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

S

e animal is out for blood // // But my

saccharine breath pleads for a haven. // // I have little hope that e

ium. // // This pumice golem was never

sacred // // In the glaring static of hidden foamy currents. // //

Frighteningly Inert

ed down // // In circling curlicues of

sacred text, // // Flaring in ink and paper to the floor, // // The

The Cutting Edge

led grey. I asked you why you seemed so

sad , but all you did was turn, leaning over and reaching out as if to

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

ue, // // The right hanging, something

sad inside. // // A cloud broke, and she saw it shatter, // // Up th

[The sun flattened]

tails off, // // (Too slow, // // Too

sad ) // // Leaving us to decide on // // Another song. // // Granny

Wild Mountain Thyme

here would we be? // // In a tirade of

sad sad songs, and sadder looks longingly out at a patch of grass with

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

would we be? // // In a tirade of sad

sad songs, and sadder looks longingly out at a patch of grass with the

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

lbows and knees. But the moon looked so

sad that I stayed there for hours and hours until it began to sink, an

[So the moon was there]

// // slow, // // charitable, // //

sad . // // ‘Yes,’ I thought, ‘nothing ever // // changes.’ I wondere

In a charity shop

/ // In a tirade of sad sad songs, and

sadder looks longingly out at a patch of grass with the sun on it and

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ublic benefit’s not even there.” // //

Sadik says “The Boris’s vanity project has // // gone off the rails.

Troubled waters

siness is not keeping pace) // // —but

Sadik the Most Evil deposes poor Boris, and // // gets the Red Margar

Troubled waters

/ her fondness for Stilton // // when,

sadly , it just made her sneeze. // // But the sly cat would not be di

The Failing of the Cheese

rning red petal fingernails. You looked

sadly through // // me, and I was left swallowing saltwater streams u

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

sure when we collected this specimen of

sadness . // // Helium and hydrogen hauled together // // at our hear

ed me like an ocean of blue. // // The

sadness settled once you’d left. I became blue, // // artificially st

[I often think of that January morning]

sure when we collected this specimen of

sadness , // // the kind that still refracts through your eyes. // //

merry // // Fur fire and we are

safe against the cold, cold night // // drink! and be merry! // // W

Drink and be merry

nough to not let it drown, and so I was

safe . And so I started swimming and swimming, and I swum back to you—w

[So the moon was there]

rs // // I’d gaze away my hours // //

safe from view; surrounding spectra // // blinding from refracted //

luc bat to mr. beam

lways down.] // // I have to go. Drive

safe . // // I will, don’t worry. // // [I’ll try, don’t worry.] //

Whales sing because they have a song

cript’s embrace // // in which to rest—

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

luc bat to mr. beam

makes all necessary marks. // // Park-

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

Three Ways of Walking

joy // // may be your stated goal but

safety first – // // you’re in the trash dear Wayne – you wongaboy –

Between Life and Death

gers tickling the clouds // // And the

saffron -yellow orbs of our mango tree // // Dangling by such slender

// // Like Coleridge I could become a

sage , // // And I bet I’d get more dates // // Than WB Yeats // //

What we say is true, // // « Quand la

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

[She points to the sky]

town they settled down // // on purple

sage to lie. // // A Cheshire cat accosted them, // // then walked h

// // do you remember what Kierkegaard

said , // // am I everything you hate in yourself, // // all those fe

/ he thought of some words that Pol Pot

said , // // and he almost did best her // // with a slice of Red Lei

The Failing of the Cheese

e railroad, // // done. ‘It’s him’ you

said // // and I could hear in the quiet // // my heart, once yours,

es” I said. // // “somethings wrong” I

said , // // cutting through the quiet. // // I watched you, crossing

ght // // that there’s something to be

said // // for the wisdom // // of poor folk // // who come from th

and brin d’amour? // // And had Hamlet

said ‘Forsooth, I must punish my uncle’s transgression but feta or par

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

me check the textbook again. // // 2,

said half-jokingly on holiday in Singapore, but actually just very sou

Three Pieces of Advice

had stopped // // ‘it’s gonna die,’ he

said , // // ‘if it stays on that crossing’ // // then the train did

o point, she said] // // No point, she

said , in keeping the old girls— // // Grey in the wattle, scabbed abo

[No point, she said]

n talking // // when everything’s been

said . // // In the dead, we stopped // // and stayed stuck in the qu

ture tea pot // // (Worth mending, Nan

said , it’s genuine Limoges); // // The milk jug from bank holidays //

said ] // // No point, she said, in keeping the old girls— // // Grey

[No point, she said]

er face // // // // My mother always

said , “one day you might // // Play when the stakes trump the game, a

and hours until it began to sink, and I

said // // // // Please don’t go! // // I’ll eat you up, //

[So the moon was there]

/ he loved it… crossing // // lines” I

said . // // “somethings wrong” I said, // // cutting through the qui

pt on talking // // I noticed the sign

said // // ‘take care, ail road’ // // ahead, on the rail road // /

life’s melody. // // “Fiddle-dee-dee,”

said the minstrel, “The only thing // // Left of this life is its swe

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// Bitter Creek, last time // // You

said this was the only way. // // Just please arrive too late. // //

l’esprit d’escalier

Chocolate Sonnet // // You always

said you’d sooner chew nettles // // than touch anything branded by N

Chocolate Sonnet

/ Because this is my fantasy, and Freud

said you’re everyone in your dreams. // // Of course I’ll continue to

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

could only tip its hat. Columbus would

sail // // again. Columbus was the beginning, he saw triplet hills pe

left her brother stone dead, // // And

sailed with the oaf, resolute. // // THESEUS // // I blame my dad. S

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

emerald isle’s southern shore. Behold!

Sailors , all hail! // // No isle is truly godforsaken, give thanks fo

ble. Incorrigible night // // in which

sailors drown at sea because I let the glass ring on and // // on—the

off as a tax loss, // // Raised black

sails , and now I’m in clover. // // ARIADNE // // I blame that bronz

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

gs. // // Blown away through our empty

sails , over the fields. // // We’re right grateful feeling that eveni

the leaves off the drive, // // do the

Sainsburys ’ run, give Mum a call, // // and look up flight-times for

lind, dumb, deaf upon the pedestal of a

saint , // // by touch and instinct you descend to hide among // // t

e it some taxpayer funding, and get old

saint // // George of the Chancel to throw in some too.” // // So th

Troubled waters

// Of shorn hair and candle wax, to the

saint ; // // The ram-head of the corpse cracks a smile. // // Silk s

of the find in the name of God for the

sake of gold. They mock- // // ed in Portugal, but when land (oh fina

of the find in the name of God for the

sake of gold. They mock // // him in island schools now, fumbling for

ningless, roundabout, questions for the

sake of making // // Noise. Repetitive exchanges of false // // Smi

Vicious or Virtuous?

From the lips of this voice // // Like

saliva onto the paper. // // The words and ink slowly // // Seep dee

Writing to explore

// in Roman era, // // set in gibbet

salt , // // a red nick cuts… // // wonder began // // // // or I

Hercules et Oracle

gh // // me, and I was left swallowing

saltwater streams under fluorescent light. // // Autumn in Cambridge,

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

st-deep in hands // // That tilled the

salty earth // // No less than home. // // The burden of Egypt, //

Salvage // // The ghost of the impact, white on the window, // // ca

days and He’ll return // // And bring

salvation and sunshine and the smell of fresh grass with Him. // // S

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

// Jonathan’s deathbed was strewn with

salvation in // // gadgets and gizmos that soiled his mattress with /

Jonathan’s Deathbed

Casablanca’s on again.” // // Play it,

Sam . // // BBC1, half past ten. // // Here’s lookin’ at you, kid. //

A Hymn to a Loved One

n with port) // // I like them all and

sample every sort // // from Creamy keats with his mossed cottage tre

Cheese is the medium

ds. // // But now our cropped, uncivil

Samson binds // // Five foxes, brush to brush, a hexagram // // Of b

Sixteen Forty-Five

/ To imagine // // (your contours like

sand -dunes // // against the beige of my fingertips // // against th

way, the churn // // of waves upon the

sand . Eastwards we turn, // // along the open beach, in rich sea air

Wells in winter

y name to the cold pebbles and the cold

sand // // I roared my name to the surprise of the animals to the

[I whispered my name into the trees]

// // The sun sits sessile— // // The

sand is yellow—until it is grey— // // The sea brims until it breaks—

From Trebetherick Point

// that trickled the head of the pool.

Sand shivered a hermit // // crab’s claw from its recycled shell, whi

Just a Small Fish

ey also threw // // Into the asp-bored

sand to rest for two millennia. // // Haloed by Hawara sun you saw hi

e poor must grow their food amongst the

sand // // Whilst colonists enjoy resplendent views: // // Oppressio

’d wear my armour well, // // And send

sandal’d feet scuffling back on the dirt they earlier trod. // // His

’Tis pity he’s a bore

apes // // dipping into knot warps and

sanded -down blemishes) // // To imagine // // (your contours like sa

ound; // // But now // // (varnished,

sanded , rooted into cold // // carpet) // // there is simply nothing

chains of pools that lace the spreading

sands and soft mudflats: time to // // gather pace. // // Now I rus

iscarded sleeves and scarves // // The

sandy bend that was my elbow, crooked // // Round old socks long sinc

like shalimar // // On the radio, the

sandy scar // // Of dunes on the windshield. // // We went driving i

re the lark and yours the song // // I

sang in jail. // // Give me some time to blow the man down // //

ly in the supermarket // // // // I

sang my name in the church // // I hissed my name to the cold pebbles

[I whispered my name into the trees]

/ drink to Christ! and be merry! // //

Sanitized warm parsnip smells tender goose and the great pudding //

Drink and be merry

ight // // and air, pools and palaces,

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

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

s wrench’t // // sufficiént; you claim

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

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

, of branches and bloom // // May your

sap run quick and your bark hold strong— // // May your spores spread

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

ateur // // Nor some unsavvy stumbling

sapeur // // He understands // // That which he needs to understand.

rrah! // // A cup and a toast to seed,

sapling , and snag— // // A toast and a cup to the soil and loam, //

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

// // its pupils were graves dug amid

sapphires … // // Of course its parents were disappointed // // but s

you through your words // // and your

sardonic jokes, could // // see your hands shake, could not save //

Sestina to an English Teacher

hine // // Fin de siècle. // // Ethel

Sargant , botanist // // (Girton student 1880s) // // builds a lab in

There must be moonshine

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

[The sash rattles up]

[The sash rattles up] // // The

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

[The sash rattles up]

felt sorry for it, because although it

sat alone in the watercloured skies, the moon could never be king. And

[So the moon was there]

alked home and made coffee, // // then

sat and poured my thoughts over a journal’s patient page. // // I rem

[I often think of that January morning]

s never seemed greater // // Then when

sat around this table, // // A crowd of faces linked by tinsel and bl

In a charity shop // //

Sat behind the counter, // // old watches spread, // // bracelets, t

In a charity shop

// that the whole reason she was // //

sat , hunch-huddled // // behind the counter, // // was because she h

In a charity shop

udged he was not fed. // // So the cat

sat , so thin and impatient, // // but then… bittersweet jubilation! /

The Failing of the Cheese

, the tea was still hot. And so we just

sat there, and the trees weren’t pink and the stars couldn’t sing, but

[So the moon was there]

use I was cold. And although you’d been

sat there for days and days waiting for me to come back, the tea was s

[So the moon was there]

// // We are buggering the ineffable;

Satan’s a spot we can see! // // What will you trade for an eye? AI m

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

orrect and repossess and play “sleeping

satellite ” with my scorn tucked in a mason jar, the one thing left. sh

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

he truth. // // That we’ve always been

satellites // // Going around, and around, // // Passing by our narr

[She points to the sky]

I have little hope that either will be

satisfied . // // I am a fool without wisdom, // // Feeding on borrow

have Prometheus again. We had that last

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

from John Lewis, cinnamon infused bread

sauce and incongruous prosecco // // drink! // // to Christmas! //

Drink and be merry

Martha // // Dirty

saucers . Damp teatowels. // // The steady drip-drip-drip of drying pl

mprehension; lensed eyes ‘big // // as

saucers ’ x-ray-burning to my five- // // year infant guilt. Fruitless

Compass Reading

Saudade Aubade // // the morning after // // I’m searching for a wor

// // invasions and massacres, all the

savagery that // // we will. But who gave you your face? // // Dig,

Wandlebury Hill

could // // say by heart—the ones you

save // // inside your head for your // // gawping students, that de

Sestina to an English Teacher

Nothing living in this landscape // //

Save mustangs high up in the hills. // // Surely a tragic loading, //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// smile and tease and pass on courage,

save // // our grades and your dignity, your // // inspiration, your

Sestina to an English Teacher

// // see your hands shake, could not

save // // the hair on your head from pallor, save // // you from ad

Sestina to an English Teacher

at in verse, speak in poetry, you could

save // // these dying words with your // // endless life. I wondere

Sestina to an English Teacher

// the hair on your head from pallor,

save // // you from admiring recognition as your // // skin faded, w

Sestina to an English Teacher

/ // if only // // words could // //

save your life. // //

Sestina to an English Teacher

your // // voice, your image, tried to

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

Sestina to an English Teacher

/ myself from regret, if I used them to

save your // // voice, your image, tried to save your life— // // if

Sestina to an English Teacher

muscles, and all ten toes. But the moon

saved me— // // // // But you’d already swallowed it. // //

[So the moon was there]

// // I know, and that’s how it

saved me. The moon filled the bits of my skin that were too big and su

[So the moon was there]

uld // // think I’d misunderstood if I

saved // // myself from regret, if I used them to save your // // vo

Sestina to an English Teacher

quality of care // // That might have

saved you all those years ago. // // Conserved and published, now at

could declare our love to be an energy

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

I’ll never work for Hallmark

// // and badinaged with her would-be

saviour // // and caught his eye and struck him blind and dead. // /

en. // // A dance, hypnotic; long, yet

savour it // // The leaves are moved, their path unbroken now // //

d portion and peel // // these days to

savour , or discard; not feed the eternal angelic fight. // // Still I

ften thought // // Dear Alan, // // I

saw a man on the bus who I thought was you // // Dear Alan, // // I

beneath. // // My Grandmother says she

saw // // Angel’s feet once, through the key hole. // // That was be

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

// Of the fatal black suit, that only I

saw // // Fit you ill, and added to your breaking; // // True predat

lennia. // // Haloed by Hawara sun you

saw him lean // // To read the writing, say that you had been // //

him walking in the meadow] // // They

saw him walking in the meadow // // In May he stood beneath the willo

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

saw him walking in the meadow] // // They saw him walking in the mead

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

King’s first commission // // He just

saw in me a magician // // Who could cast a bronze bull to let his Qu

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

I can’t quite remember the first way I

saw it; // // lost like all beauty. // // But knowing that to hol

d inside. // // A cloud broke, and she

saw it shatter, // // Up there in the sky, // // Blowed and bumbling

[The sun flattened]

g, the eternal Prima Vera. // // Blake

saw it too. Dante and Beatrice // // Are bathing in it now, away upst

s // // But in the darkening hour they

saw // // The boy without a face. // //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

st // // Of being the first // // Who

saw the collision, // // Revealed the Higgs boson. // // Briefly. /

Small Particles in the Small Hours

‘women’s college’ where the third years

saw // // They had just funds enough to pay and brought you here. //

/ again. Columbus was the beginning, he

saw triplet hills peak- // // ing out from the emerald isle’s souther

de, // // What it might mean if all we

saw were beards upon the face, // // A Mr. Twit complex, the psycholo

Bearded Thoughts

ng your condition—if // // you knew we

saw you through your words // // and your sardonic jokes, could // /

Sestina to an English Teacher

// you’re out. And though I dreamed I

saw // // your coming in the night, I can no more // // credit clair

moss-gilded // // a summerwake heap of

sawdust and soil // // misting in the middle of a cracked caramel car

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

old bran and chaff // // mixed up with

sawdust from our new cut beams! // // We’re a curio. Grain shovel is

summer holidays, // // we chopped and

sawed and dug and then set fire to // // the produce of our labours.

the caws // // Of rooks opposed to any

sawing of their trees, // // Choosing, building, flying, feeding in t

[Walcott begins Omeros]

er here with the jarring noise of chain

saws , // // Beginning to write essays that in some wise start to feed

[Walcott begins Omeros]

wittering. The twain // // with anglo-

saxon attitudes // // then to Caerphilly came. // // They lingered l

// Did I give enough? // // I cannot

say . // //

e losing heat. // // So what does that

say about us? // // That we’re always going to give our heat away? //

Three Pieces of Advice

red by smoke but, as you // // English

say , an omelette’s only made by breaking eggs. // // Oh! must you lea

/ // And speak the word too mundane to

say // // And expire with the curse of your name dribbling from my li

to be alive. // // “Hold me tight” you

say // // and my fear is I will not live up to the task. // //

rom the wicker chair. // // I need not

say anything because // // she fills the silence of the room // // w

wealth, // // But tonight I smile and

say , // // As I put their books away, // // Oh sod the lot! I’d bett

// // to find a way. // // I hear you

say , // // “But life is for the living, do not kill // // another da

// those words that you could // //

say by heart—the ones you save // // inside your head for your // //

Sestina to an English Teacher

t it was, // // You must plan what you

say , // // Control what you say. // // You can never just say it, //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

/ So snow falls outside, // // So they

say I should be happy now. // // Success comes sweet at last. // //

[So snow falls outside]

a point I can’t convey. // // What we

say is true, // // « Quand la sage montre la Lune, l’imbécile regarde

[She points to the sky]

what you say. // // You can never just

say it, // // If you say it people will hear, // // Then where would

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

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

say it people will hear, // // Then where would we be? // // In a ti

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ut they’d find something) // // They’d

say it was tragic, most likely. // // I think the sky is tragic, //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

/ // Radiant in its being. // // They

say its name is ONCE and HEREAFTER // // WAS, IS, and SHALL BE EVERMO

[At the coinciding point of the years]

Blood and water upon my feet // // And

say never, never forgive him // // He knows, he knows what he is doin

well in their place // // —in muesli,

say , or maybe Christmas cake, // // or more appropriately, Suliman’s

The well of love

// Why snow? That seems an odd thing to

say , right? I mean // // what about the women come and go and talk

e comedy is tragic, // // Well, if you

say so. // // I have no idea, // // So I picture the Ramsays’ sittin

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

is universal and you can bet whatever I

say // // Someone, somewhere has heard it before. // // I could decl

I’ll never work for Hallmark

how are you?”) // // and I want her to

say something back. // // I open my eyes // // She is not there. The

ning shadow of the unknown. // // They

say that each creature must find its way to this tree // // And that

[At the coinciding point of the years]

in clay— // // Angelic messengers who

say // // That though he finds himself alone, // // Life’s pawn at l

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

from the earth // // had something to

say // // that was not // // of this // // earth. // // But now //

on the look out; never can we rest and

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

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

aw him lean // // To read the writing,

say that you had been // // A teacher and must be exemplar for // //

gists (clean-shaven and in black) might

say . // // The beard is living history, we are too close to the past,

Bearded Thoughts

determinism both, tonight // // I only

say : there’s not much to report. // //

// or below // // that has anything to

say // // to the poor folk of Greece. // // But I’ve always thought

arts // // I wonder what he’s going to

say ? // // We are but notes the piano plays. // // Crescendo—jump a

ll, // // another day. // // I cannot

say // // whether I have the necessary skill // // to find a way. //

n what you say, // // Control what you

say . // // You can never just say it, // // If you say it people wil

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

e of love. // // they use their words,

saying eyes are the window to the soul // // but eyes don’t talk to G

Same but differenT

ays made love with his shirt on. // //

Saying “Now that I’m old, // // I do feel the cold— // // and my bre

/ // heritage // // status // // but

saying // // that the earth beneath // // is completely // // indif

unted in // // And somewhere someone’s

saying yes. // // Even the plane tree’s drop-earrings // // Have alm

fucking magpie. // // and this magpie

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

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

says : fairy tales formally feature // // insufficient details to impa

boy, “your light points to the sky”. he

says it’s a figure, a luminescent metaphor for something else, but all

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

ear of fresh // // blooms: already one

says : “mankind cannot // // bear very much reality (wink here)”; //

Aubade to Girton

Flash News // // Scientist

says : meme for belief in life after death // // Old man sits bespecta

s: can you help me? // // and the girl

says : no, I’m sorry. // // and the magpie pecks out her eye. // // t

of every correct proposition. // // It

says nothing // // And is perfectly useless // // And is perfect, //

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

treasure beneath. // // My Grandmother

says she saw // // Angel’s feet once, through the key hole. // // Th

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

benefit’s not even there.” // // Sadik

says “The Boris’s vanity project has // // gone off the rails. I’m n

Troubled waters

ream, // // ‘There are some days,’ she

says , // // ‘when the rails look like // // lives clustered into the

In a charity shop

remember that well. // // and the girl

says : why did you peck out // // my eye, magpie? // // and the magpi

e stripper’s son // // turns to me and

says : // // you should’ve written The Waste Land first time round Nic

[the typist puts her knickers on]

e old girls— // // Grey in the wattle,

scabbed about the arse // // Eating us out of chicken feed. // // Bu

[No point, she said]

vening sun through an embrace // // of

scaffold . And why not wriggle our toes in bits of old bran and chaff /

se glaciers of flame. // // To measure

scale for such a furious flame? // // Dark Matter reels. Imagine it

child a gang of children you // // are

scales beneath a sheepskin you are crow’s // // feet in a mirror, so

making // // Neither fur, feathers nor

scales ever clad // // A perfectly honed piece of mortal machinery //

fasting, feasted on the sea: // // its

scales , its tales, and its bitter // // fomenting glory in the great

test them it painted // // over their

scales or feathers as they slept // // and rolled them howling down a

s a pound. // // Solid as oak from his

scalp to the ground. // // Fresh as the day although freckled and bro

// // me of cut chalk and // // turf

scalped red, ley lines and hillforts, // // invasions and massacres,

Wandlebury Hill

io // // crash corpse? Those ‘hoodlums

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

Between Life and Death

you here. // // Three X-rays and a CAT

scan for an air- // // Conditioned corpse. A quality of care // //

dally, // // Just that his name // //

Scans quite well on the page). // // Higgledy Piggledy // // Jesus o

s proves useful: // // I can assess my

scanty nuts of coke, // // apportion rationed quires and dilute ink.

A Room of Her Own

// // So that I have a lipstick smudge

scar all the way round my torso. // // And as the seal starts to weep

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// After the knife, there follows the

scar , // // and after the scissors, well, that's where we are. // //

/ // Upstream again to clamber Gordale

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

Daydream Dale Journey

shalimar // // On the radio, the sandy

scar // // Of dunes on the windshield. // // We went driving in your

ozen in flight on tarmac soar // // No

scar or battle wound, // // Just resting, feet cresting // // The co

Urban bird watching

e dare // // to unimagined worlds that

scare // // me. Something creepily malign’s // // through there, and

d get soggy and weigh me down. I was so

scared that I could feel a fear trembling and leaping between my synap

[So the moon was there]

he waves around my shoulders. And I was

scared that my skin would get soggy and weigh me down. I was so scared

[So the moon was there]

d hides is a chin. // // Perhaps we’re

scared to look history in the face, // // The bearded wonders from a

Bearded Thoughts

hat’s what she’d’ve wanted’. // // Her

scarf , her necklace. // // That brooch. // // Or if she ever // //

In a charity shop

y vision, and in the air my grey // //

scarf waving like a distress signal—fossilised. The camera light // /

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

A Woman Fallen // //

Scarlet skins and serpent leaves, // // A paradise lost between her k

r inside him. // // And there are some

scars a business suit can’t hide. // // And I still faint from nosebl

Three Pieces of Advice

tender wounds // // And you my battle

scars , // // Then you might pull me from my sphere // // Or fall to

The Daily Planet

// Sedimentary; discarded sleeves and

scarves // // The sandy bend that was my elbow, crooked // // Round

ing, hoping and hoping. grind me up and

scatter my ashes, Ba’al Hadad, I submit. I lie to you like a dog, like

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

e have // // funeral pyres.) Later we

scatter the ashes // // in a wild part of the old South London cemete

pero’s storm: // // cellophane sea and

scattered // // doll-like bodies, their tiny faces // // far too cle

never to touch // // Drift amidst the

scattered echoes // // Of long forgotten lust; // // Dead gods rise

sted // // pump valves // // good for

scattering // // from plastic tubs // // feeding yew // // crooked

yew needs dried blood in spring

// for spring // // when dried blood

scatters // //

yew needs dried blood in spring

// And swiftly it scratched across the

scene , // // Barricading your past before it intrudes // // In the v

The Other Side of the Line

sun on it and a rabbit or two - pretty

scene , but where’s the tragedy? // // Back to the books, // // Back

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// And the artist who is showing us the

scene // // —does he know what it is she sees? The frame // // he c

Cape Cod Morning

// // by the temerity of this Alaskan

scene . // // It may be the coldest day of the year // // but no Murd

why i’m getting into Christmas

ps spray silent // // Zest bittersweet

scent // // Syrupy fingertips // // Slide past lips // // Mellow to

// mouth; less folded in your body and

scent // // than I was fried by a blast from your snout. // //

he brimming chest, // // the shivering

sceptic , afraid, at last, of ghosts? // //

/ // The prophecised son (/sun) // //

Sceptics will tell you that, // // Astrologistically, // // This is

Vice-like; your pierced side holds your

sceptre -spear. // // What passion. High and clear and far, the song /

mouse with some cheese. // // But his

scheming was built on // // her fondness for Stilton // // when, sad

The Failing of the Cheese

// one more time. Tell me have you seen

Schiele’s // // Levitation, the curled toes the moment // // of depa

tural size. // // This is my space for

scholarship // // to read and pen and thrive, // // even without deg

A Room of Her Own

/ Or habits while you bike your kids to

school . // // Pointy hats—and couplets—fade like leaves // // In fas

In Defence of Evolution

// Do sometimes quake. // // Her high

school sits right above // // A pair of hormone-infested jaws // //

2H // // ‘Two Hard’, too hard. // //

School store supply; // // Compass control; // // Consistency straig

Three Ways of Walking

Hermione // // No

school today. Miss cannot teach us Greek; // // No breath remains to

Early in the evening, we left the

school . Wandering out along the darkening lanes we went to cross the r

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

of gold. They mock // // him in island

schools now, fumbling for the East Indies like one who // // couldn’t

en the music for the ceremony // // —a

Schubert piano piece.) // // Standing around the Cambridge crematoriu

Scientist // // Oh take me back to the start, // // at the moment wh

Flash News // //

Scientist says: meme for belief in life after death // // Old man sit

rt-, a head-, a handful when // // The

scissors come for me. // // For at my back, like you, I always here /

The Cutting Edge

// // to frame. These are sharp // //

scissors , new scissors: // // no stone will blunt them. // //

Stone, Paper, Scissors

e. These are sharp // // scissors, new

scissors : // // no stone will blunt them. // //

Stone, Paper, Scissors

his is what I fear; // // The stealthy

scissors of a blinded time // // Cutting through accretions of the pa

The Cutting Edge

ole, warm. Not paper. // // I am using

scissors to cut // // a square around your face // // to frame. The

Stone, Paper, Scissors

follows the scar, // // and after the

scissors , well, that's where we are. // // After the slip from the ti

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

Stone, Paper, Scissors

t when read in whole. // // The writer

scoffs when hearing praise // // Of how masterful his pen appears, //

hoard-gems // // In the mind For the

scop to shape the songsmith // // The word-worm breaks from the bon

ings and wrenches words to verse // //

Scorched calfskin with meaning // // Of the skull, once scorched soft

with meaning // // Of the skull, once

scorched soft calfskin, // // Now burns blackened words into dead woo

// // The potter’s hand that slips and

scores // // his mark into the waiting clay; // // Telling the futur

Doors open, the // // Train disgorging

scores of ‘excuse me please’ // // As passengers // // Cross and rec

Poems on the Underground

least of concern, // // once the knife

scores the surface, finds a snag, and then turns— // // shearing me.

s and play “sleeping satellite” with my

scorn tucked in a mason jar, the one thing left. she only hears whispe

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

s— // // He’s in with top brass and so

scorns Hamas. // // Where we die to live, he has zero to give. // //

meaningless, is one of mine? // // She

scorns me and my writing, I’m sure it’s the end // // Of a love that

Wednesday Evening

or. // // Every Girtonian burrs like a

Scot , // // At every moment the burring grows, // // Thrushes migrat

BURR (or Brrrrr)

ed, like ice cubes // // in scotch, or

scotch in a stomach. // // That is it—to die, not in the customary se

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

elves drowned, like ice cubes // // in

scotch , or scotch in a stomach. // // That is it—to die, not in the c

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

as seemed appropriate, // // The boys

scrambled up, toecurling-wise and like two young // // Eves, in a flu

basket spills in sticky clay // // and

scraped the mud off of her own caked shoes. // // The feet that passe

nes, and further west // // Leaves and

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

of love, // // And strew my heart with

scraps of poetry, // // Forbidden hopes and shards of mystery. // /

The Cutting Edge

// Threaded with thoughts that thistle-

scratch // // and bounce back: big prizes! // // glossier glamour! m

[A spinning spider]

s of downy skin // // and the tactless

scratch of green biro. // // I have to keep running to feel I’m going

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

spat in my face. // // And swiftly it

scratched across the scene, // // Barricading your past before it int

The Other Side of the Line

musing Islamophobia. // // My smile is

scratched into my face. // // He is adrift in the sea. // // I am gl

ir high stools // // for extended head-

scratching . // //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

nights // // It would be wise to stop

scratching now, // // And spare myself the future pain. // // But hi

Mosquito nights

l knocking about breaking // // things

scratching walls hiding under bedsheets, // // buoyed by the colourle

owner and origin immortalized // // In

scratchy biro ink. // // Each domestic heirloom bearing // // The cu

t. No easier to describe my feelings in

scrawled letters // // Than in conversations, so the note stays unfin

Snapshot Endings

aggers, // // Piercing you, making you

scream . // // But the daggers are not daggers, // // No one can hear

// That provides the peacock // // its

scream , // // Deep in the bosom of the // // gentle night. // // I

l’esprit d’escalier

Stare through me, past my skin, to the

scream stuck // // In my throat. // // Her chest, like mine, heaves

ite poems // // because I just want to

scream them until I’m hoarse, // // to admit my narcissism behind the

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

to fly // // Drenched in the love that

screamed from my veins // // When you pierced me with your unseen bl

// From tumbling to the concrete, eyes

screaming from tear gas // // Thrown by Apartheid police. // // And

Three Pieces of Advice

ging a message I had not planned // //

Screaming in my mind for release. // // Until I cry for things I neve

Writing to explore

ot daggers, // // No one can hear your

screams // // And no one has seen your struggle. // // It’s only a l

tching too. // // He needs to hear the

screams , // // But all I do is bark wildly at the moon. // // Bitter

l’esprit d’escalier

Here be dragons // // Wake as three

screams take // // Flight, from window to shadow // // A child’s voi

Here be dragons

e the cool clear air. // // Beyond the

scree the open path leads on, // // a gentler walk, to bare bleak Mal

Daydream Dale Journey

taking it’s last steps. // // // // …

Screeching brakes and crunching metal as gravity falls away. // // T

Snapshot Endings

is this the poem? // // Soon, make the

screen a mirror, graft the machine under skin, // // Let code-lines m

t the tympanum, // // Hard by the rood-

screen here. // //

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

e tympanum. // // But hard by the rood-

screen here, // // His face is set like flint, // // For stony silen

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

/ // The flickering green // // Of my

screen . // // Here in Higgs’ Field // // I keep my eyes peeled, //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

ts virtual descendants grace // // The

screen on my mother’s PC). // // I peel them slowly, smoothly // //

estic heirloom bearing // // The curly

script of a generation // // Framed by the dusty yellow // // Of tha

s; growing day by day, // // a cursive

script’s embrace // // in which to rest—safe in the sound // // of w

luc bat to mr. beam

our well, // // And send sandal’d feet

scuffling back on the dirt they earlier trod. // // His eyes are deep

’Tis pity he’s a bore

d—'til it burst—became a mass // // Of

scum . For us, lost Space and Earth and form. // // Within our bubble,

/ The light was rarely shown, // // We

scuttled around behind // // Doors and were blown // // About by the

// // Sol… // // tod // // elcaro te

se lucreh* // // * ‘You flesh to atone’ (Google Translate, 2014). //

Hercules et Oracle

can hear, // // Whispering across the

sea , // // A name a little bit like « me ». // // To the East, to th

Ode to a map of the world

n, // // along the open beach, in rich

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

Wells in winter

// // I wonder about your house by the

sea , and how long that photo remained through // // the year. You tel

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

of Prospero’s storm: // // cellophane

sea and scattered // // doll-like bodies, their tiny faces // // far

she floats above the curl and spume of

sea , and then // // the girl poised and primed // // to dive // //

sidings // // He cannot see // // The

sea // // And yet he knows // // It cannot be // // Less than close

night // // in which sailors drown at

sea because I let the glass ring on and // // on—the noise the dream-

is yellow—until it is grey— // // The

sea brims until it breaks— // // Onward—I watch the wake— // // And

From Trebetherick Point

. Sugar bowl fills not-white tablecloth

sea . // // Daily no-feeling recurs in identical mornings. // // Busi

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

othing) // // is night-mute // // and

sea -dark. // //

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

// // The burden of the desert of the

sea . // // Fatness sluiced clean, // // Streets emptied utterly into

ious freight that crossed the sundering

sea , // // For soon we leave that fast-receding shore // // And reve

his vanity // // Claimed his dad was a

sea god—insanity— // // But he did have firm pecs, and it looked like

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

d as you reach a bay and the sought-for

sea . His sound. // //

nto my face. // // He is adrift in the

sea . // // I am glad of the sheltering waves // // Until the ferry c

much light // // as they did over the

sea . I lay awake and kept them company with honey // // sweetened cof

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ned to echoes upon echoes // // of the

sea incessantly singing her serenade of blue. // // We hugged goodbye

[I often think of that January morning]

// Though you might, let this waste of

sea intervene. // // The horizon, I know, won’t let me forget— // //

I could never be (ready)

eshow: all the while // // the crafty

sea is also digging down // // beneath the piles. Then one stormy ni

Walking in winter

le fast, // // fasting, feasted on the

sea : // // its scales, its tales, and its bitter // // fomenting glo

// How are you? // // [Long shot, vast

sea .] // // Long time, no see. // // [I missed you.] // // Stormy w

Whales sing because they have a song

clumps, capsized melon cubes, stranded

sea monkeys // // Maybe they patternize to someone else’s eyes, affir

paint // // But all the wide obliging

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

ought in the tail-end; by day at poet’s

sea of glass and fire; // // (too hopeful by half in the dawning). //

ip floating // // Above the diaphanous

sea // // Of her Victorian dress. // // She sits still above the man

my teeth. // // Deafness, I watch the

sea . // // See ripples. She’s watching too. // // He needs to hear t

l’esprit d’escalier

Riddle // // Come find me in a crease

sea -squalls cannot reach // // Waves are my shelter, I’m not far off

alves blew bubbles. Beneath the flushed

sea -tail, a gleam— // // It was just a small fish. // //

Just a Small Fish

/ // With heavy heart embarking on its

sea . // // The cascade I had ’fore in-gazed faced me, // // Wide-as-

[What have we done]

And now, deep in the wilds of the Irish

Sea , // // the new year is sleeping within // // cyclizine dreams, /

d // // As the thunderstorm struck the

sea // // The shock of a constellation lost // // On a promontory we

run // // between the marshes and the

sea . The sun // // is low ahead of us, the sky is clear. // // Acro

Wells in winter

nd always I found myself staring at the

sea . Waking, sleeping, dreaming. // // I am still dreaming; everythin

[I often think of that January morning]

lessly through // // the cold receding

sea , with hair the colour of honey // // obscuring itself across my v

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

g // // As the thunderstorm struck the

sea // // Years from that night // // On a promontory we watched //

/ Give me some time // // You were the

sea , you the surge, // // You were the lashings and the whale, // //

. // // This is Sweet Briar, the Tudor

seal , it binds // // One kingdom with another, fire with fire. // //

Sixteen Forty-Five

e way round my torso. // // And as the

seal starts to weep and my legs start to give, // // I don’t want her

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

cle // // And put me back together and

seal the wound with her mouth // // So that I have a lipstick smudge

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ou looking. Blank! Crack open the sixth

seal // // Whilst you speak the weather of our little world // // (W

wing day. // // Of shoes and ships and

sealing wax, // // and such great themes as these, // // talking the

spalted trunk— // // blackstrap coaly

seams // // making the wood marbled. // // Or maybe // // it could

search of // // I catch myself thinking while writing ‘is this the po

u be found in Mars, // // Then I might

search your tender wounds // // And you my battle scars, // // Then

The Daily Planet

or my childhood too // // When my eyes

searched frantically, // // blotted with beads of light, // // for s

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

s I try to get my brain on line, // //

Searching amongst my fact-debris. // // In the inky hall where I’m co

Exam Room Villanelle

elf with familiar awkwardness // // Of

searching eyes and violent kisses // // To adjust myself, realise //

ade // // the morning after // // I’m

searching for a word // // amongst the wine stained lips and glasses,

ed, // // Pret-a-Manger munching, soul

searching , love-life listing. // // The death rattle of the track’s d

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

ongue of blinding, whippèd flame // //

Sears all before, while bearing all we’ll know; // // Its megallanic

bove the mantelpiece // // In my Nan’s

seaside semi. // // Each item carefully labelled // // With owner an

armed skin // // And the crunch of the

season underfoot // // And the smell of the raw earth // // like a j

[The sash rattles up]

or your man’s flesh // // flash-fried,

seasoned , laid out, sprinkled with ash. // //

fired, // // crops are watered. // //

Seasons and years are counted and timed. // // Philosophies are aired

eepless nights, more dreams // // more

seasons bleeding into seasons. // // Just not so many more. // //

reams // // more seasons bleeding into

seasons . // // Just not so many more. // //

uced to two lines, // // They mark the

seat of disappointment, // // Deep in my lungs. // // Now in his imm

’Tis pity he’s a bore

hear my silent pleas // // To clear a

seat or two and make a gap // // There, though if it were less busy I

Poems on the Underground

s from me, on those // // Special four-

seater sections (extra legroom). // // Framed by filtering sun, picki

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

e-gold light, suspending patterned navy

seats . // // Accompanying us: families, workers, couples, // // Phon

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

In the darkness of no-brand car’s back

seats . // // Fresheners’ smell is the only thing we can see, // // G

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

on the rock in the heat and watched the

sea’s magic // // unfold to the music of wind and the glittering ebbs

Just a Small Fish

ertigo // // when I picture him as St.

