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

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

nderstood if I saved // // myself from

regret , if I used them to save your // // voice, your image, tried to

Sestina to an English Teacher

Regrettably Cheesy Discourse // // // // // // // Transport your

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

take him to the house. // // I always

regretted , felt cheated by // // that twenty-minute hiatus. // // Bu

rehabilitation // // It is 8:11 in my bathroom a Thursday // // I am

// // Girton College 1913). // // The

Reigate lab, of course // // has a source // // of pure water: a st

There must be moonshine

// builds a lab in her garden // // in

Reigate , on her way to // // recognition, fellowships // // (Linnean

There must be moonshine

statement. // // But your line stands,

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

The Other Side of the Line

Reinforced (not a concrete poem) // // After the chip from the front o

ished leaves line damp concrete, // //

Rejected love letters abandoned. // // I want you to feel the same, b

Fall for————

dness so that the bones you crushed can

rejoice . it’s waiting there for you. maybe one day my skin will be str

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

f everything you see (trying so hard to

relate it to tragedy), // // And wondering, as you roll into the snug

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

at?’ and no-one knew. // // You joined

relations that they also threw // // Into the asp-bored sand to rest

s of chairs, // // Settle into laps of

relatives . // // Fields of Athenry tails off, // // (Too slow, // /

Wild Mountain Thyme

wer-borne messages // // and talked to

relatives not seen for years. // // It had to be, but it was not the

urmuring, a man of repose, romance, and

relaxation in which he receives the tenderness of nature. What is he l

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

no reason on which to found // // Our

release from this human pound. // //

planned // // Screaming in my mind for

release . // // Until I cry for things I never had // // And laugh at

Writing to explore

to the girl // // on the heath, // //

Releaseless , ceaseless. She // // sighs to my teeth. // // Deafness,

l’esprit d’escalier

and then a new city. // // Now you are

relegated to observer, // // My gallery of waves framed behind glass.

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

your // // inspiration, your endless,

relentless love of life. // // I never could work out if // // you h

Sestina to an English Teacher

them slowly, smoothly // // From these

relics . // // Slowly, smoothly // // I reapply to the inside face of

blood. // // you pray for rain, but no

relief . dry-heave // // over the sink. sing miserere, doubt // // th

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

rd. // // The burr-sore want some fast

relief : // // Heat-treatment is the only cure; // // Everyone should

BURR (or Brrrrr)

s behind, left too // // a strange new

religion , new gold mines, new laws and a people dead. // // Ieri- Lan

pain is found in the effort to learn to

relinquish , // // To let go of leaden years as though a mouthful of s

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

requent ferry carries me across, // //

Reluctant . // // He holds his generosity high // // So everyone can

n’t talk to God // // sweet symphonies

rely solely on sound // // meaningless sound, vertical, horizontal, m

Same but differenT

// Drink down the last few bottles that

remain , // // As though delirium could dull the pain. // // But out

n somehow. // // A change, some things

remain , I must be heard // // I must be free. A timed renaissance, I

ent, but could not be allowed // // to

remain in occupation of that space. // // And so, for two successive

the song exactly where you are, // //

Remain within the world of which you’re made. // // Call nothing comm

use by the sea, and how long that photo

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

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

beside me, companiable but mute // //

Remains a vivid memory of my childhood days. // // Now far from home,

ind a way. // // The final fray // //

remains in memory, for good or ill, // // another day. // // I canno

shion of broken shards, // // All that

remains is dripping blood // // And an empty frame. // //

er nut // // And the half-hearted rust

remains // // Of another autumn’s dying. // // But now the planes ar

, // // an empty bookshelf // // what

remains // // three years in boxes. // // I want to take this moment

cannot teach us Greek; // // No breath

remains to show how we might speak // // Or write, approaching her in

// I am almost 25 years old. I cannot

remember a time // // When I didn’t feel, beneath my clothes and the

[I am almost 25 years old]

ared into your clothes, // // I cannot

remember a time when I felt clean enough. // //

[I am almost 25 years old]

// The stain anxiety leaves, I cannot

remember // // A time when my shadow didn’t leave the oily residue //

[I am almost 25 years old]

// // The flame brought me to my feet

remember // // And, half in mind, Ascent of Cascade start. // // Beh

[What have we done]

to too much Midwest emo and now I can’t

remember how to write poems // // because I just want to scream them

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

nd of careful echoes. // // Even now I

remember little of reading The Waves // // except your soft smile eac

[I often think of that January morning]

ther peoples’ homes, // // but I don’t

remember or care what it is. I never could // // meet anyone’s eye. /

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

t one, I think. // // I don’t actually

remember that well. // // and the girl says: why did you peck out //

out altogether // // and I can’t quite

remember the first way I saw it; // // lost like all beauty. // /

hat the rainbow bunny of being able to

remember the names of the metrical forms, // // So easy to learn. //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

miliar voices. // // For some reason I

remember this, // // Not the torn tissue or even the treasure beneath

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

onundrum of complexity (if only I could

remember those long words more better), // // Ranging over the snow s

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

cloud shadow passes, but in its chill I

remember - // // What if he had got that knife in? Is this the poem?

eyes, this arched spine, // // do you

remember what Kierkegaard said, // // am I everything you hate in you

bered mythic method // // I can’t even

remember where I left it near Finnegan’s L

/ But finding a form to carve // // to

remember you by is hard. // // It is not that forms or words // // a

Stone, Paper, Scissors

g barefoot back to your house. // // I

remember you called me a diamond in a world of coal. A light // // th

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

over a journal’s patient page. // // I

remember your thick handwriting on that white page // // as your lett

[I often think of that January morning]

t future thoughts, // // Of poems half-

remembered , long ago destinies rolled up and placed in possibility //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

a swan // // I mean, talk about a half

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

/ // The supple green branches, // //

Remembering half-forgotten lives, // // Are obscured by Middle-Easter

Before Christmas

day, // // As in, // // Today, I keep

remembering . // // Maybe it’s a lacuna of my // // sleepless mind, /

l’esprit d’escalier

made the same unchartered // // trip,

remembering nothing of the things we’d seen, // // choosing again wit

l’esprit d’escalier // // I keep

remembering today, // // As in, // // Today, I keep remembering. //

l’esprit d’escalier

d and now done with // // since no-one

remembers —no— // // nobody heard from that // // bullet-proof hideou

Jonathan’s Deathbed

e the first to cry. // // Rosemary for

remembrance and pansies for thoughts, // // Barbiturates for the beau

and somewhere that is utterly devoid of

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

[The sash rattles up]

is aura of warmth // // Its amber hues

remind me // // of what it is to be alive. // // “Hold me tight” you

t, maybe // // This landscape wouldn’t

remind me of you. // // Faith, as delicate as I, can // // Tear with

The Other Side of the Line

/ // cyclizine dreams, // // and I am

reminded of yesterday’s wonder: // // a chorus of whispers painted on

love a light, when every darkness is a

reminder of their breaking. // //

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

will cross the road // // To avoid the

reminder that success is fleeting // // Eventually we all sit in the

/ Wrong, that heartbreaking song // //

Reminding me of things that are // // Sweet like shalimar, // // And

light trickled through, // // A liquid

reminiscent of // // Our despondent slough // // By contrast. It see

rew weary, crack’d // // So softly and

remorselessly , compact // // No more as to the warm we came, and roll

[What have we done]

ed life, // // Polite, determined, and

remote — // // His angel sisters keep watch over // // The stillness

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

hymed ABAB. How prosaic! My judicious

removal of selected line breaks was universally acknowledged to be the

ys were there, really? // // All three

removed their clothes, as seemed appropriate, // // The boys scramble

be heard // // I must be free. A timed

renaissance , I // // Must change my heart, must build my soul anew. /

nly to praise // // nature’s glory. He

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

sits bespectacled in laptop moth-light.