Sebastian , // // Nailed to pine in ecstatic agony. // // ’Tis pity.

’Tis pity he’s a bore

o Cupid; // // He is in its arches and

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

who was lying next to us // // Only a

second ago, // // Finding only shorter grass, // // A coloured strip

oint eight metres per second // // Per

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

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

ny simply claiming incorrectly that the

second derivative of xx is aa and the second derivative of yy is -gg.

e second derivative of xx is aa and the

second derivative of yy is -gg. // // Those who did manage to solve t

n the dark of dark, // // hungry every

second of our lives, and // // blood-fed, or starved to oblivion //

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

e rest many did not progress beyond the

second part, with many simply claiming incorrectly that the second der

ity back to nine point eight metres per

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

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

d serve hot liver with vengeance // //

second , store in cool place until hardened into rock // // third, fre

at I’m launched 3,000 miles in a single

second straight, // // So fast that my eyes explode in their sockets,

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

tself. // // A cloud steps aside for a

second . // // The sun hits. // //

[The sun flattened]

ilised. The camera light // // flashed

seconds before waves flooded my boots, water breaking // // into damp

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

n the pavement // // dries to sighs in

seconds . // // It’s so easy // // to deflate into lonely doubt. //

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

logies // // and we imagine their last

seconds // // like the one whose dog slept on // // their chest to k

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

to form // // A Universe of fire. One

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

ed in the silence, the darkness and the

secrecy // // When to sense was to make ourselves believe. // //

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

r into coloured flesh // // and hide a

secret inside. // // Feel the air. Turn in the four winds. Broadcast

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

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

leaves might fall

between lines of sonnets, // // in the

secret of the space behind the new moon. // // And elsewhere, as deep

. Turn in the four winds. Broadcast the

secret // // to earth, as far away as it will go. Let the browns //

ure seemed rosy— // // To her, a State

Secretary // // Eyeless for Gaza, // // Blind to the consequence: //

t to me, // // That kept the words so

secretly . // //

The Tree of Wisdom

an look and see something that has been

secretly excluded by the precision of reason. The true poet, who I cal

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

ossibility of preservation - // // but

secretly hope there is. // // I keep us cold in a glass jar // // at

keep us cold in a glass jar, // // but

secretly hope there is // // no possibility of preservation. // // Y

// the forbidden room // // groans and

secrets // // and when the time comes we will pray for you, and try n

Drink and be merry

// the forbidden room // // groans and

secrets // // blood! wriggling life! a name! love! // // Candles, ha

Drink and be merry

int of the ring, without disclosing the

secrets // // He holds to his chest. // // Wrists, shackled by count

Vicious or Virtuous?

d you think it’s out of choice. // // *

Section C includes a Part divided into sub-parts each with several opt

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

tly. // // You claim I would have read

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

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

This Boy’s in Love—

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

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

ns’s ‘Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction’,

section 1: ‘It Must be Abstract’ // // 1. // // Don’t think. Look. J

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

e her body. // // I imagined its cross

section like a burr, // // or like cork— // // all suberised. // //

sed. // // It could look like // // a

section of spalted trunk— // // blackstrap coaly seams // // making

me, on those // // Special four-seater

sections (extra legroom). // // Framed by filtering sun, picking your

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

r Prometheus (a lá Kafka) // // first,

secure firmly to large rock, add eagle and serve hot liver with vengea

silk veil against her frame, // // the

sedge , the princes’ steeds lie fallow, // // la belle dame. // // In

Sedimentary ; discarded sleeves and scarves // // The sandy bend that

And we—we turn it over so you will not

see . // //

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

Yet, when I stare into reality // // I

see a blank white sheet, and withdraw, // // Back to my drooling muse

Writing to explore

round // // If I close my eyes I still

see // // A harbour adorned with lights // // On the festival of Fer

// In one direction or the other, but I

see a turn // // Before me and hope, somehow, for // // Neither. //

Vicious or Virtuous?

er that was me. // // In an old book I

see a yellow square, read the part // // marked, and am amazed at my

I can’t taste it anymore. // // Let’s

see , ah yes, here we are: // // three recipes for Prometheus (a lá Ka

and lift the dull brown cover // // To

see , at first, your image in the glass. // // You see yourself, and t

The Magic Apple Tree

nly thing keeping the sky in place, you

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

[So the moon was there]

generosity high // // So everyone can

see , // // But his gifts are empty on the inside. // // I feel carve

sive or dead, // // Are you too far to

see ? // // But shouldn’t we strive for equality instead ? // // She

[She points to the sky]

e on our shared bookshelf // // When I

see desire distilled in the juice that runs // // From tongue to lip

’Tis pity he’s a bore

gosto // // If I close my eyes I still

see // // Fireworks like a Pollock painting // // On the festival of

? // // She points to the sky. // //

See from up there, // // The fight’s already started. // // Look fro

[She points to the sky]

sheners’ smell is the only thing we can

see , // // Gray street lamps passing by show no-texture of headrests.

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

ge // // And, if we look, we can still

see . // // Great stone shrines were built // // Many lifetimes befor

Before Christmas

/ // —the real crematorium— // // and

see her consigned to the flames. // // (I completely understand why p

t taste on the air // // Led you here?

See her red hair // // Last night, gaping smile, // // Sharp with th

Here be dragons

h, two for the money. // // Nothing to

see here. Give me a minute. // // At the slow end of a forty day fas

ing to me. // // I’ll be interested to

see how it all turns out. // // I change the disc, it is not a record

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

g shot, vast sea.] // // Long time, no

see . // // [I missed you.] // // Stormy where you are? // // Very b

Whales sing because they have a song

ord (I did lie to you once), // // And

see if this one fits, but // // It misfits, kills a bell in a burning

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

driving in your parents’ car // // To

see if we could stop the mar // // Of what we’d done from turning sou

s, cups, and bowls. // // What does he

see in jugs and jars? // // What meaning in these kitchen goods? //

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

gster chic, // // How many Walts do we

see in Market Square on a Friday night? // // We distrust this facial

Bearded Thoughts

trary poltergeist what is it you // //

see in my mind’s silvered folds, and did I // // invite you in do I p

ind: // // Parse—calculate—discuss … I

see // // In the panic hall where I’m confined // // My friends have

Exam Room Villanelle

the West to the East, // // All I can

see is the Beast. // // Here’s to failure, here’s to fear, // // Her

Ode to a map of the world

the picture frame. // // What does she

see ? Is there something there? // // Some object or event which hold

Cape Cod Morning

nce I’ve seen it // // I can never not

see it again. // // It lingers violently // // like a good Pollo

ck and move in different ways. // // I

see it all, like spring it follows // // All before. Even now, after

[My face is old now]

ssociated risks and hazards. // // You

see it differently. // // You claim I would have read Section C* //

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

least that’s how it seems to those who

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

In Defence of Evolution

/ // Deafness, I watch the sea. // //

See ripples. She’s watching too. // // He needs to hear the screams,

l’esprit d’escalier

ed! // // 9. // // Poets can look and

see something that has been secretly excluded by the precision of reas

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

Phonecall // // HAMLET Do you

see that cloud? That’s almost in shape like a camel. // // POLONIUS B

e ferry comes into harbour // // And I

see that he is half of me. // //

e gold for some fresh air. // // I can

see that I’m one of the wonders, // // Can’t fault the regime that I’

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

both now!)— // // because he couldn’t

see the afterlife of that Word. // // Speckled by starlight: You smok

ough I have long been away, I can still

see // // The canopy of green fingers tickling the clouds // // And

arkness was a dream // // For you will

see the Dayspring at your waking, // // Beyond your long last line th

tbeat. // // Over the bow // // I can

see the evening’s // // last blue twilight, // // pressed between //

rly? We had hoped // // You’d stay and

see the fireworks when they start. // // No, we quite understand. We

t // // Because old verse forms rarely

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

In Defence of Evolution

// Death certificate. // // I want to

see the rest: // // a ticker-tape parade, // // a paper-shower of li

Stone, Paper, Scissors

/ // From the sidings // // He cannot

see // // The sea // // And yet he knows // // It cannot be // //

ack treacle of the night air // // and

see the simplicity // // moonlight // // brings to an autumn frost.

[The sash rattles up]

eached, // // So that I do not have to

see the star, // // So that I do not slit this throat. // // Light a

l’esprit d’escalier

ts to the sky. // // From above you’ll

see the truth. // // That we’ve always been satellites // // Going a

[She points to the sky]

y // // red, too short. I could // //

see the whites of your ankles. // // Lunch was hard, strong cheese //

Tridente, 10th September

leeping bag at night // // Looks in to

see them dancing in red light, // // Endeavours in but weekly shut ou

Three gay rituals

in the living room. // // She does not

see them now. // // After all, it was in the wait that we glimpsed ma

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

us // // And, if we look, we can still

see // // There are pagan echoes. // //

Before Christmas

gely, though, not sex but fire). // //

See this: // // the large, dilapidated country house // // that is m

hor for something else, but all you can

see through is a pierced calcite skin, bloody ingrown nails and an inc

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

nes and rhymes // // Of everything you

see (trying so hard to relate it to tragedy), // // And wondering, as

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

he angels of our planets weep // // To

see two worlds collide. // //

The Daily Planet

ife flying in. // // Everything I Ever

See Was Comin’ Or Goin’ Away. Same As You. Maybe The Only Thing Is…The

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ing steps, // // to hear and touch and

see // // what is buried well inside. // // Yes, this is where I hid

ng the ineffable; Satan’s a spot we can

see ! // // What will you trade for an eye? AI might be cis, white, ma

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

and yet // // Legs, faltering, when I

see you // // And her in that embrace. // // I should have laughed b

e with your unseen blade. // // I will

see you before I die // // Face to face. // // I do, // // I suppos

ames. // // Drawn by warmth, I came to

see you, // // which I do. You look back at me. // // The moment pas

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

oplets of pity wept by the few that can

see your footsteps in the stone. // // I will die here. // // I know

/ and your sardonic jokes, could // //

see your hands shake, could not save // // the hair on your head from

Sestina to an English Teacher

st, your image in the glass. // // You

see yourself, and through yourself the tree, // // And through the tr

The Magic Apple Tree

s borne on the wind? // // What winged

seed has taken root, // // Those drawings I made years since // // O

leaves might fall

water and a sky of blue. // // Like a

seed I want to grow. But all I have is cold coffee, and an empty page.

[I often think of that January morning]

breaks over me in waves. // // Like a

seed listening to echoes through earth, I long for water and a sky of

[I often think of that January morning]

ah! hurrah! // // A cup and a toast to

seed , sapling, and snag— // // A toast and a cup to the soil and loam

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

h your past // // Journey through your

seed time and your summer // // And through the fall of every fruitin

The Magic Apple Tree

ll to split the bearded husk // // And

seeds fall to the furrow, // // Amidst the tympanum, // // Hard by t

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

ct you descend to hide among // // the

seeds spun by the breeze, between lines of sonnets, // // in the secr

he ocean rolling beneath us // // Like

seeing a humpback breach // // Great Skellig slate grey and wet // /

id gleams between the stars // // Like

seeing a humpback breach // // The fire which leapt over us // // Th

]. // // Thanks for today. It was nice

seeing each other, wasn’t it? // // Like a breath of old air. Hear fr

Whales sing because they have a song

p’s pitch and yaw, // // borrowed eyes

seeing // // some earlier draft of things, // // lost in a cold, par

of a neat bull’s-eye. // // Not quite

seeing the wood for the balsa, // // knowing the great hereafter for

ver shut your eyes, never ever not been

seeing words before you, // // The guilt and hideous shame of not doi

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

enough? use every day? // // Days for

seeing you in different ways. // // Days enough for giving and receiv

looked like good sex— // // But I did

seek a bit more humanity. // // My mistake was suggesting the cotton—

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

when land (oh finally, land!) bid their

seek - // // ing end, Portugal could only tip its hat. Columbus would

/ // My optic nerve and all those that

seek its attention. // // Again, again. // // Adrift on spewing, ins

Frighteningly Inert

le or two // // to the village shop to

seek supplies // // becomes a daily ritual. // // Suffolk, circa 195

Walking in winter

// All humans feel the change. // //

Seeking the return of the light, // // Great stone shrines were built

Before Christmas

year is born again. The festival // //

Seeking the return of the light // // Is but one of many. // // All

Before Christmas

awning). // // End-tale: November song

seeks mist-blue port, so // // Defying stormy-weather and determinism

thing other than // // Words. Each man

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

Vicious or Virtuous?

on, an endless hill. // // The top did

seem but further every inch // // But ’hind did seem sure death. ’Twa

[What have we done]

hrough there, and space and time // //

seem cut and twisted everywhere. // // Though, via a chink a softer g

falling to my knees. // // It doesn’t

seem so strange to me // // That any given Aztec would carve a prayer

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

further every inch // // But ’hind did

seem sure death. ’Twas in this pinch // // I rose my head. Above it t

[What have we done]

mory // // always diminishing make it

seem // // that right now sitting here coffee can make // // do just

why i’m getting into Christmas

Bearded Thoughts // // Beards

seem to be out of fashion nowadays— // // The domain of eccentric pro

Bearded Thoughts

hence they spring. // // These colours

seem to fall from Eden’s light, // // The air they shine through brea

The Magic Apple Tree

more I let my way be shown, // // Did

seem to rise that water made of stone. // // Away dropp’d all my fat

[What have we done]

ual // // but supervision faces // //

seem too near—and yet too far. // //

A Room of Her Own

/ Like us from depth to height—suddenly

seem // // Translucent in the glancing lights that show // // Where

Is it a memory?

world that isn’t yours and can’t // //

Seem true. But there you lie—innocently // // Staring past the camera

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

Soviet columns of ice). // // But you

seem unperturbed // // your red coat an aegis to lift // // cigarett

why i’m getting into Christmas

/ Behind, but never in front. // // It

seemed a constant battle to // // Conform, a crime to confront. // /

// My suit and gown, would death have

seemed a dream? // //

ound- // // ing shops and offices, has

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

// All three removed their clothes, as

seemed appropriate, // // The boys scrambled up, toecurling-wise and

y the winds of change. // // Something

seemed greater // // Than the door we ranged // // Behind, but never

nd the reality we face // // Has never

seemed greater // // Then when sat around this table, // // A crowd

she knew, had known all along // // It

seemed , only it wasn’t blue today, // // It was deep and grey when //

[The sun flattened]

ched it and simpered. // // The future

seemed rosy— // // To her, a State Secretary // // Eyeless for Gaza,

espondent slough // // By contrast. It

seemed // // So pure and free, and // // Yet we deemed // // It far

n smokefilled grey. I asked you why you

seemed so sad, but all you did was turn, leaning over and reaching out

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

// This thirteen-and-a-half mile Eden

seemed to be divine. // // And so they thought of what two-day-old Ad

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

l; // // the end, the moment life just

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

tton— // // Though to let him get lost

seemed too rotten. // // Now I wish that I had, the arrogant cad, //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

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

Seeming deathless, // // Are obscured by Middle-Eastern tales // //

Before Christmas

tern tales // // Of a boy-king. // //

Seeming deathless, // // The year is born again. The festival // //

Before Christmas

rce, luminate, warm, // // Floating up

seemingly by force ’gainst law // // Of Newton. Each light-ray does o

[What have we done]

d form, they blend. // // A faded wash

seemingly moves o’er all; // // A slight light pigments the cold pond

[What have we done]

// cloud-eclipsed, and closer than it

seems . // //

[A spinning spider]

ire // // My sign is Aries. Though it

seems a poor // // fit for me, it is at least a Fire. // // The othe

grapes and snow.” // // Why snow? That

seems an odd thing to say, right? I mean // // what about the women c

back to you. You knew it all along, it

seems . // // And we can walk smugly, the both of us, into the Spring

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

ps, or what it means. // // Perhaps it

seems archaic, rather like a caveman or some troglodyte. // // We are

Bearded Thoughts

discard. // // Yet, time allowed, what

seems fine chance will be // // And, likewise to two falling trees, m

[What have we done]

nt’s coat. // // So, free verse, then,

seems fittest to survive. // // It’s democratic, stylish, and it’s de

In Defence of Evolution

nd result // // The big idea no longer

seems so big // // The fall, awkward // // And unspectacular. // //

Falling Is Like This

// Rubbed out. In Beit Hanoun, the sun

seems spent: // // The blasts drop like a shutter’s blink and break /

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

made for work. // // Now, blank verse

seems to break those systems down: // // It’s open and adaptive and i

In Defence of Evolution

nrepeatable. // // Some golden essence

seems to concentrate // // From light to air, from pigment into paint

The Magic Apple Tree

e // // And you’re frantic - no record

seems to fit the air, // // And down, way down in the pit of your sto

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

es a mile into the air // // (or so it

seems to me), to crash back down— // // you must be nimble. // // La

Walking in winter

egality. // // At least that’s how it

seems to those who see // // Pentameter as breath from nature’s throa

In Defence of Evolution

es // // and envelops us, // // so it

seems we barely move at all. // // The illusion holds until // // a

oped a burr // // Under the bark it is

seen and heard // // Rolling Rs and layering up— // // Nothing else

BURR (or Brrrrr)

remembering nothing of the things we’d

seen , // // choosing again without design. We ended in the same bar /

alling trees, my bone, // // Unseen or

seen , did spark a tiny fire. // // A lonely ember ’twas, and did requ

[What have we done]

ages // // and talked to relatives not

seen for years. // // It had to be, but it was not the memory we need

d rigidity of the ground— // // I have

seen him do this before, and he is always surprised. // // I have nev

rt Art // // maybe it’s that once I’ve

seen it // // I can never not see it again. // // It lingers vio

n a bird // // No doubt she would have

seen it. // // She gazed blankly at the branches. // // The world sw

[The sun flattened]

// If he who fell at Passchendaele had

seen // // My suit and gown, would death have seemed a dream? // //

// // one more time. Tell me have you

seen Schiele’s // // Levitation, the curled toes the moment // // of

.M.] // // Shit. How long since you’ve

seen the sun? // // I still feel its warmth. // // [You’d brighten m

Whales sing because they have a song

o one can hear it // // And no one has

seen your struggle. // // It’s a roar in your head and it keeps getti

hear your screams // // And no one has

seen your struggle. // // It’s only a little voice in the back of you

one can hear them // // And no one has

seen your struggle. // // So you curl up inside your head, // // Fee

y in papery layers, // // and probably

seep amber. // // She’s shedding her leaves for // // the winter now

// // The words and ink slowly // //

Seep deeper into the page, my skin, // // Until they settle together

Writing to explore

oo porous, every touch soaks in, // //

Seeping and spreading, mycorrhizal in my dependency on // // Your voi

[I am almost 25 years old]

ough your eyes. // // As the sky began

seeping liquid gold // // and blood rust // // we were both made fro

and blood rust // // as the sky began

seeping liquid gold, // // the kind that still refracts through your

he fallen // // Leaves of my skin, the

seeping rot of loneliness. I walk // // Barefoot across the damp grou

[I am almost 25 years old]

d back to the little room where October

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

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

you // // you do not look at It // //

sees inside you // // and lodges a piece of itself there? // /

size of an ancient kin’s era // // he

sees my lips as archaeological tools // // extracting and brushing ea

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

ene // // —does he know what it is she

sees ? The frame // // he chose has cut us off from looking at // //

Cape Cod Morning

ide, // // The outside that crawls and

seethes in me, // // The outside that is me, // // Is my insides. //

Frighteningly Inert

How prosaic! My judicious removal of

selected line breaks was universally acknowledged to be the making of

y nothing to connect you to your former

self but the concentric rings that signify your age— // // Meanwhile,

ad fallen on the vineyard. // // A few

self -confessed skeptics // // privately thought // // that this was

/ // is practised in Greece // // the

self -confessed skeptics // // run workshops and digs // // and stand

// Then, as a blacksmith finds his mold

self -grown, // // My practic’d pattern forged a way its own // // An

[What have we done]

// To something other than our circled

self . // // I know the angels were the first to fall, // // Cherub a

The Cutting Edge

sappointment and of smoke. // // Your (

self )-importance never recognized, // // demanding silence for each w

Compass Reading

und my field, // // Housing my growing

self inside a shield, // // And bathing me without inside this place.

[What have we done]

nce, far more valuable // // Than your

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

The Notes You Have Left

I wonder if I have no choice but to be

selfish , presumptuous, breakable. // // Do I need others’ breezing br

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

en ovens for the fraught, // // She’ll

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

rmth; // // our exquisitely ice-etched

selves drowned, like ice cubes // // in scotch, or scotch in a stomac

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

inability to cater // // For our inner

selves . Pressured into // // Insanity, we grovelled on the ground, //

mantelpiece // // In my Nan’s seaside

semi . // // Each item carefully labelled // // With owner and origin

/ Out of the bathroom. // // Mock anti-

Semitism , amusing Islamophobia. // // My smile is scratched into my f

ne he’d wear my armour well, // // And

send sandal’d feet scuffling back on the dirt they earlier trod. // /

’Tis pity he’s a bore

s, // // explore the earth, // // and

send signal fires // // blazing into the air. // // Our space is the

tee, // // he never could care for the

sender or sent, // // so we’re locking the door and we’re losing the

The Dead Letter Office closes down

me: my end has come. // // Note by the

senior author: When my assistant first presented this poem, it was in

ation to create from cheese an immortal

sensation // // However, no man has dared to extol, the properties of

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ks on in horror) // // but in the true

sense : // // beating mind dying with beating body. // // Five minute

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

/ // Soon we lost our cognitive // //

Sense , began to mime // // Words which once we could // // Speak, to

That is it—to die, not in the customary

sense // // (machine clanging to a halt, // // mind looks on in horr

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

nihilarian captors. // // The nilherds

sense nail-break // // and sharpen their needling, // // call out th

Nil Charge / Nil Return

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

sense of fear, a bough // // Cracks like fire, burning so bright, a b

my heart has now left the pit. // // A

sense of hope, a sense of fear, a bough // // Cracks like fire, burni

by as we stood on the bridge, suspended

sense of solid pavement in smokefilled grey. I asked you why you seeme

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

n the dark we know they lurk, // // We

sense their stench, as stealing through the murk, // // Mendacious bi

darkness and the secrecy // // When to

sense was to make ourselves believe. // //

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

ir heart’s desire, the rose // // With

senseless fear: your ancient hexagram // // Is riven oak, for sixteen

Sixteen Forty-Five

ful, things might fall // // Where the

senses cannot feel— // // This is where I hide, // // Waiting for th

let it linger // // On the stirring of

senses caused by your palm on mine. // // I’ll keep these unspecific

I’ll never work for Hallmark

. // // Plain and varied multitudes of

senses strung out in series and enfolded into dense coils, // // Chop

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

loops writhe inside, nightmares can be

sensitive creatures— // // ‘You go!’ ‘Now me!’ ‘Whose turn for riding

// // should be destroyed before it is

sent : // // forgetting the details won’t be excused, // // and we ma

The Dead Letter Office closes down

n-a-fraction doors, down the corridors,

sent shivers of sunlight in criss-cross rays // // wedding chimes of

/ he never could care for the sender or

sent , // // so we’re locking the door and we’re losing the key. // /

The Dead Letter Office closes down

LinesA song in word-music. // // Love

sent you to the desert’s hush-parched silence. // // You held fast, t

nce across the generations. Each // //

sentient being touches and reshapes // // the world around her, far a

egs. // // He, of course, always hated

sentiment , // // and she never had much time for times past. // // S

of strawberry mints // // must mean a

sentry asleep at the post: // // how else to explain, sheltered by th

ill just me and Woodlands court, // //

separate beneath the stars, // // at 1am. // //

[The sash rattles up]

// Squeezed into the frame, the dusty

sepia . // // We are terrified of what the beard might hide, // // Wh

Bearded Thoughts

September // // // There was a war. // // There was a bitter, civil

Black September

September // // With domes at our backs— // // the city ragged like

Tridente, 10th September

it all her sins of emission. // // The

sequel was building the labyrinth // // To conceal where that big bab

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

form—until // // an accidental spiral

sequence finds // // that it can make itself again, and fill // // t

Sequence // // New Year. Gaza, 2009 // // The tank commander, aiming

re the first to fall, // // Cherub and

Seraph spiralled down // // In circling curlicues of sacred text, //

The Cutting Edge

// of the sea incessantly singing her

serenade of blue. // // We hugged goodbye. I walked home and made cof

[I often think of that January morning]

hopping, stirring earthly leas, // //

Serenading us among our garden’s yields, // // When flying to their m

[Walcott begins Omeros]

/ // To hold without hands. // // But

serene pain is found in the effort to learn to relinquish, // // To l

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

er-stair cupboard // // Of post-modern

serfdom . // // The light was rarely shown, // // We scuttled around

/ // It far beyond the realm // // Of

serfs , and so kept away // // From the elm- // // Wood door, not dar

ried multitudes of senses strung out in

series and enfolded into dense coils, // // Chopped up and worn away

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

Blonde and blue-eyed Sufi, upright and

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

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

// One could not take her painting very

seriously // // Nor his watching from the window, impassive // // Bl

ing, growing // // Until the worm is a

serpent // // And whispers things. // // And the voice grows louder

s it consumes you // // And it’s not a

serpent // // But a great big black wave // // That crashes over you

// // The monster hatched by a mother-

serpent // // from an egg laid by a too-proud rooster // // twisted

A Woman Fallen // // Scarlet skins and

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

// You held fast, though those rattling

serpent -words // // You heard hissed ‘Arrogance. Omnipotence,’ // //

ng, // // and more an egg, framed by a

serpentine // // mouth; less folded in your body and scent // // tha

// crystallized into meaningless // //

serve cold and forgotten // // Ah what do they know? // // “The Roma

ure firmly to large rock, add eagle and

serve hot liver with vengeance // // second, store in cool place unti

p disentangle some alphabet soup // //

Served iambic, al dente, but as yet unsigned. // // Will my new frien

Wednesday Evening

// // In no-color, no-shape cup waiter

serves // // My tea. Sugar bowl fills not-white tablecloth sea. // /

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

ar—all frozen (by fear)— // // But the

service gets slow when it blunders // // Around in the passages—just

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

wel and had to join the queue // // in

servile severance. // // One afterthought // // of comfort might ass

hazy shades at bay— // // The sun sits

sessile — // // The sand is yellow—until it is grey— // // The sea br

From Trebetherick Point

Sestina // // Abyss. A nanosecond’s blazing light, // // The herald

Sestina to an English Teacher // // I wondered if // // you hated wo

Sestina to an English Teacher

/ we chopped and sawed and dug and then

set fire to // // the produce of our labours. // // A box or holly r

what you need. // // So that HAL might

set gravity back to nine point eight metres per second // // Per seco

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

putrid, raw // // in Roman era, // //

set in gibbet salt, // // a red nick cuts… // // wonder began // //

Hercules et Oracle

est make a bet I’d want that wave to be

set // // in motion by my beloved, her gleaming eyes wet // // From

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

he rood-screen here, // // His face is

set like flint, // // For stony silence. // // He gives his back to

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

nd one day to be asked. // // My own—a

set of two— // // shared only with my Euclid // // and Thucydides. /

A Room of Her Own

// one word was all it took // // to

set the pair of them off— // // it was like triple trouble! // // Th

Mechanised Racial Profiling // // Love

set you going like a fat gold clock (watch!) ticking // // Boxes on a

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

dry ground. Let the cooling dark // //

settle around and about, under and over. // // Complete another ring.

oon, // // Another flock of birds will

settle — // // Confusedly— // // Here, with us. // //

Magnetic Mountain

this time and make me Mrs. // // I’ll-

settle -for-a-jack-in-lieu-of-an-ace; // // You’re dumber than most, a

// // Perch on arms of chairs, // //

Settle into laps of relatives. // // Fields of Athenry tails off, //

Wild Mountain Thyme

and you are drained. // // the billows

settle low, cold as a curse, // // but though the thunder roars, it w

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

to the page, my skin, // // Until they

settle together // // Nestled in a form I had not meant // // Bringi

Writing to explore

r labour. // // After the red dust had

settled // // (at least for a while) // // We asked ourselves: // /

Magnetic Mountain

evening sky. // // By Derby town they

settled down // // on purple sage to lie. // // A Cheshire cat accos

ke an ocean of blue. // // The sadness

settled once you’d left. I became blue, // // artificially structurin

[I often think of that January morning]

e, (n): A feeling that sinks // // And

settles each morn, // // Affirmed by sun, love, and drinks // // Tel

I could never be (ready)

to their messy, tree-top nests, // //

Settling down in comfort comparable to ours, // // Coordinated purpos

[Walcott begins Omeros]

/ // Rattle, // // Instilling all the

Seven Deadlies // // Plus a few extra. // // She could just hang up

een her knees. // // Feet anointed and

seven demons rise, // // Let him without sin cast the first stone, //

the taint // // Of former stages of my

seven skins; // // A chronicle of past unbuttonings. // // I need th

rrings // // Have almost reached their

seventy -percent // // Of newly-broken foetus-leaves // // In the las

onances of a snore. // // We shall not

sever hydra stalks for fear of fresh // // blooms: already one says:

Aubade to Girton

le // // . // // lose dream // // or

sever // // Sov’ran // // ultra regna terra. // // Now dog, did re-

Hercules et Oracle

a Part divided into sub-parts each with

several options describing those actions that might be permitted and/o

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

had to join the queue // // in servile

severance . // // One afterthought // // of comfort might assuage the

ath shed skin, // // The old so neatly

severed // // From the life which lies within. // // Oak and hazel,

leaves might fall

he door // // To rustle through these

severed strips of love, // // And strew my heart with scraps of poetr

The Cutting Edge

ched wreckers draw the line // // That

severs , and condemns us to decline, // // Before the best that Europe

touch a cord // // ‘umbrellas meeting

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

n residence beneath my skin, // // And

sewn our hearts together using twine. // // You’re sure our threads a

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

The ghoulish form’s tear in the air re-

sewn // // So through it dancing branches from roots grown // // Do

[What have we done]

first LP; // // strangely, though, not

sex but fire). // // See this: // // the large, dilapidated country

have firm pecs, and it looked like good

sex — // // But I did seek a bit more humanity. // // My mistake was

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

Some variant has found // // how good

sex is—to mix the genes around. // // The plants, the fish, the dinos

minds can project anxieties // // and

sexual confusion without any explicit // // engagement from responsib

e night before and still drunk // // I

shackle myself to the peddles and roll along quietly // // Only to re

/ He holds to his chest. // // Wrists,

shackled by counterfeit silver, // // Steeled against the disgrace of

Vicious or Virtuous?

core // // left faceless perfection’s

shackles to rust. // // The shuttle flits through warp and weft // /

// a woodland glade // // and dappled

shade — // // and suited too. // // That friend he’d picked // // —h

gainst the tree trunk, kept cool in the

shade // // My brother beside me, companiable but mute // // Remains

// // My shoes have turned a whole new

shade of wet. // // My Frost-bit ears resound with words I know. //

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

// Breaking their sheen into a certain

shade // // Particular and unrepeatable. // // Some golden essence s

The Magic Apple Tree

head, // // With the clammy fingers of

shade that you are glad to feel, // // Especially today. // // You d

Black’ too black?—what sun beyond that

shade ; // // With balanced clay and graphite, // // Wrist responding

Three Ways of Walking

ebetherick Point // // I hold the hazy

shades at bay— // // The sun sits sessile— // // The sand is yellow—

From Trebetherick Point

m light slit sliding through part-drawn

shades , // // Liquid time daubed on air’s pale vellum, // // Us in t

re she was: weaving a registry of fifty

shades of brown. // // Ships hang in the sky much in the way bricks /

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

eams take // // Flight, from window to

shadow // // A child’s voice deepens, // // Like a changeling held /

Here be dragons

Maria of a hidden // // Moon. Now your

shadow // // Blots the sky, what is // // It looks to flower in your

Here be dragons

est edge. // // His hair is a lustrous

shadow cast by earthly forms of that abyssal goddess. // // ’Tis pity

’Tis pity he’s a bore

I cannot remember // // A time when my

shadow didn’t leave the oily residue // // Of embarrassment on everyt

[I am almost 25 years old]

the real // // And in the lengthening

shadow of the unknown. // // They say that each creature must find it

[At the coinciding point of the years]

te. That was not your life. // // That

shadow of your life was only— // // is only—the memory of kind words

Sestina to an English Teacher

ing. Is this the poem? // // The cloud

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

d, four nights till it sheds // // Its

shadow to bloom // // In the vast, dust-filled // // Maria of a hidd

Here be dragons

blotted with beads of light, // // for

shadowed gifts. As slowly // // the strange words were sung // // b

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

o pleasure, and are alone happy. // //

Shadowed -masses in the depths hum through the reeds, // // Winding pa

ame // // La belle dame shivers in the

shadows , // // a green silk veil against her frame, // // the sedge,

the flow. // // They dart between dark

shadows and the gleam // // Of sunlight in green water—come and go //

Is it a memory?

the gold of a sunbeam // // until our

shadows converged and it fled to the wrack in a finflick. // // Our n

Just a Small Fish

I submit. I lie to you like a dog, like

Shaitan or Kafir soft in your ear, and I can change. if it will make y

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

onic jokes, could // // see your hands

shake , could not save // // the hair on your head from pallor, save /

Sestina to an English Teacher

ife! a name! love! // // Candles, hats—

shake the snow from your coat, uncle— // // drink! and be merry! //

Drink and be merry

so rarely ate it. // // His confidence

shaken , near shot dead, // // he thought of some words that Pol Pot s

The Failing of the Cheese

/ the act of meaning something no great

shakes . // // So, plummeting down Castle Hill today // // past the o

s I declare! // // Thus the sonnets of

Shakespeare will forevermore consume, the beings, bodies and souls of

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

n these immortal words spilled from the

Shakespearean pen // // And flowing across the virginal canvas of the

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

finished. // // One last breath drawn,

shakily , then I end something // // For the first time. // //

Snapshot Endings

me of things that are // // Sweet like

shalimar , // // And of things that are gone // // Since we went driv

// Out to the desert, // // Sweet like

shalimar // // On the radio, the sandy scar // // Of dunes on the wi

m turning sour, while // // Sweet like

shalimar // // Played on over things that were // // Wrong, that hea

hat dusky silence hit // // Sweet like

shalimar . // // We were all alone with our // // Camel lights watchi

ONCE and HEREAFTER // // WAS, IS, and

SHALL BE EVERMORE // // That it stands in the bareness of eternity //

[At the coinciding point of the years]

threshold of genesis, in what purgatory

shall I persist? // // To that, your pancake-batter skin is the warme

e-eyed labour-eager chosen one // // I

shall leave this garden instructionless. // // I will slip off the wi

Aubade to Girton

n // // can keep me warm, // // but I

shall not despair // // now men can come to tea. // // An eco-room.

A Room of Her Own

sonic resonances of a snore. // // We

shall not sever hydra stalks for fear of fresh // // blooms: already

Aubade to Girton

// I float in the blur of your // //

Shallow depth of field // // Like a spirit waiting for its clay; //

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

// // all hopes will doubtless end in

shallow // // graves), share confessions of their shame, // // while

— // // The familiar blunt fingers and

shallow nails // // Of proud practicality. // // We are already comf

the hair, // // His spring is come to

shame and spitting, // // Under the blows the cut stones splinter //

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

s in a constant litany, // // Until my

shame hangs, heavy, in the frosted air. // // A mile away, the ideal

efore you, // // The guilt and hideous

shame of not doing, rather than doing different - // // The half-form

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// // and lewd; you onanistic waste of

shame , // // pretentious, with a hateful maggot’s mind. // // Lame u

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

// graves), share confessions of their

shame , // // while she gifts them in return a rose, // // la belle d

still-mortal guess. // // Fearless and

shameless and hopeless, pathetically // // wanting no more and // //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

de-lipped pots // // ornamental // //

shape clipped // // wind curves // // moles tubers // // worm roots

yew needs dried blood in spring

s surrounded me. // // In no-color, no-

shape cup waiter serves // // My tea. Sugar bowl fills not-white tabl

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

s then, quick // // As they dance into

shape , do vacate back // // To blackn’d smog which as the ocean shift

[What have we done]

Do you see that cloud? That’s almost in

shape like a camel. // // POLONIUS By th’mass and it’s like a camel i

Way of twinkling roseate light— // //

Shape -shifting, whispers ‘there is more to know’. // // Imprisoned in

ms // // In the mind For the scop to

shape the songsmith // // The word-worm breaks from the bone-cage /

er // // producing six of us. // // L-

shaped the house; enclosed within its arms // // a walled garden, lef

my love—the sky is calling. // // Dark

shapes are calling each to each: a throng // // moves north against t

Wells in winter

wing my thoughts along your wooden wave-

shapes // // dipping into knot warps and sanded-down blemishes) // /

gedies, comedies, histories // // more

shapes , more colours, more darknesses // // more storms, gales, light

e drawings I made years since // // Of

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

leaves might fall

/ // summon the summoners, the shaping

shapes // // the grounds of sound, the generative gramma // // signs

// Ready to collaborate // // In the

shaping of sugar petals, // // The rising of dough, // // The rollin

Styx, // // summon the summoners, the

shaping shapes // // the grounds of sound, the generative gramma //

// // Kneeling on a cushion of broken

shards , // // All that remains is dripping blood // // And an empty

trees, // // Dancing shoes over broken

shards . // // Burnished leaves line damp concrete, // // Rejected lo

Fall for————

of poetry, // // Forbidden hopes and

shards of mystery. // // They rustle through me in my waking dreams /

The Cutting Edge

thely grins // // Into a million messy

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

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

oubtless end in shallow // // graves),

share confessions of their shame, // // while she gifts them in retur

// // My visitors all knock. // // We

share hot chocolate, // // play tennis on the lawn, // // talk of eq

A Room of Her Own

ness and bile // // sieved through our

shared blue sleeve; we’re worn // // with waiting in dissention and d

s unseated // // From its place on our

shared bookshelf // // When I see desire distilled in the juice that

’Tis pity he’s a bore

plain. // // Two book-ends bracket our

shared domain: // // the start, the lobby of a Greek hotel // // in

ked. // // My own—a set of two— // //

shared only with my Euclid // // and Thucydides. // // My visitors a

A Room of Her Own

u’ve handed me back the earbuds we were

sharing , // // And our new-born argument is furrowing your brow, //

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

Is this the poem? // // They told you

sharks never turned on their pilots—that’s your blood // // In the wa

lavour of their own: // // So Donne is

sharp and Geoffrey Hill is sour // // Larkin ascerbic, Tennyson has p

Cheese is the medium

// And rise again— // // And don’t go

sharp — // // And onwards, forwards, into the heart, // // And now we

s delicate as I, can // // Tear with a

sharp breath or vicious statement. // // But your line stands, reinfo

The Other Side of the Line

g with his flint // // At six o’clock.

Sharp . // // But maybe I don’t need to sing; just wait instead. // /

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

s // // watched by the crystal prism’s

sharp -cut eye? // // It represented such a fine-wrought craft // //

Compass Reading

“In Nature There Are Few

Sharp Lines” // // // // // Manhattan’s built on blocks because th

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

d your face // // to frame. These are

sharp // // scissors, new scissors: // // no stone will blunt them.

Stone, Paper, Scissors

// The quick, brown fox sticks his hot

sharp stink in ones and zeroes. // // We are buggering the ineffable;

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

ous herd of nil. // // Below them, the

sharp -suited nilherds // // insinuate up from the city // // draggin

Nil Charge / Nil Return

and found, // // In your uneven smile,

sharp teeth, // // Your voice, I love the sound— // // I need you. /

Fall for————

kes root and // // Its appetite carves

sharp to sign the paper, // // Cleave the land. // // In a time of d

Foregrounded // // A starting point of

sharp velars // // That cut and crack and cold consume, // // And le

// // Last night, gaping smile, // //

Sharp with the earth’s slow // // Bleed, four nights till it sheds //

Here be dragons

he nilherds sense nail-break // // and

sharpen their needling, // // call out their managers, // // rule up

Nil Charge / Nil Return

She presents the wooden phallus, // //

Sharpened with female power. // // Poof! // // Another metaphor turn

ght // // of comfort might assuage the

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

to align my chakras; I want to them to

shatter . // // I’m sure it’s not abnormal. Otherwise OK Cupid would t

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

e. // // A cloud broke, and she saw it

shatter , // // Up there in the sky, // // Blowed and bumbling along,

[The sun flattened]

into pieces, // // Collapsed into the

shattered trees // // Like water flows down drains. // // If there h

[The sun flattened]

ng man writhing in the splinters of the

shattered window pane. // // There was an overcrowded hospital. // /

Black September

your real name. // // I could fold my

shattered wings // // And speak the word too mundane to say // // An

ugh faltering hands // // —The shuttle

shatters on silent stone— // // And in the fabric of life, I weave my

Twit complex, the psychologists (clean-

shaven and in black) might say. // // The beard is living history, we

Bearded Thoughts

m a Thursday // // I am a naked Hamlet

shaving in the mirror // // Clearing the gravel in my throat pulling

ns upon the creamy-white // // Bernard

Shaw , the voluptuous Darwin, the natty Disraeli. // // Youth wins, //

Bearded Thoughts

e, finds a snag, and then turns— // //

shearing me. Clearing me myself from hide. Hide? // // No plaice. He’

the blind fury // // With the abhorred

shears // // But this is what I fear; // // The stealthy scissors of

The Cutting Edge

m unsullied. // // Ornithologists with

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

Frighteningly Inert

// Now we’ve stooked up in a corner and

shed a skin or two, // // old feathers and splinters litter our floor

lters through torn curtains. // // You

shed dust from your eyes, // // Blood dripping from your next cigaret

mn in Cambridge, and the stars wouldn’t

shed me as much light // // as they did over the sea. I lay awake and

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

e weather // // Tell of flames beneath

shed skin, // // The old so neatly severed // // From the life which

leaves might fall

of pure water: a still. // // Garden

shed // // with a still? Local // // excise officer takes to // //

There must be moonshine

ion will be irrefutable. // // We will

shed worldliness // // For a spasm of enlightenment. // //

/ and probably seep amber. // // She’s

shedding her leaves for // // the winter now, // // but she’ll be bl

slow // // Bleed, four nights till it

sheds // // Its shadow to bloom // // In the vast, dust-filled // /

Here be dragons

a change in them, // // Breaking their

sheen into a certain shade // // Particular and unrepeatable. // //

The Magic Apple Tree

ng the east // // To touch and brush a

sheen of light on water // // As though behind the sky itself they tr

hildren you // // are scales beneath a

sheepskin you are crow’s // // feet in a mirror, so many questions //

into reality // // I see a blank white

sheet , and withdraw, // // Back to my drooling muse, because // // W

Writing to explore

s the lantern // // behind a stretched

sheet , can you feel the rods // // are they strong enough to lift a s

d up eight or nine // // Close-written

sheets , but as for me // // I fear I am not in my perfect mind // //

Exam Room Villanelle

ht of anything unusual - // // And the

sheets creak in the night as you wrap up warm with worn-out future tho

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

/ I’d be On The Road, or in-between the

sheets . // // I used to think the best songs had been sung, // // Th

nd wondering, as you roll into the snug

sheets , if ink will stain your hands forever. // // Does it wash off,

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

the corpse cracks a smile. // // Silk

sheets in the houses of ill-repute // // Slip from bare skin in the s

Sheets of water laminate the windows // // as if to reverse // // th

offee left, // // And there’s no dusty

sheets or torn curtains // // Or your voice. // // And, I wish // /

e better), // // Ranging over the snow

sheets , stained now with black, what if one day all the books drew bla

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

smell of smoke, // // Midday, in dirty

sheets with window open, // // Your newest song on the speaker, // /

// I’ve glanced awhile at poets on the

shelf , // // Desiring this man’s style or that man’s wealth, // // B

it // // crab’s claw from its recycled

shell , while a translucent team // // of chameleon shrimps held a whi

Just a Small Fish

young, // // That you must expire like

Shelley , // // Or the fire in your belly // // Will be quenched befo

abs, // // But still their young steal

shells to hide in—is this the poem? // // The smallest matryoshka dol

tood // // By me, who gapes up from my

shelter home. // // At once, in shock, the cloud on which I float, //

[What have we done]

led my name to the dank moss in the bus

shelter // // I mouthed my name silently on the windswept tip of the

[I whispered my name into the trees]

qualls cannot reach // // Waves are my

shelter , I’m not far off off-shore // // Close to the land, I open my

t the post: // // how else to explain,

sheltered by the brimming chest, // // the shivering sceptic, afraid,

ift in the sea. // // I am glad of the

sheltering waves // // Until the ferry comes into harbour // // And

/ // The private put away, the volumes

shelved , // // Her thoughts, like chairs drawn out from table’s edge,

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

stale jumpers // // and behind // //

shelves of chipped china. // // I smiled. She was right. // // The r

In a charity shop

ped enough. one day I get to cry Kri’at

Shema lying down. I get unbelief. one day I will be calx and cure, wha

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

leaves, // // Beyond the music of the

shepherdess , // // Down through the dark towards the grey church spir

The Magic Apple Tree

// // Housing my growing self inside a

shield , // // And bathing me without inside this place. // // I clos

[What have we done]

f false // // Smiles and bravado that

shield the truth // // From the handshake. // // A handheld spotligh

Vicious or Virtuous?

d the sky itself they traced // // The

shift and shimmer of another river // // Flowing unbidden from its hi

// // An accurate // // Fate. // //

Shift essential, // // Tangential // // To the Jura // // Mandala.

Small Particles in the Small Hours

from old coal-grate ash // // so I can

shift my gaze // // from keys to coots // // while trying to turn a

A Room of Her Own

rowning which was meant? // // My tilt-

shift vision // // of Prospero’s storm: // // cellophane sea and sca

f twinkling roseate light— // // Shape-

shifting , whispers ‘there is more to know’. // // Imprisoned in this

ke alone I would be weeping // // With

shiftless sorrow, restless, rootless dread. // // Instead I wake to w

// To blackn’d smog which as the ocean

shifts // // Over itself, a growing potion, thick // // To perfect b

[What have we done]

itself they traced // // The shift and

shimmer of another river // // Flowing unbidden from its hidden sourc

m their other halves // // And ghostly

shimmering nylon stockings curled // // Like bindweed. Deposited, bl

ave. // // South of here, the sun will

shine , // // And through the fear, all will be fine? // // North of

Ode to a map of the world

ere. // // The light of other days can

shine // // on any past and redefine // // our history, and that is

from Eden’s light, // // The air they

shine through breathes a change in them, // // Breaking their sheen i

The Magic Apple Tree

ttle hessikan, your juniper hair // //

shines like strands of the sun resting // // upon my shoulder. // //

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

this way. It has no name, it exists, it

shines outside of language and concept. // // 2. // // After a littl

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

ight, pale yellow, // // the kind that

shines through your // // skin in the sunshine. // // I press my eye

Bright, Pale Yellow

later, we met again // // on a Suffolk

shingle beach. // // In November the days were short, // // and dark

te blocks // // on piles all along the

shingle beach. // // The mile south to the Martello tower, // // we

Walking in winter

t blue breath // // And left it in the

shining air // // And left his stiffened body there // // The boy wi

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ht through perfect diamond form, // //

Shining direct into eachother’s face, // // Beaming an endless web ar

[What have we done]

effluvial. // // A surety of sound and

shining light // // To beat the breast against // // And worship wai

ale-tree lifted, swift and free, // //

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

boy without a face. // // Between the

shining silver trees // // He waited for the world to freeze // // A

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

— // // now the Gurkhas are happy—some

shiny erection to // // burnish my halo. Ah, I have a whim // // to

Troubled waters

pt the battles // // In return for our

shiny new lives, however long they last. // //

we’ve little time to drink, // // The

ship of state’s about to plunge and sink, // // Pour out the last of

the following day. // // Of shoes and

ships and sealing wax, // // and such great themes as these, // // t

gistry of fifty shades of brown. // //

Ships hang in the sky much in the way bricks // // Might, if we built

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

watch the wake— // // And further—the

ships nestle // // In their resting place— // // You—my dear—are suc

From Trebetherick Point

waying in a Finnish tango // // to the

ship’s pitch and yaw, // // borrowed eyes seeing // // some earlier

osebleed on // // A crisp white formal

shirt , // // And me realising that the method of erasing blood was st

Three Pieces of Advice

on // // who always made love with his

shirt on. // // Saying “Now that I’m old, // // I do feel the cold—

m its neck, to wilt upon each soft pale

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

e, knotted with pride // // And ironed

shirt that flows uneasily // // Over the tanning-bed tan that won’t g

// On Tuesdays for the boys in crinkled

shirts , // // A break from labs and analysing dirts; // // A break f

Three gay rituals

// with mum’s blouses, // // dad’s old

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

In a charity shop

h are polished by professionals, // //

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

igures. // // and the girl’s like: oh,

// I woke up at 5. // // [P.M.] // //

Shit . How long since you’ve seen the sun? // // I still feel its warm

Whales sing because they have a song

Shit , we’ve missed our stop. // // Coffee-stained plastic floor, its

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

th is that they’re dead because they’re

shite . // //

In Defence of Evolution

en heaven of her vent // // Misshapen,

shitten , and matted with old feather. // //

[No point, she said]

ent, // // Reading. // // Pride was a

shiver . // // I float in the blur of your // // Shallow depth of fie

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

e fell breaks // // On nothing but the

shiver // // of your fresh skimmer’s // // river-hewn back. Now bend

hat trickled the head of the pool. Sand

shivered a hermit // // crab’s claw from its recycled shell, while a

Just a Small Fish

tered by the brimming chest, // // the

shivering sceptic, afraid, at last, of ghosts? // //

naught but shop door front, // // Who

shivers cold in sleeping bag at night // // Looks in to see them danc

Three gay rituals

La Belle Dame // // La belle dame

shivers in the shadows, // // a green silk veil against her frame, //

raction doors, down the corridors, sent

shivers of sunlight in criss-cross rays // // wedding chimes of line

// the fog lights catching great dark

shoals // // of rain, algorithmic complexity // // that flexes // /

thunderstorm struck the sea // // The

shock of a constellation lost // // On a promontory we watched // //

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

shock of a constellation lost // // We navigate by auspice // // And

rom my shelter home. // // At once, in

shock , the cloud on which I float, // // Does drift away, discovering

[What have we done]

// A harbour adorned with lights // //

Shoeless feet and unsteady ground // // If I close my eyes I still se

/ // You hold your hand in mine // //

Shoeless feet and unsteady ground // // Whales singing the day in //

hey passed the following day. // // Of

shoes and ships and sealing wax, // // and such great themes as these

suit, // // And only one pair of black

shoes , // // And who’s going to help me put new laces in, // // Beca

Three Pieces of Advice

ve stride // // As your polished black

shoes emerge stealthily // // And know the simple tie, knotted with p

, as though I’m craving more. // // My

shoes have turned a whole new shade of wet. // // My Frost-bit ears r

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

g to teach me to change the laces in my

shoes , // // Increasing in frustration exponentially (I think that’s

Three Pieces of Advice

// instead I’m staring at want’s damp

shoes // // on the dark path back from college, refusing // // to lo

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

appled on falling trees, // // Dancing

shoes over broken shards. // // Burnished leaves line damp concrete,

Fall for————

// I am watching the boy take off his

shoes , // // Slipping them easy as peel from his moon-silvered skinny

and she, // // Having abandoned their

shoes some time ago, // // Print a wide arc, then slope down towards

nd scraped the mud off of her own caked

shoes . // // The feet that passed here have passed away. // // Handf

can’t wear quirky May Ball maroon-laced

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

Three Pieces of Advice

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

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

to my heart // // A crack in distance

shone —’twas my ember. // // The flame brought me to my feet remember

[What have we done]

utside our window the cedar tree // //

Shook its head along with me, // // Blankly dismissing the old sublim

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

white. // // Another having naught but

shop door front, // // Who shivers cold in sleeping bag at night //

Three gay rituals

shop // // Sat behind the counter, // // old watches spread, // //

In a charity shop

The mile or two // // to the village

shop to seek supplies // // becomes a daily ritual. // // Suffolk, c

Walking in winter

on vigour from the surround- // // ing

shops and offices, has seemed a sign— // // not of the town’s past, b

e turned out a bore—I was dumped on the

shore // // And now I have wed Dionysus // //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

// For soon we leave that fast-receding

shore // // And revelries like this will be no more. // // Re-fill m

ng out from the emerald isle’s southern

shore . Behold! Sailors, all hail! // // No isle is truly godforsaken,

ves are my shelter, I’m not far off off-

shore // // Close to the land, I open my maw // // to the ocean: I h

grass and flowers can stretch shore to

shore . // // Of bridges traversing the Thames here in London, we’ve /

Troubled waters

// // Than the certainty of a familiar

shore ? // // Please, allow me to fade this way: // // Wind-beat cott

I could never be (ready)

ves // // always return to comfort the

shore . The pain ached in waves. // // I painted my feelings in layer

[I often think of that January morning]

// trees, grass and flowers can stretch

shore to shore. // // Of bridges traversing the Thames here in London

Troubled waters

ronze effigies, // // Usurping the old

shore with the new tide. // //

// White at first, newly-mowed, // //

Shorn beneath its reasonable limits // // And covering the hard brown

slender deck, makes oblations // // Of

shorn hair and candle wax, to the saint; // // The ram-head of the co

beach. // // In November the days were

short , // // and dark night fell as we built and lit the fire // //

this: // // you with your hair cut day-

short , // // blowing a cool kiss, // // prone on a white toboggan,

/ Your jeans were rusty // // red, too

short . I could // // see the whites of your ankles. // // Lunch was

Tridente, 10th September

e side of a barn // // but falling far

short of a neat bull’s-eye. // // Not quite seeing the wood for the b

the windmill’s lament—a

short play // // O, // // MUST i keep on going round in // // CIRCL

the windmill’s lament—a short play

ster of love and much-loved mystery, in

short . // // You denied yourself, and like beads loosed from tassels

s and frames, // // Circuit mid-flight

shorted . // // I am unsullied by the outside, // // The outside that

Frighteningly Inert

e summer’s haze // // Now, days become

shorter // // And we know that soon, // // Another flock of birds wi

Magnetic Mountain

Only a second ago, // // Finding only

shorter grass, // // A coloured strip made // // By the lawnmower. /

it. // // His confidence shaken, near

shot dead, // // he thought of some words that Pol Pot said, // // a

The Failing of the Cheese

// Eventually we all sit in the gutter,

shot down // // By an unseen enemy on his way up. // // ‘War is not

her sneakers on, // // downs a double

shot of gin // // (needs to get her liquors on) // // gets her light

[the typist puts her knickers on]

a song // // How are you? // // [Long

shot , vast sea.] // // Long time, no see. // // [I missed you.] //

Whales sing because they have a song

rands of the sun resting // // upon my

shoulder . // // and there’s the crux, // // right in that light, hus

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

y // // teeth breathing just beyond my

shoulder blades. An unsteady light // // is flickering between needli

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

o become bubbles in the waves around my

shoulders . And I was scared that my skin would get soggy and weigh me

[So the moon was there]

// // turns to me and says: // // you

should’ve written The Waste Land first time round Nickerson. // //

[the typist puts her knickers on]

// Through air and ether people mutter,

shout , // // voices, ipods, phones speak out. // // So many people t

my name to the slate grey sky // // I

shouted my name at the empty football pitches // // I muttered my nam

[I whispered my name into the trees]

grows louder and louder // // And it’s

shouting and you can’t hear anything else // // And nothing can drown

// Blood dies quicker than paint // //

Shouts the gunshot on the lake // // But the things that heaven takes

cut beams! // // We’re a curio. Grain

shovel is propped up all ornamental, // // dusted cogs very still abo

o the West, // // I wish a witch would

show her face. // // But, Christ! From the West to the East, // // A

Ode to a map of the world

h us Greek; // // No breath remains to

show how we might speak // // Or write, approaching her in skill and

ee, // // Gray street lamps passing by

show no-texture of headrests. // // Foreign coin of size of 20p fell

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

ugh all lived history // // that would

show the immortal endeavour to preserve, // // To find stability that

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

would guess. // // In Eastern Cape men

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

Three gay rituals

at first childhood snow. // // Humming

show tunes to test my voice // // Or lack thereof, because there isn’

The Notes You Have Left

mouth and fresco eyes, // // I had to

show what I wanted so to tell. // //

Translucent in the glancing lights that

show // // Where their quick-stirring forms are flickering. // // We

Is it a memory?

ver work for Hallmark // // If I could

show you how I love you with this poem // // I would, but I can’t. No

I’ll never work for Hallmark

yet it is as stone // // that we must

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

Stone, Paper, Scissors

s and my hair // // And the tea-leaves

showed me nothing to fear; // // But I cried a splashy Victorian tear

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

// a ticker-tape parade, // // a paper-

shower of life: // // your driving licence, swimming // // awards, y

Stone, Paper, Scissors

ng, // // Somehow wisdom in fresh eyes

showing . // // Somehow you fill your name already, // // Cast in whi

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

smiled by now, at least. // // Teeth,

showing , to break the ice // // And cut the tension. // // I should

n reverie. // // And the artist who is

showing us the scene // // —does he know what it is she sees? The fr

Cape Cod Morning

// // And I, the more I let my way be

shown , // // Did seem to rise that water made of stone. // // Away d

[What have we done]

// // Hall in Bones and Cartilage has

shown // // the furcula might prove a midline split // // in this re

rn serfdom. // // The light was rarely

shown , // // We scuttled around behind // // Doors and were blown //

numb’d ass’nance, ’lision; laziness, it

shows . // // Descend, true nature sprouts, like damp, decant- // //

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

form. // // Within our bubble, Hubble

shows the forms // // Of roiling supernovae; helium flame // // From

sic now hold sway // // In harmony, it

shows the way // // To reach beyond—to touch the light // // And now

ink and paper to the floor, // // The

shredded evidence of our affair // // Our old, embarassing affair wit

The Cutting Edge

e, // // the hot slit in a letter, the

shriek . // // I have never treasured the fingerprint // // sonic res

Aubade to Girton

ith cold machinery. // // A continuous

shriek throbs against the wall // // And the tree falls silent after

Snapshot Endings

aelstrom, a cacophony, // // Crashing,

shrieking , // // Half longing, half caution. // // Should I let myse

n smile at the other passengers. // //

Shrill beep as the // // Doors open, the // // Train disgorging scor

Poems on the Underground

om a jagged cleft. // // A wax of fire—

shrill waning hearts— // // Then silence, and my life bereft. // //

a translucent team // // of chameleon

shrimps held a whiskery love-in and hoydenish // // bivalves blew bub

Just a Small Fish

return of the light, // // Great stone

shrines were built. // // All humans feel the change // // And, if w

Before Christmas

k, we can still see. // // Great stone

shrines were built // // Many lifetimes before us // // And, if we l

Before Christmas

ce on this concrete desert. // // They

shudder at your distinctive stride // // As your polished black shoes

ith cutting down some cedars: // // We

shudder here with the jarring noise of chain saws, // // Beginning to

[Walcott begins Omeros]

den coalescence of storm and tar // //

shuddering down the motorway // // to loom as close // // and still

r you’re quite done; // // Discard and

shuffle quickly if you’re clever // // And find a new hapless victim

nto worn and ripped slippers // // And

shuffled over hardwood floors, // // Through spaghetti-stained carpet

The Notes You Have Left

ise offers // // a thrice-empty // //

shun . // // Death’s minstrel followed this path of destruction to //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

kly shut out blunt. // // They all are

shunned and I am shut out too, // // The past and custom are no frien

Three gay rituals

// Did what I thought was right, // //

Shunned … but I grow. // // Feeling when it gets clear, // // This pa

A Tribute to AQOH

lour. // // Like a trap the hand snaps

shut , // // Creases more, // // Folds into itself. // // A cloud st

[The sun flattened]

for when, the // // Doors clamp tight

shut , like an oyster, (Would // // Someone please // // Make a gap /

Poems on the Underground

e. // // I hate doing it, but I // //

Shut my ears to Antigone, blot out my dear’s words. // // They can’t

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// Our house is in darkness. // // I

shut my eyes, but // // my eyelids are glowing with // // bright, pa

Bright, Pale Yellow

light, // // Endeavours in but weekly

shut out blunt. // // They all are shunned and I am shut out too, //

Three gay rituals

t. // // They all are shunned and I am

shut out too, // // The past and custom are no friend of ours. // //

Three gay rituals

ms you wake, and feel as if you’d never

shut your eyes, never ever not been seeing words before you, // // Th

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

e briefly, // // Or be eclipsed by the

shuttered windows of the next train— // // Watch, as all the panes st

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

ms spent: // // The blasts drop like a

shutter’s blink and break // // The moment when the child looks and t

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

rfection’s shackles to rust. // // The

shuttle flits through warp and weft // // And hands recall hands from

ers through faltering hands // // —The

shuttle shatters on silent stone— // // And in the fabric of life, I

of the Cheese // // A hungry old cat (

Siamese ) // // tried to draw out a mouse with some cheese. // // But

The Failing of the Cheese

// // And as I’m limping blind through

Siberia , // // I want her to restart the solar system with the light

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

e that big baby hybrid is, // // Whose

sibling stood guard (to keep access barred) // // In a stench that sh

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

interest // // in sour milk // // the

sick cow // // and the blight // // that had fallen on the vineyard.

// In a stench that should make her a

sick sis. // // When a Hero formed part of the tribute // // The gir

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

to light // // One candle’s guttering

sickly flame // // And peer. Myopic view, fragmented past // // And

en a confrontation but there’s // // a

sickly glow from the windows of the house on the corner, madly // //

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

the fast- // // ness of your mother’s

side . And now, at last, // // you’re out. And though I dreamed I saw

the Cape Cod house’s painted clapboard

side . // // At centre, as if growing from the clapboards, // // but

Cape Cod Morning

the verge of sleep // // Where, lying

side by side, // // The angels of our planets weep // // To see two

The Daily Planet

ur head, // // Vice-like; your pierced

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

from above, // // We’re on the losing

side . // // Isn’t this mass extermination ? // // She points to the

[She points to the sky]

te burns, // // not failing to hit the

side of a barn // // but falling far short of a neat bull’s-eye. //

nk-clink-clink of teaspoons against the

side of mugs. // // And though our unkind inactions told you otherwis

htning rods earthed. // // On the dark

side of the earth, // // in the light of a fire, // // and faint sta

Side of the Line // // “I drew a line under you today.” // // You sp

The Other Side of the Line

ge of sleep // // Where, lying side by

side , // // The angels of our planets weep // // To see two worlds c

The Daily Planet

ground // // into the small hole in my

side where your hand, // // cold, // // now rests. like malagas //

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

ian’s plight // // To where, in street-

side window the octogenarian sits: caught // // in the—“today there’s

peaker, // // A cold coffee left by my

side . // // You sing along to your favourite lyrics, // // Hazy summ

the feel // // Of earth against their

sides instead of flesh, // // That time when all that I am will slide

[My face is old now]

we discover // // that that was just a

sideshow : all the while // // the crafty sea is also digging down //

Walking in winter

/ I have tried // // (as I peer at you

sideways // // drawing my thoughts along your wooden wave-shapes //

s in the grass // // That grows in the

sidings . // // And houses have hollow // // Fishbowl eyes // // Loo

/ // Against the odds. // // From the

sidings // // He cannot see // // The sea // // And yet he knows //

Sidings // // The spirit of gorse // // Is in the grass // // That

/ // Fishbowl eyes // // Looking over

sidings . // // Their peeling paint // // Maroon // // Against the o

There must be moonshine // // Fin de

siècle . // // Ethel Sargant, botanist // // (Girton student 1880s) /

There must be moonshine

years – with bitterness and bile // //

sieved through our shared blue sleeve; we’re worn // // with waiting

ugh my dreaming head; // // Dry voices

sift and fall in ash and cinders, // // In acrid conversation with th

// // Speckled by starlight: You smoke-

sigh and observe // // What? I stare at you looking. Blank! Crack ope

ow of melody // // Ends on a heartfelt

sigh . // // As the violin plays triplets // // The final note is sun

of the masterful mage // // So with a

sigh that page surrendered to the caresses of that pen most famously t

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

/ // Make of the mass one mind. // //

Sighing , I make up my mind, // // Waiting for when, the // // Doors

Poems on the Underground

reathing // // age into you // // and

sighing into the ground; // // But now // // (varnished, sanded, roo

aughing on the pavement // // dries to

sighs in seconds. // // It’s so easy // // to deflate into lonely do

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

// Releaseless, ceaseless. She // //

sighs to my teeth. // // Deafness, I watch the sea. // // See ripple

l’esprit d’escalier

que, frailty perceivable only // // by

sight . For you these words // // Were nature, these forms so often ta

Sestina to an English Teacher

rds, implodes // // Without a sound or

sight of anything unusual - // // And the sheets creak in the night a

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

your name, // // This is how you lose

sight of the mountains, of the buffalos. // // Promise me—don’t compr

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

re fog, encoal’d, imbues with cloud our

sight , // // Surrounding ev’ry face we meet with Blight, // // Whose

[What have we done]

team, rich foraging is // // in their

sights —time for a gentler stream. // // Now I feel the flood’s return

sign is Aries. Though it seems a poor // // fit for me, it is at lea

[Maybe it’s just the latent

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

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// ing shops and offices, has seemed a

sign — // // not of the town’s past, but of your fine // // bones, fe

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

sign // // Of some perversion of a submissive kind // // Which three

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ing and snipping, // // Excising every

sign -post from the text // // Paring all the parts that point away //

The Cutting Edge

we kept on talking // // I noticed the

sign said // // ‘take care, ail road’ // // ahead, on the rail road

owing light, // // New but not news, a

sign that all is right. // // The line of bodies on the table in //

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

and // // Its appetite carves sharp to

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

// explore the earth, // // and send

signal fires // // blazing into the air. // // Our space is the eart

rey // // scarf waving like a distress

signal —fossilised. The camera light // // flashed seconds before wave

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ing clay; // // Telling the future his

signature flaw. // // Creation stutters through faltering hands // /

Signature Flaw // // We are not alone. The apple core // // left fac

the lines // // As the tongue slips on

significance . // // Above the belt, you’re a god, // // Pied, impiou

rmer self but the concentric rings that

signify your age— // // Meanwhile, the wind whistles in the chimney.

your sullen veins— // // A promise, a

signpost , // // And us, deciding to stay. // // We marched in lock-s

Magnetic Mountain

Signs // // During these slow nine months the castle mound, // // sw

old motte, I cast away // // all such

signs . May the new // // and broken morning be no song of you, // //

of sound, the generative gramma // //

signs of the Mystery, inscribed arcana // // runes from the root-tree

/ // Leave notes that are no more than

signs — // // Trust that the old choices hold wordlessly. // //

Sijo // // // // Lover, the years have fine timing, or fine luck, I

fire—shrill waning hearts— // // Then

silence , and my life bereft. // // Dinner Party. Jerusalem, 21 Januar

ent; the beauty of the day submerged in

silence . Buses, bicycles, cold commuters, they passed us by as we stoo

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

Silence // // Came to stay one day. // // Unpacked her bags, // //

/ // Fleeting instances of milk-soaked

silence . // // Darkened feet tread over a foreign space // // Which

Vicious or Virtuous?

ance never recognized, // // demanding

silence for each wireless news: // // vainglorious hope they’ll trump

Compass Reading

he would have acknowledged mastery with

silence // // For had cheesy words ravaged the page, then never would

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ace is set like flint, // // For stony

silence . // // He gives his back to the smiters // // His cheeks to

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

ntil we’d gone so far // // That dusky

silence hit // // Sweet like shalimar. // // We were all alone with

twenty-six // // enchanters. Spelling

silence into sound, // // they bind and loose, they find and are not

// taken amongst the bums // // in the

silence of exiles. // // No surprise at sundown // // when it rains

Tridente, 10th September

y anything because // // she fills the

silence of the room // // with her presence. // // My Grandmother fi

Have you forgotten the early months of

silence ? // // Or does that silence sit with you at each table? // /

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

months of silence? // // Or does that

silence sit with you at each table? // // You’re already looking at m

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

six warring tongues // // That in the

silence spell our hexagram. // // War means supplication: the hexagra

Sixteen Forty-Five

mpsed magic. // // We witnessed in the

silence , the darkness and the secrecy // // When to sense was to make

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

drink! to Christ! and be merry. // //

silence unspoken fear gritting the teeth and fingers // // the

Drink and be merry

e sent you to the desert’s hush-parched

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

ith old friends // // more talks, more

silences // // more sleeps, more sleepless nights, more dreams // //

ly and it was terrible and dreadful and

silent // //

[I whispered my name into the trees]

se is the medium // // Poets have been

silent about cheese // // Because whilst every subject is the messag

Cheese is the medium

inst the wall // // And the tree falls

silent after receiving no entry. // // // // …If you come to the

Snapshot Endings

rl on the stool // // the earth is not

silent // // and the riddles // // not // // untrue. // //

Him. // // So I’ll just sit and stare,

silent , and you’ll come back to me. // // But please make it soon, be

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

of speech and depths below, // // The

silent depths where touch is everything. // //

Is it a memory?