Rendered absurd— // // warmed by un-canned laughter and crackling fir

’t kill me // // I at least want to be

rendered catatonic by the impact. // // I want someone whose smile ma

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

s and slides, // // How slowly my mind

renders his form. // // He exists illuminated in slow motion // // A

’Tis pity he’s a bore

Renewal // // Good time for it, autumn. // // Now we’ve stooked up i

e daily grind. // // We concentrate on

renewal , us lot. // //

ncy dress daydream // // and puff that

renovation brick-dust from our lungs. // // Blown away through our em

owned. // // He’s the real thing. He’s

renowned . // // He can run, he can swim—he’ll never be drowned. // /

d. // // The crackers sound, the jokes

renowned — // // Thank God for the paper crown. // // Young and old.

A Hymn to a Loved One

while helping me with GCSE Physics, and

repeated // // On a weekly basis, // // Almost as often as him tryin

Three Pieces of Advice

to the ground by the // // Endlessness

repeating crashed-crushed // // Ideas, the waiting of night upon nigh

ep repeating // // keep repeating keep

repeating // // DO i have to, without ceasing, // // without rest or

the windmill’s lament—a short play

DO i have to keep repeating // // keep

repeating keep repeating // // DO i have to, without ceasing, // //

the windmill’s lament—a short play

till i break? // // DO i have to keep

repeating // // keep repeating keep repeating // // DO i have to, wi

the windmill’s lament—a short play

it is determined by sound, rhythm, and

repetition rather than by thought. Just like in nature’s murmuring, Di

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

ns for the sake of making // // Noise.

Repetitive exchanges of false // // Smiles and bravado that shield t

Vicious or Virtuous?

et the browns // // and reds and golds

replace the greens. Now throw the canopy too // // to the winds, let

It makes no sound as it drops. // // I

replay too detailed memory waiter’s goodbye, smile of cabbie; // // A

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

the street // // // // I heard the

reply and it was terrible and dreadful and silent // //

[I whispered my name into the trees]

least when you read me I’m not there to

reply , cannot defend, cannot explain with a hand or description - no v

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// // I only say: there’s not much to

report . // //

night, revery, and murmuring, a man of

repose , romance, and relaxation in which he receives the tenderness of

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

be your umbilicalised hero. correct and

repossess and play “sleeping satellite” with my scorn tucked in a maso

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

rystal prism’s sharp-cut eye? // // It

represented such a fine-wrought craft // // and skill, and yet I neve

Compass Reading

eeze, // // And summons me with gentle

reproach // // Of the things I could never be: // // There for you,

I could never be (ready)

nt— // // Art in the age of mechanical

reproduction . (Fleshly reproduction is draining.) // // The quick, br

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

ge of mechanical reproduction. (Fleshly

reproduction is draining.) // // The quick, brown fox sticks his hot

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

akes one and one // // turtles and all

reptilian life thus thrown // // into the evolving curve of modern fl

question’ // // Would our souls not be

repulsed by the inadequacy of discourses on mozzarella, richelieu and

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

il she falls dead. // // O reputation,

reputation , devour and swallow her whole, // // Drive her mad within

, // // Until she falls dead. // // O

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

// // Silk sheets in the houses of ill-

repute // // Slip from bare skin in the sultry heat; // // Memory lo

e. // // A lonely ember ’twas, and did

require // // Some movement to its fickle flame inspire. // // So mo

[What have we done]

// and we’re lighter, quieter. Let us

rescue you from the daily grind. // // We concentrate on renewal, us

ur entirety. // // You may yet grow to

resemble your mother more than mine // // But for now just these word

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

nothing hurts the way it should. // //

resent the years of careful compromise, // // the hours spent washing

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

wondered if your // // thinning blood

resented life, // // words mocking your condition—if // // you knew

Sestina to an English Teacher

sessive over the kind of love they want

reserved // // For romance but I am too porous, every touch soaks in,

[I am almost 25 years old]

Each // // sentient being touches and

reshapes // // the world around her, far as she can reach. // // Who

course, it’s mine. // // You’ve taken

residence beneath my skin, // // And sewn our hearts together using t

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

me when my shadow didn’t leave the oily

residue // // Of embarrassment on everything it touched, my mouth //

[I am almost 25 years old]

es upon pages of poetry. My blurry eyes

resisted breaking // // concentration until the walls dissolved aroun

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

e dead, // // And sailed with the oaf,

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

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

treasured the fingerprint // // sonic

resonances of a snore. // // We shall not sever hydra stalks for fear

Aubade to Girton

nt radiance, // // With his flesh that

resonates with echoes // // of the sublime, // // He is reduced to a

’Tis pity he’s a bore

strike him and deep crystal bass-notes

resound . // // He’ll never lose time, he’s carefully wound. // // A

shade of wet. // // My Frost-bit ears

resound with words I know. // // (How many miles to go till I can sle

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

harmonics, singing face to face. // //

Resounding into music now, we trace // // in touches of a single stri

t of emptiness, // // And timelessness

resounding into time. // // And when the heart is full of quietness /

I could never be (ready) // //

Respite , (n): A feeling that sinks // // And settles each morn, // /

I could never be (ready)

the sand // // Whilst colonists enjoy

resplendent views: // // Oppression’s language does not understand. /

alanced clay and graphite, // // Wrist

responding to each thought // // That strides in freedom on an edge /

Three Ways of Walking

. I’m circumspect // // about my first

response . Success and joy // // may be your stated goal but safety fi

Between Life and Death

out any explicit // // engagement from

responsible adult figures. // // and the girl’s like: oh, shit // //

h certificate. // // I want to see the

rest : // // a ticker-tape parade, // // a paper-shower of life: //

Stone, Paper, Scissors

gain to clamber Gordale Scar // // and

rest , and breathe some more the cool clear air. // // Beyond the scre

Daydream Dale Journey

the edge, on the look out; never can we

rest and say that: we have it now. Philosophers and priests have all s

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

threw // // Into the asp-bored sand to

rest for two millennia. // // Haloed by Hawara sun you saw him lean /

air and out // // of reach. I want the

rest . // // I want to hold the book // // of you. You would be soft

Stone, Paper, Scissors

despite your wish that I // // should

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

Between Life and Death

unable to earn any of the marks. Of the

rest many did not progress beyond the second part, with many simply cl

mortar which cut // // Us off from the

rest of // // Humanity, drove a rut // // Between our consciousness

ere generally quite successful with the

rest of the question which was generally very well answered. // //

ave to, without ceasing, // // without

rest or break? // // i WISH that i could slow i wish that // // i co

the windmill’s lament—a short play

ive script’s embrace // // in which to

rest —safe in the sound // // of whispered peace around. // //

luc bat to mr. beam

tand. // // And doesn’t worry with the

rest . // // The man has not wasted his life— // // It’s been well-sp

d through Siberia, // // I want her to

restart the solar system with the light // // That emanates always fr

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

. // // 2. Never eat at an empty sushi

restaurant . // // 3. Always wash blood off in cold water. // // 1, g

Three Pieces of Advice

I glance instead at your mirror, // //

Rested head gentle against the cool glass, // // But blotted quickly

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

// No scar or battle wound, // // Just

resting , feet cresting // // The concrete wave. // // Days stretch o

Urban bird watching

tent tick // // Of your digital clock,

resting next to my head. // // “No milk” // // Pushing a trolley th

The Notes You Have Left

urther—the ships nestle // // In their

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

From Trebetherick Point

r // // shines like strands of the sun

resting // // upon my shoulder. // // and there’s the crux, // // r

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

r rainy days are far between, // // In

restless Asphodel. // // If what they sing for is undone, // // I’ll

Who am I, Bernard?

e weeping // // With shiftless sorrow,

restless , rootless dread. // // Instead I wake to warmth, to find you

nnelling below. // // The crowds stand

restless with suspense // // to capture the flight and fall of // //

ve not given in to this ennui. The poem

restores us to the experience of reality, if only for a brief moment.

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

your ennui, you tried to control them,

restrict their frivolous dance, and escape from their transcendental i

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

/ // Or maybe forced to wear something

restrictive , // // But that’s not even where I’m going with this. //

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

here your hand, // // cold, // // now

rests . like malagas // // through the dust it only // // digs deeper

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

Reflections // // Her hand

rests on her now vacant stomach // // Her blushed cheeks moistened wi

, often, when // // Faced with the end

result // // The big idea no longer seems so big // // The fall, awk

Falling Is Like This

ithdrawn with elation at // // endless

results embryonically won. // // Perfect formation and heartless damn

Jonathan’s Deathbed

much as I tried to forget, the memories

resurfaced in echoes, // // and always I found myself staring at the

[I often think of that January morning]

oe. // // If I’ve ‘been DEAD’ am I now

resurrect // // and rich, or still a ghastly ex-officio // // crash

Between Life and Death

long // // Leaps up in you to life and

resurrection . // //

The Magic Apple Tree

your pancake-batter skin is the warmest

retort . // // The days still dis-leave. Pale envy-green, wet-yellow,

r shame, // // while she gifts them in

return a rose, // // la belle dame. // //

was wait. Give it three days and He’ll

return // // And bring salvation and sunshine and the smell of fresh

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

e’, but we accept the battles // // In

return for our shiny new lives, however long they last. // //

ting and brushing each letter // // in

return he translates Latin eulogies // // and we imagine their last s

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

rn. // // How sweet and clean was that

return . // // How can we not believe in some // // beneficent source

re. // // For this year there’s no nil

return . // // Nil Return // // While the nilherds are snoring // //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

gers and pens // // for the annual nil

return . // // Nil, wild-eyed and woolly, // // pent in a furry fury

Nil Charge / Nil Return

ans feel the change. // // Seeking the

return of the light, // // Great stone shrines were built. // // All

Before Christmas

again. The festival // // Seeking the

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

Before Christmas

r help me to arm— // // And reel in my

return once I’d knifed him. // // The problem’s the girl once it’s ov

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

r stream. // // Now I feel the flood’s

return // // push against my trickle home, // // to creep back in wh

ever came back. The waves // // always

return to comfort the shore. The pain ached in waves. // // I painted

[I often think of that January morning]

// As our son within // // Wakes, to

return to dream—the // // Stars will wait for him. // //

Here be dragons

s and roll along quietly // // Only to

return to gobbets of that holds no for me // // yes /

. // // Feel the earth. Feel the water

return // // to the dry ground. Let the cooling dark // // settle ar

, // // the hill-weary nilherds // //

return to their high stools // // for extended head-scratching. // /

Nil Charge / Nil Return

year there’s no nil return. // // Nil

Return // // While the nilherds are snoring // // wrapped warm in th

Nil Charge / Nil Return

ething taken // // For something to be

returned , // // October’s secret left unspoken // // Only the names

leaves might fall

e-blown boughs, // // Will find itself

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

[At the coinciding point of the years]

lt // // the topmost layer. The frost

returns // // to make a crust. The next two months // // are clear

Walking in winter

f your skin; // // delicate cave magic

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

gg // // I live! Un-ownable, not made:

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

The chicken and the egg

inflick. // // Our nets, turning weed,

revealed nothing: no blenny, no bream— // // It was just a small fish

Just a Small Fish

st // // Who saw the collision, // //

Revealed the Higgs boson. // // Briefly. // // But just one illicit

Small Particles in the Small Hours

A handheld spotlight skims the gravel,

revealing // // Fleeting instances of milk-soaked silence. // // Dar

Vicious or Virtuous?

ht pigments the cold pond harsh, // //

Revealing smokey lines of my knife’s end. // // I’m roped on to the s

[What have we done]

a realisation falls upon me, // // And

reveals the truth that I had feared. // // I sit beneath your branche

The Tree of Wisdom

g be no song of you, // // but may you

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

ave that fast-receding shore // // And

revelries like this will be no more. // // Re-fill my glass, and this

Revelry // // Come fill the cup, we’ve little time to drink, // // T

pass. // // Unless, emboldened by our

revelry , // // We make a stand against their tyranny // // And, just

ead of him, leaving him in the dust. He

revels joylessly and mechanically in the perfection of his thought. Wh

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

dern men who bask in the flames of that

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

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

th. // // But now // // a new form of

reverence // // is practised in Greece // // the self-confessed skep

he // // is pensive, dreaming, lost in

reverie . // // And the artist who is showing us the scene // // —doe

Cape Cod Morning

er laminate the windows // // as if to

reverse // // the myth of glass, // // but my gaze keeps slipping //

luable // // Than your self, leaves me

reversing // // Those steps made in slippered feet. // // I wasn’t

The Notes You Have Left

call the major man, is a man of night,

revery , and murmuring, a man of repose, romance, and relaxation in whi

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

nger // // art // // Lunar // // vos

rêves Roma: // // Erde… // // Sol… // // tod // // elcaro te se lu

Hercules et Oracle

ng examination halls. // // This is my

revision , it has no structure and no plan, // // The points perhaps a

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

n birds’ ancestral night // // in this

revision one and one makes one // // it holds the stress in the thora

ht prove a midline split // // in this

revision one makes one and one // // turtles and all reptilian life t

ossibility // // For time upon time to

revisit as you swing down through the lines and rhymes // // Of every

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// Higgledy Piggledy // // Brideshead

Revisited : // // Nostalgic adventures // // Of Ryder and Flyte // /

/ // The rolling of crusts. // // The

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

fit the time they fix— // // You can’t

revive a worn-out box of tricks. // // Just like you can’t wear medie

In Defence of Evolution

he abyss. // // In the darkness I keep

rewriting ‘is this the poem?’ // // Let the treasure maps go Marcus.

nch’t // // sufficiént; you claim sans

rhyme it’s prose, // // obtusely count ictūs with fingers stunt’d; //

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

g up a theory to explain it— // // Why

Rhyme Royal is such a bloody chore. // // I’m trying to be cheerful,

In Defence of Evolution

zas, three tetrameter and one trimeter,

rhymed ABAB. How prosaic! My judicious removal of selected line brea

as you swing down through the lines and

rhymes // // Of everything you see (trying so hard to relate it to tr

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ssed and cruel: // // Embroideries and

rhymes were fortune’s perk— // // They advertised who wasn’t made for

In Defence of Evolution

// Lame understanding wretch who thinks

rhymes wrench’t // // sufficiént; you claim sans rhyme it’s prose, //

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

s are dragged about the town // // And

rhyme’s extinction means egality. // // At least that’s how it seems

In Defence of Evolution

tically acclaimed world of the immortal

rhymists // // It would take a poet with supreme imagination to creat

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

writes! How it is determined by sound,

rhythm , and repetition rather than by thought. Just like in nature’s m

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

nocks, drum-like, // // Pounding out a

rhythm in harmony with cold machinery. // // A continuous shriek thro

Snapshot Endings

n now, // // This moment’s pulse, this

rhythm in your blood // // And listen to it, ringing soft and low. //

re even, // // Breaks in the drill and

rhythm of a bell… // // Were I to wake alone I would be weeping // /

ed by the whistle of the kettle; // //

Rhythmed by the clink-clink-clink of teaspoons against the side of mug

in my belly cave singing // // to the

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

u could trace a line, like a long sleek

ribbon , through all lived history // // that would show the immortal

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

er roars, it will not rain. // // your

ribs are kindling; breathe in, strike a match: // // the matter’s so

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

// Burning. Listen, kid: // // Broken

ribs aren’t worth it, // // Kid: bandages aren’t for this kind of wou

Did you bury her yet?