elves // // In the undergrowth. // //

Silent drip-drops of water from pelt. // // Soundless patter of paddi

He who made the Lamb

weft // // And hands recall hands from

silent dust. // // The mis-struck stone. The blade which breaks. //

ou can’t stay long // // And must stay

silent for your public with an even- // // handed air of gravitas. Ou

// Green spindles stick to socks a

silent great-aunt and the queen’s speech, naturally // // drink to

Drink and be merry

at the gods of Underground will hear my

silent pleas // // To clear a seat or two and make a gap // // There

Poems on the Underground

g hands // // —The shuttle shatters on

silent stone— // // And in the fabric of life, I weave my name // //

n cuts crimson flesh // // Drops spray

silent // // Zest bittersweet scent // // Syrupy fingertips // // S

he bus shelter // // I mouthed my name

silently on the windswept tip of the hill // // // // I bellowed m

[I whispered my name into the trees]

e your funeral pyres still burn, // //

Silently roaring // // In a late summer’s haze // // Now, days becom

Magnetic Mountain

ights guide my yellow path: // // Your

silhouette stands beyond their glow. // // Red, white, and black word

events, pale memory, // // Pendant in

silicon amber. // // Plain and varied multitudes of senses strung out

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

ad of the corpse cracks a smile. // //

Silk sheets in the houses of ill-repute // // Slip from bare skin in

shivers in the shadows, // // a green

silk veil against her frame, // // the sedge, the princes’ steeds lie

// // We sought to do away // // With

silly notions // // Of freedom and equality, // // Drinking the poti

path beside the wood—the fir // // and

silver birch along the dunes that run // // between the marshes and t

Wells in winter

// // pursue the sunrise with a net of

silver crunching aphids. // // I will char those swatches dotted with

Aubade to Girton

// // Wrists, shackled by counterfeit

silver , // // Steeled against the disgrace of a head bowed // // By

Vicious or Virtuous?

rumpet forth your K. // // So when the

silver thief (who always came // // on Thursdays) took our memories,

Compass Reading

hout a face. // // Between the shining

silver trees // // He waited for the world to freeze // // And ice t

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

what is it you // // see in my mind’s

silvered folds, and did I // // invite you in do I pretend you are //

lipping them easy as peel from his moon-

silvered skinny feet. // // He coughs with surprise at the cold rigid

e merry! // // Hymns rattle around the

silverware cadences vibrate the port // // drink to Christ! and be

Drink and be merry

se meaningless metaphors and simplistic

similes // // Capture all of my love and describe it // // Badly. //

I’ll never work for Hallmark

it was like triple trouble! // // They

simmered down when he was about five years old, // // and she would h

ered a posy. // // She clutched it and

simpered . // // The future seemed rosy— // // To her, a State Secret

undation of things. ‘Reality’ is clean,

simple and purely luminous. It is difficult to look and experience lif

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

s emerge stealthily // // And know the

simple tie, knotted with pride // // And ironed shirt that flows unea

cle of the night air // // and see the

simplicity // // moonlight // // brings to an autumn frost. // // 1

[The sash rattles up]

// // These meaningless metaphors and

simplistic similes // // Capture all of my love and describe it // /

I’ll never work for Hallmark

opped on the floor (by accident) // //

simply because it was so expensive. // // The man does not experience

gress beyond the second part, with many

simply claiming incorrectly that the second derivative of xx is aa and

e heft. // // To name your best street

simply ‘Fifth’ must surely be a sin. // // Maybe the new New Yorkers

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

// // credit clairvoyance for what was

simply love // // than I could moralise that hill. News of // // the

nto cold // // carpet) // // there is

simply nothing to connect you to your former self but the concentric r

// Maybe the new New Yorkers were just

simply overcome; // // This thirteen-and-a-half mile Eden seemed to b

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ven demons rise, // // Let him without

sin cast the first stone, // // Let her without skin be the first to

street simply ‘Fifth’ must surely be a

sin . // // Maybe the new New Yorkers were just simply overcome; // /

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

/ The sunken armchair left // // Empty

since last December, // // Just over twelve months now. // // Our vo

Wild Mountain Thyme

ions, now dead and now done with // //

since no-one remembers—no— // // nobody heard from that // // bullet

Jonathan’s Deathbed

oot, // // Those drawings I made years

since // // Of shapes pinnate and toothed, // // Like a hand, lobed

leaves might fall

ow, crooked // // Round old socks long

since sundered from their other halves // // And ghostly shimmering n

// And of things that are gone // //

Since we went driving in your parents’ car. // //

rash dear Wayne – you wongaboy – // //

since you forgot to check if I was versed // // in things grammatical

Between Life and Death

5. // // [P.M.] // // Shit. How long

since you’ve seen the sun? // // I still feel its warmth. // // [You

Whales sing because they have a song

sound // // only their tongues // //

Same but differenT

cold coffee left by my side. // // You

sing along to your favourite lyrics, // // Hazy summer light filters

[And, hey, maybe if I continue to

sing ] // // // // // // // // // And, hey, maybe if I continue

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

sing because they have a song // // How are you? // // [Long shot, v

Whales sing because they have a song

eams. // // Of course I’ll continue to

sing , because you do crazy things // // To get back what you need. //

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

ees weren’t pink and the stars couldn’t

sing , but we were happy. // // // // Is that the end? // //

[So the moon was there]

restless Asphodel. // // If what they

sing for is undone, // // I’ll grasp the last whispers. // // Over o

Who am I, Bernard?

ame but differenT // // they prefer to

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

Same but differenT

Sharp. // // But maybe I don’t need to

sing ; just wait instead. // // Like a Wiccan would wait, because she

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

relief. dry-heave // // over the sink.

sing miserere, doubt // // the notes, your voice too much your own. b

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

// toe as an instrument whose strings

sing of souls hurt. // // Blind, dumb, deaf upon the pedestal of a sa

s // // psalmodic tone—only heaven can

sing . // // Parodied mastery, pantomime mystery // // ruled their am

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// // And, hey, maybe if I continue to

sing , that thing // // That’s on the tip of your tongue, // // That

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

// Summon the summoners, and let them

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

e magic of day and of dark // // We’ll

sing waes hael, waes hael, hurrah! hurrah! // //

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

r the Planting of Fruit Trees // // We

sing waes hael, waes hael, hurrah! hurrah! // // A cup and a toast to

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

// 2, said half-jokingly on holiday in

Singapore , but actually just very sound advice. // // Nothing to argu

Three Pieces of Advice

Singing Bowl // // Begin the song exactly where you are, // // Remai

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

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

s, into us, // // conscious harmonics,

singing face to face. // // Resounding into music now, we trace // /

on echoes // // of the sea incessantly

singing her serenade of blue. // // We hugged goodbye. I walked home

[I often think of that January morning]

// // You left, for stinging slash and

singing pain // // Of lashes; a thorn halo hallows your head, // //

feet and unsteady ground // // Whales

singing the day in // // The heart trips and is under way // //

he wake of light on water // // Whales

singing the day in // // You hold your hand in mine // // Shoeless f

at surge; // // and I in my belly cave

singing // // to the rib-dark sky, larking my demiurge. // // Give m

chose a brand new name to give to every

single one. // //

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

// space and time exploded // // to a

single // // point // // Could this induce a comparable feeling in y

/ So that I’m launched 3,000 miles in a

single second straight, // // So fast that my eyes explode in their s

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ic now, we trace // // in touches of a

single string, our source, // // flowing in everything, for everythin

/ // The illusion holds until // // a

single truck tyre appears, // // a sudden coalescence of storm and ta

ough. // // I cough a protest. No bird

sings . // //

ened wide // // To hear the Word which

sings of life // // To hear the Song, beyond the notes // // Oh onwa

’t sleepy either. // // The angel then

sings out, “Amen, // // Casablanca’s on again.” // // Play it, Sam.

A Hymn to a Loved One

e for hours and hours until it began to

sink , and I said // // // // Please don’t go! // // I’ll eat

[So the moon was there]

eath of Russia // // (even the kitchen

sink bears witness // // to Soviet columns of ice). // // But you se

why i’m getting into Christmas

alf caution. // // Should I let myself

sink into the caressing depths // // Or fight to the lung-stinging su

The ship of state’s about to plunge and

sink , // // Pour out the last of this Burgundian wine // // Before t

ut no relief. dry-heave // // over the

sink . sing miserere, doubt // // the notes, your voice too much your

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

ss, // // Pour the holy water down the

sink , // // Take up the pom-pom instead. // // But that wouldn’t kil

dy) // // Respite, (n): A feeling that

sinks // // And settles each morn, // // Affirmed by sun, love, and

I could never be (ready)

s Queen pull, // // And commit all her

sins of emission. // // The sequel was building the labyrinth // //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

riverrun, past Eve’s and Adam’s // //

sins of the sons are visited upon the fathers they

rs, this heraldry // // That codes and

siphons off and binds me here // // And keeps me earthed, but, if I c

ater we lay on the floor of your house,

sipping sleepy coffee // // as your guitar filled the room with the s

[I often think of that January morning]

In a stench that should make her a sick

sis . // // When a Hero formed part of the tribute // // The girl fel

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ot understand // // Our dialect, sweet

sister of our land. // //

uth, I choose // // Our dialect, sweet

sister of our land. // // Our learning is denied at your command. //

still bruise // // Our dialect, sweet

sister of our land. // // The poor must grow their food amongst the s

all its hues: // // Our dialect, sweet

sister of our land. // // When you dismiss my bitter words offhand, /

etermined, and remote— // // His angel

sisters keep watch over // // The stillness of their mother’s house.

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

esh grass with Him. // // So I’ll just

sit and stare, silent, and you’ll come back to me. // // But please m

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

s the truth that I had feared. // // I

sit beneath your branches, breathless, // // Waiting for a moment to

The Tree of Wisdom

Touch and talk // // Are mingled as we

sit beside the stream // // And watch the minnows swim against the fl

Is it a memory?

n words you have mastered, // // Let’s

sit cross-legged at home and laugh at our crooked little fingers. //

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

// // His poetry is perfect. // // I

sit here, and regard the man. // // I think— // // I should very muc

ous supplies // // From BAE. Do please

sit here and Tzipi, pass // // The red to Gordon. I’m afraid the view

ss is fleeting // // Eventually we all

sit in the gutter, shot down // // By an unseen enemy on his way up.

ew friend to the Poetry Group // // To

sit on a sofa, our fingers entwined, // // While we help disentangle

Wednesday Evening

I taste the faint rustle of grass as I

sit on it, // // The tickle of its many spears on bare toes, // // A

ess us, everyone. // // Baby, come and

sit with me, // // We pick this time to fall in love. // // Lights s

A Hymn to a Loved One

of silence? // // Or does that silence

sit with you at each table? // // You’re already looking at me, someh

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

n unmade bed. // // ‘Couldn’t you just

sit ,’ I ask, // // ‘and watch the street outside change, // // and t

In a charity shop

lief in life after death // // Old man

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

in street-side window the octogenarian

sits : caught // // in the—“today there’s been fifteen homicides and s

p my eyes closed. // // My Grandmother

sits in the corner, // // she is watching me as I sleep, // // from

Wicker Chair // // My Grandmother

sits in the corner. // // There is a chair there, made of wicker //

sometimes quake. // // Her high school

sits right above // // A pair of hormone-infested jaws // // From wh

the hazy shades at bay— // // The sun

sits sessile— // // The sand is yellow—until it is grey— // // The s

From Trebetherick Point

// Of her Victorian dress. // // She

sits still above the mantelpiece // // In my Nan’s seaside semi. //

// // the man // //

Sits there, // // And runs his perfect hands through perfect hair. //

t door, porridge warm with honey // //

sits upon the stove, and my Grandmother will love me again. Breaking /

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

never blue, // // and I’d imagine you

sitting and reading my words in echoes. // // Just as my memories of

[I often think of that January morning]

ing make it seem // // that right now

sitting here coffee can make // // do just as well I guess. // //

why i’m getting into Christmas

ecimen, // // Like one might have done

sitting in an omnibus or hackney cab: // // ‘That one is too large, t

Bearded Thoughts

idea, // // So I picture the Ramsays’

sitting room and listen to music whilst I work // // And let the word

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

, or an egg, or an eye. And it was just

sitting there, looking blankly at me, like a globe spinning so fast th

[So the moon was there]

ounded us. // // Long into night we’re

sitting tired and carefree // // In the darkness of no-brand car’s ba

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

idates not able to understand fully the

situation being studied. A large proportion of candidates only attempt

// // Summon the summoners, the twenty-

six // // enchanters. Spelling silence into sound, // // they bind a

and leaping between my synapses. In all

six hundred and forty muscles, and all ten toes. But the moon saved me

[So the moon was there]

next big venture after // // producing

six of us. // // L-shaped the house; enclosed within its arms // //

every morning with his flint // // At

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

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

fire. // // Its five red petals breed

six warring tongues // // That in the silence spell our hexagram. //

Sixteen Forty-Five

lm’s odour, // // the musk and slip of

six weeks’ work, either // // mustard gas and ether or your man’s fle

een Forty-Five // // Untimely winds in

sixteen forty-five // // Blow through the windows, wake the paper ros

Sixteen Forty-Five

agram— // // Once print, now prayer—in

sixteen forty-five // // Fends between adversaries. Old tongues, //

Sixteen Forty-Five

rare tongues // // Who in the fires of

sixteen forty-five // // Found prophesy fulfilled. Their writing bind

Sixteen Forty-Five

cient hexagram // // Is riven oak, for

sixteen forty-five // // Has purged the kingdom, and its men, with fi

Sixteen Forty-Five

our hexagram: the Tudor rose // // Of

sixteen forty-five unfolds its fire- // // Tongued text: this warfare

Sixteen Forty-Five

t, and fire // // Contend for right in

sixteen forty-five— // // Until the Lord of Liberty arose // // And

Sixteen Forty-Five

Sixteen Forty-Five // // Untimely winds in sixteen forty-five // //

Sixteen Forty-Five

e at you looking. Blank! Crack open the

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

Pushing 60 // // My

sixtieth birthday is nearing— // // brings a thought that is far from

again. // // A memory // // (nineteen-

sixty -one or so—my teens—already // // between the end of the Chatter

oday there’s been fifteen homicides and

sixty -three violent crimes”—tv-light // // and wonder: do I have it,

gran’s house, // // The full, Catholic-

size family, // // Cramped into the front room // // Like chestnuts

Wild Mountain Thyme

k words from a slab of stone // // the

size of an ancient kin’s era // // he sees my lips as archaeological

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

re of headrests. // // Foreign coin of

size of 20p fell from my wallet in stopping taxi, // // Filled that s

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

flect a man // // at twice his natural

size . // // This is my space for scholarship // // to read and pen a

A Room of Her Own

s ’kin to a burning fire’s waft, // //

Sizzling at every edge and spitting ’oft. // // My open’d eyes do loo

[What have we done]

// It hums // // it skates // // it

skates ! // // It falls away // // Through water’s edge // // To dep

ack. Now bend… // // It hums // // it

skates // // it skates! // // It falls away // // Through water’s e

// // His pointed foot will break the

skein of water; // // I love that bubble-burst every time. // // The

ars mingling with the rain // // Great

Skellig slate grey and wet // // Gazing from a clifftop grave // //

e seeing a humpback breach // // Great

Skellig slate grey and wet // // The ocean rolling beneath us // //

e vineyard. // // A few self-confessed

skeptics // // privately thought // // that this was // // one //

sed in Greece // // the self-confessed

skeptics // // run workshops and digs // // and stand in the temple

ened to the sky? // // Well, the

skies became water. The moon was the only thing keeping the sky in pla

[So the moon was there]

time rolls up like a woodlouse and the

skies // // go white, and nothing hurts the way it should. // // res

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

I could fit it again. And although the

skies never really liked the moon, they loved it enough to not let it

[So the moon was there]

ost their heat // // and the snows and

skies of memory // // always diminishing make it seem // // that ri

why i’m getting into Christmas

though it sat alone in the watercloured

skies , the moon could never be king. And I was king // // //

[So the moon was there]

w’ defence, // // Reflex that deflects

skilful asking darts, // // I wonder if I have no choice but to be se

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

eak // // Or write, approaching her in

skill and elegance. // // New arts are needed now: can they enhance /

ed such a fine-wrought craft // // and

skill , and yet I never thought you deft // // enough to use so delica

Compass Reading

rginal canvas of the page was the fluid

skill of the masterful mage // // So with a sigh that page surrendere

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

say // // whether I have the necessary

skill // // to find a way. // // And now today // // is ending. I

in me in the temple? // // A hand will

skim mine as we present our offerings. // // Dutiful eyes, obedient l

ing but the shiver // // of your fresh

skimmer’s // // river-hewn back. Now bend… // // It hums // // it s

handshake. // // A handheld spotlight

skims the gravel, revealing // // Fleeting instances of milk-soaked s

Vicious or Virtuous?

/ // You’ve taken residence beneath my

skin , // // And sewn our hearts together using twine. // // You’re s

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

// of night-time on my radiator-warmed

skin // // And the crunch of the season underfoot // // And the smel

[The sash rattles up]

doubt. // // Coloured creases of downy

skin // // and the tactless scratch of green biro. // // I have to k

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

off the civility // // And you change

skin ; // // Are more and less than human. // // I read the unspeakab

// // My nails dig red crescents in my

skin as I strike // // At her face, connecting with the glass and fal

the first stone, // // Let her without

skin be the first to cry. // // Rosemary for remembrance and pansies

ou can see through is a pierced calcite

skin , bloody ingrown nails and an incorrection. Adonai, Adonis, open m

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

inted on // // the imprimatura of your

skin ; // // delicate cave magic revealed // // by the flickering tor

d in squinting distance, // // And his

skin demarcates the Sun’s furthest edge. // // His hair is a lustrous

’Tis pity he’s a bore

// // …Bleached walls stare into pale

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

Snapshot Endings

rom admiring recognition as your // //

skin faded, white. That was not your life. // // That shadow of your

Sestina to an English Teacher

light, the ember grown aloft, // // My

skin feels ’kin to a burning fire’s waft, // // Sizzling at every edg

[What have we done]

d it would have been perfect, except my

skin felt too big for my bones. It just hung there softly, crumpled at

[So the moon was there]

ed spread- // // eagle evenings fading

skin histories // // from violent to -et to rose-risen blush. // //

Aubade to Girton

/ Along with the crispness of a river’s

skin . // // I taste the contentment of bees, // // The exhilaration

ancashire; // // so milk-white was her

skin . // // In Cheddar Gorge the chaffinches // // were twittering.

ses of ill-repute // // Slip from bare

skin in the sultry heat; // // Memory lost in the wine-fugue, the bea

he kind that shines through your // //

skin in the sunshine. // // I press my eyelids from // // out of the

Bright, Pale Yellow

st? // // To that, your pancake-batter

skin is the warmest retort. // // The days still dis-leave. Pale envy

creen a mirror, graft the machine under

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

scernable beneath the map // // of her

skin , like // // an unmade bed. // // ‘Couldn’t you just sit,’ I ask

In a charity shop

we’ve stooked up in a corner and shed a

skin or two, // // old feathers and splinters litter our floorboards.

rned with an honesty which we think the

skin provides, // // But we are not honest. // // The only thing a b

Bearded Thoughts

aved me. The moon filled the bits of my

skin that were too big and suddenly I could fit it again. And although

[So the moon was there]

ther // // Tell of flames beneath shed

skin , // // The old so neatly severed // // From the life which lies

leaves might fall

thes and the fallen // // Leaves of my

skin , the seeping rot of loneliness. I walk // // Barefoot across the

[I am almost 25 years old]

r eyes // // Stare through me, past my

skin , to the scream stuck // // In my throat. // // Her chest, like

ly // // Seep deeper into the page, my

skin , // // Until they settle together // // Nestled in a form I had

Writing to explore

waiting there for you. maybe one day my

skin will be stripped enough. one day I get to cry Kri’at Shema lying

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

my shoulders. And I was scared that my

skin would get soggy and weigh me down. I was so scared that I could f

[So the moon was there]

the wild dogs cry out in the undulating

skink night, “mother will never understand” why I had to leave tonight

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

er edges. // // Through the undulating

skink // // Night she sulks, // // Two cigar butts dunking themselve

He who made the Lamb

, // // This is how it is to be // //

Skinned in something permeable. // //

Who am I, Bernard?

hem easy as peel from his moon-silvered

skinny feet. // // He coughs with surprise at the cold rigidity of th

int // // Of former stages of my seven

skins ; // // A chronicle of past unbuttonings. // // I need these la

A Woman Fallen // // Scarlet

skins and serpent leaves, // // A paradise lost between her knees. //

Skins // // Sedimentary; discarded sleeves and scarves // // The san

d // // some miles of dale and moor to

skip across // // and find myself in wooded Janet’s Foss. // // Upst

Daydream Dale Journey

y the noise of battle rolls, // // The

skirmishes and wars, // // What peace or treaty can there be // // B

The Daily Planet

bleak Malham Tarn. // // Then back to

skirt the edge of Malham Cove, // // with fields below and limestone

Daydream Dale Journey

ack // // sky // // wet stones // //

skittering onto the // // drain cover // // // // … // // above

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

g enough to lift a stained glass // //

skull , my black eyes my light eyes, this arched spine, // // do you r

hed calfskin with meaning // // Of the

skull , once scorched soft calfskin, // // Now burns blackened words i

ed wit. // // Your voice echoes off my

skull . // // Your eyes are plastered onto mine. // // I can’t tell w

// we have the earth, the water and the

sky . // //

ng my path // // are elemental: water,

sky and earth // // and rock and air; no fire and no gold, // // no

Daydream Dale Journey

lity instead ? // // She points to the

sky , // // And I, with my prying eye, // // Far and away, // // I g

[She points to the sky]

the moon was there, hanging low in the

sky . And it looked just like an orb, or an egg, or an eye. And it was

[So the moon was there]

re. // // And people don’t look at the

sky anymore, not unless it is tragic, // // And even if you thought i

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

fracts through your eyes. // // As the

sky began seeping liquid gold // // and blood rust // // we were bot

ust // // and blood rust // // as the

sky began seeping liquid gold, // // the kind that still refracts thr

tal, but carefully composed: // // the

sky behind the trees beyond the meadow, // // tall grasses glowing in

Cape Cod Morning

us // // white stars pierce // // the

sky // // below us // // the dark grass mops our toes // // // /

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

saw it shatter, // // Up there in the

sky , // // Blowed and bumbling along, // // Airwards words off the t

[The sun flattened]

cestershire; // // red was the evening

sky . // // By Derby town they settled down // // on purple sage to l

een your hands, as the deep blue // //

sky darkened and embellished around you. You began dreaming // // as

[I often think of that January morning]

n lights, closed against the great grey

sky // // drink! and be merry! // // Green spindles stick to socks

Drink and be merry

e sky] // // // // She points to the

sky . // // From above you’ll see the truth. // // That we’ve always

[She points to the sky]

ckle back // // over wet ground, under

sky , // // from marsh just covered in the slack: time to let it dry.

e. hurry boy, “your light points to the

sky ”. he says it’s a figure, a luminescent metaphor for something else

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

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

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

[What have we done]

// I bellowed my name to the slate grey

sky // // I shouted my name at the empty football pitches // // I mu

[I whispered my name into the trees]

The moon was the only thing keeping the

sky in place, you see, because the stars felt so sorry for it. But onc

[So the moon was there]

r. // // Look up, look up, my love—the

sky is calling. // // Dark shapes are calling each to each: a throng

Wells in winter

The sun // // is low ahead of us, the

sky is clear. // // Across the wood, onto the beach. We hear // //

Wells in winter

/ and the beginning of space // // the

sky is dark, but the raging fire // // of the sun marks passing time.

: the arching apple boughs… // // The

sky is dark, intense, a stormy grey, // // But just beneath the darkn

The Magic Apple Tree

tragic, most likely. // // I think the

sky is tragic, // // I think it is tragic because it is never not the

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ht on water // // As though behind the

sky itself they traced // // The shift and shimmer of another river /

Yes. I just pulled it out of the

sky —it’s easier than it sounds—and I swallowed it whole. // //

[So the moon was there]

lly cave singing // // to the rib-dark

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

ades of brown. // // Ships hang in the

sky much in the way bricks // // Might, if we built a Babel enough cr

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

s through earth, I long for water and a

sky of blue. // // Like a seed I want to grow. But all I have is cold

[I often think of that January morning]

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

sky of dinner has given way. // // Under the transparent blister of a

is // // Voice // // Opening like the

sky opens round // // -ing a road as you reach a bay and the sought-f

n’t this war ? // // She points to the

sky . // // See from up there, // // The fight’s already started. //

[She points to the sky]

[She points to the

sky ] // // // // She points to the sky. // // From above you’ll se

[She points to the sky]

the rumour // // Of Africa. // // The

sky stretched, // // A dirigible anchored to demotic towers - // //

// // To all the words whose smoke the

sky swallowed. // //

xtermination ? // // She points to the

sky . // // Take some distance. // // We live in morbidity, // // Su

[She points to the sky]

ing their light through ground, through

sky , through all. // //

[What have we done]

Of the world up into a vast, unyielding

sky // // Untouched by bird, unseen by any eye. // // And I know you

[My face is old now]

rwards words off the tongue. // // The

sky was blue. // // That she knew, had known all along // // It seem

[The sun flattened]

// // // // What happened to the

sky ? // // Well, the skies became water. The moon was the only

[So the moon was there]

black // // frost // // black // //

sky // // wet stones // // skittering onto the // // drain cover //

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

Moon. Now your shadow // // Blots the

sky , what is // // It looks to flower in your // // Cries, but falls

Here be dragons

se three hills awash in blooms, arching

skyward only to praise // // nature’s glory. He renamed you La Trinit

g tyrant queen; // // Umbilical tangen

skywards , cut clean. // // I am the moon-child broken free, // // Lo

e // // Will inhale. The peak reaching

skywards , extending // // The lows into dry soil. My path has not yet

Vicious or Virtuous?

e // // I translate Greek words from a

slab of stone // // the size of an ancient kin’s era // // he sees m

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

, // // from marsh just covered in the

slack : time to let it dry. // // Now I cut new rivulets // // to dr

waterwards again. // // Her right hand

slackened slightly, // // Muscles eased and tired, not wanting everyt

[The sun flattened]

Mercy! I implore you // // A taste to

slake this thirst. // // Naïve one, mercy, // // Is not something to

fter all). // // The streets of London

slalom like your childhood’s playroom mat, // // And Rome and Paris t

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

gainst the fading evening light. // //

Slanting lines are forming, breaking, forming // // ordered chaos wit

Wells in winter

woods // // more curlews, more ragged,

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

so many questions // // interrogate me

slap me try that just // // one more time. Tell me have you seen Schi

e spheres // // You left, for stinging

slash and singing pain // // Of lashes; a thorn halo hallows your hea

ling with the rain // // Great Skellig

slate grey and wet // // Gazing from a clifftop grave // // Your tea

a humpback breach // // Great Skellig

slate grey and wet // // The ocean rolling beneath us // // Your tea

// // // I bellowed my name to the

slate grey sky // // I shouted my name at the empty football pitches

[I whispered my name into the trees]

Piggledy // // Oscar Pistorius // //

Slaughtered his girlfriend // // In cold-blooded rage. // // (Nothin

// You could trace a line, like a long

sleek ribbon, through all lived history // // that would show the imm

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

r. // // Complete another ring. // //

Sleep . // //

red state // // I fade into a peaceful

sleep : a gate, // // A door, a light, a face, the clouds ’come snow /

[What have we done]

uicide // // Ah, to dream perchance to

sleep … Brrng! Brnng! // // No time for that sunshine, get up a

// // (How many miles to go till I can

sleep ?) // // But then, just as I feel like letting go, // // My hom

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

corner, // // she is watching me as I

sleep , // // from the wicker chair. // // I need not say anything be

re // // bloodshot. // // How can you

sleep in this // // blinding light? // // How could you // // bear

Bright, Pale Yellow

. True awakening floats on the ocean of

sleep . // // 8. // // MacCullough must be ridiculed! // // 9. // /

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

// of my room washed away on a tide of

sleep . Suddenly I’m running. Grey // // wolves behind me and I’m runn

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

un, // // Falling towards the verge of

sleep // // When all our wars are done, // // Falling towards the ve

The Daily Planet

ne, // // Falling towards the verge of

sleep // // Where, lying side by side, // // The angels of our plane

The Daily Planet

only you. // // Your radiance will not

sleep , // // You cannot turn to stone. // // Here are the slips of p

Stone, Paper, Scissors

ehow a beginning and a calling; // // “

Sleeper awake, the darkness was a dream // // For you will see the Da

door front, // // Who shivers cold in

sleeping bag at night // // Looks in to see them dancing in red light

Three gay rituals

al, // // dusted cogs very still above

sleeping bodies. Our grist is long gone // // and we’re lighter, quie

ound myself staring at the sea. Waking,

sleeping , dreaming. // // I am still dreaming; everything breaks over

[I often think of that January morning]

/ Instead I wake to warmth, to find you

sleeping , // // My living comfort, burrowed in our bed. // // You re

d hero. correct and repossess and play “

sleeping satellite” with my scorn tucked in a mason jar, the one thing

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

f the Irish Sea, // // the new year is

sleeping within // // cyclizine dreams, // // and I am reminded of y

// // Maybe it’s a lacuna of my // //

sleepless mind, // // Or a sly’d promise of the // // eternal sunshi

l’esprit d’escalier

e. You feel this too don’t you: in your

sleepless nights, clutching your pillow case, wishing those ‘thoughts’

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

more silences // // more sleeps, more

sleepless nights, more dreams // // more seasons bleeding into season

/ more talks, more silences // // more

sleeps , more sleepless nights, more dreams // // more seasons bleedin

lay on the floor of your house, sipping

sleepy coffee // // as your guitar filled the room with the sound of

[I often think of that January morning]

flickering on the tree, // // I ain’t

sleepy either. // // The angel then sings out, “Amen, // // Casablan

A Hymn to a Loved One

e // // sieved through our shared blue

sleeve ; we’re worn // // with waiting in dissention and denial. // /

Skins // // Sedimentary; discarded

sleeves and scarves // // The sandy bend that was my elbow, crooked /

// // until watercolours splattered my

sleeves and the drowning page. // // Absentmindedly I missed the jar

[I often think of that January morning]

/ // Just like you can’t wear medieval

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

In Defence of Evolution

Keep your wits about you and your hand

sleight // // And don’t count your winnings ’til you’re in the clear.

nds // // For ablutions, kneels on the

slender deck, makes oblations // // Of shorn hair and candle wax, to

our mango tree // // Dangling by such

slender stalks from its laden boughs. // // We were so young when we

/ over their scales or feathers as they

slept // // and rolled them howling down a rocky slope. // //

t seconds // // like the one whose dog

slept on // // their chest to keep it warm // // or the ones holding

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

, // // so bring on the celery. And a

slice // // of cake was suicide, and sugar mice // // were a tensed

Chocolate Sonnet

nd he almost did best her // // with a

slice of Red Leicester, // // but history judged he was not fed. //

The Failing of the Cheese

e agents’ clerks // // and busted city

slickers on // // the dole, unshaven merchants, and // // the acne-c

[the typist puts her knickers on]

t scent // // Syrupy fingertips // //

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

/ // That time when all that I am will

slide through the mesh // // Of the world up into a vast, unyielding

[My face is old now]

on pavement. // // How he glitches and

slides , // // How slowly my mind renders his form. // // He exists i

’Tis pity he’s a bore

hile it fades, // // Sodium light slit

sliding through part-drawn shades, // // Liquid time daubed on air’s

re darkly glowing, asking only // // a

slight encouragement. As the day went on, // // we generated quantit

wash seemingly moves o’er all; // // A

slight light pigments the cold pond harsh, // // Revealing smokey lin

[What have we done]

but for now my light is stored, and the

slightest knock bleeds a honey // // that will never wash from my han

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

The points perhaps are good, // // But

slightly blurred and ill-conceived, // // But cram enough inside and

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

again. // // Her right hand slackened

slightly , // // Muscles eased and tired, not wanting everything. //

[The sun flattened]

d // // any which way, were still turf

slightly warped. // // Eat junk? You might as well rummage through

Chocolate Sonnet

r words // // are fixed, but that they

slip // // and meanings multiply, // // while you mean only you. //

Stone, Paper, Scissors

; // // Oh time; // // ye slip, slip,

slip away, // // Slipping slipping, slip! // // Slipping, slipping,

eets in the houses of ill-repute // //

Slip from bare skin in the sultry heat; // // Memory lost in the wine

, that's where we are. // // After the

slip from the tilt of the stool— // // After the grip of the hinge of

ocked palm’s odour, // // the musk and

slip of six weeks’ work, either // // mustard gas and ether or your m

s garden instructionless. // // I will

slip off the window of her lily-ridden house and // // pursue the sun

Aubade to Girton

t soon I will take off my boots, // //

Slip out from under the heavy trees // // And join the boy who bathes

night; // // Oh time; // // ye slip,

slip , slip away, // // Slipping slipping, slip! // // Slipping, slip

ll the night; // // Oh time; // // ye

slip , slip, slip away, // // Slipping slipping, slip! // // Slipping

p, slip away, // // Slipping slipping,

slip ! // // Slipping, slipping, nipple slip; // // uncatheable fish;

slip! // // Slipping, slipping, nipple

slip ; // // uncatheable fish; // // in a river that eludes you, //

was the flight? Few noticed that you’d

slipped away? // // The Washington distraction must have helped. //

e reversing // // Those steps made in

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

The Notes You Have Left

too small, // // Into worn and ripped

slippers // // And shuffled over hardwood floors, // // Through spag

The Notes You Have Left

ment // // licks his lips and gets his

slippers on // // as she indulges in a spot // // of thrilling, but

[the typist puts her knickers on]

ipping slipping, slip! // // Slipping,

slipping , nipple slip; // // uncatheable fish; // // in a river that

slip, slip, slip away, // // Slipping

slipping , slip! // // Slipping, slipping, nipple slip; // // uncathe

// // Slipping slipping, slip! // //

Slipping , slipping, nipple slip; // // uncatheable fish; // // in a

// // ye slip, slip, slip away, // //

Slipping slipping, slip! // // Slipping, slipping, nipple slip; // /

hing the boy take off his shoes, // //

Slipping them easy as peel from his moon-silvered skinny feet. // //

myth of glass, // // but my gaze keeps

slipping // // to the ghosts which drift behind me, // // swaying in

h breaks. // // The potter’s hand that

slips and scores // // his mark into the waiting clay; // // Telling

Leaves22 May 1998 // // The ballot-

slips are counted in // // And somewhere someone’s saying yes. // //

e’, // // ‘Thank you’ and ‘excuse me’s

slips from my mind // // As I pour with them into the // // Carriage

Poems on the Underground

e.’ // // Everything’s easy. // // It

slips like oil through an engine, // // with the occasional stinge //

In a charity shop

nnot turn to stone. // // Here are the

slips of paper // // where you lived your paper- // // life. They ar

Stone, Paper, Scissors

Between the lines // // As the tongue

slips on significance. // // Above the belt, you’re a god, // // Pie

dread of what may be. // // Words run

slipshod , all across the page and onto the desk and away, // // And y

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ews, the foreplay tense, // // the hot

slit in a letter, the shriek. // // I have never treasured the finger

Aubade to Girton

arm while it fades, // // Sodium light

slit sliding through part-drawn shades, // // Liquid time daubed on a

o see the star, // // So that I do not

slit this throat. // // Light a fire to the fang. // //

l’esprit d’escalier

p-floor library– // // Like a vitreous

slogan of a monument, // // Reading. // // Pride was a shiver. // /

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

// and rolled them howling down a rocky

slope . // //

time ago, // // Print a wide arc, then

slope down towards // // A still canal, laced with rust that blooms /

demands, // // stamp in a sweep to the

slope -edge: // // horns lowered, // // hides steaming, // // hooves

Nil Charge / Nil Return

th the darkness all is gold: // // The

slope of hills, the fields of barleycorn. // // The loaded branches o

The Magic Apple Tree

ng time ago, // // Feet, turning, past

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

id reminiscent of // // Our despondent

slough // // By contrast. It seemed // // So pure and free, and //

ung before the crib, // // Two verses,

slow as moonrise // // Sung beside the candled tree. // // It was so

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

w down your breathing. Keep it deep and

slow . // // Become an open singing-bowl, whose chime // // Is richne

// I clamber clumsily // // into the

slow // // black treacle of the night air // // and see the simplici

[The sash rattles up]

ng smile, // // Sharp with the earth’s

slow // // Bleed, four nights till it sheds // // Its shadow to bloo

Here be dragons

completes a turn in the air // // with

slow brute grace, // // then passes, // // catseyes like bouquets //

m go.’ // // The pace is always // //

slow , // // charitable, // // sad. // // ‘Yes,’ I thought, ‘nothing

In a charity shop

he justification, // // The deliberate

slow conundrum of complexity (if only I could remember those long word

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// chasing what’s cheap, than choose to

slow down, // // it tumbles, trembling, traces mindlessly // // a gi

[A spinning spider]

i could SLOW i wish that i could // //

SLOW DOWN ... o ... i think i’m slowing // // down // // i // // th

the windmill’s lament—a short play

music, words will come in time. // //

Slow down your breathing. Keep it deep and slow. // // Become an open

here. Give me a minute. // // At the

slow end of a forty day fast // // unpeel the digits from your onion

fever // // Which once spelled time so

slow . // // I hear whispers in the weather // // Tell of flames bene

leaves might fall

i could slow i wish that // // i could

SLOW i wish that i could // // SLOW DOWN ... o ... i think i’m slowin

the windmill’s lament—a short play

st or break? // // i WISH that i could

slow i wish that // // i could SLOW i wish that i could // // SLOW D

the windmill’s lament—a short play

s form. // // He exists illuminated in

slow motion // // And I am drunk on vertigo // // when I picture him

’Tis pity he’s a bore

g somewhere. // // Reality eats // //

slow -moving prey. // //

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

No Such Signs // // During these

slow nine months the castle mound, // // swelling with cartoon vigour

ields of Athenry tails off, // // (Too

slow , // // Too sad) // // Leaving us to decide on // // Another so

Wild Mountain Thyme

rced to comic angles. // // A pigeon’s

slow , ungainly steps // // To cross the road (no joke in that) // //

Urban bird watching

(by fear)— // // But the service gets

slow when it blunders // // Around in the passages—just losing weight

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

// // SLOW DOWN ... o ... i think i’m

slowing // // down // // i // // think // // i’m // // going //

the windmill’s lament—a short play

rinking coffee that leaves rings // //

slowly absorbed by paper // // as I am threatened to be absorbed //

why i’m getting into Christmas

her will love me again. Breaking // //

slowly , I’m about to knock when the dream drops my hand through // //

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

wn below // // your tightwires I would

slowly // // mimic your steps; growing day by day, // // a cursive s

luc bat to mr. beam

How he glitches and slides, // // How

slowly my mind renders his form. // // He exists illuminated in slow

’Tis pity he’s a bore

Autumn // // The day breaks

slowly on the hills of green // // Everything turned strangely, oddly

e whose eyes at equinox // // Eyed the

slowly roving ox // // Bellowing his song of grace. // // Briers gre

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

nto the paper. // // The words and ink

slowly // // Seep deeper into the page, my skin, // // Until they se

Writing to explore

on my mother’s PC). // // I peel them

slowly , smoothly // // From these relics. // // Slowly, smoothly //

oothly // // From these relics. // //

Slowly , smoothly // // I reapply to the inside face of the box to mak

// Over ocean, the storm sullen // //

Slowly starts to disperse. // // Take a listen, // // This is how th

Who am I, Bernard?

f light, // // for shadowed gifts. As

slowly // // the strange words were sung // // by few, familiar voic

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

Everything of which I am bereft. // //

Slowly , time makes its approach // // On this idle breeze, // // And

I could never be (ready)

half holding fast: // // A green knot

slowly untying // // Itself from the hardened winter nut // // And

// // A box or holly root, smouldering

slowly , // // will burn for ever. The fire once begun // // would l

figure who succumb to Its challenge. He

slows down, stops, waits, pontificates. Time and flux goes ahead of hi

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

water, // // the cool night air // //

slows down time. // // Now is the time // // to lie on the earth, //

overfull trickling // // downwards to

slug lickings on empty bird box // // with flightless eggshells mould

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

f the desert of the sea. // // Fatness

sluiced clean, // // Streets emptied utterly into pits // // Girded

gregate this afternoon as my leg // //

slumbers in the warmth of the radiator // // and the snow is no longe

why i’m getting into Christmas

my life to stow. // // I swim through

slush of half-solid and rise, // // The swamp up which I move, ever m

[What have we done]

ck and falls; // // The other comes to

slush within the marsh, // // Melting into a liquid form, they blend.