// And elsewhere, as deep as port, as

rich as Tokaji, // // your head bobs in peace upon a heart’s-blood bo

ates—where I once was, the waders team,

rich foraging is // // in their sights—time for a gentler stream. //

u in // // Under its framing fringe of

rich green leaves, // // Beyond the music of the shepherdess, // //

The Magic Apple Tree

een DEAD’ am I now resurrect // // and

rich , or still a ghastly ex-officio // // crash corpse? Those ‘hoodlu

Between Life and Death

e turn, // // along the open beach, in

rich sea air. // // Look up, look up, my love—the sky is calling. //

Wells in winter

inadequacy of discourses on mozzarella,

richelieu and brie // // Fixing anyone who disagrees with an impenetr

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

pen singing-bowl, whose chime // // Is

richness rising out of emptiness, // // And timelessness resounding i

I will slip off the window of her lily-

ridden house and // // pursue the sunrise with a net of silver crunch

Aubade to Girton

Riddle // // Come find me in a crease sea-squalls cannot reach // //

not a reader of riddles // // but the

riddle himself // // and the poor came // // the feeble // // the r

nd all for one is right // // a living

riddle of the one and one and one // // but in the ritual splitting o

ise // // that riddles // // are just

riddles // // and the Earth // // just the earth. // // Later, of c

r failure // // to realise // // that

riddles // // are just riddles // // and the Earth // // just the e

g powerful words // // not a reader of

riddles // // but the riddle himself // // and the poor came // //

the earth is not silent // // and the

riddles // // not // // untrue. // //

Ride // // // // Oh, and to freeze this: // // you with your hair

rags, beaches // // more boat or cycle

rides // // more walks, more bluebell woods // // more curlews, more

challenge // // from the rim of their

ridge . // // Recasting the balance, // // the hill-weary nilherds //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

p. // // 8. // // MacCullough must be

ridiculed ! // // 9. // // Poets can look and see something that has

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

// ‘You go!’ ‘Now me!’ ‘Whose turn for

riding ?’ Is this the poem? // // Last night’s kiss a broken bridge—no

narcissism behind the twinkling guitar

riff // // and yell my apologies instead of typing // // and deletin

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

choes still expend // // themselves in

riffs of time and space, // // in overlapping amplitudes of bliss, //

sional stinge // // stopping // // to

rifle through the // // pensioner-permeated racks. // // She looks u

In a charity shop

tick is a divining-rod // // or an oil

rig , thudding into the ground // // to draw up lubrication for her jo

because let’s not go home just yet, all

right ? // //

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// that one for all and all for one is

right // // a living riddle of the one and one and one // // but in

imes quake. // // Her high school sits

right above // // A pair of hormone-infested jaws // // From which s

/ going // // to … // // [exit stage

right accompanied by the ineffectual whirring of defunct machinery] //

the windmill’s lament—a short play

urse by instinct, taking // // left or

right according to our whim, or how the light // // was caught. After

ning. We just need to stay here. // //

Right ? // // All Mary had to do was wait. Give it three days and He’l

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

the morning sun // // below and to the

right . And rising left // // the Cape Cod house’s painted clapboard

Cape Cod Morning

ty sails, over the fields. // // We’re

right grateful feeling that evening sun through an embrace // // of s

world went waterwards again. // // Her

right hand slackened slightly, // // Muscles eased and tired, not wan

[The sun flattened]

d knotted in a white tissue, // // The

right hanging, something sad inside. // // A cloud broke, and she saw

[The sun flattened]

y snow? That seems an odd thing to say,

right ? I mean // // what about the women come and go and talk

ip, threat, and fire // // Contend for

right in sixteen forty-five— // // Until the Lord of Liberty arose //

Sixteen Forty-Five

er. // // and there’s the crux, // //

right in that light, hush’d // // lull brown, // // deep among your

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

her laugh. // // It’s not that weird,

right ? // // It’s like how I don’t enjoy a yoga class until my knees

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

absence of warmth? // // That can’t be

right . // // Let me check the textbook again. // // 2, said half-jok

Three Pieces of Advice

s diminishing make it seem // // that

right now sitting here coffee can make // // do just as well I guess.

why i’m getting into Christmas

rainbow, // // Did what I thought was

right , // // Shunned… but I grow. // // Feeling when it gets clear,

A Tribute to AQOH

// New but not news, a sign that all is

right . // // The line of bodies on the table in // // The dust-white

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

chipped china. // // I smiled. She was

right . // // The rails were like // // lives woven in cloth, // //

In a charity shop

breach the wall. And when it hits just

right // // the spray rises a mile into the air // // (or so it seem

Walking in winter

ues just run as ‘First’ to ‘Tenth’ from

right to left. // // Milan and Barcelona and Vienna and Berlin // //

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

// // the fact of you (your real- and

rightness ) makes // // the act of meaning something no great shakes.

y and love, // // the fight to win our

rights . // // We have the vote, // // a royal charter too, // // no

A Room of Her Own

// He coughs with surprise at the cold

rigidity of the ground— // // I have seen him do this before, and he

bellow their challenge // // from the

rim of their ridge. // // Recasting the balance, // // the hill-wear

Nil Charge / Nil Return

helium flame // // From Alpha Caeli’s

rim ; the Pleiad mass // // Of gas and dust that veils, then flickers

ing between the knuckles of your // //

Ring and middle finger, // // Taste the lies on your tongue— // // I

Fall for————

// iron and stealing the warmth of his

ring . // // Fiddling, jittering, spluttering, crying // // his name

Jonathan’s Deathbed

you once were: // // those undulating

ring -lines breathing // // age into you // // and sighing into the g

listening children // // Wait for the

ring of a bell, // // hush, presents, crib, Christ Kind: // // tree

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

rs drown at sea because I let the glass

ring on and // // on—the noise the dream-world appropriates for its o

under and over. // // Complete another

ring . // // Sleep. // //

to draw eyes to his // // Point of the

ring , without disclosing the secrets // // He holds to his chest. //

Vicious or Virtuous?

’ll try, don’t worry.] // // Give me a

ring . // // You got it. // // [Once your voice has stopped ringing.]

Whales sing because they have a song

it. // // [Once your voice has stopped

ringing .] / [If only it would keep you here]. // // Thanks for today.

Whales sing because they have a song

way, // // From there to here, // //

Ringing in my ear. // // // // This is my home. // // This is wher

[She points to the sky]

in your blood // // And listen to it,

ringing soft and low. // // Stay with the music, words will come in t

lates its body beneath my hands. // //

Rings of ash are black MIDI: // // All that is left of bird song. //

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

ndow // // drinking coffee that leaves

rings // // slowly absorbed by paper // // as I am threatened to be

why i’m getting into Christmas

to your former self but the concentric

rings that signify your age— // // Meanwhile, the wind whistles in th

’neath my toes // // To endless death,

rinsing me feet to nose. // // But just as I did to this purpose mold

[What have we done]

of the apple tree, // // Glow red and

ripe and gold and bow themselves // // To bless the fruitful earth fr

The Magic Apple Tree

nerous // // Could never refuse us its

ripe children to eat // // For, if it could, it would feed even Tanta

the tender // // Violence of a body’s

ripening —is this the poem? // // Soon, make the screen a mirror, graf

// and, picking four of the brightest

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

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

ing looked at // // immobile open

ripped apart. // // Then the light changes or goes out altogether //

// // Fruit eating and the inevitably

ripped clothes. // // Or does the mango tree solitarily stand // //

feet, too small, // // Into worn and

ripped slippers // // And shuffled over hardwood floors, // // Throu

The Notes You Have Left

afloat? // // I move a little, and the

ripples run. // // Spill? // // All the little fishes swim in packs,

Whales sing because they have a song

/ Deafness, I watch the sea. // // See

ripples . She’s watching too. // // He needs to hear the screams, //

l’esprit d’escalier

ping canoes control of the crests, each

rippling roll rock- // // ing him closer to the exotic East. Each tea

n the tone I never can hear— // // And

rise again— // // And don’t go sharp— // // And onwards, forwards, i

ferent species rise and fall // // and

rise again. Great populations press // // against their boundaries. T

s // // ten thousand different species

rise and fall // // and rise again. Great populations press // // ag

nd Paris too have roads that swerve and

rise and fall, // // So why does New York City from the heavens look

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

heart, // // And now we let our voices

rise // // And let the music now hold sway // // In harmony, it show

f long forgotten lust; // // Dead gods

rise and so I // // Dispense with this your justice // // (It is no

. // // Feet anointed and seven demons

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

let my way be shown, // // Did seem to

rise that water made of stone. // // Away dropp’d all my fat as up I

[What have we done]

Rise // // The plaintive notes of accordion-song on the waters, // /

I swim through slush of half-solid and

rise , // // The swamp up which I move, ever more warm, // // And tho

[What have we done]

give. // // From your perdition she’ll

rise with flaming hair, // // Having found grace at last in the depth

“A Nasty Piece of Work” // // A-

rise , you poyson’d ape, and stay the same, // // you weasel without w

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

ries // // from violent to -et to rose-

risen blush. // // We must not rush now past the wee hours of // //

Aubade to Girton

co-room. // // A modern phoenix // //

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

A Room of Her Own

caught the glass, // // where the sun

rises . // //

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

hen it hits just right // // the spray

rises a mile into the air // // (or so it seems to me), to crash back

Walking in winter

ration, lava of the imagination, // //

Rises , magma moltenly golden // // Hardens to wordhoard-gems // // I

are glowing, // // The Sun, gentle, is

rising in my wake. // //

sun // // below and to the right. And

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

Cape Cod Morning

the shaping of sugar petals, // // The

rising of dough, // // The rolling of crusts. // // The revival of l

ng-bowl, whose chime // // Is richness

rising out of emptiness, // // And timelessness resounding into time.

(R)evolution: Easter

Rising // // This Easter Sunday was the first // // Without the old

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

free // // from any of the associated

risks and hazards. // // You see it differently. // // You claim I w

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

coloured autumn. // // Artifice // //

Risks going against the grain. // // The hardest part is to grow anot

In Eastern Cape men show their worth by

rite , // // Both those who fit and those in awkward guilt. // // A s

Three gay rituals

e one and one and one // // but in the

ritual splitting of the bone // // as Martin’s morning breaks upon th

to seek supplies // // becomes a daily

ritual . // // Suffolk, circa 1958 // // After the floods of fifty-th

Walking in winter

rituals // // Through doors of luminescent playfulness, // // On Tue

Three gay rituals

s fear: your ancient hexagram // // Is

riven oak, for sixteen forty-five // // Has purged the kingdom, and i

Sixteen Forty-Five

The stone is rolled away, the rocks are

riven // // We won’t give up our love, it is a given // // The grave

An Easter Triolet

he darkening lanes we went to cross the

river , black and cruel. This city now extinguished, empty, spent; the

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

// // The shift and shimmer of another

river // // Flowing unbidden from its hidden source; // // The Day-S

r // // of your fresh skimmer’s // //

river -hewn back. Now bend… // // It hums // // it skates // // it s

town and on // // the mile across the

river meadows // // to Grantchester. As we walk back // // against

Walking in winter

burning wails into Acheron // // Your

river of woe and death. // // Never to taste, never to touch // // D

p; // // uncatheable fish; // // in a

river that eludes you, // // your essay // // will destroy you. //

d and are not found. // // Re-call the

river -tongues from Alph to Styx, // // summon the summoners, the shap

// // against the stream, back up the

river Wharfe, // // to Bolton Abbey, and the Strid beyond, // // and

Daydream Dale Journey

uild a fine bridge clear across a great

river , where // // trees, grass and flowers can stretch shore to shor

Troubled waters

near Finnegan’s Lake

riverrun , past Eve’s and Adam’s // // sins of the sons are visited up

at // // Along with the crispness of a

river’s skin. // // I taste the contentment of bees, // // The exhil

// which falls from the mantelpiece in

rivulets ) // // I have tried // // (as I peer at you sideways // //

ime to let it dry. // // Now I cut new

rivulets // // to drain the chains of pools that lace the spreading s

re, ail road’ // // ahead, on the rail

road // // a deer had stopped // // ‘it’s gonna die,’ he said, // /

like the sky opens round // // -ing a

road as you reach a bay and the sought-for sea. His sound. // //

olouration // // meets a magpie on the

road . // // like, a big fucking magpie. // // and this magpie says:

low, ungainly steps // // To cross the

road (no joke in that) // // Catch at only half way there. // // Fea

Urban bird watching

snows on Boxing Day. // // The country

road not cleared for days // // —and then of course it snows again. /

Walking in winter

uck in the quiet, // // the end of the

road , // // not the one we were crossing. // // and the train that w

were only willin’ // // I’d be On The

Road , or in-between the sheets. // // I used to think the best songs

// but he wasn’t quiet // // ‘it’s ail

road rail road!’ // // he kept on talking // // and couldn’t be stop

// // …If you come to the end of the

road , stop. If you can’t live with yourself, // // Don’t. No easier t

Snapshot Endings

Urban bird watchingOn the Huntingdon

Road . // // They found him, petrified, // // Frozen in flight on tar

Urban bird watching

ave and fearless warrior will cross the

road // // To avoid the reminder that success is fleeting // // Even

wasn’t quiet // // ‘it’s ail road rail

road !’ // // he kept on talking // // and couldn’t be stopped // //

mat, // // And Rome and Paris too have

roads that swerve and rise and fall, // // So why does New York City

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ed the sign said // // ‘take care, ail

road ’ // // ahead, on the rail road // // a deer had stopped // //

ds, phones speak out— // // add to the

road’s cacophony. // //

ds, phones speak out— // // add to the

road’s cacophony. // // Through air and ether people mutter, shout, /

ured temptations, welcome in // // the

roaming bees. // // Feel the fire. Spread out a green canopy // // i

e has seen your struggle. // // It’s a

roar in your head and it keeps getting louder and louder // // And yo

cold pebbles and the cold sand // // I

roared my name to the surprise of the animals to the surprise of t

[I whispered my name into the trees]