[What have we done]

it just made her sneeze. // // But the

sly cat would not be dissuaded, // // and probably thought that he’d

The Failing of the Cheese

f my // // sleepless mind, // // Or a

sly’d promise of the // // eternal sunshine // // That provides the

l’esprit d’escalier

// Sometimes at night I drift. // //

Small and high up. // // With my hands I try and cut the sun. // //

[So snow falls outside]

side your head, // // Feeling much too

small , // // And yet, // // Much too large to fit inside your head.

till life, with ceramic vase // // And

small black-stoppered oil caster. // // The year is nineteen fifty-fi

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

oung mothers to the surprise of the

small boy playing in the street // // // // I heard the reply and

[I whispered my name into the trees]

/ that dazzle and move and wave; // //

small but unending—Ondine. // // But finding a form to carve // // t

Stone, Paper, Scissors

cab: // // ‘That one is too large, too

small , cut close or not at all; // // This one here too ginger for th

Bearded Thoughts

sea-tail, a gleam— // // It was just a

small fish. // //

Just a Small Fish

y blue.] // // So, how are you? // //

Small fish, big pond. // // But staying afloat? // // I move a littl

Whales sing because they have a song

Small Fish // // It was just a small fish, refracting the gold of a s

Just a Small Fish

Just a Small Fish // // It was just a

small fish, refracting the gold of a sunbeam // // until our shadows

Just a Small Fish

blenny, no bream— // // It was just a

small fish. // // So we lay on the rock in the heat and watched the s

Just a Small Fish

aying in place until at home // // the

small gas fire has warmed the room // // against the cold outside. //

Walking in winter

e tusk // // is ground // // into the

small hole in my side where your hand, // // cold, // // now rests.

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

between your fingers, // // bore that

small hole through. // // the marble caught the glass, // // where t

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

Small Particles in the

Small Hours // // Yawn, // // Dawn // // Five o nine, // // Swiss

Small Particles in the Small Hours

hallway, quick as one // // intent on

small house agents’ clerks // // and busted city slickers on // // t

[the typist puts her knickers on]

ntil the walls dissolved around me, the

small house // // of my room washed away on a tide of sleep. Suddenly

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

t home” // // I eased my two feet, too

small , // // Into worn and ripped slippers // // And shuffled over

The Notes You Have Left

ng anyway, // // Surprising really how

small it was, // // How narrow its eyes became, // // But I couldn’t

[So snow falls outside]

Small Particles in the Small Hours // // Yawn, // // Dawn // // Fiv

Small Particles in the Small Hours

in words: critical diatribes // // in

small . Then they took on the look of all that marginalia // // you fi

a grace // // In me, a beckoning. The

smallest gleam // // Is somehow a beginning and a calling; // // “Sl

to hide in—is this the poem? // // The

smallest matryoshka doll is always so hard to open. // // Hold it to

ey, // // but all I could hear was the

smash of lights inside me breaking, // // and the low buzzing of mach

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

outh // // Soils everything, my speech

smeared into your clothes, // // I cannot remember a time when I felt

[I am almost 25 years old]

here. // // My form: beauty induced in

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

The chicken and the egg

is where I hide, // // Waiting for the

smell in order to // // inhale the air that you’ve // // just droppe

nd car’s back seats. // // Fresheners’

smell is the only thing we can see, // // Gray street lamps passing b

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

// Warmth in 5 o’clock dark, // // You

smell like watching rain fall // // In burnt amber light, // // With

Fall for————

ristling Harris Tweed lapel. // // The

smell of disappointment and of smoke. // // Your (self)-importance ne

Compass Reading

nd bring salvation and sunshine and the

smell of fresh grass with Him. // // So I’ll just sit and stare, sile

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

continue to open, // // The sweltering

smell of morbid recycled air. // // Our viewing of the cinema landsca

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

Home, with you // // Wake me up to the

smell of smoke, // // Midday, in dirty sheets with window open, // /

of the season underfoot // // And the

smell of the raw earth // // like a jolt // // in the clockwork //

[The sash rattles up]

will be chastened to ash // // and the

smell of their burning will herald the day. // //

The Dead Letter Office closes down

time // // to lie on the earth, // //

smell the air, // // feel the warmth of the fire, // // listen to th

be merry! // // Sanitized warm parsnip

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

Drink and be merry

e a blessing on the broken, // // Your

smile a sudden grace. // //

e a blessing on the broken, // // Your

smile a sudden grace. // // And what is it your presence has awoken?

// hunch-huddled, // // a child-like

smile almost // // discernable beneath the map // // of her skin, li

In a charity shop

its own // // but you Break it with a

smile and portion and peel // // these days to savour, or discard; no

that man’s wealth, // // But tonight I

smile and say, // // As I put their books away, // // Oh sod the lot

through elegy and tragedy, could // //

smile and tease and pass on courage, save // // our grades and your d

Sestina to an English Teacher

mind // // Standing, would // // Even

smile at the other passengers. // // Shrill beep as the // // Doors

Poems on the Underground

/ into damp dust around my knees and my

smile breaking // // into laughter, before stumbling barefoot back to

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ading The Waves // // except your soft

smile each time my fingertips turned a page, // // and every night I

[I often think of that January morning]

mitism, amusing Islamophobia. // // My

smile is scratched into my face. // // He is adrift in the sea. // /

the impact. // // I want someone whose

smile makes the sun fizzle out in modesty // // So that the Earth sto

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

y too detailed memory waiter’s goodbye,

smile of cabbie; // // Ambient objects. // //

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

spaghetti-stained carpet // // With a

smile , plastered on my face, // // As I traced our path to this point

The Notes You Have Left

ottles and found, // // In your uneven

smile , sharp teeth, // // Your voice, I love the sound— // // I need

Fall for————

her red hair // // Last night, gaping

smile , // // Sharp with the earth’s slow // // Bleed, four nights ti

Here be dragons

// The ram-head of the corpse cracks a

smile . // // Silk sheets in the houses of ill-repute // // Slip from

atch the brightness // // squirm, then

smile , then // // strike with white branches in a // // flash of whi

Bright, Pale Yellow

I had swallowed the moon, the stars all

smiled and rushed to become bubbles in the waves around my shoulders.

[So the moon was there]

back of my throat. // // I should have

smiled by now, at least. // // Teeth, showing, to break the ice // /

// shelves of chipped china. // // I

smiled . She was right. // // The rails were like // // lives woven i

In a charity shop

. Repetitive exchanges of false // //

Smiles and bravado that shield the truth // // From the handshake. //

Vicious or Virtuous?

ng and held by darling thoughts, // //

Smile’s phantom echoing inchoate affections, // // A tongue, dark and

ith crossed ledgers // // and steelily

smiling , // // the nilherds encircle // // to make their nil capture

Nil Charge / Nil Return

ilence. // // He gives his back to the

smiters // // His cheeks to them that pluck out the hair, // // His

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

cently // // Staring past the camera’s

smitten gaze, // // While Bush stares out from under you. // // You

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

hape, do vacate back // // To blackn’d

smog which as the ocean shifts // // Over itself, a growing potion, t

[What have we done]

st now // // Is rather badly marred by

smoke but, as you // // English say, an omelette’s only made by break

ic fight. // // Still I turn from peat-

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

h you // // Wake me up to the smell of

smoke , // // Midday, in dirty sheets with window open, // // Your ne

Word. // // Speckled by starlight: You

smoke -sigh and observe // // What? I stare at you looking. Blank! Cra

lt a pyre // // To all the words whose

smoke the sky swallowed. // //

of leaden years as though a mouthful of

smoke , // // To find new ways to no longer hold. // //

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

// The smell of disappointment and of

smoke . // // Your (self)-importance never recognized, // // demandin

Compass Reading

e, suspended sense of solid pavement in

smokefilled grey. I asked you why you seemed so sad, but all you did w

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

s the cold pond harsh, // // Revealing

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

[What have we done]

boughs. // // We were so young when we

smoothed the bark with our feet // // Firm in convictions that a tree

other’s PC). // // I peel them slowly,

smoothly // // From these relics. // // Slowly, smoothly // // I re

/ // From these relics. // // Slowly,

smoothly // // I reapply to the inside face of the box to make // //

ur labours. // // A box or holly root,

smouldering slowly, // // will burn for ever. The fire once begun //

mouth // // So that I have a lipstick

smudge scar all the way round my torso. // // And as the seal starts

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

hat marginalia // // you find from the

smug graffiti-writing reader: ‘Foucault!’, // // ‘evolution’, ‘what?’

along, it seems. // // And we can walk

smugly , the both of us, into the Spring sunset, // // Because this is

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

st losing weight // // So it ends as a

snack —not my feast on my plate. // // Ah! this one looks chipper—it’s

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

A cup and a toast to seed, sapling, and

snag — // // A toast and a cup to the soil and loam, // // To the lit

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

e the knife scores the surface, finds a

snag , and then turns— // // shearing me. Clearing me myself from hide

// blinking on a pimpled trunk // //

snail -spotted and blooded // // by stagnant recess overfull trickling

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

// could hardly translate // // for a

snake // // that was itself // // spokesperson // // (spokesnake?)

ery, // // Blonde hair flicking like a

snake’s tongue. // // But her stylish-yet-affordable boots // // Do

d I can bend and break when you want to

snap me. cleanse me with hyssop and I won’t be clean. wash me and I wi

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

med of staying before // // Everything

snapped and you left, you walked away. // // So I struggle to find an

The Other Side of the Line

often falls at the first hurdle, // //

Snaps like a rope whipping in a breeze on a desert-plain, // // The p

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

udy colour. // // Like a trap the hand

snaps shut, // // Creases more, // // Folds into itself. // // A cl

[The sun flattened]

Snapshot Endings // // // // …The anticipated ending stretches forw

Snapshot Endings

eyes, weighted, watch the glass // //

snatch its sound out the air. // // in little hessikaner we fell in (

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

rm the funeral parade. // // A sparrow

snatched from flight // // With wheeling thump. // // Icarus, spread

Urban bird watching

her car-keys, // // handbag, puts her

sneakers on, // // downs a double shot of gin // // (needs to get he

[the typist puts her knickers on]

y deleting, whatever is not next // //

Sneering , and sniping and snipping, // // Excising every sign-post fr

The Cutting Edge

on // // when, sadly, it just made her

sneeze . // // But the sly cat would not be dissuaded, // // and prob

The Failing of the Cheese

st next door, // // ‘Eternal Footman’,

snickers on, // // dribbles in excitement // // licks his lips and g

[the typist puts her knickers on]

do is cut you up. // // My hands snip

snip in the air. // // Ha ha ha. // // Great things I can destroy, /

[So snow falls outside]

nt to do is cut you up. // // My hands

snip snip in the air. // // Ha ha ha. // // Great things I can destr

[So snow falls outside]

atever is not next // // Sneering, and

sniping and snipping, // // Excising every sign-post from the text //

The Cutting Edge

e word so easy to excise // // Another

snippet for the cutting room // // A sweeping on the heap of history.

The Cutting Edge

t next // // Sneering, and sniping and

snipping , // // Excising every sign-post from the text // // Paring

The Cutting Edge

ingerprint // // sonic resonances of a

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

Aubade to Girton

r wax-white earplugs // // in case one

snored too loud. Two bashed half-hearts, // // the Valentine that sp

il Return // // While the nilherds are

snoring // // wrapped warm in their nilpelts // // the nil strain –

Nil Charge / Nil Return

/ than I was fried by a blast from your

snout . // //

ck // // against the wind it starts to

snow . // // A snowdrift forms against the wire brush // // of David’

Walking in winter

g // // as the train travelled through

snow and ever nearer to the waves, // // and to the place where I anx

[I often think of that January morning]

postcard with the robin // // And the

snow and the fire // // And the misting-up Dickensian window. // //

Wild Mountain Thyme

door, a light, a face, the clouds ’come

snow // // Appear and I do choose to open all, // // The gate, the d

[What have we done]

w] // // My face is old now, frost and

snow // // Crustate my hairs and eyebrows, a great flow // // Of whi

[My face is old now]

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

[So snow falls outside]

[So snow falls outside] // // So

snow falls outside, // // So they say I should be happy now. // // S

[So snow falls outside]

e! love! // // Candles, hats—shake the

snow from your coat, uncle— // // drink! and be merry! // // Hymns r

Drink and be merry

ioned quires and dilute ink. // // The

snow has reached the window ledge. // // No promise of a BA gown //

A Room of Her Own

/ // Experiencing that first childhood

snow . // // Humming show tunes to test my voice // // Or lack thereo

The Notes You Have Left

e warmth of the radiator // // and the

snow is no longer faintly falling // // but grows into ice as my hair

why i’m getting into Christmas

s more better), // // Ranging over the

snow sheets, stained now with black, what if one day all the books dre

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

white hillside, // // snow white upon

snow snow-white. // // This is the time of old shoes, // // when ev

// girls, grapes and snow.” // // Why

snow ? That seems an odd thing to say, right? I mean // // what about

ice to form upon the breeze // // And

snow to lie upon the lease // // Leaving its white grace. // // And

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

step it drops you down // // into soft

snow , up to the tops // // of your gumboots. The mile or two // //

Walking in winter

e hillside, // // snow white upon snow

snow -white. // // This is the time of old shoes, // // when every s

// all over the white hillside, // //

snow white upon snow snow-white. // // This is the time of old shoes

ght it was all // // girls, grapes and

snow .” // // Why snow? That seems an odd thing to say, right? I mean

o raise a good fire. I tally days with

snowdamp sticks. // //

st the wind it starts to snow. // // A

snowdrift forms against the wire brush // // of David’s thick black h

Walking in winter

// the surprise gut-punch // // of the

snowman losing heart // // and losing his lunch // // all over the w

for days // // —and then of course it

snows again. // // One afternoon for one brief hour // // the air is

Walking in winter

yes have lost their heat // // and the

snows and skies of memory // // always diminishing make it seem //

why i’m getting into Christmas

/ Berkshire, 1962-3 // // This year it

snows on Boxing Day. // // The country road not cleared for days //

Walking in winter

// And wondering, as you roll into the

snug sheets, if ink will stain your hands forever. // // Does it wash

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ight, a bird // // Cozied in its nest,

snuggles down somehow. // // A change, some things remain, I must be

canopy // // in the warming sunlight.

Soak up the rays and the air. // // Transform the coloured flower int

aling // // Fleeting instances of milk-

soaked silence. // // Darkened feet tread over a foreign space // //

Vicious or Virtuous?

omance but I am too porous, every touch

soaks in, // // Seeping and spreading, mycorrhizal in my dependency o

[I am almost 25 years old]

anding in a bubble that you know // //

Soaped Titan in his bath. He loved the light // // Refracted—'til it

fied, // // Frozen in flight on tarmac

soar // // No scar or battle wound, // // Just resting, feet crestin

Urban bird watching

coats and pitying faces // // And her,

sobbing , while our future drains away. // // She stands, hunched and

u’re urbanely monochrome; // // A real

social animal. // // Strip off the civility // // And you change ski

ecognition, fellowships // // (Linnean

Society 1904, // // Girton College 1913). // // The Reigate lab, of

There must be moonshine

/ So fast that my eyes explode in their

sockets , // // And as I’m limping blind through Siberia, // // I wan

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

/ // deep among your dusk // // heavy

sockets . rust // // me down // // within the crepusc // // -ular to

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

e merry! // // Green spindles stick to

socks a silent great-aunt and the queen’s speech, naturally // /

Drink and be merry

was my elbow, crooked // // Round old

socks long since sundered from their other halves // // And ghostly s

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

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

journey through the rain // // Through

sodden streets in darkening December // // A journey to the magic ap

The Magic Apple Tree

/ Doze on my arm while it fades, // //

Sodium light slit sliding through part-drawn shades, // // Liquid tim

to the Poetry Group // // To sit on a

sofa , our fingers entwined, // // While we help disentangle some alph

Wednesday Evening

eir cacoons grow // // More pink, more

soft , and in this tired state // // I fade into a peaceful sleep: a g

[What have we done]

blood // // And listen to it, ringing

soft and low. // // Stay with the music, words will come in time. //

ning // // Of the skull, once scorched

soft calfskin, // // Now burns blackened words into dead wood; // //

hrough concrete’s piercing bars, // //

Soft choking from a jagged cleft. // // A wax of fire—shrill waning h

ne song. // // Diminuendo— // // soft

soft , come down— // // The ebb and flow of melody // // Ends on a he

/ So on I flow, my breath held deep but

soft , // // I let my body fall again, be wash’d // // Into direction

[What have we done]

o you like a dog, like Shaitan or Kafir

soft in your ear, and I can change. if it will make you fall in love e

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

it and those in awkward guilt. // // A

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

Three gay rituals

// Everything breathed and // // Your

soft memory immolates its body beneath my hands. // // Rings of ash a

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

pools that lace the spreading sands and

soft mudflats: time to // // gather pace. // // Now I rush on down

// // Upon a bed of compact mist, all

soft , // // My heart alight, the ember grown aloft, // // My skin fe

[What have we done]

he final note is sung // // Diminuendo—

soft , my love, // // We end where we begun. // //

// Bet we can make them all in micro,

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

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

sprout from its neck, to wilt upon each

soft pale shirt, // // teaching by strange example that the human hea

of reading The Waves // // except your

soft smile each time my fingertips turned a page, // // and every nig

[I often think of that January morning]

very step it drops you down // // into

soft snow, up to the tops // // of your gumboots. The mile or two //

Walking in winter

ce, one song. // // Diminuendo— // //

soft soft, come down— // // The ebb and flow of melody // // Ends on

d the book // // of you. You would be

soft , // // whole, warm. Not paper. // // I am using scissors to cut

Stone, Paper, Scissors

oon surmise // // The more I climb the

softer each stroke comes. // // So on I flow, my breath held deep but

[What have we done]

verywhere. // // Though, via a chink a

softer glare // // suggests I need not now despair // // but follow

ch I rose grew weary, crack’d // // So

softly and remorselessly, compact // // No more as to the warm we cam

[What have we done]

oo big for my bones. It just hung there

softly , crumpled at the elbows and knees. But the moon looked so sad t

[So the moon was there]

coal. A light // // through the mist,

softly luminous and guiding people through // // the sourness of thei

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

black waves of the sunset hour. // //

Softly the last gondolier, dipping his hands // // For ablutions, kne

the wrinkles round her eyes, // // the

softness of her hair. // // I want to ask her something (“how are you

And I was scared that my skin would get

soggy and weigh me down. I was so scared that I could feel a fear trem

[So the moon was there]

d snag— // // A toast and a cup to the

soil and loam, // // To the litter of leaves and the mulch and the mu

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

/ graveyard cadavers // // spicing the

soil // // iron rusted // // pump valves // // good for scattering

yew needs dried blood in spring

// // a summerwake heap of sawdust and

soil // // misting in the middle of a cracked caramel carpet // // a

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

rds, extending // // The lows into dry

soil . My path has not yet led // // In one direction or the other, bu

Vicious or Virtuous?

ation in // // gadgets and gizmos that

soiled his mattress with // // beating his hammer against his new hea

Jonathan’s Deathbed

everything it touched, my mouth // //

Soils everything, my speech smeared into your clothes, // // I cannot

[I am almost 25 years old]

// vos rêves Roma: // // Erde… // //

Sol … // // tod // // elcaro te se lucreh* // // * ‘You flesh to ato

Hercules et Oracle

beria, // // I want her to restart the

solar system with the light // // That emanates always from her eyes.

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ical, horizontal, meaningful // // the

solar system’s magicians and musicians and mathematicians // // draw

Same but differenT

// // all that’s left of us // // is

sold off. // //

In a charity shop

, // // Averse to new versions, // //

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

Frighteningly Inert

and pose in minimalist offices. // //

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

ng fabrics, // // Exquisite timpani of

sole on pavement. // // How he glitches and slides, // // How slowly

’Tis pity he’s a bore

ze, // // Your palm pressed flat to my

sole , // // Your nightbed briefly vacated. // // My arm fading back

alk to God // // sweet symphonies rely

solely on sound // // meaningless sound, vertical, horizontal, meanin

Same but differenT

ing the midges and her // // Blackened

soles , he lies back in damp grass // // And wonders when on earth all

ow. // // I swim through slush of half-

solid and rise, // // The swamp up which I move, ever more warm, //

[What have we done]

great-grandmother’s rolling pin, // //

Solid as her steel-stern face— // // A battleship floating // // Abo

sound. // // Sound as a pound. // //

Solid as oak from his scalp to the ground. // // Fresh as the day alt

le // // Than ever before. To tell the

solid // // Cost from the worthless losses; // // That five pence th

Vicious or Virtuous?

stood on the bridge, suspended sense of

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

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

g death. // // In truth, you stagnant,

solipsistic bore, // // You’re nothing, utter nothing, nothing more.

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

clothes. // // Or does the mango tree

solitarily stand // // Still constant, fruit-laden, generous and sun-

// Jesus of Nazareth // // Born on a

solstice // // The prophecised son (/sun) // // Sceptics will tell y

is -gg. // // Those who did manage to

solve the early parts of the question were generally quite successful

The Magic Apple Tree // //

Someday make a journey through the rain // // Through sodden streets

The Magic Apple Tree

beckoning. The smallest gleam // // Is

somehow a beginning and a calling; // // “Sleeper awake, the darkness

/ // Cozied in its nest, snuggles down

somehow . // // A change, some things remain, I must be heard // // I

I see a turn // // Before me and hope,

somehow , for // // Neither. // //

Vicious or Virtuous?

e? // // You’re already looking at me,

somehow knowing, // // Somehow wisdom in fresh eyes showing. // // S

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

looking at me, somehow knowing, // //

Somehow wisdom in fresh eyes showing. // // Somehow you fill your nam

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

ow wisdom in fresh eyes showing. // //

Somehow you fill your name already, // // Cast in white marble by two

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

// // Hold it to your ear, do you hear

someone crying? Is this the poem? // // On Valentines Day a kick from

monkeys // // Maybe they patternize to

someone else’s eyes, affirm a thing, touch a cord // // ‘umbrellas me

g-up Dickensian window. // // Bravely,

someone intones // // The first notes to // // Wild Mountain Thyme,

Wild Mountain Thyme

e end // // what do we become? And now

someone new // // playing the part, such Jungian subtext— // // you

ght shut, like an oyster, (Would // //

Someone please // // Make a gap // // Among the passengers) // // T

Poems on the Underground

l and you can bet whatever I say // //

Someone , somewhere has heard it before. // // I could declare our lov

I’ll never work for Hallmark

ts, unadorned // // Mutely cry out for

someone // // To demonstrate a melody // // In the supermarket tills

Magnetic Mountain

catatonic by the impact. // // I want

someone whose smile makes the sun fizzle out in modesty // // So that

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

se // // Of bringing her here. But now

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

Wednesday Evening

ips are counted in // // And somewhere

someone’s saying yes. // // Even the plane tree’s drop-earrings // /

Forlorn enough to be a threat to // //

Something . // // A cycle of conversation fills the room // // Asking

Vicious or Virtuous?

be a thing without anything, // // For

something always exists - // // Watching others, irregularities aboun

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

are you?”) // // and I want her to say

something back. // // I open my eyes // // She is not there. The roo

[Untitled] // // There is

something // // Crawling at the back of your mind. // // You feel it

unimagined worlds that scare // // me.

Something creepily malign’s // // through there, and space and time /

ve—Earth, Water, Air—but Fire // // is

something else again. // // A memory // // (nineteen-sixty-one or so

’s a figure, a luminescent metaphor for

something else, but all you can see through is a pierced calcite skin,

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

will forever elude you— // // tell me

something else I will not forget. // //

last breath drawn, shakily, then I end

something // // For the first time. // //

Snapshot Endings

s of her hair. // // I want to ask her

something (“how are you?”) // // and I want her to say something back

// You tell me there is // // always

something I could have done differently. // // There is // // nothin

nothing, // // there is // // always

something I could have done differently. // // You tell me there is /

ng. // // There was a hint or flash of

something // // Mundane, a gaudy colour. // // Like a trap the hand

[The sun flattened]

htness) makes // // the act of meaning

something no great shakes. // // So, plummeting down Castle Hill toda

all the parts that point away // // To

something other than our circled self. // // I know the angels were t

The Cutting Edge

is is how it is to be // // Skinned in

something permeable. // //

Who am I, Bernard?

umbered, // // Or maybe forced to wear

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

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

white tissue, // // The right hanging,

something sad inside. // // A cloud broke, and she saw it shatter, //

[The sun flattened]

// About by the winds of change. // //

Something seemed greater // // Than the door we ranged // // Behind,

der the poet tries // // To foreground

something strange and new. // //

they bear fruit? // // Each spent page

something taken // // For something to be returned, // // October’s

leaves might fall

ed by this ennui: the desire for Truth,

something that doesn’t change and they can have. Consequently, they di

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

// // 9. // // Poets can look and see

something that has been secretly excluded by the precision of reason.

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

me. // // What does she see? Is there

something there? // // Some object or event which holds her stare? //

Cape Cod Morning

about for one. // // (but they’d find

something ) // // They’d say it was tragic, most likely. // // I thin

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// // Surely a tragic loading, // //

Something to analyze here. // // Nothing can stand for itself, you kn

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

h spent page something taken // // For

something to be returned, // // October’s secret left unspoken // //

leaves might fall

I’ve always thought // // that there’s

something to be said // // for the wisdom // // of poor folk // //

forth // // from the earth // // had

something to say // // that was not // // of this // // earth. //

// // Naïve one, mercy, // // Is not

something to which you should aspire, // // Do you not know that merc

s out // // and in the hollows gnaw at

something worse. // // the waiting lists are long, and you are draine

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

crossing // // lines” I said. // // “

somethings wrong” I said, // // cutting through the quiet. // // I w

on to live, // // But do beware // //

Something’s gotta give. // // From your perdition she’ll rise with fl

t of nothing following that day. // //

Sometimes at night I drift. // // Small and high up. // // With my h

[So snow falls outside]

sometimes contemplate // // This is where I started,

[She points to the sky]

stylish-yet-affordable boots // // Do

sometimes quake. // // Her high school sits right above // // A pair

/ ‘Doesn’t the idea of the world ending

sometimes sound a bit nice?’ // // Everybody occasionally dreams of a

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

casionally dreams of apocalypse. // //

Sometimes your routine just gets a bit monotonous. // // But if a tid

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

can bet whatever I say // // Someone,

somewhere has heard it before. // // I could declare our love to be a

I’ll never work for Hallmark

ople talking: can we doubt // // that

somewhere herein lies some deep philosophy? // // Voices, ipods, phon

l the gap // // Between this point and

somewhere just past my horizon. // // Body aching, waiting, for my ch

Snapshot Endings

night on the M56, // // heading west,

somewhere near Chester, // // the fog lights catching great dark shoa

e mantelpiece inside your house] // //

Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house, // // I stand motionl

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

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

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

have to keep running to feel I’m going

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

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

ballot-slips are counted in // // And

somewhere someone’s saying yes. // // Even the plane tree’s drop-earr

place to be absent from, // // at once

somewhere that is home // // and somewhere that is utterly devoid of

[The sash rattles up]

once somewhere that is home // // and

somewhere that is utterly devoid of remembrance. // // It’s everythin

[The sash rattles up]

r Child; // // The Mother and her only

Son . // //

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

sage montre la Lune, l’imbécile regarde

son doigt. » // // // // Point A. Point B. // // Starting in A goi

[She points to the sky]

rn on a solstice // // The prophecised

son (/sun) // // Sceptics will tell you that, // // Astrologisticall

ts, and // // the acne-crusted vicar’s

son — // // the old podiatrist next door, // // ‘Eternal Footman’, sn

[the typist puts her knickers on]

// being brought back here, // // her

son thinking // // ‘that’s what she’d’ve wanted’. // // Her scarf, h

In a charity shop

ter noon // // Tiresias the stripper’s

son // // turns to me and says: // // you should’ve written The Wast

[the typist puts her knickers on]

fitness as // // Paterfamilias; // //

Son -wise, he’s probably // // Better than some. // // Higgledy Piggl

heir loss? My wife stirs, // // As our

son within // // Wakes, to return to dream—the // // Stars will wait

Here be dragons

wide in its this— // // is-my-beloved-

son yawn. // // Warm flesh through feathers pressed // // like a spo

ing, crying // // his name like a love-

song , // // a meaningless // // thing. // // Molly, his wife, would

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ing // // ordered chaos with a raucous

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

Wells in winter

which sings of life // // To hear the

Song , beyond the notes // // Oh onwards, onwards, draw us on // // I

d—to touch the light // // And now the

song bursts from our throats // // And now our hearts are opened wide

at passion. High and clear and far, the

song // // Called you; in triune harmony you ascended. // // Amended

One thought, one heart, one voice, one

song . // // Diminuendo— // // soft soft, come down— // // The ebb a

mellow bread breath chanting and a

song // // drink to winter! and be merry! // // Fat boar bubbling in

Drink and be merry

t is full of quietness // // Begin the

song exactly where you are. // //

Singing Bowl // // Begin the

song exactly where you are, // // Remain within the world of which yo

Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees // // We sing waes hael, waes ha

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

Leaving us to decide on // // Another

song . // // Granny’s keeping herself busy // // Making Gaelics in th

Wild Mountain Thyme

Whales sing because they have a

song // // How are you? // // [Long shot, vast sea.] // // Long tim

Whales sing because they have a song

// // You were the lark and yours the

song // // I sang in jail. // // Give me some time to blow the man d

Thirteen LinesA

song in word-music. // // Love sent you to the desert’s hush-parched

e slowly roving ox // // Bellowing his

song of grace. // // Briers grew about his head // // Campions cover

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

led, and out of the heart // // came a

song of our first // // spring; an ache and burn. // // How sweet an

the new // // and broken morning be no

song of you, // // but may you revel in this world of things // // a

ng now, day dead, // // And there’s no

song on or cold coffee left, // // And there’s no dusty sheets or tor

ts with window open, // // Your newest

song on the speaker, // // A cold coffee left by my side. // // You

// // The plaintive notes of accordion-

song on the waters, // // The voices straining from the windows of su

k MIDI: // // All that is left of bird

song . // // Phoenix upside—down. // // Pigeon panicking inside an el

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

Song // // Pianissimo // // We begin. // // A long sustained note;

t were // // Wrong, that heartbreaking

song // // Reminding me of things that are // // Sweet like shalimar

the dawning). // // End-tale: November

song seeks mist-blue port, so // // Defying stormy-weather and determ

h discordant violence. // // The angel-

song , the music of the spheres // // You left, for stinging slash and

ranching thoughts, bear fruit. // // A

song // // Where birds once chorused a dew bright dawn. // // Immort

ld we be? // // In a tirade of sad sad

songs , and sadder looks longingly out at a patch of grass with the sun

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

sheets. // // I used to think the best

songs had been sung, // // That genius is destined to die young, //

e does not understand. // // Hear! Our

songs of love, our lives, our blood, and // // My window on the world

the mind For the scop to shape the

songsmith // // The word-worm breaks from the bone-cage // // The wo

never treasured the fingerprint // //

sonic resonances of a snore. // // We shall not sever hydra stalks fo

Aubade to Girton

o // // A miracle will occur, // // A

sonnet or tetrameter will appear as if by magic, // // Out of the mag

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

now someone’s penned // // A delicate

sonnet —to me—and it’s hers. // //

Wednesday Evening

Sonnet // // You always said you’d sooner chew nettles // // than to

Chocolate Sonnet

ds spun by the breeze, between lines of

sonnets , // // in the secret of the space behind the new moon. // //

on times yes I declare! // // Thus the

sonnets of Shakespeare will forevermore consume, the beings, bodies an

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ast Eve’s and Adam’s // // sins of the

sons are visited upon the fathers they had wars but

become shorter // // And we know that

soon , // // Another flock of birds will settle— // // Confusedly— //

Magnetic Mountain

e back to me. // // But please make it

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

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

Like a breath of old air. Hear from you

soon ? // // Course. // // [I missed you] // //

Whales sing because they have a song

God. // // And God himself will follow

soon enough; // // A little word so easy to excise // // Another sni

The Cutting Edge

er the magnesium moon. // // One night

soon I will take off my boots, // // Slip out from under the heavy tr

ody’s ripening—is this the poem? // //

Soon , make the screen a mirror, graft the machine under skin, // // L

a swarm // // Of loosen water rocks, I

soon surmise // // The more I climb the softer each stroke comes. //

[What have we done]

string held // // By a clenched fist,

soon to become a fatherly // // Embrace between insubstantial beings

Snapshot Endings

he same, but— // // I’ll call you back

soon . // // Warmth in 5 o’clock dark, // // You smell like watching

Fall for————

t crossed the sundering sea, // // For

soon we leave that fast-receding shore // // And revelries like this

/ // Minds one step at a time). // //

Soon we lost our cognitive // // Sense, began to mime // // Words wh

path to this point. // // “Feel better

soon ” // // Wrapped in layer after layer, like I’m // // Experiencin

The Notes You Have Left

ate Sonnet // // You always said you’d

sooner chew nettles // // than touch anything branded by Nestlé, //

Chocolate Sonnet

n or some troglodyte. // // We are too

sophisticated now, // // Roman, concerned with an honesty which we th

Bearded Thoughts

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

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

In Defence of Evolution

s for the College bird. // // The burr-

sore want some fast relief: // // Heat-treatment is the only cure; //

BURR (or Brrrrr)

e capacity // // So that cheese is not

sorely missed from the critically acclaimed world of the immortal rhym

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

would be weeping // // With shiftless

sorrow , restless, rootless dread. // // Instead I wake to warmth, to

p me? // // and the girl says: no, I’m

sorry . // // and the magpie pecks out her eye. // // the left one, I

colours blurred into white. And I felt

sorry for it, because although it sat alone in the watercloured skies,

[So the moon was there]

ace, you see, because the stars felt so

sorry for it. But once I had swallowed the moon, the stars all smiled

[So the moon was there]

/ dad’s old shirts and trousers, // //

sorry to let them go.’ // // The pace is always // // slow, // // c

In a charity shop

// // To end this trip early. // // “

Sorry ” // // Your absence, far more valuable // // Than your self, l

The Notes You Have Left

// // I like them all and sample every

sort // // from Creamy keats with his mossed cottage trees // // tas

Cheese is the medium

arbled. // // Or maybe // // it could

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

-ing a road as you reach a bay and the

sought -for sea. His sound. // //

ce, // // with burdens that they never

sought to bear? // // It’s not as though we’ve ceased all intercourse

// World beyond to explore. // // We

sought to do away // // With silly notions // // Of freedom and equa

life // // Is still the keeper of his

soul . // // And so, unknown to anyone, // // This still life has two

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

// Must change my heart, must build my

soul anew. // // As old as the oak, as this oak tree grew // // What

f his digital anima, // // Luminescent

soul between muddied fingers // // —now usb 3.0 compatible— // // Ho

Frighteningly Inert

ords, saying eyes are the window to the

soul // // but eyes don’t talk to God: // // mouths do // // mouths

Same but differenT

gods, // // Found tokens of her whiter

soul , // // Icons for his orphaned heart, // // Angelic messengers i

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

grossed, // // Pret-a-Manger munching,

soul searching, love-life listing. // // The death rattle of the trac

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

// The rooting places of your growing

soul , // // The subsoil of your oldest memory. // // Walk through th

The Magic Apple Tree

art that cheese // // They want their

soul to be gently stroked; they want the fire of their imaginations st

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ll evening, // // And as we watch, our

souls dart to and fro // // Between the lights of speech and depths b

Is it a memory?

s the poem? // // In the Marianas, old

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

as an instrument whose strings sing of

souls hurt. // // Blind, dumb, deaf upon the pedestal of a saint, //

THAT is the question’ // // Would our

souls not be repulsed by the inadequacy of discourses on mozzarella, r

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

vermore consume, the beings, bodies and

souls of any given room // // While doomed to perish are humble verse

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ey have been engraved // // Upon those

souls of those modern men who bask in the flames of that revered pen.

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

reach a bay and the sought-for sea. His

sound . // //

the end, // // is only this, // // a

sound . // //

the idea of the world ending sometimes

sound a bit nice?’ // // Everybody occasionally dreams of apocalypse.

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

e beginning, // // only this, // // a

sound . // // A sound // // whose waves expand, // // whose echoes s

ay in Singapore, but actually just very

sound advice. // // Nothing to argue with here. // // 3, told over t

Three Pieces of Advice

deserted, effluvial. // // A surety of

sound and shining light // // To beat the breast against // // And w

[He’s sound] // // He’s sound. // //

Sound as a pound. // // Solid as oak from his scalp to the ground. //

Filled that space for years—It makes no

sound as it drops. // // I replay too detailed memory waiter’s goodby

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

ghter and crackling fire-breath // // (

Sound -bites for both now!)— // // because he couldn’t see the afterli

sound ] // // He’s sound. // // Sound as a pound. // // Solid as oak

rp teeth, // // Your voice, I love the

sound — // // I need you. // //

Fall for————

o flat? // // And why do all the names

sound like a robot filled them in? // // The avenues just run as ‘Fir

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

knows I’m here; he knows // // What I

sound like, he knows // // I can swim. He knows, // // He knows— //

Did you bury her yet?

// // sweet symphonies rely solely on

sound // // meaningless sound, vertical, horizontal, meaningful // /

Same but differenT

isks land on a surface // // Causing a

sound more recognisable // // Than ever before. To tell the solid //

Vicious or Virtuous?

r-yet notes // // will be burnt to the

sound of a piped lament. // // The manager wouldn’t deal with the mai

The Dead Letter Office closes down

e they want to leave, // // There, the

sound of boots make me dry heave. // // South of here, the sun will s

Ode to a map of the world

as your guitar filled the room with the

sound of careful echoes. // // Even now I remember little of reading

[I often think of that January morning]

ing, hoping and hoping. let me hear the

sound of joy and gladness so that the bones you crushed can rejoice. i

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

e, // // Roof falling down, // // The

sound of the lawnmowers // // Outside the windows, // // High-up, gr

ace // // in which to rest—safe in the

sound // // of whispered peace around. // //

luc bat to mr. beam

d black holes and stars // // makes no

sound // // only their tongues // // sing // //

Same but differenT

olls inwards, implodes // // Without a

sound or sight of anything unusual - // // And the sheets creak in th

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

hted, watch the glass // // snatch its

sound out the air. // // in little hessikaner we fell in (or down), /

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

ense it writes! How it is determined by

sound , rhythm, and repetition rather than by thought. Just like in nat

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

[He’s sound] // // He’s

sound . // // Sound as a pound. // // Solid as oak from his scalp to

he shaping shapes // // the grounds of

sound , the generative gramma // // signs of the Mystery, inscribed ar

nd. // // Voices far across the valley

sound . // // The hills ranged all around // // —they little care. //

tter than his word. // // The crackers

sound , the jokes renowned— // // Thank God for the paper crown. // /

A Hymn to a Loved One

/ // enchanters. Spelling silence into

sound , // // they bind and loose, they find and are not found. // //

dge // // Voices far across the valley

sound // // through still, warm air, // // clear to my vantage point

re. // // Voices far across the valley

sound // // through still, warm air. // // On the top deck of a 68 /

rely solely on sound // // meaningless

sound , vertical, horizontal, meaningful // // the solar system’s magi

Same but differenT

// only this, // // a sound. // // A

sound // // whose waves expand, // // whose echoes still expend //

d with algae and refuse of ages, // //

Sounding over black waves of the sunset hour. // // Softly the last g

t drip-drops of water from pelt. // //

Soundless patter of padding paws. // // A pant in the night, // // P

He who made the Lamb

d it out of the sky—it’s easier than it

sounds —and I swallowed it whole. // // // // What happened to

[So the moon was there]

head will explode // // And the watery

sounds take control of your body // // But no one can hear them // /

listen, // // This is how the rain now

sounds , // // This is how it is to be // // Skinned in something per

Who am I, Bernard?

up and worn away until I forget how it

sounds when you clear your throat, // // Or the face you pull in the

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

While we help disentangle some alphabet

soup // // Served iambic, al dente, but as yet unsigned. // // Will

Wednesday Evening

So Donne is sharp and Geoffrey Hill is

sour // // Larkin ascerbic, Tennyson has power // // (But only late

Cheese is the medium

/ // if she had any interest // // in

sour milk // // the sick cow // // and the blight // // that had fa

r // // Of what we’d done from turning

sour , while // // Sweet like shalimar // // Played on over things th

// in touches of a single string, our

source , // // flowing in everything, for everything // // in the beg

knife’s end. // // I’m roped on to the

source , luminate, warm, // // Floating up seemingly by force ’gainst

[What have we done]

e not believe in some // // beneficent

source of grace, if from // // the dull hearts habit made can grow //

The Reigate lab, of course // // has a

source // // of pure water: a still. // // Garden shed // // with

There must be moonshine

// // Flowing unbidden from its hidden

source ; // // The Day-Spring, the eternal Prima Vera. // // Blake sa

s and guiding people through // // the

sourness of their own oceans. But drinking warm earl grey // // tea w

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// a sun-warmed pillowed land of // //

South Georgia sunsets, and // // bougainvillea blooms; hands to hold

luc bat to mr. beam

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

South London cemetery. // // Perhaps I should plant // // some box o

ound of boots make me dry heave. // //

South of here, the sun will shine, // // And through the fear, all wi

Ode to a map of the world

long the shingle beach. // // The mile

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

Walking in winter

Philae // // The door of the

south , // // Where frontiersmen stand and watch // // Elbowed dog-wi

// // ing out from the emerald isle’s

southern shore. Behold! Sailors, all hail! // // No isle is truly god

gister for each cracked piece // // Of

souvenir china: // // The white and yellow honey-pot // // With matc

he kitchen sink bears witness // // to

Soviet columns of ice). // // But you seem unperturbed // // your re

why i’m getting into Christmas

/ // lose dream // // or sever // //

Sov’ran // // ultra regna terra. // // Now dog, did re-venom Eden //

Hercules et Oracle

made the very gate of heaven // // We

sowed in tears, but here’s the golden grain: // // We won’t give up o

An Easter Triolet

ame a mass // // Of scum. For us, lost

Space and Earth and form. // // Within our bubble, Hubble shows the f

// // to remain in occupation of that

space . // // And so, for two successive summer holidays, // // we ch

and gaze into space. // // We have the

space // // and the time // // to cross the waters, // // explore t

n a world of digit meets digits, // //

space and time exploded // // to a single // // point // // Could t

pily malign’s // // through there, and

space and time // // seem cut and twisted everywhere. // // Though,

months now. // // Our voices warm the

space around it, // // Hide it amongst the blooming heather, // // W

Wild Mountain Thyme

of sonnets, // // in the secret of the

space behind the new moon. // // And elsewhere, as deep as port, as r

ind // // To bridge the gap // // And

space between the // // Ones that live as they please // // And thos

Poems on the Underground

A Room of Her Own // // My home, my

space , // // except for nanny and the maids, // // my needlework, //

A Room of Her Own

ice his natural size. // // This is my

space for scholarship // // to read and pen and thrive, // // even w

A Room of Her Own

et in stopping taxi, // // Filled that

space for years—It makes no sound as it drops. // // I replay too det

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

// // She’s too busy cavorting around

space , gay as Galactus, // // Blowing out more stars with her laugh.

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// // themselves in riffs of time and

space , // // in overlapping amplitudes of bliss, // // pattering int

// // blazing into the air. // // Our

space is the earth, // // time lives in fire, // // leaving us the w

k around it. // // Our voices warm the

space . // // Our voices, // // Warm. // //

Wild Mountain Thyme

a fire, // // and faint starlight from

space // // reflected in inky water, // // the cool night air // //

of the air // // and the beginning of

space // // the sky is dark, but the raging fire // // of the sun ma

ping of the water, // // and gaze into

space . // // We have the space // // and the time // // to cross th

// Darkened feet tread over a foreign

space // // Which whispers with frustration at its // // Invasion. /

Vicious or Virtuous?

ophies are aired, // // temple columns

spaced , // // lightning rods earthed. // // On the dark side of the

d earths. // // In forests and in open

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

ed over hardwood floors, // // Through

spaghetti -stained carpet // // With a smile, plastered on my face, //

The Notes You Have Left

It could look like // // a section of

spalted trunk— // // blackstrap coaly seams // // making the wood ma

wise to stop scratching now, // // And

spare myself the future pain. // // But hindsight is always wise, //

Mosquito nights

es, my bone, // // Unseen or seen, did

spark a tiny fire. // // A lonely ember ’twas, and did require // //

[What have we done]

half-hearts, // // the Valentine that

sparked a fight. Clothes pegs. // // He, of course, always hated sen

is. // // Eyes, rolling, at artificial

sparkle // // And hearts as target practice. // // I should have gon

thers form the funeral parade. // // A

sparrow snatched from flight // // With wheeling thump. // // Icarus

Urban bird watching

o really feel. // // Un-pause. Furl my

sparrow wings poised at the precipice and reel // // Back to lupine-w

ng bone // // and flocks of starlings,

sparrows , swallows know // // that one for all and all for one is rig

/ We will shed worldliness // // For a

spasm of enlightenment. // //

Cockatrice // // It clucked, and

spat at the best of both worlds. // // The monster hatched by a mothe

rew a line under you today.” // // You

spat in my face. // // And swiftly it scratched across the scene, //

The Other Side of the Line

limbs lobbed apples her way. // // She

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

ed boat runs a wake: time to gush full

spate . // // Now my headlong dash abates—where I once was, the waders

We burn. // // We can’t touch or even

speak , // // afraid of the reflections; // // and when the moment’s

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

oblems // // hoping today // // she’d

speak // // common Greek. // // No one asked // // if she had any i

/ with apples, nor with pilaf. I can’t

speak // // for Suliman, but I am well of love. // //

The well of love

ht that you could // // chat in verse,

speak in poetry, you could save // // these dying words with your //

Sestina to an English Teacher

Aubade to Girton // // We must not

speak now of etherised spread- // // eagle evenings fading skin histo

Aubade to Girton

No breath remains to show how we might

speak // // Or write, approaching her in skill and elegance. // // N

hilosophy? // // Voices, ipods, phones

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

ck of a 68 // // Voices, ipods, phones

speak out— // // add to the road’s cacophony. // // Through air and

er, shout, // // voices, ipods, phones

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

k open the sixth seal // // Whilst you

speak the weather of our little world // // (Wednesdays it rains; pum

ould fold my shattered wings // // And

speak the word too mundane to say // // And expire with the curse of

prefer to sing in languages they cannot

speak , // // their tongues dancing // // their legs dancing in diffe

Same but differenT

// // Words which once we could // //

Speak , to lose our grasp on // // The reality of the wood // // And

ow open, // // Your newest song on the

speaker , // // A cold coffee left by my side. // // You sing along t

// // who stood over the dragon // //

speaking powerful words // // not a reader of riddles // // but the

// // Trip from the tongue // // That

speaks the Word // // Amidst the tympanum. // // But hard by the roo

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

// // its only hope to lead the quick

spear into the subtle mist. // // You strike flint to raise a good fi

e; your pierced side holds your sceptre-

spear . // // What passion. High and clear and far, the song // // Ca

it on it, // // The tickle of its many

spears on bare toes, // // And the fragments that get stuck to my clo

at you, across from me, on those // //

Special four-seater sections (extra legroom). // // Framed by filteri

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

ertheless // // ten thousand different

species rise and fall // // and rise again. Great populations press /

// insufficient details to impart one

specific viable // // meaning and are instead cultural constructions

ng down the street can one compare each

specimen , // // Like one might have done sitting in an omnibus or hac

Bearded Thoughts

// I’m not sure when we collected this

specimen of sadness. // // Helium and hydrogen hauled together // //

// I'm not sure when we collected this

specimen of sadness, // // the kind that still refracts through your

see the afterlife of that Word. // //

Speckled by starlight: You smoke-sigh and observe // // What? I stare

e two young // // Eves, in a flurry of

speckled limbs lobbed apples her way. // // She spat the pips, for th

ls nudges at my booted feet. // // The

speckles of weed on the water are like chips of dark gold // // Under

// // A pool of stillness, dotted with

specs chrome: // // The stars. They glitter ’gainst my mirror eye, //

[What have we done]

ours // // safe from view; surrounding

spectra // // blinding from refracted // // oil-light off tarmac. As

luc bat to mr. beam

acks. // // Damp limestone humming and

spectral , // // The absence, eerie, of mountains, of people. // // J

to and fro // // Between the lights of

speech and depths below, // // The silent depths where touch is every

Is it a memory?

a silent great-aunt and the queen’s

speech , naturally // // drink to Christmas! and be merry! // // Turk

Drink and be merry

d, my mouth // // Soils everything, my

speech smeared into your clothes, // // I cannot remember a time when

[I am almost 25 years old]

white toboggan, // // doubling your

speed , and again; // // the surprise gut-punch // // of the snowman

ring tongues // // That in the silence

spell our hexagram. // // War means supplication: the hexagram— // /

Sixteen Forty-Five

Spell // // Summon the summoners, the twenty-six // // enchanters. S

or grandfather—it is a peculiar, potent

spell . // // What a beautiful and strange home you have been gifted,

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

d how, so root and branch do both curse

spell , // // Where fog, encoal’d, imbues with cloud our sight, // //

[What have we done]

nt as childhood fever // // Which once

spelled time so slow. // // I hear whispers in the weather // // Tel

leaves might fall

ners, the twenty-six // // enchanters.

Spelling silence into sound, // // they bind and loose, they find and

d no other cause, // // no-one else to

spend her days // // watching, and so thought she might // // hide t

In a charity shop

// glossier glamour! more glorious to

spend yours // // chasing what’s cheap, than choose to slow down, //

[A spinning spider]

d men when young, // // The kind who’d

spent a lifetime in the pit // // And come away with bruises and blac

wasted his life— // // It’s been well-

spent , and’s gone exactly as he meant it to. // // And he has some ye

When will they bear fruit? // // Each

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

leaves might fall

uel. This city now extinguished, empty,

spent ; the beauty of the day submerged in silence. Buses, bicycles, co

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

bbed out. In Beit Hanoun, the sun seems

spent : // // The blasts drop like a shutter’s blink and break // //

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

of careful compromise, // // the hours

spent washing bathroom tiles of blood. // // you pray for rain, but n

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

. // // Again, again. // // Adrift on

spewing , insipid, lusting waters, // // Aren’t I porous and malleable

Frighteningly Inert

, // // Then you might pull me from my

sphere // // Or fall to me from yours, // // Were I, perchance, in V

The Daily Planet

// // The angel-song, the music of the

spheres // // You left, for stinging slash and singing pain // // Of

antoms // // graveyard cadavers // //

spicing the soil // // iron rusted // // pump valves // // good for

yew needs dried blood in spring

spider ] // // A spinning spider, Sputnik-fathered // // and strung u

[A spinning spider]

// Is the spider’s web that catches the

spider ? // // All is not yours to surrender // // I take even your l

[A spinning spider] // // A spinning

spider , Sputnik-fathered // // and strung up to struggle, streams gas

[A spinning spider]

o you not know that mercy // // Is the

spider’s web that catches the spider? // // All is not yours to surre

e a little, and the ripples run. // //

Spill ? // // All the little fishes swim in packs, and I’m thinking, t

Whales sing because they have a song

to the moment when these immortal words

spilled from the Shakespearean pen // // And flowing across the virgi

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

for a white flag. // // “I don’t know”

spills from my lips in a constant litany, // // Until my shame hangs,

st ewe, // // who cursed as the basket

spills in sticky clay // // and scraped the mud off of her own caked

went to Gloucester // // for a summer

spin — // // and liked a lass from Lancashire; // // so milk-white wa

’s newspaper, blazoned with // // The

spin of a world that isn’t yours and can’t // // Seem true. But there

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

/ // drink! and be merry! // // Green

spindles stick to socks a silent great-aunt and the queen’s speec

Drink and be merry

y black eyes my light eyes, this arched

spine , // // do you remember what Kierkegaard said, // // am I every

modesty // // So that the Earth stops

spinning dead in its gait, // // So that I’m launched 3,000 miles in

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

re, looking blankly at me, like a globe

spinning so fast that all the colours blurred into white. And I felt s

[So the moon was there]

spinning spider] // // A spinning spider, Sputnik-fathered // // and

[A spinning spider]

[A spinning spider] // // A

spinning spider, Sputnik-fathered // // and strung up to struggle, st

[A spinning spider]

m Legend without a hint of irony // //

Spin’s more dangerous // // Myth more toxic // // groundzeronineelev

atterns form—until // // an accidental

spiral sequence finds // // that it can make itself again, and fill /

past— // // Matter explodes. Growth’s

spiraling has passed // // The comprehendable. A lash of light // //

first to fall, // // Cherub and Seraph

spiralled down // // In circling curlicues of sacred text, // // Fla

The Cutting Edge

he’ll be blooming, // // and she’ll be

spiralling // // back in spring. // //

hrough the dark towards the grey church

spire // // In to its heart : the arching apple boughs… // // The sk

The Magic Apple Tree

chtime with the family, // // Lead on,

Spirit . // // Dad balances the turkey, // // He was better than his

A Hymn to a Loved One

Sidings // // The

spirit of gorse // // Is in the grass // // That grows in the siding

// Glacial. Tangled in cables. // //

Spirit , they’ve vanished! // //

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

// Shallow depth of field // // Like a

spirit waiting for its clay; // // Because the abstractions of experi

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

merry! // // Fat boar bubbling in oil

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

Drink and be merry

Her chest, like mine, heaves with caged

spite // // Threatening to escape. Getting nowhere, I stare // // H

// // His spring is come to shame and

spitting , // // Under the blows the cut stones splinter // // The Gr

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

waft, // // Sizzling at every edge and

spitting ’oft. // // My open’d eyes do look around the wood, // // T

[What have we done]

e nothing to fear; // // But I cried a

splashy Victorian tear, // // Finding the day so new and so odd, //

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

layer of blue // // until watercolours

splattered my sleeves and the drowning page. // // Absentmindedly I m

[I often think of that January morning]

arrow to go with the pin // // and the

splint and the stent that are where we begin. // // After the knife,

, // // Under the blows the cut stones

splinter // // The Green Man comes to winter, // // To the harness a

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

a skin or two, // // old feathers and

splinters litter our floorboards. // // Ooh go on then, treat ourselv

/ There was a young man writhing in the

splinters of the shattered window pane. // // There was an overcrowde

Black September

/ // the furcula might prove a midline

split // // in this revision one makes one and one // // turtles and

and the harrow // // As flails fall to

split the bearded husk // // And seeds fall to the furrow, // // Ami

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

h infinite-ish time. // // And so they

split their Garden up in perfectly straight lines, // // And chose a

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

nd one and one // // but in the ritual

splitting of the bone // // as Martin’s morning breaks upon the night

Splitting // // // Our break-up has been roiling now for more // //

f his ring. // // Fiddling, jittering,

spluttering , crying // // his name like a love-song, // // a meaning

Jonathan’s Deathbed

d cut the tension. // // I should have

spoken by now, but… // // I should have danced by now, and yet // //

lness, a token // // Of what cannot be

spoken face to face; // // Your glance is like a blessing on the brok

an ancient well of that which can’t be

spoken , only sung // // can’t be sung, can’t be wrong // // and when

Same but differenT

to our old home. // // Home is a name

spoken well, // // By stranger or grandfather—it is a peculiar, poten

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

was itself // // spokesperson // // (

spokesnake ?) // // for old, chaotic // // Mother Earth. // // But t

r a snake // // that was itself // //

spokesperson // // (spokesnake?) // // for old, chaotic // // Mothe

through feathers pressed // // like a

sponge -print. // // The last breath out is the first to be drawn. //

nd try not to forget // // Stockings

spongy carpets the window clad in lights, closed against the great g

Drink and be merry

how to create poetry or account for its

spontaneous creation. Look, really look—we are nothing, we have nothin

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

ast // // A grapefruit squeezed // //

Spoon cuts crimson flesh // // Drops spray silent // // Zest bitters

d yellow honey-pot // // With matching

spoon ; // // The miniature tea pot // // (Worth mending, Nan said, i

your bark hold strong— // // May your

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

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

while I // // Am dancing on your blind

ists and a college counsellor failed to

spot , // // But I feel like I want to be entirely destroyed by love.

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

slippers on // // as she indulges in a

spot // // of thrilling, but too quick, arson— // // under the brown

[the typist puts her knickers on]

are buggering the ineffable; Satan’s a

spot we can see! // // What will you trade for an eye? AI might be ci

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

air. // // And you, around that narrow

spotless nape, // // Might, from time to time, consent a tawny arm to

/ From the handshake. // // A handheld

spotlight skims the gravel, revealing // // Fleeting instances of mil

Vicious or Virtuous?

ow tights. // // My bursting flight of

spotlit laughing on the pavement // // dries to sighs in seconds. //

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

dges— // // Their camouflage of grease

spots // // Leopard-like // // Within the corrugated cage. // // Th

linking on a pimpled trunk // // snail-

spotted and blooded // // by stagnant recess overfull trickling // /

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

as I enter the kitchen: // // a dove,

sprawled wide in its this— // // is-my-beloved-son yawn. // // Warm

/ With borrowed wings a hedgehog // //

Sprawls upon the pavement, // // Bristles forced to comic angles. //

Urban bird watching

And when it hits just right // // the

spray rises a mile into the air // // (or so it seems to me), to cras

Walking in winter

channelling below. // // Held aloft by

spray // // she floats above the curl and spume of sea, and then //

/ Spoon cuts crimson flesh // // Drops

spray silent // // Zest bittersweet scent // // Syrupy fingertips //

behind the counter, // // old watches

spread , // // bracelets, teaspoons // // neatly priced, // // hunch

In a charity shop

// We must not speak now of etherised

spread - // // eagle evenings fading skin histories // // from violen

Aubade to Girton

// With wheeling thump. // // Icarus,

spread -eagled in the cycling lane. // // With borrowed wings a hedgeh

Urban bird watching

the roaming bees. // // Feel the fire.

Spread out a green canopy // // in the warming sunlight. Soak up the

// // But now the planes are suddenly

spread . // // Over the bus as it rounds Hyde Park, // // Down border

// // Summer swam round, and the bees

spread rumour of honey, // // but all I could hear was the smash of l

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ark hold strong— // // May your spores

spread wide, your mycelium long, // // And your dark decomposing run

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

very touch soaks in, // // Seeping and

spreading , mycorrhizal in my dependency on // // Your voice, all 25 y

[I am almost 25 years old]

drain the chains of pools that lace the

spreading sands and soft mudflats: time to // // gather pace. // //

// I think— // // He is no loathsome

sprezzateur // // Nor some unsavvy stumbling sapeur // // He underst

and she’ll be spiralling // // back in

spring . // //

// // came a song of our first // //

spring ; an ache and burn. // // How sweet and clean was that return.

yew needs dried blood in

spring // // blood ancestry // // phantoms // // graveyard cadavers

yew needs dried blood in spring

inside, and find you here, // // Like

spring , eternal spring, inside my heart. // //

[My face is old now]

d you here, // // Like spring, eternal

spring , inside my heart. // //

[My face is old now]

hem that pluck out the hair, // // His

spring is come to shame and spitting, // // Under the blows the cut s

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

fferent ways. // // I see it all, like

spring it follows // // All before. Even now, after all these years a

[My face is old now]

// // buds into the waxing light, the

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

n walk smugly, the both of us, into the

Spring sunset, // // Because this is my fantasy, and Freud said you’r

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

from its hidden source; // // The Day-

Spring , the eternal Prima Vera. // // Blake saw it too. Dante and Bea

ess the fruitful earth from whence they

spring . // // These colours seem to fall from Eden’s light, // // Th

The Magic Apple Tree

leaves // // In the last May bursts of

spring . // // Till now there’s only been a fist, // // Half giving a

ubers // // worm roots wait // // for

spring // // when dried blood scatters // //

yew needs dried blood in spring

se she knew // // That such a thing as

Spring would come again. // // Ostara didn’t need viscera wrenched by

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

the stress in the thoracal zone // //

springing the bird to post-Jurassic flight // // to trade in futures

ded barleycorn // // But a whole field

springing , // // The vine and all its tendrils, // // Unfold from th

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

// // as I today: you look and autumn

springs . // //

ugh their binding // // like overwound

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

Nil Charge / Nil Return

// // flash-fried, seasoned, laid out,

sprinkled with ash. // //

rom they bounce onto the canopy, // //

Sprinkling their light through ground, through sky, through all. // /

[What have we done]

each i let lavender and thistle // //

sprout from its neck, to wilt upon each soft pale shirt, // // teachi

, it shows. // // Descend, true nature

sprouts , like damp, decant- // // ing fungus. Brutish, British, you’r

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

ay // // she floats above the curl and

spume of sea, and then // // the girl poised and primed // // to div

descend to hide among // // the seeds

spun by the breeze, between lines of sonnets, // // in the secret of

r this world’s raw // // Venality that

spurns your natural law. // // What a pitiful way for a predator to d

nning spider] // // A spinning spider,

Sputnik -fathered // // and strung up to struggle, streams gas against

[A spinning spider]

ything was important. // // Everything

squalls and // // Everything breathed and // // Your soft memory imm

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

dle // // Come find me in a crease sea-

squalls cannot reach // // Waves are my shelter, I’m not far off off-

// The morning still falls // // And

squalls through your hair // // Like the wind that I cannot contain b

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

// I am using scissors to cut // // a

square around your face // // to frame. These are sharp // // sciss

Stone, Paper, Scissors

// How many Walts do we see in Market

Square on a Friday night? // // We distrust this facial hair perhaps,

Bearded Thoughts

e. // // In an old book I see a yellow

square , read the part // // marked, and am amazed at my predictabilit

sts, her // // ankles, her throat. It

squatted , watched her, penned // // a tribute with a claw pisswet, bl

a play // // With Brian Blessed // //

Squeezed into the frame, the dusty sepia. // // We are terrified of w

Bearded Thoughts

Breakfast // // A grapefruit

squeezed // // Spoon cuts crimson flesh // // Drops spray silent //

// In pulverised procession that // //

Squeezed , through concrete’s piercing bars, // // Soft choking from a

the damp ground of my thoughts, // //

Squelch the compost of old text messages between my toes, // // Obses

[I am almost 25 years old]

ep dark centre stones, // // Buried in

squinting distance, // // And his skin demarcates the Sun’s furthest

’Tis pity he’s a bore

ess, // // watch the brightness // //

squirm , then smile, then // // strike with white branches in a // //

Bright, Pale Yellow

on vertigo // // when I picture him as

St . Sebastian, // // Nailed to pine in ecstatic agony. // // ’Tis pi

’Tis pity he’s a bore

arty down the pub, // // and for her 21

st , well she was away at uni, wasn’t she? // // They’re growing up, n

l endeavour to preserve, // // To find

stability that will outlive, // // To commit love to memories less fa

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

k” // // Pushing a trolley through the

stacks // // Of discounted washing powder and // // Garish Christmas

The Notes You Have Left

consider the running down of the strong

stag , // // its only hope to lead the quick spear into the subtle mis

ar. // // A wave breaks over us like a

stage curtain, // // and it is last night on the M56, // // heading

// // going // // to … // // [exit

stage right accompanied by the ineffectual whirring of defunct machine

the windmill’s lament—a short play

a young one stumbles mumbling onto the

stage . // // There will come a time when the new year is held back, f

looming with the taint // // Of former

stages of my seven skins; // // A chronicle of past unbuttonings. //

heir tyranny // // And, just before we

stagger through the exit, // // Discover that we might yet wreck thei

ly Inert // // Adrift on waters // //

Stagnant , charged, ion wet, // // The pumice golem // // On and off

Frighteningly Inert

// snail-spotted and blooded // // by

stagnant recess overfull trickling // // downwards to slug lickings o

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

are mewling death. // // In truth, you

stagnant , solipsistic bore, // // You’re nothing, utter nothing, noth

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

Its alterations; // // Then why do you

stagnate and // // fade, longing to change the world? // //

[The world moves the same]

me dissolving into the bed, // // The

stain anxiety leaves, I cannot remember // // A time when my shadow d

[I am almost 25 years old]

roll into the snug sheets, if ink will

stain your hands forever. // // Does it wash off, I wonder, does it t

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

Hold // // Coffee-

stained breaths // // I pull myself into // // the comforting wetnes

rdwood floors, // // Through spaghetti-

stained carpet // // With a smile, plastered on my face, // // As I

The Notes You Have Left

Gaudete. // // Candles glowing through

stained glass. // // O little one mild. // // Lunchtime with the fam

A Hymn to a Loved One

// // are they strong enough to lift a

stained glass // // skull, my black eyes my light eyes, this arched s

hing for a word // // amongst the wine

stained lips and glasses, // // teabags gone furry in the heat, // /

), // // Ranging over the snow sheets,

stained now with black, what if one day all the books drew blanks? //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

t, we’ve missed our stop. // // Coffee-

stained plastic floor, its frailty tuned by too bright, // // White-g

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

pen most famously tender // // Forever

stained with the Bard’s loving lines, she found herself immortalised.

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

hungrily on the path // // Like rain.

Staining stones darker as words attempt to fill the gap // // Between

Snapshot Endings

age // // Of yellow Victorian tobacco-

stains upon the creamy-white // // Bernard Shaw, the voluptuous Darwi

Bearded Thoughts

tence was a problem // // In the under-

stair cupboard // // Of post-modern serfdom. // // The light was rar

rough these you pass and up a flight of

stairs , // // To find the case and lift the dull brown cover // // T

The Magic Apple Tree

“one day you might // // Play when the

stakes trump the game, and then dear // // Keep your wits about you a

mile away. // // Bloated on turkey and

stale conversation // // The pack turns their inquisitive gaze // //

he might // // hide the fact // // in

stale jumpers // // and behind // // shelves of chipped china. // /

In a charity shop

ter of lights // // in windows of work-

stale rooms. // // Stepping out, // // the crisp, exhilarating // /

[The sash rattles up]

mortal machinery // // Like you, that

stalked like one who had // // Mastered the hunt with effortless effr

snore. // // We shall not sever hydra

stalks for fear of fresh // // blooms: already one says: “mankind can

Aubade to Girton

go tree // // Dangling by such slender

stalks from its laden boughs. // // We were so young when we smoothed

es and fulls, // // Born of earth into

stalled world. // // Have you forgotten the early months of silence?