d quantities of fuel // // and built a

roaring blaze. Then late into the night // // I fed it all the bits

neral pyres still burn, // // Silently

roaring // // In a late summer’s haze // // Now, days become shorter

Magnetic Mountain

a curse, // // but though the thunder

roars , it will not rain. // // your ribs are kindling; breathe in, st

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

// In the Marianas, old souls dwell in

robber crabs, // // But still their young steal shells to hide in—is

// A-glow. // // A postcard with the

robin // // And the snow and the fire // // And the misting-up Dicke

Wild Mountain Thyme

/ And why do all the names sound like a

robot filled them in? // // The avenues just run as ‘First’ to ‘Tenth

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

a) // // first, secure firmly to large

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

mental: water, sky and earth // // and

rock and air; no fire and no gold, // // no gems nor coins nor jewels

Daydream Dale Journey

at my ears, // // and I feel like if I

rock back and inch, I’ll tumble and my bones will clatter. // // I do

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

t a small fish. // // So we lay on the

rock in the heat and watched the sea’s magic // // unfold to the musi

Just a Small Fish

ntrol of the crests, each rippling roll

rock - // // ing him closer to the exotic East. Each tear was worth th

aim to the crests, each sullen swelling

rock - // // ing him closer to the pristine West Isles. Tears would pa

store in cool place until hardened into

rock // // third, freeze for centuries until // // crystallized into

vacated. // // My arm fading back now,

rocking with wheels’ folly, // // Gliding over crystalline tarmac. //

th knitted jumpers // // (big ideas on

rocks and bones in the ground), // // Or even vicars, touched by God,

Bearded Thoughts

n. // // The stone is rolled away, the

rocks are riven // // We won’t give up our love, it is a given // //

An Easter Triolet

s mold // // By hand, hardening to the

rocks each tug, // // The upstream coming down ’coming more tame //

[What have we done]

d I face a swarm // // Of loosen water

rocks , I soon surmise // // The more I climb the softer each stroke c

[What have we done]

// // And will not dry // // The boat

rocks on the water like a drum. // //

t // // and rolled them howling down a

rocky slope. // //

// // Her walking-stick is a divining-

rod // // or an oil rig, thudding into the ground // // to draw up l

ind a stretched sheet, can you feel the

rods // // are they strong enough to lift a stained glass // // skul

temple columns spaced, // // lightning

rods earthed. // // On the dark side of the earth, // // in the ligh

itting // // // Our break-up has been

roiling now for more // // than three fraught years – with bitterness

ubble, Hubble shows the forms // // Of

roiling supernovae; helium flame // // From Alpha Caeli’s rim; the Pl

// I shackle myself to the peddles and

roll along quietly // // Only to return to gobbets of that h

tragedy), // // And wondering, as you

roll into the snug sheets, if ink will stain your hands forever. // /

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

es control of the crests, each rippling

roll rock- // // ing him closer to the exotic East. Each tear was wor

arently, cause a rash, // // But you’d

roll your eyes and tell me we’re late for dinner. // // So I’ll tuck

I’ll never work for Hallmark

always live again. // // The stone is

rolled away, the rocks are riven // // We won’t give up our love, it

An Easter Triolet

different tongues // // their eyeballs

rolled heavenward, phonemes falling thick and fast // // their babble

Same but differenT

And wore the bottoms of their trousers

rolled , // // I need characters like Tennyson, // // Who improve, li

es or feathers as they slept // // and

rolled them howling down a rocky slope. // //

ems half-remembered, long ago destinies

rolled up and placed in possibility // // For time upon time to revis

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

e laughed by now, at this. // // Eyes,

rolling , at artificial sparkle // // And hearts as target practice. /

re which leapt over us // // The ocean

rolling beneath us // // Like seeing a humpback breach // // Great S

lig slate grey and wet // // The ocean

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

// // The rising of dough, // // The

rolling of crusts. // // The revival of lifeless hands. // // The ut

d wood // // Of my great-grandmother’s

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

er the bark it is seen and heard // //

Rolling Rs and layering up— // // Nothing else works for the College

BURR (or Brrrrr)

, // // But deep and troubled the head

rolls inwards, implodes // // Without a sound or sight of anything un

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

anet // // All day the noise of battle

rolls , // // The skirmishes and wars, // // What peace or treaty can

The Daily Planet

p like a woodlouse] // // // // time

rolls up like a woodlouse and the skies // // go white, and nothing h

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

rolls up like a woodlouse] // // // // time rolls up like a woodlou

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

// No more as to the warm we came, and

roll’d // // Away to join my sweat and flesh below, // // My knife n

[What have we done]

// and with my brittle bones and star

roll’d dice // // I plucked from falling world two daggers cold. //

[What have we done]

/ // art // // Lunar // // vos rêves

Roma : // // Erde… // // Sol… // // tod // // elcaro te se lucreh*

Hercules et Oracle

// We are too sophisticated now, // //

Roman , concerned with an honesty which we think the skin provides, //

Bearded Thoughts

beg! // // Am I putrid, raw // // in

Roman era, // // set in gibbet salt, // // a red nick cuts… // // w

Hercules et Oracle

revery, and murmuring, a man of repose,

romance , and relaxation in which he receives the tenderness of nature.

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

d of love they want reserved // // For

romance but I am too porous, every touch soaks in, // // Seeping and

[I am almost 25 years old]

Life’s not all drinks deals and drunken

romances . // //

/ // Ah what do they know? // // “The

Romans were honest // // they thought it was all // // girls, grapes

ur childhood’s playroom mat, // // And

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

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

Amidst the tympanum, // // Hard by the

rood -screen here. // //

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

st the tympanum. // // But hard by the

rood -screen here, // // His face is set like flint, // // For stony

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

// [My heart is a convertible with the

roof always down.] // // I have to go. Drive safe. // // I will, don

Whales sing because they have a song

Of how bizarre the night can be, // //

Roof falling down, // // The sound of the lawnmowers // // Outside t

rton’s driveway come the caws // // Of

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

[Walcott begins Omeros]

am, whiskey, // // Guinness, the whole

room // // A-glow. // // A postcard with the robin // // And the sn

Wild Mountain Thyme

now men can come to tea. // // An eco-

room . // // A modern phoenix // // risen from old coal-grate ash //

A Room of Her Own

// // Another snippet for the cutting

room // // A sweeping on the heap of history. // // But still at nig

The Cutting Edge

/ // the small gas fire has warmed the

room // // against the cold outside. // // (But that was forty years

Walking in winter

/ // So I picture the Ramsays’ sitting

room and listen to music whilst I work // // And let the words go on

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

s on the table in // // The dust-white

room are children. // // Part of the news they lie upon, they can’t /

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

/ // A cycle of conversation fills the

room // // Asking meaningless, roundabout, questions for the sake of

Vicious or Virtuous?

, we’ve // // just thirty three—surely

room for one more. // // Now it happens my old friend is crowned mayo

Troubled waters

teeth and fingers // // the forbidden

room // // groans and secrets // // and when the time comes we will

Drink and be merry

the belly fear // // the forbidden

room // // groans and secrets // // blood! wriggling life! a name! l

Drink and be merry

en my eyes // // She is not there. The

room is empty. // // There is a chair there, made of wicker // // Fo

m wasting my life away— // // But your

room is my escape, // // You, with my heart in hand, my home, // //

mother’s homeland, // // The Christmas

room is readied // // By the mothers and God’s angels // // The even

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

e family, // // Cramped into the front

room // // Like chestnuts in an oven. // // Bums ache on floors, //

Wild Mountain Thyme

Room of Her Own // // My home, my space, // // except for nanny and

A Room of Her Own

// To join their business in the living

room . // // She does not see them now. // // After all, it was in th

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

Room Villanelle // // I fear I am not in my perfect mind: // // As e

Exam Room Villanelle

plainness and preparedness] // // The

room was plainness and preparedness: // // The private put away, the

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

room was plainness and preparedness] // // The room was plainness and

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

around me, the small house // // of my

room washed away on a tide of sleep. Suddenly I’m running. Grey // //

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

Clear morning sunlight fills // // the

room we glimpse inside. A woman leans // // upon a table in the wind

Cape Cod Morning

// // the air, and back to the little

room where October seeps through // // the window frame. The city is

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

e beings, bodies and souls of any given

room // // While doomed to perish are humble verses such as this, whi

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

. // // My Grandmother fills the whole

room with // // her hands, the wrinkles round her eyes, // // the so

use // // she fills the silence of the

room // // with her presence. // // My Grandmother fills the whole r

coffee // // as your guitar filled the

room with the sound of careful echoes. // // Even now I remember litt

[I often think of that January morning]

an heart // // is as much a network of

rooms as a muscle, // // is as much an altar draped in bells and mist

lights // // in windows of work-stale

rooms . // // Stepping out, // // the crisp, exhilarating // // assa

[The sash rattles up]