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

in heartbreak.) // // “Biology is just

stamp collecting” and // // You are just biology. // // I am the kin

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

at the nilherd’s final demands, // //

stamp in a sweep to the slope-edge: // // horns lowered, // // hides

Nil Charge / Nil Return

Per second, and I’ll finally be able to

stand again, // // And stop falling to my knees. // // It doesn’t se

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

ldened by our revelry, // // We make a

stand against their tyranny // // And, just before we stagger through

of the south, // // Where frontiersmen

stand and watch // // Elbowed dog-wise against the rumour // // Of A

enter mass to bands of brass, // // We

stand as the choirs pass. // // Gaudete. // // Candles glowing throu

A Hymn to a Loved One

of itself there? // // Breathless, I

stand being looked at // // immobile open ripped apart. // // T

e to find an end, an epilogue. // // I

stand , figureless, grey and distant, // // My frustration, ever build

The Other Side of the Line

ing to analyze here. // // Nothing can

stand for itself, you know, nothing can even be a thing without anythi

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

/ // run workshops and digs // // and

stand in the temple // // announcing // // UNESCO // // world // /

louder and louder // // And you can’t

stand it and you can feel pounding, pounding // // But it’s only your

mantelpiece inside your house, // // I

stand motionless within a frame. Wading fearlessly through // // the

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

er channelling below. // // The crowds

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

/ // Or does the mango tree solitarily

stand // // Still constant, fruit-laden, generous and sun-browned //

appears as grey: // // The universal,

standard and // // Unthinking choice // // That makes all necessary

Three Ways of Walking

He who made the Lamb // // Columbo-

standard , // // Crouching cold-nose, // // Eyes like a noose, nippin

He who made the Lamb

// And frowned. // // With the royal

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

just close on // // My boson? // // ‘

Standard Model’ perfection! // // Professorial election // // Nobel

Small Particles in the Small Hours

// // —a Schubert piano piece.) // //

Standing around the Cambridge crematorium, // // dressed for the occa

ong urge to tell you how it feels to be

standing here // // but it’s warm inside // // so we leave // //

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

t were less busy I wouldn’t mind // //

Standing , would // // Even smile at the other passengers. // // Shri

Poems on the Underground

// But to a vivid centre— // // There

stands a tree // // Radiant in its being. // // They say its name is

[At the coinciding point of the years]

my yellow path: // // Your silhouette

stands beyond their glow. // // Red, white, and black words disappear

hile our future drains away. // // She

stands , hunched and weary, too tired // // To have held on. Head lowe

S, and SHALL BE EVERMORE // // That it

stands in the bareness of eternity // // At the austere edge of the r

[At the coinciding point of the years]

vicious statement. // // But your line

stands , reinforced, leaving me // // Gripping the tatters of hope in

The Other Side of the Line

[For A Long Time She

Stands There] // // For A Long Time She Stands There, Given To The Dr

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

tands There] // // For A Long Time She

Stands There, Given To The Dreadful Clouds Crossing The Stars, Racing

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

in fairly strict ballad form—four-line

stanzas , three tetrameter and one trimeter, rhymed ABAB. How prosaic!

e, // // and with my brittle bones and

star roll’d dice // // I plucked from falling world two daggers cold.

[What have we done]

// // So that I do not have to see the

star , // // So that I do not slit this throat. // // Light a fire to

l’esprit d’escalier

we begin. // // We were both made from

stardust // // and blood rust // // as the sky began seeping liquid

lood rust // // we were both made from

stardust . // // For this is where we begin, // // at the moment wher

u smoke-sigh and observe // // What? I

stare at you looking. Blank! Crack open the sixth seal // // Whilst y

reatening to escape. Getting nowhere, I

stare // // Harder, longer. Trying to be less alive, // // To lose

oo much. // // // // …Bleached walls

stare into pale skin, each keeping the warmth // // In while the bran

Snapshot Endings

/ But couldn’t hold. // // Yet, when I

stare into reality // // I see a blank white sheet, and withdraw, //

Writing to explore

// Some object or event which holds her

stare ? // // Or is it just the clarity of light, the glowing // // g

Cape Cod Morning

s with Him. // // So I’ll just sit and

stare , silent, and you’ll come back to me. // // But please make it s

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

d on. Head lowered, but her eyes // //

Stare through me, past my skin, to the scream stuck // // In my throa

yone who disagrees with an impenetrable

stare , yes a million times yes I declare! // // Thus the sonnets of S

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

avigate by auspice // // And the night

stared back // // Perseid gleams between the stars // // We navigate

montory we watched // // And the night

stared back // // The shock of a constellation lost // // We navigat

How many years your kohl eyes must have

stared // // Watching new generations play. Then dared // // A young

mera’s smitten gaze, // // While Bush

stares out from under you. // // You look so nice: fresh-dressed and

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

choes, // // and always I found myself

staring at the sea. Waking, sleeping, dreaming. // // I am still drea

[I often think of that January morning]

t they want to hear; // // instead I’m

staring at want’s damp shoes // // on the dark path back from college

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

ue. But there you lie—innocently // //

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

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

and // // Does anyone notice that I’m

staring ? // // Pity. // // Now his sumptuous form is reduced to two

’Tis pity he’s a bore

n the light of a fire, // // and faint

starlight from space // // reflected in inky water, // // the cool n

erlife of that Word. // // Speckled by

starlight : You smoke-sigh and observe // // What? I stare at you look

n the wishing bone // // and flocks of

starlings , sparrows, swallows know // // that one for all and all for

But once I had swallowed the moon, the

stars all smiled and rushed to become bubbles in the waves around my s

[So the moon was there]

// Do we understand each other? // //

Stars and earth and fire between them: // // these dazzling coloured

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

ands court, // // separate beneath the

stars , // // at 1am. // //

[The sash rattles up]

// In this night. Redshift // // The

stars black—do you still feel // // Their loss? My wife stirs, // //

Here be dragons

ere, and the trees weren’t pink and the

stars couldn’t sing, but we were happy. // // // // Is that t

[So the moon was there]

the sky in place, you see, because the

stars felt so sorry for it. But once I had swallowed the moon, the sta

[So the moon was there]

er us // // Perseid gleams between the

stars // // Like seeing a humpback breach // // The fire which leapt

se full of galaxies and black holes and

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

Same but differenT

// // … // // above us // // white

stars pierce // // the sky // // below us // // the dark grass mops

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

ven To The Dreadful Clouds Crossing The

Stars , Racing To Nowhere // // And you’re frantic - no record seems t

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

es from roots grown // // Do frame the

stars , suspended, understood // // By me, who gapes up from my shelte

[What have we done]

s, dotted with specs chrome: // // The

stars . They glitter ’gainst my mirror eye, // // And back they swim i

[What have we done]

grew high // // He lay there till the

stars turned blue // // He lay there till his breath ran cold // //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

back // // Perseid gleams between the

stars // // We navigate by auspice // // The fire which leapt over u

// Wakes, to return to dream—the // //

Stars will wait for him. // //

Here be dragons

ay as Galactus, // // Blowing out more

stars with her laugh. // // It’s not that weird, right? // // It’s l

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ht. // // Autumn in Cambridge, and the

stars wouldn’t shed me as much light // // as they did over the sea.

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

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

start . // //

was the only way // // The world would

start again the next day. // // A clockwork Abraham, ready every morn

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

Scientist // // Oh take me back to the

start , // // at the moment where opposites attract, // // for this i

// And, half in mind, Ascent of Cascade

start . // // Behind the flow I knew there to be ice, // // For such

[What have we done]

e, ever more warm, // // And though at

start I find I face a swarm // // Of loosen water rocks, I soon surmi

[What have we done]

’d stay and see the fireworks when they

start . // // No, we quite understand. We know you can’t stay long //

s bracket our shared domain: // // the

start , the lobby of a Greek hotel // // in summer, where we met and a

l where I’m confined, // // Tell us to

start the task assigned // // For three grim hours. For my degree //

Exam Room Villanelle

nning to write essays that in some wise

start to feed us, // // When from the trees in Girton’s driveway come

[Walcott begins Omeros]

as the seal starts to weep and my legs

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

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

: time to mark the beach. // // Now I

start to trickle back // // over wet ground, under sky, // // from m

t it all and let it be for good. // //

Start with the very breath you breathe in now, // // This moment’s pu

imes contemplate // // This is where I

started , Dipping my toe //

[She points to the sky]

om up there, // // The fight’s already

started . // // Look from above, // // We’re on the losing side. //

[She points to the sky]

t it drown, and so I was safe. And so I

started swimming and swimming, and I swum back to you—wait, don’t kiss

[So the moon was there]

our own consistency, but back where we

started . // // // // We talk less now— // // Leave notes that are

// // // // Point A. Point B. // //

Starting in A going to B. // // Words fumble along the way, // // Fr

[She points to the sky]

Foregrounded // // A

starting point of sharp velars // // That cut and crack and cold cons

idst the tympanum // // His stone hair

startles from // // A face in the foliage, // // Not just the bearde

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

the branches dance and turn, // // The

startling chartreuse yellow, // // Translucent as childhood fever //

leaves might fall

r ocean, the storm sullen // // Slowly

starts to disperse. // // Take a listen, // // This is how the rain

Who am I, Bernard?

we walk back // // against the wind it

starts to snow. // // A snowdrift forms against the wire brush // //

Walking in winter

round my torso. // // And as the seal

starts to weep and my legs start to give, // // I don’t want her to p

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// while the dear mouse dropped dead of

starvation . // //

The Failing of the Cheese

our own. believe // // the news. can’t

starve the much-too-muchness out // // and in the hollows gnaw at som

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

of our lives, and // // blood-fed, or

starved to oblivion // // in five minutes. // // The patterns the ni

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

ng heavenwards in certain praise // //

state His glory. This land I name, La Trinitaria, holy // // Trinity.

More pink, more soft, and in this tired

state // // I fade into a peaceful sleep: a gate, // // A door, a li

[What have we done]

t if a tidal wave as tall as the Empire

State // // Really is gonna come to make us all meet our fate, // //

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

e, // // Who prostitute the offices of

state , // // Reduce the common people to despair, // // And laugh as

he future seemed rosy— // // To her, a

State Secretary // // Eyeless for Gaza, // // Blind to the consequen

. // // I just mean that in my current

state , 19 years and // // Not enough months to make a difference old,

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

nse. Success and joy // // may be your

stated goal but safety first – // // you’re in the trash dear Wayne –

Between Life and Death

ng that the method of erasing blood was

stated with experience, // // And me realising that his blood would h

Three Pieces of Advice

// Tear with a sharp breath or vicious

statement . // // But your line stands, reinforced, leaving me // //

The Other Side of the Line

ses // // Your good looks, better bank

statements and embrace, // // Will catch me this time and make me Mrs

ittle time to drink, // // The ship of

state’s about to plunge and sink, // // Pour out the last of this Bur

/ // My still eyes make their movement

static , // // Constant, never reaching home. // // I find that I am

was never sacred // // In the glaring

static of hidden foamy currents. // //

Frighteningly Inert

SCO // // world // // heritage // //

status // // but saying // // that the earth beneath // // is compl

never known you before. // // I could

stay a hundred years // // With this aura of warmth // // Its amber

ave so early? We had hoped // // You’d

stay and see the fireworks when they start. // // No, we quite unders

No do not flee! Do not leave me! // //

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

Sun will keep turning. We just need to

stay here. // // Right? // // All Mary had to do was wait. Give it t

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

// // another day.” // // And yet you

stay // // inside my head, and take away my will // // to find a way

we quite understand. We know you can’t

stay long // // And must stay silent for your public with an even- //

or Suliman, from his pilaf. // // But

stay me not with raisins nor // // with flagons, for I am well of lov

The well of love

ropriately, Suliman’s pilaf. // // But

stay me not with them, nor comfort me // // with apples, for I am wel

The well of love

Silence // // Came to

stay one day. // // Unpacked her bags, // // and hung her quiet frip

now you can’t stay long // // And must

stay silent for your public with an even- // // handed air of gravita

k” // // A-rise, you poyson’d ape, and

stay the same, // // you weasel without words, uncouth, unkind // //

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

a signpost, // // And us, deciding to

stay . // // We marched in lock-step // // To that glorious future, /

Magnetic Mountain

e // // This is where s/he wants me to

stay . Wishing for a chest. // // I am here. // //

[She points to the sky]

ten to it, ringing soft and low. // //

Stay with the music, words will come in time. // // Slow down your br

ld sun-dancing Christ: // // The bread

stayed bready and the wine // // Passed up its chance to be divine; /

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

// In the dead, we stopped // // and

stayed stuck in the quiet, // // the end of the road, // // not the

nees. But the moon looked so sad that I

stayed there for hours and hours until it began to sink, and I said

[So the moon was there]

// // Small fish, big pond. // // But

staying afloat? // // I move a little, and the ripples run. // // Sp

Whales sing because they have a song

here // // Where I’d always dreamed of

staying before // // Everything snapped and you left, you walked away

The Other Side of the Line

// of David’s thick black hair, // //

staying in place until at home // // the small gas fire has warmed th

Walking in winter

ngle me from. // // Frozen winches and

stays – // // I never earnestly looked at you // // (only out of you

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

it’s gonna die,’ he said, // // ‘if it

stays on that crossing’ // // then the train did the talking // // a

// Than in conversations, so the note

stays unfinished. // // One last breath drawn, shakily, then I end so

Snapshot Endings

rty saucers. Damp teatowels. // // The

steady drip-drip-drip of drying plates on the draining board // // as

the low buzzing of machines beneath the

steady gaze of grey // // hospital walls. Roses in empty wine bottles

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

mountains, of people. // // Just you,

steady tread and glinted eyes, // // Holding and held by darling thou

ber crabs, // // But still their young

steal shells to hide in—is this the poem? // // The smallest matryosh

t train— // // Watch, as all the panes

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

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

t his new heart made of // // iron and

stealing the warmth of his ring. // // Fiddling, jittering, splutteri

Jonathan’s Deathbed

lurk, // // We sense their stench, as

stealing through the murk, // // Mendacious bigots do their deadly wo

// As your polished black shoes emerge

stealthily // // And know the simple tie, knotted with pride // // A

// But this is what I fear; // // The

stealthy scissors of a blinded time // // Cutting through accretions

The Cutting Edge

dge: // // horns lowered, // // hides

steaming , // // hooves pounding // // they charge… // // Ah! Nihili

Nil Charge / Nil Return

r frame, // // the sedge, the princes’

steeds lie fallow, // // la belle dame. // // In thrall to notions o

hipbone, we'll put in a ball // // of

steel and titanium, wedged in the hole, // // with a stem in your mar

– tight pressed // // in a circlet of

steel . // // Haunch-heaving and panting // // they dream of their fr

Nil Charge / Nil Return

and tear-kissed under mask // // with

steel miles ahead in wait // // and then a new city. // // Now you a

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

ther’s rolling pin, // // Solid as her

steel -stern face— // // A battleship floating // // Above the diapha

shackled by counterfeit silver, // //

Steeled against the disgrace of a head bowed // // By superior hands

Vicious or Virtuous?

braced with crossed ledgers // // and

steelily smiling, // // the nilherds encircle // // to make their ni

Nil Charge / Nil Return

stride too far, // // Over an edge too

steep // // And I’m immortal, powerless, // // Until I hit the groun

Falling Is Like This

nium, wedged in the hole, // // with a

stem in your marrow to go with the pin // // and the splint and the s

e know they lurk, // // We sense their

stench , as stealing through the murk, // // Mendacious bigots do thei

ard (to keep access barred) // // In a

stench that should make her a sick sis. // // When a Hero formed part

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

h the pin // // and the splint and the

stent that are where we begin. // // After the knife, there follows t

our with them into the // // Carriage,

step across the gap // // Between the train and the platform, the gap

Poems on the Underground

onstricted our mulling // // Minds one

step at a time). // // Soon we lost our cognitive // // Sense, began

// // Wood door, not daring // // To

step beyond our domain, // // Not much caring // // Whether there wa

// // In the meat-market, wearing each

step forward // // Into last night’s night I cut // // Myself with f

he time of old shoes, // // when every

step is new // // and every mile is two, // // and I’d walk twice th

I know. // // But not yet. // // Each

step is pain // // With wings too heavy to fly // // Drenched in th

will hold my weight.’ // // But every

step it drops you down // // into soft snow, up to the tops // // of

Walking in winter

ding to stay. // // We marched in lock-

step // // To that glorious future, // // His likeness glimmering //

Magnetic Mountain

// // A big idea. // // Each line, a

step , // // Towards that moment // // Where it takes off. // // One

Falling Is Like This

Brutish, British, you’re out of // //

step with happiness. You human anti // // climax, nothingness. You ar

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

and fine and bitter cold. // // Every

step , // // your foot upon the crust, you think // // ‘This time, it

Walking in winter

in windows of work-stale rooms. // //

Stepping out, // // the crisp, exhilarating // // assault // // of

[The sash rattles up]

/ // Folds into itself. // // A cloud

steps aside for a second. // // The sun hits. // //

[The sun flattened]

twires I would slowly // // mimic your

steps ; growing day by day, // // a cursive script’s embrace // // in

luc bat to mr. beam

self, leaves me reversing // // Those

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

The Notes You Have Left

pure, unlike the life taking it’s last

steps . // // // // …Screeching brakes and crunching metal as gravit

Snapshot Endings

kness till you come // // To the stone

steps , the lions, the façade, // // The white Museum with its plate-g

The Magic Apple Tree

ngles. // // A pigeon’s slow, ungainly

steps // // To cross the road (no joke in that) // // Catch at only

Urban bird watching

I hide below // // your ever-reaching

steps , // // to hear and touch and see // // what is buried well ins

mestone crags above; // // descend the

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

Daydream Dale Journey

rolling pin, // // Solid as her steel-

stern face— // // A battleship floating // // Above the diaphanous s

t its // // Invasion. // // A loop of

stern faces around a desk too large // // To make contact with anythi

Vicious or Virtuous?

A Translation of Wallace

Stevens’s ‘Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction’, section 1: ‘It Must be Ab

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

ights, before the words // // Began to

stick and move in different ways. // // I see it all, like spring it

[My face is old now]

Wooden // // Her walking-

stick is a divining-rod // // or an oil rig, thudding into the ground

nk! and be merry! // // Green spindles

stick to socks a silent great-aunt and the queen’s speech, natura

Drink and be merry

good fire. I tally days with snowdamp

sticks . // //

draining.) // // The quick, brown fox

sticks his hot sharp stink in ones and zeroes. // // We are buggering

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

// who cursed as the basket spills in

sticky clay // // and scraped the mud off of her own caked shoes. //

// // // Horse hooves sunk deep into

sticky clay. // // Between rutted mud and thistle bloom // // We pic

feed even Tantalus. // // The frequent

sticky thrill of that first bite of fruit // // While propped against

hat in you not like your father. // //

Stiff from the night before and still drunk // // I shackle myself to

in the shining air // // And left his

stiffened body there // // The boy without a face. // // His only ke

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

am I now resurrect // // and rich, or

still a ghastly ex-officio // // crash corpse? Those ‘hoodlums scamme

Between Life and Death

mother. // // And me realising there’s

still a street brawler inside him. // // And there are some scars a b

Three Pieces of Advice

all ornamental, // // dusted cogs very

still above sleeping bodies. Our grist is long gone // // and we’re l

Of her Victorian dress. // // She sits

still above the mantelpiece // // In my Nan’s seaside semi. // // Ea

// // is ending. I suppose tomorrow’s

still // // another day // // to find a way. // //

rway // // to loom as close // // and

still // // as midwinter dawn. // // It completes a turn in the air

ping on the heap of history. // // But

still at night, I tiptoe to the door // // To rustle through these s

The Cutting Edge

you, then, your justice // // You will

still be beautiful in death. // //

kept your faith // // that all of life

still boils down to love. // //

, // // For in the name of Mammon, you

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

y field // // Where your funeral pyres

still burn, // // Silently roaring // // In a late summer’s haze //

Magnetic Mountain

e arc, then slope down towards // // A

still canal, laced with rust that blooms // // From old fashioned, sw

the mango tree solitarily stand // //

Still constant, fruit-laden, generous and sun-browned // // Golden, s

is the warmest retort. // // The days

still dis-leave. Pale envy-green, wet-yellow, gold-wrought // // Over

Apollo checklist; stuck at some point,

still . // // Don’t worry Karl we have a program for the picking now:

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

Waking, sleeping, dreaming. // // I am

still dreaming; everything breaks over me in waves. // // Like a seed

[I often think of that January morning]

// // Stiff from the night before and

still drunk // // I shackle myself to the peddles and roll along quie

whose waves expand, // // whose echoes

still expend // // themselves in riffs of time and space, // // in o

don’t know which way is home. // // My

still eyes make their movement static, // // Constant, never reaching

business suit can’t hide. // // And I

still faint from nosebleeds. // //

Three Pieces of Advice

thing that you were. // // The morning

still falls // // And squalls through your hair // // Like the wind

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

ong since you’ve seen the sun? // // I

still feel its warmth. // // [You’d brighten my day more.] / [Too lon

Whales sing because they have a song

Redshift // // The stars black—do you

still feel // // Their loss? My wife stirs, // // As our son within

Here be dragons

his time to fall in love. // // Lights

still flickering on the tree, // // I ain’t sleepy either. // // The

A Hymn to a Loved One

/ has a source // // of pure water: a

still . // // Garden shed // // with a still? Local // // excise of

There must be moonshine

meticulously casual. // // His humour

still hasn’t crawled // // Out of the bathroom. // // Mock anti-Semi

/ Pushes me back. You’re there, but I’m

still here // // Where I’d always dreamed of staying before // // Ev

The Other Side of the Line

aiting for me to come back, the tea was

still hot. And so we just sat there, and the trees weren’t pink and th

[So the moon was there]

id dreaming // // of you. The thoughts

still hurt. Like bruises, existing as echoes // // of former pain wri

[I often think of that January morning]

// Willing it to disappear— // // But

still I don’t know which way is home. // // My still eyes make their

feed the eternal angelic fight. // //

Still I turn from peat-smoke laughter and librarian’s plight // // To

// Here, the courtyard is blank. // //

Still just a courtyard. // // Still just me and Woodlands court, //

[The sash rattles up]

. // // Still just a courtyard. // //

Still just me and Woodlands court, // // separate beneath the stars,

[The sash rattles up]

house in my head, // // that old haunt

still knocking about breaking // // things scratching walls hiding un

pain, // // as if there were any doors

still left locked // // anything not yet broken, so tell me // // co

And so, unknown to anyone, // // This

still life has two untold names: // // It is: The Virgin and her Chil

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

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

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

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

still life, with ceramic vase // // And small black-stoppered oil cas

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

still. // // Garden shed // // with a

still ? Local // // excise officer takes to // // dropping by unanno

There must be moonshine

. // // I do, // // I suppose, // //

Still love you. // //

ts parents were disappointed // // but

still loved it. To test them it painted // // over their scales or f

ion to // // better her dear husband’s

still -mortal guess. // // Fearless and shameless and hopeless, pathet

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ecimen of sadness, // // the kind that

still refracts through your eyes. // // As the sky began seeping liqu

eping liquid gold, // // the kind that

still refracts through your eyes. // // I’m not sure when we collecte

eady ground // // If I close my eyes I

still see // // A harbour adorned with lights // // On the festival

Ferragosto // // If I close my eyes I

still see // // Fireworks like a Pollock painting // // On the festi

e change // // And, if we look, we can

still see. // // Great stone shrines were built // // Many lifetimes

Before Christmas

/ Although I have long been away, I can

still see // // The canopy of green fingers tickling the clouds // /

efore us // // And, if we look, we can

still see // // There are pagan echoes. // //

Before Christmas

en his mother died, // // That there’s

still so much that I can’t do, // // That I don’t have a funeral suit

Three Pieces of Advice

in our bed. // // You reach across and

still the drilling bell // // And stretch and yawn and kiss me. All i

ne who gave him tone and form // // Is

still the guardian of his life // // Is still the keeper of his soul.

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

till the guardian of his life // // Is

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

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

souls dwell in robber crabs, // // But

still their young steal shells to hide in—is this the poem? // // The

Poem: Debris // // the imprint’s

still there but it just doesn’t feel like home anymore // // yeah, te

vite you in do I pretend you are // //

still there when adolescence was the end // // what do we become? And

// to feel your ever-present absence,

still // // to find a way. // // I hear you say, // // “But life is

d be wrapped // // any which way, were

still turf slightly warped. // // Eat junk? You might as well rumma

Chocolate Sonnet

across the valley sound // // through

still , warm air, // // clear to my vantage point on higher ground. //

across the valley sound // // through

still , warm air. // // On the top deck of a 68 // // Voices, ipods,

// You look so nice: fresh-dressed and

still warm from // // Your bath—calm as the sun’s unknowing light, //

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

uched // // me. Though unknown to you,

still you bewail // // my loss – but ask my cooling corpse to rush //

Between Life and Death

little hands can tear at tissue // //

Stille Nacht must be sung before the crib, // // Two verses, slow as

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

e // // was answering, and time // //

stilled , and out of the heart // // came a song of our first // // s

y, discovering below’t // // A pool of

stillness , dotted with specs chrome: // // The stars. They glitter ’g

[What have we done]

ngel sisters keep watch over // // The

stillness of their mother’s house. // // The townsmen wonder why he d

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

ved, their path unbroken now // // The

stillness stops, my heart has now left the pit. // // A sense of hope

ng was built on // // her fondness for

Stilton // // when, sadly, it just made her sneeze. // // But the sl

The Failing of the Cheese

h an engine, // // with the occasional

stinge // // stopping // // to rifle through the // // pensioner-pe

In a charity shop

sic of the spheres // // You left, for

stinging slash and singing pain // // Of lashes; a thorn halo hallows

sing depths // // Or fight to the lung-

stinging surface? // // My base animal is out for blood // // But my

s our toes // // // // the cold air

stings my lips // // … // // i have a strong urge to tell you how it

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

e quick, brown fox sticks his hot sharp

stink in ones and zeroes. // // We are buggering the ineffable; Satan

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

e to the end of my days // // Where it

stinks . I’d give gold for some fresh air. // // I can see that I’m on

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

in the fields, // // Walking, hopping,

stirring earthly leas, // // Serenading us among our garden’s yields,

[Walcott begins Omeros]

ghts that show // // Where their quick-

stirring forms are flickering. // // We watch and hold each other’s h

Is it a memory?

itself, and let it linger // // On the

stirring of senses caused by your palm on mine. // // I’ll keep these

I’ll never work for Hallmark

u still feel // // Their loss? My wife

stirs , // // As our son within // // Wakes, to return to dream—the /

Here be dragons

// I thought he’d itch // // if I’d no

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

s flowers— // // An open habit jointly

stitched anew. // //

Three gay rituals

// // Soldiers making a killing on the

stock exchange // // So we can line pockets and grease palms. // //

ves // // And ghostly shimmering nylon

stockings curled // // Like bindweed. Deposited, blooming with the t

y for you, and try not to forget // //

Stockings spongy carpets the window clad in lights, closed against

Drink and be merry

hey want the fire of their imaginations

stoked // // Some want the facts as hard and cold, as they very thing

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

have known by now, this feeling. // //

Stomach , clenching, so hard the butterflies // // Brush the back of m

// // Her hand rests on her now vacant

stomach // // Her blushed cheeks moistened with my tears. // // Mome

/ And down, way down in the pit of your

stomach // // Is the fear, the absolute dread of what may be. // //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

hormone-infested jaws // // From which

stomach -swirling growls // // Rattle, // // Instilling all the Seven

cubes // // in scotch, or scotch in a

stomach . // // That is it—to die, not in the customary sense // // (

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

/ // On Valentines Day a kick from the

stomach , the tender // // Violence of a body’s ripening—is this the p

’ heel, mouth ulcer, // // one for the

stomach , two for the money. // // Nothing to see here. Give me a min

// // —The shuttle shatters on silent

stone — // // And in the fabric of life, I weave my name // // For th

-12:03:04 // // You have not turned to

stone // // and yet it is as stone // // that we must show you outwa

Stone, Paper, Scissors

// Did seem to rise that water made of

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

[What have we done]

m Dale Journey // // From Ilkley’s old

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

Daydream Dale Journey

// Provided a thread, left her brother

stone dead, // // And sailed with the oaf, resolute. // // THESEUS /

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

r // // Amidst the tympanum // // His

stone hair startles from // // A face in the foliage, // // Not just

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

ll not sleep, // // You cannot turn to

stone . // // Here are the slips of paper // // where you lived your

Stone, Paper, Scissors

few that can see your footsteps in the

stone . // // I will die here. // // I know. // // But not yet. //

hings can always live again. // // The

stone is rolled away, the rocks are riven // // We won’t give up our

An Easter Triolet

// Let him without sin cast the first

stone , // // Let her without skin be the first to cry. // // Rosemar

Stone , Paper, Scissorsi.m. Ondine - 20:8:03-12:03:04 // // You have

Stone, Paper, Scissors

g the return of the light, // // Great

stone shrines were built. // // All humans feel the change // // And

Before Christmas

we look, we can still see. // // Great

stone shrines were built // // Many lifetimes before us // // And, i

Before Christmas

nt darkness till you come // // To the

stone steps, the lions, the façade, // // The white Museum with its p

The Magic Apple Tree

turned to stone // // and yet it is as

stone // // that we must show you outward // // to the world. Naming

Stone, Paper, Scissors

from silent dust. // // The mis-struck

stone . The blade which breaks. // // The potter’s hand that slips and

the house // // of weathered Cotswold

stone . // // The box and holly // // were magnificent, but could not

I translate Greek words from a slab of

stone // // the size of an ancient kin’s era // // he sees my lips a

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

/ // scissors, new scissors: // // no

stone will blunt them. // //

Stone, Paper, Scissors

the depths of your lair. // // She’ll

stone you back // // Without a care. // //

ilt and lit the fire // // on the dark

stones , and planted fireworks // // in the dark edges beyond the flic

d. // // His eyes are deep dark centre

stones , // // Buried in squinting distance, // // And his skin demar

’Tis pity he’s a bore

on the path // // Like rain. Staining

stones darker as words attempt to fill the gap // // Between this poi

Snapshot Endings

rost // // black // // sky // // wet

stones // // skittering onto the // // drain cover // // // // …

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

pitting, // // Under the blows the cut

stones splinter // // The Green Man comes to winter, // // To the ha

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

His face is set like flint, // // For

stony silence. // // He gives his back to the smiters // // His chee

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

walking in the meadow // // In May he

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

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ig baby hybrid is, // // Whose sibling

stood guard (to keep access barred) // // In a stench that should mak

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

s, and I was happy, really happy. I was

stood in a forest of pink trees and it would have been perfect, except

[So the moon was there]

cold commuters, they passed us by as we

stood on the bridge, suspended sense of solid pavement in smokefilled

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

, // // another priest came // // who

stood over the dragon // // speaking powerful words // // not a read

d time for it, autumn. // // Now we’ve

stooked up in a corner and shed a skin or two, // // old feathers and

// After the slip from the tilt of the

stool — // // After the grip of the hinge of the door— // // After th

Or if she ever // // leant back on her

stool // // and realised that, // // really, // // she was just pas

In a charity shop

/ // were mistaken. // // A girl on a

stool // // high on drugs // // up a hill // // could hardly transl

were wrong // // about the girl on the

stool // // the earth is not silent // // and the riddles // // not

ry nilherds // // return to their high

stools // // for extended head-scratching. // //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

s) took our memories, why did // // he

stoop to brass? Why do I chiefly mourn // // that little gap where we

Compass Reading

its eyes became, // // But I couldn’t

stop . // // All around me // // Noises fell in puddles // // Like a

[So snow falls outside]

Shit, we’ve missed our

stop . // // Coffee-stained plastic floor, its frailty tuned by too br

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

y. // // Five minutes after our hearts

stop // // everything (nothing) // // is night-mute // // and sea-d

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

ally be able to stand again, // // And

stop falling to my knees. // // It doesn’t seem so strange to me //

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

[Five minutes after our hearts

stop ] // // Five minutes after our hearts stop // // we’ll feel wher

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

// …If you come to the end of the road,

stop . If you can’t live with yourself, // // Don’t. No easier to desc

Snapshot Endings

quito nights // // It would be wise to

stop scratching now, // // And spare myself the future pain. // // B

Mosquito nights

parents’ car // // To see if we could

stop the mar // // Of what we’d done from turning sour, while // //

in your parents’ car // // And didn’t

stop until we’d gone so far // // That dusky silence hit // // Sweet

p] // // Five minutes after our hearts

stop // // we’ll feel where we are for the first time: // // in the

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

quiet // // my heart, once yours, had

stopped . // //

ur arms. At the Railroad // // we were

stopped , // // and had long stopped talking. // // but there’s no us

ing’s been said. // // In the dead, we

stopped // // and stayed stuck in the quiet, // // the end of the ro

Crossing // // “the yellow bus had

stopped // // at the railroad crossing // // the driver yelled ‘quie

kept on talking // // and couldn’t be

stopped // // he loved it… crossing // // lines” I said. // // “som

ead, on the rail road // // a deer had

stopped // // ‘it’s gonna die,’ he said, // // ‘if it stays on that

You got it. // // [Once your voice has

stopped ringing.] / [If only it would keep you here]. // // Thanks fo

Whales sing because they have a song

// we were stopped, // // and had long

stopped talking. // // but there’s no use in talking // // when ever

ith ceramic vase // // And small black-

stoppered oil caster. // // The year is nineteen fifty-five; // // T

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

s it true that a thing of // // (heart-

stopping ) beauty looks at you // // you do not look at It // // sees

n of size of 20p fell from my wallet in

stopping taxi, // // Filled that space for years—It makes no sound as

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

/ // with the occasional stinge // //

stopping // // to rifle through the // // pensioner-permeated racks.

In a charity shop

path unbroken now // // The stillness

stops , my heart has now left the pit. // // A sense of hope, a sense

out in modesty // // So that the Earth

stops spinning dead in its gait, // // So that I’m launched 3,000 mil

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

uccumb to Its challenge. He slows down,

stops , waits, pontificates. Time and flux goes ahead of him, leaving h

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

hot liver with vengeance // // second,

store in cool place until hardened into rock // // third, freeze for

// ‘Two Hard’, too hard. // // School

store supply; // // Compass control; // // Consistency straight-rule

Three Ways of Walking

lelight, // // but for now my light is

stored , and the slightest knock bleeds a honey // // that will never

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ooms; hands to hold // // and promised

stories told // // of daughters, lovers old, trapeze // // swingers

luc bat to mr. beam

appears, // // a sudden coalescence of

storm and tar // // shuddering down the motorway // // to loom as cl

tilt-shift vision // // of Prospero’s

storm : // // cellophane sea and scattered // // doll-like bodies, th

e last whispers. // // Over ocean, the

storm sullen // // Slowly starts to disperse. // // Take a listen, /

Who am I, Bernard?