// // from an egg laid by a too-proud

rooster // // twisted copper about a girl’s wrists, her // // ankles

n forest are we fell // // And how, so

root and branch do both curse spell, // // Where fog, encoal’d, imbue

[What have we done]

th chalk and bone. // // Tarweed takes

root and // // Its appetite carves sharp to sign the paper, // // Cl

e of our labours. // // A box or holly

root , smouldering slowly, // // will burn for ever. The fire once be

wind? // // What winged seed has taken

root , // // Those drawings I made years since // // Of shapes pinnat

leaves might fall

inscribed arcana // // runes from the

root -tree written in the deeps, // // leaves from the tale-tree lifte

// But now // // (varnished, sanded,

rooted into cold // // carpet) // // there is simply nothing to conn

e pictures packed like loam, // // The

rooting places of your growing soul, // // The subsoil of your oldest

The Magic Apple Tree

// // With shiftless sorrow, restless,

rootless dread. // // Instead I wake to warmth, to find you sleeping,

/ // Or it’s a tree long bereft of its

roots , // // a prop for mother nature’s grand exit, // // and its le

// So through it dancing branches from

roots grown // // Do frame the stars, suspended, understood // // By

[What have we done]

curves // // moles tubers // // worm

roots wait // // for spring // // when dried blood scatters // //

yew needs dried blood in spring

ts and pieces, odds and ends, junk, old

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

t the first hurdle, // // Snaps like a

rope whipping in a breeze on a desert-plain, // // The pitch-white la

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

key lines of my knife’s end. // // I’m

roped on to the source, luminate, warm, // // Floating up seemingly b

[What have we done]

l night— // // I kept digging. The sun

rose , // // And I kept digging, lungs // // Burning. Listen, kid: //

Did you bury her yet?

// // Away dropp’d all my fat as up I

rose , // // Away dropp’d loosen hairs, my sweat it froze // // And f

[What have we done]

rpose mold, // // The ice with which I

rose grew weary, crack’d // // So softly and remorselessly, compact /

[What have we done]

// // while she gifts them in return a

rose , // // la belle dame. // //

ure death. ’Twas in this pinch // // I

rose my head. Above it to my heart // // A crack in distance shone—’t

[What have we done]

// // This is our hexagram: the Tudor

rose // // Of sixteen forty-five unfolds its fire- // // Tongued tex

Sixteen Forty-Five

histories // // from violent to -et to

rose -risen blush. // // We must not rush now past the wee hours of //

Aubade to Girton

m // // Of ever-living fire and unseen

rose . // // This is our hexagram: the Tudor rose // // Of sixteen fo

Sixteen Forty-Five

low through the windows, wake the paper

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

Sixteen Forty-Five

n grave, recite the Prayer Book and the

Rose . // // This is the trial of fire and fire, for fire // // Alone

Sixteen Forty-Five

The aged with their heart’s desire, the

rose // // With senseless fear: your ancient hexagram // // Is riven

Sixteen Forty-Five

rs past // // A Milky Way of twinkling

roseate light— // // Shape-shifting, whispers ‘there is more to know’

ithout skin be the first to cry. // //

Rosemary for remembrance and pansies for thoughts, // // Barbiturates

pagne on the nightstand, and four dozen

roses I once destroyed. I’m up in the woods, now. it’s good in the dar

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

ady gaze of grey // // hospital walls.

Roses in empty wine bottles unfolded in the house, // // anxiously mo

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// So if you think your love and your

roses // // Your good looks, better bank statements and embrace, //

and simpered. // // The future seemed

rosy — // // To her, a State Secretary // // Eyeless for Gaza, // //

ces, sanity // // of men and kings—all

rot away, while night // // brings rumbling forest drums that cry van

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

he land. // // In a time of dates that

rot from inside out // // And will not dry // // The boat rocks on t

n // // Leaves of my skin, the seeping

rot of loneliness. I walk // // Barefoot across the damp ground of my

[I am almost 25 years old]

ts, the chairs, the cat, // // drew up

rotas , tidied up upstairs, // // let the flower-arrangers in when the

/ Though to let him get lost seemed too

rotten . // // Now I wish that I had, the arrogant cad, // // But tim

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

beam // // your whispered words hushed

round // // a sun-warmed pillowed land of // // South Georgia sunset

luc bat to mr. beam

// The hot work begins, wheeling // //

Round and round, stuck to the bed, // // Watered into the ground by t

happiness and honey. // // Summer swam

round , and the bees spread rumour of honey, // // but all I could hea

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

oom with // // her hands, the wrinkles

round her eyes, // // the softness of her hair. // // I want to ask

n with the dead, // // whose ghosts go

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

y // // O, // // MUST i keep on going

round in // // CIRCLES must i keep on going // // ROUND in circles m

the windmill’s lament—a short play

// CIRCLES must i keep on going // //

ROUND in circles must i keep on // // GOING till i break? // // DO i

the windmill’s lament—a short play

own from heaven, // // whose ghosts go

round in circles up from Hell, // // Whose pace, within the strictest

Voice // // Opening like the sky opens

round // // -ing a road as you reach a bay and the sought-for sea. Hi

have a lipstick smudge scar all the way

round my torso. // // And as the seal starts to weep and my legs star

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ld’ve written The Waste Land first time

round Nickerson. // //

[the typist puts her knickers on]

bend that was my elbow, crooked // //

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

work begins, wheeling // // Round and

round , stuck to the bed, // // Watered into the ground by the // //

nd the ruins of markets, // // Coiling

round temple pillars and bronze effigies, // // Usurping the old shor

lls the room // // Asking meaningless,

roundabout , questions for the sake of making // // Noise. Repetitive

Vicious or Virtuous?

denly spread. // // Over the bus as it

rounds Hyde Park, // // Down border-lanes, and further west // // Le

// // I wasn’t sure I’d find the same

route again // // Until your notes covered it like yellow bricks. //

The Notes You Have Left

nings. // // Business will go as usual—

Routine completion guarantee. // // My reality assembles with Ikea in

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

ms of apocalypse. // // Sometimes your

routine just gets a bit monotonous. // // But if a tidal wave as tall

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

eyes at equinox // // Eyed the slowly

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

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ent of bees, // // The exhilaration of

rowers , // // The pink heat of burnt necks and thirsty flowers. // /

ghts. // // We have the vote, // // a

royal charter too, // // no need to hide behind anon // // or to ref

A Room of Her Own

theory to explain it— // // Why Rhyme

Royal is such a bloody chore. // // I’m trying to be cheerful, but ca

In Defence of Evolution

ned // // And frowned. // // With the

royal standard let him be crowned. // // He’s the real thing. He’s re

adaptive and it’s free: // // The dodo

royals are dragged about the town // // And rhyme’s extinction means

In Defence of Evolution

ark it is seen and heard // // Rolling

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

BURR (or Brrrrr)

at me, because their faces are // //

Rubbed out. In Beit Hanoun, the sun seems spent: // // The blasts dro

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

cked on its string with his // // cold

rubber fingers and let their priest bless by its // // psalmodic tone

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ith deepest regret, I would banish this

rubbish to the first dustbin I met // // And the moral of this, as re

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

golden fruit… // // All buried in the

rubble of your fall. // // Walk through the present darkness till you

The Magic Apple Tree

mayor of London, he // // goes by the

rubrik of Boris the Mad. // // He’d adore such a grand and flamboyant

Troubled waters

// // Winding past colonnades and the

ruins of markets, // // Coiling round temple pillars and bronze effig

// In fashion’s autumn, following this

rule . // // And well they do, for both were classed and cruel: // //

In Defence of Evolution

// // call out their managers, // //

rule up their ledgers, // // and enter an integer // // each purpose

Nil Charge / Nil Return

ping bend to lunar bow. // // No woman

ruled by orbing tyrant queen; // // Umbilical tangen skywards, cut cl

ss control; // // Consistency straight-

ruled . // // Pacing for the exercise alone. // // HB // // ‘Hard Bl

Three Ways of Walking

odied mastery, pantomime mystery // //

ruled their ambitions, now dead and now done with // // since no-one

Jonathan’s Deathbed

st like in nature’s murmuring, Dionysus

rules and Apollo is asleep! // // 7. // // The awkward heavy giant i

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

all rot away, while night // // brings

rumbling forest drums that cry vanité! // // vanité! tous n’est ce qu

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

Loose Ghazal for

Rumi // // Look at you—born of halves and fulls, // // Born of earth

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

ts of Gwyngachu, // // sweeps over the

ruminant chomp // // of a mutinous herd of nil. // // Below them, th

Nil Charge / Nil Return

d. // // Eat junk? You might as well

rummage through bins, // // barefaced as a Buddhist monk. Enough bun

Chocolate Sonnet

tch // // Elbowed dog-wise against the

rumour // // Of Africa. // // The sky stretched, // // A dirigible

Summer swam round, and the bees spread

rumour of honey, // // but all I could hear was the smash of lights i

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

long, // // And your dark decomposing

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

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

/ // Promise me—let’s run when you can

run and talk when words you have mastered, // // Let’s sit cross-legg

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

filled them in? // // The avenues just

run as ‘First’ to ‘Tenth’ from right to left. // // Milan and Barcelo

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

/ and silver birch along the dunes that

run // // between the marshes and the sea. The sun // // is low ahe

Wells in winter

ff the drive, // // do the Sainsburys’

run , give Mum a call, // // and look up flight-times for your daughte

eal thing. He’s renowned. // // He can

run , he can swim—he’ll never be drowned. // // You strike him and dee

s // // Where minutes, hours, and days

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

[At the coinciding point of the years]

branches and bloom // // May your sap

run quick and your bark hold strong— // // May your spores spread wid

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

lute dread of what may be. // // Words

run slipshod, all across the page and onto the desk and away, // // A

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// // I move a little, and the ripples

run . // // Spill? // // All the little fishes swim in packs, and I’m

Whales sing because they have a song

and oblivious. // // Promise me—let’s

run when you can run and talk when words you have mastered, // // Let

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

// the self-confessed skeptics // //

run workshops and digs // // and stand in the temple // // announcin

of the Mystery, inscribed arcana // //

runes from the root-tree written in the deeps, // // leaves from the

be quenched before your passing bell is

rung . // // But now I need the poets who grew old // // And wore the

lay with that same flowing vein, // //

Running between the knuckles of your // // Ring and middle finger, //

Fall for————

// // // // And, lover, consider the

running down of the strong stag, // // its only hope to lead the quic

/ // wolves behind me and I’m running,

running from the grey // // teeth breathing just beyond my shoulder b

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

d away on a tide of sleep. Suddenly I’m

running . Grey // // wolves behind me and I’m running, running from th

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

Met mean Binyamin // // In the offices

running // // His fighting machine. // // He whispered sweet nothing

g. Grey // // wolves behind me and I’m

running , running from the grey // // teeth breathing just beyond my s

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

nd the wall, level with the top, // //

running the gauntlet of the winter storm. // // The tide is high, and

Walking in winter

ch of green biro. // // I have to keep

running to feel I’m going somewhere. // // Reality eats // // slow-m

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

afloat. // // Behind each moored boat

runs a wake: time to gush full spate. // // Now my headlong dash aba

gets her lighter, gets her gas, // //

runs down the hallway, quick as one // // intent on small house agent

[the typist puts her knickers on]

see desire distilled in the juice that

runs // // From tongue to lip to lip’s corner and streams // // Into

’Tis pity he’s a bore

/ the man // // Sits there, // // And

runs his perfect hands through perfect hair. // // He tells us he is

Poems on the Underground // //

Rush hour and my fear for how I would // // Negotiate the other passe

Poems on the Underground

to rose-risen blush. // // We must not

rush now past the wee hours of // // waiting on fronted news, the for

Aubade to Girton

ime to // // gather pace. // // Now I

rush on down the creek // // bearing loose things left afloat. // //

my loss – but ask my cooling corpse to

rush // // you finite proof ‘within three working days’. // // In li

Between Life and Death

owed the moon, the stars all smiled and

rushed to become bubbles in the waves around my shoulders. And I was s

[So the moon was there]

Voices // // On

Rushup Edge // // Voices far across the valley sound // // through s

is chilled // // by all the breath of

Russia // // (even the kitchen sink bears witness // // to Soviet co

why i’m getting into Christmas

oth made from stardust // // and blood

rust // // as the sky began seeping liquid gold, // // the kind that

p among your dusk // // heavy sockets.

rust // // me down // // within the crepusc // // -ular tone, the t

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

winter nut // // And the half-hearted

rust remains // // Of another autumn’s dying. // // But now the plan

owards // // A still canal, laced with

rust that blooms // // From old fashioned, swan-necked cycles. // //

left faceless perfection’s shackles to

rust . // // The shuttle flits through warp and weft // // And hands

nd press ’til, // // abrading the bolt-

rust , // // they burst through their binding // // like overwound sp

Nil Charge / Nil Return

an seeping liquid gold // // and blood

rust // // we were both made from stardust. // // For this is where

ers // // spicing the soil // // iron

rusted // // pump valves // // good for scattering // // from plast

yew needs dried blood in spring

irsty flowers. // // I taste the faint

rustle of grass as I sit on it, // // The tickle of its many spears o

opes and shards of mystery. // // They

rustle through me in my waking dreams // // And so I’ll have a heart-

The Cutting Edge

night, I tiptoe to the door // // To

rustle through these severed strips of love, // // And strew my heart

The Cutting Edge

elighted kept at bay from the quiet and

rustling examination halls. // // This is my revision, it has no stru

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

looming, // // We gaze across, to that

rusty field // // Where your funeral pyres still burn, // // Silentl

Magnetic Mountain

, all behind us. // // Your jeans were

rusty // // red, too short. I could // // see the whites of your ank

Tridente, 10th September

// At Dungeness Lighthouse; // // The

rusty sweet tin of icing tips, // // Individually wrapped in kitchen

om the rest of // // Humanity, drove a

rut // // Between our consciousness // // And the light beyond, //

. // // Bums are falling off our kids:

ruthless in cutting off waste! // // Fairy-free gardens have as many

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

k deep into sticky clay. // // Between

rutted mud and thistle bloom // // We pick our path along the hollow

: // // Nostalgic adventures // // Of

Ryder and Flyte // // Awestruck Oxonians, // // Transgenerationally,