// running the gauntlet of the winter

storm . // // The tide is high, and every wave tries hard // // to br

Walking in winter

twilight, // // pressed between // //

stormclouds like a flower, // // holding for an instant // // it tre

re colours, more darknesses // // more

storms , gales, lightning bolts // // more days of sun or rain or pass

ghs… // // The sky is dark, intense, a

stormy grey, // // But just beneath the darkness all is gold: // //

The Magic Apple Tree

own // // beneath the piles. Then one

stormy night // // it pulls the final prop. A hundred yards // // o

Walking in winter

seeks mist-blue port, so // // Defying

stormy -weather and determinism both, tonight // // I only say: there’

, no see. // // [I missed you.] // //

Stormy where you are? // // Very blue. Lovely weather. // // [Bad we

Whales sing because they have a song

don’t kiss me, I’m trying to finish the

story . And I swam back to you, and you’d made me a cup of tea—chamomil

[So the moon was there]

ge warm with honey // // sits upon the

stove , and my Grandmother will love me again. Breaking // // slowly,

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

My knife no place to cling, my life to

stow . // // I swim through slush of half-solid and rise, // // The s

[What have we done]

finger extended in front, walking in a

straight line, tied to the inexorability of pace and // // surety of

they split their Garden up in perfectly

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

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ige of my fingertips // // against the

straight planes of your edges) // // To imagine you as you once were:

// Compass control; // // Consistency

straight -ruled. // // Pacing for the exercise alone. // // HB // //

Three Ways of Walking

launched 3,000 miles in a single second

straight , // // So fast that my eyes explode in their sockets, // //

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

too ginger for the colour hair, or too

straight , too curly.’ // // In days gone by it was the fashion, Sween

Bearded Thoughts

Blink and I’ll miss it. // // Too much

strain // // For dawn brain; // // And does matter // // Matter //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

hey, blow the man down // // Might and

strain of the wave-thick // // tentacular lashings at surge; // // a

d warm in their nilpelts // // the nil

strain – tight pressed // // in a circlet of steel. // // Haunch-hea

Nil Charge / Nil Return

s blazing light, // // The herald to a

straining fecund mass // // Unleashed. A tongue of blinding, whippèd

n-song on the waters, // // The voices

straining from the windows of sunken palazzi // // Where mosaics are

quicksand clumps, capsized melon cubes,

stranded sea monkeys // // Maybe they patternize to someone else’s ey

n, your juniper hair // // shines like

strands of the sun resting // // upon my shoulder. // // and there’s

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

et tries // // To foreground something

strange and new. // //

Magnetic Mountain // // It was a

strange attraction // // That brought us here: // // A glisten from

Magnetic Mountain

ach soft pale shirt, // // teaching by

strange example that the human heart // // is as much a network of ro

/ // all those feelings circling in my

strange heart // // whose meaning will forever elude you— // // tell

tent spell. // // What a beautiful and

strange home you have been gifted, // // Blonde and blue-eyed Sufi, u

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

that knife in? Is this the poem? // //

Strange loops writhe inside, nightmares can be sensitive creatures— //

e quiet dawns behind, left too // // a

strange new religion, new gold mines, new laws and a people dead. //

to my knees. // // It doesn’t seem so

strange to me // // That any given Aztec would carve a prayer // //

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

geling held // // Over the flame, some

strange trapped, // // Untranslatable pain. // // What taste on the

Here be dragons

r shadowed gifts. As slowly // // the

strange words were sung // // by few, familiar voices. // // For som

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

quiet // // The wind that blusters is

strangely keen. // // A dance, hypnotic; long, yet savour it // // T

hills of green // // Everything turned

strangely , oddly quiet // // The wind that blusters is strangely keen

/ // and the Beatles’ first LP; // //

strangely , though, not sex but fire). // // See this: // // the larg

/ Home is a name spoken well, // // By

stranger or grandfather—it is a peculiar, potent spell. // // What a

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

dulge in such proximity with the // //

Strangers that are the other passengers. // // And thoughts begin to

Poems on the Underground

tor to die, // // Alone in the desert,

strangled by a tie. // //

es past. // // So the half-full tin of

strawberry mints // // must mean a sentry asleep at the post: // //

e was a gun. // // There was a bullet,

stray . // // There was a young man writhing in the splinters of the s

Black September

Deserted. Only bramble blooms; only ivy

strays // // Through the hollows the years have worn away. // //

// // Are mingled as we sit beside the

stream // // And watch the minnows swim against the flow. // // They

Is it a memory?

ridge I trace a path // // against the

stream , back up the river Wharfe, // // to Bolton Abbey, and the Stri

Daydream Dale Journey

g all we’ll know; // // Its megallanic

stream expands to form // // A Universe of fire. One second’s past— /

// in their sights—time for a gentler

stream . // // Now I feel the flood’s return // // push against my tr

hered // // and strung up to struggle,

streams gas against // // Earth's arrogance, its invitation to descen

[A spinning spider]

From tongue to lip to lip’s corner and

streams // // Into a bead collecting at his chin’s peak. // // Orang

’Tis pity he’s a bore

ng out as if to touch what ran below in

streams of oily debris, further than I could fathom and far enough to

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

me, and I was left swallowing saltwater

streams under fluorescent light. // // Autumn in Cambridge, and the s

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// // And me realising there’s still a

street brawler inside him. // // And there are some scars a business

Three Pieces of Advice

// // No longer when walking down the

street can one compare each specimen, // // Like one might have done

Bearded Thoughts

urprise of the small boy playing in the

street // // // // I heard the reply and it was terrible and dread

[I whispered my name into the trees]

the only thing we can see, // // Gray

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

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

just sit,’ I ask, // // ‘and watch the

street outside change, // // and the people // // change, and the we

In a charity shop

librarian’s plight // // To where, in

street -side window the octogenarian sits: caught // // in the—“today

a little heft. // // To name your best

street simply ‘Fifth’ must surely be a sin. // // Maybe the new New Y

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

// I find that I am not alone // // As

streetlights guide my yellow path: // // Your silhouette stands beyon

d Berlin // // All give their greatest

streets and plazas names that have a little heft. // // To name your

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

a. // // Fatness sluiced clean, // //

Streets emptied utterly into pits // // Girded with chalk and bone. /

through the rain // // Through sodden

streets in darkening December // // A journey to the magic apple tre

The Magic Apple Tree

s who—she’d heard— // // Patrolled the

streets of late modernity. // // None came. Time passed. She left the

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

ulars in nature, after all). // // The

streets of London slalom like your childhood’s playroom mat, // // An

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

e draining board // // as you pray for

strength , head in hands, // // in a kitchen that isn’t yours. // //

// against their boundaries. The vital

stress // // expresses change. Some variant has found // // how good

e and one makes one // // it holds the

stress in the thoracal zone // // springing the bird to post-Jurassic

w // // What time it is, before we can

stretch across // // To that person who was lying next to us // // O

and still the drilling bell // // And

stretch and yawn and kiss me. All is well. // //

g // // The concrete wave. // // Days

stretch out, like a wingspan // // And feathers form the funeral para

Urban bird watching

ere // // trees, grass and flowers can

stretch shore to shore. // // Of bridges traversing the Thames here i

Troubled waters

rumour // // Of Africa. // // The sky

stretched , // // A dirigible anchored to demotic towers - // // Half

come to absence, these open // // Arms

stretched as sundown. // // Echo calls of words unspoken— // // She

Who am I, Bernard?

n the prehistoric, melting dawn, // //

stretched her gauzy face on mine // // so that, by painted mouth and

Karagiozis the lantern // // behind a

stretched sheet, can you feel the rods // // are they strong enough t

// // // // …The anticipated ending

stretches forward, dripping hungrily on the path // // Like rain. Sta

Snapshot Endings

y came with flowers // // They came to

strew his grave with boughs // // But in the darkening hour they saw

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

hese severed strips of love, // // And

strew my heart with scraps of poetry, // // Forbidden hopes and shar

The Cutting Edge

Daddy proud? // // I was always earth-

strewn , // // A brief interlude of disequilibrium. // // This pumice

Frighteningly Inert

ry like a whale. // // Odd things have

strewn the floors today: quicksand clumps, capsized melon cubes, stran

Deathbed // // Jonathan’s deathbed was

strewn with salvation in // // gadgets and gizmos that soiled his mat

Jonathan’s Deathbed

t presented this poem, it was in fairly

strict ballad form—four-line stanzas, three tetrameter and one trimete

rom Hell, // // Whose pace, within the

strictest measure even, // // Breaks in the drill and rhythm of a bel

Wharfe, // // to Bolton Abbey, and the

Strid beyond, // // and Barden Bridge—and now I flick my wand // //

Daydream Dale Journey

// // They shudder at your distinctive

stride // // As your polished black shoes emerge stealthily // // An

enter an integer // // each purposeful

stride . // // Nimble Nimrods, the nil // // make a dash for the moun

Nil Charge / Nil Return

t // // Where it takes off. // // One

stride too far, // // Over an edge too steep // // And I’m immortal,

Falling Is Like This

responding to each thought // // That

strides in freedom on an edge // // Between idea and infinite beyond.

Three Ways of Walking

// ’Tis pity he’s a bore. // // How he

strides , // // Warm air turbulent // // expanding billowing fabrics,

’Tis pity he’s a bore

/ // Tongued text: this warfare is the

strife that binds. // //

Sixteen Forty-Five

// // occasionally not breed true. Now

strife : // // the different dittoes must compete for life. // // Ano

// your ribs are kindling; breathe in,

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

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

nails dig red crescents in my skin as I

strike // // At her face, connecting with the glass and falling, //

spear into the subtle mist. // // You

strike flint to raise a good fire. I tally days with snowdamp sticks.

swim—he’ll never be drowned. // // You

strike him and deep crystal bass-notes resound. // // He’ll never los

s peeled, // // For each mil-billionth

strike // // Might give the psych- // // Ological boost // // Of be

Small Particles in the Small Hours

// // squirm, then smile, then // //

strike with white branches in a // // flash of white lights against /

Bright, Pale Yellow

rains; pumpkins pockmark; cushion-thief

strikes ) // // again I imagine it forked by lightening, white above a

g upwards, being pulled by an invisible

string held // // By a clenched fist, soon to become a fatherly // /

Snapshot Endings

we trace // // in touches of a single

string , our source, // // flowing in everything, for everything // /

as chosen the music, // // a Beethoven

string quartet. // // Afterwards Colin and I go down to the basement

String -Theory(for Girton choir) // // In the beginning, // // only t

nd out their instrument, plucked on its

string with his // // cold rubber fingers and let their priest bless

Jonathan’s Deathbed

stle- // // toe as an instrument whose

strings sing of souls hurt. // // Blind, dumb, deaf upon the pedestal

Overcooked recipe books— // // Tough,

stringy leather around crumbling // // Pages // // Tapering towards

g only shorter grass, // // A coloured

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

me; // // A real social animal. // //

Strip off the civility // // And you change skin; // // Are more and

/ // Each in our uniforms, black suit,

striped tie // // Marching to the front line, clutching our briefcase

auty; // // Below, bestial lust // //

Striped with trust, meaningless fucks and love celestial. // // Two-f

for you. maybe one day my skin will be

stripped enough. one day I get to cry Kri’at Shema lying down. I get u

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

f it wasn’t there. // // I foresee you

stripped in your unmaking, // // Of the fatal black suit, that only I

// // I thought if I, // // demurely

stripped , // // I’d catch Nick’s eye // // and he’d be gripped. //

og of a winter noon // // Tiresias the

stripper’s son // // turns to me and says: // // you should’ve writt

[the typist puts her knickers on]

// // To rustle through these severed

strips of love, // // And strew my heart with scraps of poetry, //

The Cutting Edge

oo far to see ? // // But shouldn’t we

strive for equality instead ? // // She points to the sky, // // And

[She points to the sky]

// // The more I climb the softer each

stroke comes. // // So on I flow, my breath held deep but soft, // /

[What have we done]

es from the window // // For the final

stroke // // In Lily’s masterpiece. // //

rmed. // // Your mind, your hands! You

stroked me into light… // // Eternal concept, crystalline, unknown… /

The chicken and the egg

/ // They want their soul to be gently

stroked ; they want the fire of their imaginations stoked // // Some w

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

of your ankles. // // Lunch was hard,

strong cheese // // taken amongst the bums // // in the silence of e

Tridente, 10th September

pon, // // Contrasting gentle with the

strong // // Emotions felt when read in whole. // // The writer scof

, can you feel the rods // // are they

strong enough to lift a stained glass // // skull, my black eyes my l

y your sap run quick and your bark hold

strong — // // May your spores spread wide, your mycelium long, // //

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

lover, consider the running down of the

strong stag, // // its only hope to lead the quick spear into the sub

stings my lips // // … // // i have a

strong urge to tell you how it feels to be standing here // // but it

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

e saviour // // and caught his eye and

struck him blind and dead. // // A winged beast can be so underhanded

hands from silent dust. // // The mis-

struck stone. The blade which breaks. // // The potter’s hand that sl

y we watched // // As the thunderstorm

struck the sea // // The shock of a constellation lost // // On a pr

ock painting // // As the thunderstorm

struck the sea // // Years from that night // // On a promontory we

. // // This is my revision, it has no

structure and no plan, // // The points perhaps are good, // // But

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

eft. I became blue, // // artificially

structuring my days around coffee // // before falling asleep in the

[I often think of that January morning]

hear it // // And no one has seen your

struggle . // // It’s a roar in your head and it keeps getting louder

screams // // And no one has seen your

struggle . // // It’s only a little voice in the back of your mind, //

ar them // // And no one has seen your

struggle . // // So you curl up inside your head, // // Feeling much

putnik-fathered // // and strung up to

struggle , streams gas against // // Earth's arrogance, its invitation

[A spinning spider]

you left, you walked away. // // So I

struggle to find an end, an epilogue. // // I stand, figureless, grey

The Other Side of the Line

/ Plain and varied multitudes of senses

strung out in series and enfolded into dense coils, // // Chopped up

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

ing spider, Sputnik-fathered // // and

strung up to struggle, streams gas against // // Earth's arrogance, i

[A spinning spider]

alues himself. // // But nowadays it’s

stubble or baby-faced gangster chic, // // How many Walts do we see i

Bearded Thoughts

ng // // Boxes on an Apollo checklist;

stuck at some point, still. // // Don’t worry Karl we have a program

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

/ or I // // Iron Age bred, // // now

stuck , // // cinder at last ebb // // ignites arena morn: // // I w

Hercules et Oracle

or a bull to caress her. // // Left me

stuck in a maze to the end of my days // // Where it stinks. I’d give

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

wouldn’t kill the dead. // // They are

stuck in agelessness; // // She has to clamber out. // // Change //

ark hours of night, // // when dawn is

stuck in its casual delay. // // All letters not claimed will be chas

The Dead Letter Office closes down

through me, past my skin, to the scream

stuck // // In my throat. // // Her chest, like mine, heaves with ca

the dead, we stopped // // and stayed

stuck in the quiet, // // the end of the road, // // not the one we

toes, // // And the fragments that get

stuck to my clothes. // // I taste the jigsaw created by leaves overh

egins, wheeling // // Round and round,

stuck to the bed, // // Watered into the ground by the // // Endless

Ethel Sargant, botanist // // (Girton

student 1880s) // // builds a lab in her garden // // in Reigate, on

There must be moonshine

nside your head for your // // gawping

students , that define your life. // // Your young voice brought old w

Sestina to an English Teacher

to understand fully the situation being

studied . A large proportion of candidates only attempted the first par

to leave, put out the light. // // We

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

// // I hit what I head for // // And

study my imprint. // //

Falling Is Like This

Poets in Ageor A

Study of Reading Habits // // At first I used to wish that I were Kea

ers will foresee is that passion is the

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

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

in cold collations // // Crumbling and

stuffed with other folk’s quotations.. // //

Cheese is the medium

ed: // // an old one dies, a young one

stumbles mumbling onto the stage. // // There will come a time when t

e breaking // // into laughter, before

stumbling barefoot back to your house. // // I remember you called me

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ome sprezzateur // // Nor some unsavvy

stumbling sapeur // // He understands // // That which he needs to u

/ // obtusely count ictūs with fingers

stunt’d ; // // numb’d ass’nance, ’lision; laziness, it shows. // //

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

nk twice // // About having one of its

stupid questions to break the ice, // // ‘Doesn’t the idea of the wor

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ure his signature flaw. // // Creation

stutters through faltering hands // // —The shuttle shatters on silen

n the shelf, // // Desiring this man’s

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

est to survive. // // It’s democratic,

stylish , and it’s deft: // // Any half-taught infant can contrive //

In Defence of Evolution

g like a snake’s tongue. // // But her

stylish -yet-affordable boots // // Do sometimes quake. // // Her hig

Re-call the river-tongues from Alph to

Styx , // // summon the summoners, the shaping shapes // // the groun

*Section C includes a Part divided into

sub -parts each with several options describing those actions that migh

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

a burr, // // or like cork— // // all

suberised . // // It could look like // // a section of spalted trunk

out cheese // // Because whilst every

subject is the message. // // Cheese is the very medium of their work

Cheese is the medium

n’t even // // allowed to bring up the

subject of Lindt. // // All of which left just me. You gave that up

Chocolate Sonnet

hat resonates with echoes // // of the

sublime , // // He is reduced to an X. // // The divine condensed to

’Tis pity he’s a bore

h me, // // Blankly dismissing the old

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

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

ed, empty, spent; the beauty of the day

submerged in silence. Buses, bicycles, cold commuters, they passed us

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

ent sign // // Of some perversion of a

submissive kind // // Which three therapists and a college counsellor

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ce. // // We live in morbidity, // //

Submissive or dead, // // Are you too far to see ? // // But shouldn

[She points to the sky]

up and scatter my ashes, Ba’al Hadad, I

submit . I lie to you like a dog, like Shaitan or Kafir soft in your ea

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

es it wash off, I wonder, does it truly

subside and quietly die in a corner like the living things? // // Wit

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

places of your growing soul, // // The

subsoil of your oldest memory. // // Walk through the outer darkness

The Magic Apple Tree

rdle words until they bite, // // With

substance and a flavour of their own: // // So Donne is sharp and Geo

Cheese is the medium

w // // playing the part, such Jungian

subtext — // // you are a child a gang of children you // // are scal

y hope to lead the quick spear into the

subtle mist. // // You strike flint to raise a good fire. I tally da

umspect // // about my first response.

Success and joy // // may be your stated goal but safety first – //

Between Life and Death

they say I should be happy now. // //

Success comes sweet at last. // // All I want to do is cut you up. //

[So snow falls outside]

road // // To avoid the reminder that

success is fleeting // // Eventually we all sit in the gutter, shot d

ts of the question were generally quite

successful with the rest of the question which was generally very well

n of that space. // // And so, for two

successive summer holidays, // // we chopped and sawed and dug and th

they dream of their freedom, // // of

succulent grass // // on the heights of Gwyngachu. // // They jostle

Nil Charge / Nil Return

e awkward heavy giant is the figure who

succumb to Its challenge. He slows down, stops, waits, pontificates. T

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

now. Philosophers and priests have all

succumbed to this ennui. They redirected themselves and pursue the des

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

Microgynon // // Defy the moon

suck , Cnut unheeded, // // All that she did with packet, pop, superse

/ a single truck tyre appears, // // a

sudden coalescence of storm and tar // // shuddering down the motorwa

sing on the broken, // // Your smile a

sudden grace. // //

sing on the broken, // // Your smile a

sudden grace. // // And what is it your presence has awoken? // // Y

e bits of my skin that were too big and

suddenly I could fit it again. And although the skies never really lik

[So the moon was there]

my room washed away on a tide of sleep.

Suddenly I’m running. Grey // // wolves behind me and I’m running, ru

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

go // // Like us from depth to height—

suddenly seem // // Translucent in the glancing lights that show //

Is it a memory?

’s dying. // // But now the planes are

suddenly spread. // // Over the bus as it rounds Hyde Park, // // Do

e. // // find a bunch of flowers for a

suffering friend // // —cancer, poor dear, we’ll keep her in our pray

retch who thinks rhymes wrench’t // //

sufficiént ; you claim sans rhyme it’s prose, // // obtusely count ict

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

s // // becomes a daily ritual. // //

Suffolk , circa 1958 // // After the floods of fifty-three // // they

Walking in winter

months later, we met again // // on a

Suffolk shingle beach. // // In November the days were short, // //

een gifted, // // Blonde and blue-eyed

Sufi , upright and serious and oblivious. // // Promise me—let’s run w

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

-shape cup waiter serves // // My tea.

Sugar bowl fills not-white tablecloth sea. // // Daily no-feeling rec

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

a slice // // of cake was suicide, and

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

Chocolate Sonnet

to collaborate // // In the shaping of

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

esterton had been present would he dare

suggest that an ode to cheese would have been the best // // No, in f

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

it more humanity. // // My mistake was

suggesting the cotton— // // Though to let him get lost seemed too ro

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ough, via a chink a softer glare // //

suggests I need not now despair // // but follow where, by cute desig

celery. And a slice // // of cake was

suicide , and sugar mice // // were a tensed trap, and truffles could

Chocolate Sonnet

ell at Passchendaele had seen // // My

suit and gown, would death have seemed a dream? // //

do, // // That I don’t have a funeral

suit , // // And only one pair of black shoes, // // And who’s going

Three Pieces of Advice

// And there are some scars a business

suit can’t hide. // // And I still faint from nosebleeds. // //

Three Pieces of Advice

een. // // Each in our uniforms, black

suit , striped tie // // Marching to the front line, clutching our bri

our unmaking, // // Of the fatal black

suit , that only I saw // // Fit you ill, and added to your breaking;

Black on white on black // // In your

suit , you’re urbanely monochrome; // // A real social animal. // //

eference on-line. // // This is the en-

suite life. // // I thought I’d fledged, // // abandoned the embarra

A Room of Her Own

rd of nil. // // Below them, the sharp-

suited nilherds // // insinuate up from the city // // dragging thei

Nil Charge / Nil Return

a raffish // // urban mould // // not

suited to // // a woodland glade // // and dappled shade— // // and

de // // and dappled shade— // // and

suited too. // // That friend he’d picked // // —his tasseled hat //

r with pilaf. I can’t speak // // for

Suliman , but I am well of love. // //

The well of love

ons might indeed // // distract me, or

Suliman , from his pilaf. // // But stay me not with raisins nor // /

The well of love

mas cake, // // or more appropriately,

Suliman’s pilaf. // // But stay me not with them, nor comfort me //

The well of love

comforting // // as any fruit, though

Suliman’s pilaf // // is real comfort food. But comfort me not // /

The well of love

h the undulating skink // // Night she

sulks , // // Two cigar butts dunking themselves // // In the undergr

He who made the Lamb

whispers. // // Over ocean, the storm

sullen // // Slowly starts to disperse. // // Take a listen, // //

Who am I, Bernard?

urping canoes claim to the crests, each

sullen swelling rock- // // ing him closer to the pristine West Isles

ght us here: // // A glisten from your

sullen veins— // // A promise, a signpost, // // And us, deciding to

Magnetic Mountain

epute // // Slip from bare skin in the

sultry heat; // // Memory lost in the wine-fugue, the beautiful // /

Journey through your seed time and your

summer // // And through the fall of every fruiting time. // // Jour

The Magic Apple Tree

pace. // // And so, for two successive

summer holidays, // // we chopped and sawed and dug and then set fire

those last days of pain, // // another

summer , home in Camberwell. // // Between the endpoints there were ma

g to your favourite lyrics, // // Hazy

summer light filters through torn curtains. // // You shed dust from

Foster went to Gloucester // // for a

summer spin— // // and liked a lass from Lancashire; // // so milk-w

te was pure happiness and honey. // //

Summer swam round, and the bees spread rumour of honey, // // but all

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

t, the lobby of a Greek hotel // // in

summer , where we met and all was well; // // the end, the moment life

mushroom-tiled and moss-gilded // // a

summerwake heap of sawdust and soil // // misting in the middle of a

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

/ // Silently roaring // // In a late

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

Magnetic Mountain

et them sing. // // The summoners will

summon Everything. // //

ttering the pattern of the Tree. // //

Summon the summoners, and let them sing. // // The summoners will sum

river-tongues from Alph to Styx, // //

summon the summoners, the shaping shapes // // the grounds of sound,

Summon the summoners, the twenty-six // // enchanters. Spelling silen

pattern of the Tree. // // Summon the

summoners , and let them sing. // // The summoners will summon Everyth

es from Alph to Styx, // // summon the

summoners , the shaping shapes // // the grounds of sound, the generat

Spell // // Summon the

summoners , the twenty-six // // enchanters. Spelling silence into sou

ummoners, and let them sing. // // The

summoners will summon Everything. // //

// // On this idle breeze, // // And

summons me with gentle reproach // // Of the things I could never be:

I could never be (ready)

’m staring? // // Pity. // // Now his

sumptuous form is reduced to two lines, // // They mark the seat of d

’Tis pity he’s a bore

// // With my hands I try and cut the

sun . // //

[So snow falls outside]

// tall grasses glowing in the morning

sun // // below and to the right. And rising left // // the Cape Co

Cape Cod Morning

/ 2B // // ‘Two Black’ too black?—what

sun beyond that shade; // // With balanced clay and graphite, // //

Three Ways of Walking

ill constant, fruit-laden, generous and

sun -browned // // Golden, swollen mangoes unpicked by childish hands

ay was the first // // Without the old

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

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

or the ones holding hands // // as the

sun disappears. // //

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

ts we must keep // // Around our dying

sun , // // Falling towards the verge of sleep // // When all our war

The Daily Planet

// I want someone whose smile makes the

sun fizzle out in modesty // // So that the Earth stops spinning dead

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

[The sun flattened] // // The

sun flattened // // Outside her window, // // Hardly touched the pan

[The sun flattened]

sun flattened] // // The sun flattened // // Outside her window, //

[The sun flattened]

the vestibules are glowing, // // The

Sun , gentle, is rising in my wake. // //

ud steps aside for a second. // // The

sun hits. // //

[The sun flattened]

// Shit. How long since you’ve seen the

sun ? // // I still feel its warmth. // // [You’d brighten my day mor

Whales sing because they have a song

things I can destroy, // // Look, the

sun is dead. // // I killed it then, just then. // // Inside it was

[So snow falls outside]

/ between the marshes and the sea. The

sun // // is low ahead of us, the sky is clear. // // Across the woo

Wells in winter

p and grey when // // It appeared, the

sun jumping // // From cloud to cloud. // // The world went waterwar

[The sun flattened]

d settles each morn, // // Affirmed by

sun , love, and drinks // // Tell me, is there anything worth more //

I could never be (ready)

dark, but the raging fire // // of the

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

gingly out at a patch of grass with the

sun on it and a rabbit or two - pretty scene, but where’s the tragedy?

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

tside her window, warming // // in the

sun ? Or maybe nothing—maybe she // // is pensive, dreaming, lost in

Cape Cod Morning

es, lightning bolts // // more days of

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

ra legroom). // // Framed by filtering

sun , picking your lip. // // You’ve handed me back the earbuds we wer

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

lothes, some // // afternoons when the

sun // // presses through the dusty window // // to fade the colours

In a charity shop

hair // // shines like strands of the

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

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

rble caught the glass, // // where the

sun rises. // //

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

/ All night— // // I kept digging. The

sun rose, // // And I kept digging, lungs // // Burning. Listen, kid

Did you bury her yet?

a solstice // // The prophecised son (/

sun ) // // Sceptics will tell you that, // // Astrologistically, //

// // Rubbed out. In Beit Hanoun, the

sun seems spent: // // The blasts drop like a shutter’s blink and bre

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

hold the hazy shades at bay— // // The

sun sits sessile— // // The sand is yellow—until it is grey— // // T

From Trebetherick Point

diurnal as a druid, one drinks from the

Sun . // // Threaded with thoughts that thistle-scratch // // and bou

[A spinning spider]

’re right grateful feeling that evening

sun through an embrace // // of scaffold. And why not wriggle our toe

s old. // // In it you’re lying on the

sun -warmed, deep-veined wood // // Of an old pine table. Between the

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

r whispered words hushed round // // a

sun -warmed pillowed land of // // South Georgia sunsets, and // // b

luc bat to mr. beam

enched by obsessed obsidian. // // The

Sun will keep turning. We just need to stay here. // // Right? // //

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

me dry heave. // // South of here, the

sun will shine, // // And through the fear, all will be fine? // //

Ode to a map of the world

two millennia. // // Haloed by Hawara

sun you saw him lean // // To read the writing, say that you had been

a small fish, refracting the gold of a

sunbeam // // until our shadows converged and it fled to the wrack in

Just a Small Fish

Sunday // // Dog-days in autumn—what other days were there, really? /

ution: Easter Rising // // This Easter

Sunday was the first // // Without the old sun-dancing Christ: // //

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

ooked // // Round old socks long since

sundered from their other halves // // And ghostly shimmering nylon s

/ The precious freight that crossed the

sundering sea, // // For soon we leave that fast-receding shore // /

ce, these open // // Arms stretched as

sundown . // // Echo calls of words unspoken— // // She hopes to watc

Who am I, Bernard?

ilence of exiles. // // No surprise at

sundown // // when it rains great, warm // // Mediterranean drops. /

Tridente, 10th September

r at tissue // // Stille Nacht must be

sung before the crib, // // Two verses, slow as moonrise // // Sung

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

// Two verses, slow as moonrise // //

Sung beside the candled tree. // // It was so for my childhood too //

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

As slowly // // the strange words were

sung // // by few, familiar voices. // // For some reason I remember

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

ell of that which can’t be spoken, only

sung // // can’t be sung, can’t be wrong // // and when their lips a

Same but differenT

’t be spoken, only sung // // can’t be

sung , can’t be wrong // // and when their lips and legs lock together

Same but differenT

plays triplets // // The final note is

sung // // Diminuendo—soft, my love, // // We end where we begun. //

I used to think the best songs had been

sung , // // That genius is destined to die young, // // That you mus

Hollow Way // // // Horse hooves

sunk deep into sticky clay. // // Between rutted mud and thistle bloo

d primed // // to dive // // is gone,

sunk without trace // // to greet the water channelling below. // //

warm // // And swell around // // The

sunken armchair left // // Empty since last December, // // Just ove

Wild Mountain Thyme

he voices straining from the windows of

sunken palazzi // // Where mosaics are defaced with algae and refuse

y // // in darker wood. Clear morning

sunlight fills // // the room we glimpse inside. A woman leans // /

Cape Cod Morning

rs, down the corridors, sent shivers of

sunlight in criss-cross rays // // wedding chimes of line and light t

en dark shadows and the gleam // // Of

sunlight in green water—come and go // // Like us from depth to heigh

Is it a memory?

le in the window, looks // // out into

sunlight , over grass, towards // // some distant point outside the pi

Cape Cod Morning

ut a green canopy // // in the warming

sunlight . Soak up the rays and the air. // // Transform the coloured

lily-ridden house and // // pursue the

sunrise with a net of silver crunching aphids. // // I will char thos

Aubade to Girton

/ // ablaze with fragrant lemon-yellow

suns , // // and, picking four of the brightest ripest ones, // // ta

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

us and unfeeling // // Times, when the

suns are this or that // // And become the moons before we know // /

smugly, the both of us, into the Spring

sunset , // // Because this is my fantasy, and Freud said you’re every

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

// // Sounding over black waves of the

sunset hour. // // Softly the last gondolier, dipping his hands // /

d pillowed land of // // South Georgia

sunsets , and // // bougainvillea blooms; hands to hold // // and pro

luc bat to mr. beam

l return // // And bring salvation and

sunshine and the smell of fresh grass with Him. // // So I’ll just si

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

Brrng! Brnng! // // No time for that

sunshine , get up and go // // you’ve got that in you not like your fa

shines through your // // skin in the

sunshine . // // I press my eyelids from // // out of the darkness, /

Bright, Pale Yellow

r a sly’d promise of the // // eternal

sunshine // // That provides the peacock // // its scream, // // De

l’esprit d’escalier

nce, // // And his skin demarcates the

Sun’s furthest edge. // // His hair is a lustrous shadow cast by eart

’Tis pity he’s a bore

warm from // // Your bath—calm as the

sun’s unknowing light, // // New but not news, a sign that all is rig

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

it is growing old // // They want the

superb , the surreal, the mundane, a torrent of individuality across th

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

the disgrace of a head bowed // // By

superior hands into a prayer, in the back // // Of a car who’s doors

Vicious or Virtuous?

/ I muttered my name incessantly in the

supermarket // // // // I sang my name in the church // // I hiss

[I whispered my name into the trees]

/ To demonstrate a melody // // In the

supermarket tills’ // // Incessant beeping // // A granite sword loo

Magnetic Mountain

ubble shows the forms // // Of roiling

supernovae ; helium flame // // From Alpha Caeli’s rim; the Pleiad mas

// All that she did with packet, pop,

superseded . // // No heave-some ebb and flow. // // No cramping bend

// for virtue in the virtual // // but

supervision faces // // seem too near—and yet too far. // //

A Room of Her Own

// There are pagan echoes. // // The

supple green branches, // // Remembering half-forgotten lives, // //

Before Christmas

red by Middle-Eastern tales. // // The

supple green branches, // // Seeming deathless, // // Are obscured b

Before Christmas

ce spell our hexagram. // // War means

supplication : the hexagram— // // Once print, now prayer—in sixteen f

Sixteen Forty-Five

two // // to the village shop to seek

supplies // // becomes a daily ritual. // // Suffolk, circa 1958 //

Walking in winter

Your quiet support, as well as generous

supplies // // From BAE. Do please sit here and Tzipi, pass // // Th

wo Hard’, too hard. // // School store

supply ; // // Compass control; // // Consistency straight-ruled. //

Three Ways of Walking

e. We did appreciate // // Your quiet

support , as well as generous supplies // // From BAE. Do please sit h

n are too foolish to fear you, // // I

suppose . // // I will die here, I think. // // I know not if this is

// Face to face. // // I do, // // I

suppose , // // Still love you. // //

// And now today // // is ending. I

suppose tomorrow’s still // // another day // // to find a way. //

of me // // Dear Alan, // // I don’t

suppose you have often thought // // Dear Alan, // // I saw a man on

ollect // // Dear Alan, // // I don’t

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

the drummer // // sweats because it’s

supposed // // to hurt and the crowd hear what they want to hear; //

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

To marry Medea. I accused her // // Of

suppressing the truth—so condemning our youth // // To be fed to that

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

n of Wallace Stevens’s ‘Notes Towards a

Supreme Fiction’, section 1: ‘It Must be Abstract’ // // 1. // // Do

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

ymists // // It would take a poet with

supreme imagination to create from cheese an immortal sensation // //

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

er every inch // // But ’hind did seem

sure death. ’Twas in this pinch // // I rose my head. Above it to my

[What have we done]

; I want to them to shatter. // // I’m

sure it’s not abnormal. Otherwise OK Cupid would think twice // // Ab

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

/ // She scorns me and my writing, I’m

sure it’s the end // // Of a love that would flourish were it not for

Wednesday Evening

ade in slippered feet. // // I wasn’t

sure I’d find the same route again // // Until your notes covered it

The Notes You Have Left

rts together using twine. // // You’re

sure our threads are finally aligned, // // So why do mine feel ready

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

e. // // Not like that. // // I mean,

sure , to be frank, part of me’s always wondered // // What it might b

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

umbling me into the weeds.] // // Make

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

Whales sing because they have a song

boosted my ego—the // // Heatherwick’s

sure to produce a fine plan. // // We also need money—of course priva

Troubled waters

e been the best // // No, in fact I am

sure we all can attest he would have acknowledged mastery with silence

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

racts through your eyes. // // I’m not

sure when we collected this specimen of sadness. // // Helium and hyd

ydrogen hauled together. // // I'm not

sure when we collected this specimen of sadness, // // the kind that

e mustangs high up in the hills. // //

Surely a tragic loading, // // Something to analyze here. // // Noth

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

me your best street simply ‘Fifth’ must

surely be a sin. // // Maybe the new New Yorkers were just simply ove

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ived, // // But cram enough inside and

surely in a week or two // // A miracle will occur, // // A sonnet o

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

London, we’ve // // just thirty three—

surely room for one more. // // Now it happens my old friend is crown

Troubled waters

to the inexorability of pace and // //

surety of pressing the phone on the wall miles away // // in a world

// Half-deserted, effluvial. // // A

surety of sound and shining light // // To beat the breast against //

rtuous? // // Metallic disks land on a

surface // // Causing a sound more recognisable // // Than ever befo

Vicious or Virtuous?

ncern, // // once the knife scores the

surface , finds a snag, and then turns— // // shearing me. Clearing me

hs // // Or fight to the lung-stinging

surface ? // // My base animal is out for blood // // But my sacchari

ave-thick // // tentacular lashings at

surge ; // // and I in my belly cave singing // // to the rib-dark sk

f light // // That forges, through its

surge , the casts of forms— // // Icons for us—of weighed and measured

e time // // You were the sea, you the

surge , // // You were the lashings and the whale, // // You were the

rm // // Of loosen water rocks, I soon

surmise // // The more I climb the softer each stroke comes. // // S

[What have we done]

// in the silence of exiles. // // No

surprise at sundown // // when it rains great, warm // // Mediterran

Tridente, 10th September

ered skinny feet. // // He coughs with

surprise at the cold rigidity of the ground— // // I have seen him do

bling your speed, and again; // // the

surprise gut-punch // // of the snowman losing heart // // and losin

old sand // // I roared my name to the

surprise of the animals to the surprise of the quiet couples and t

[I whispered my name into the trees]

the surprise of the animals to the

surprise of the quiet couples and the wistful young mothers to the

[I whispered my name into the trees]

nd the wistful young mothers to the

surprise of the small boy playing in the street // // // // I hear

[I whispered my name into the trees]

en him do this before, and he is always

surprised . // // I have never been this close. // // The pond is a t

Inside it was a nothing anyway, // //

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

[So snow falls outside]

ng old // // They want the superb, the

surreal , the mundane, a torrent of individuality across the page’s lus

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

nough to fall at from a height in swift

surrender . // //

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

, surrender // // Hear me gods! I will

surrender // // All // // All to you // // Just grant me this one w

// // I will surrender // // My love,

surrender // // Hear me gods! I will surrender // // All // // All

the spider? // // All is not yours to

surrender // // I take even your liquid mirror // // Is there no mor

ssion! // // Compassion! // // I will

surrender // // My love, surrender // // Hear me gods! I will surren

ul mage // // So with a sigh that page

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

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

/ swelling with cartoon vigour from the

surround - // // ing shops and offices, has seemed a sign— // // not

[Ambient objects

surrounded me] // // Ambient objects surrounded me. // // In no-colo

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

s surrounded me] // // Ambient objects

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

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

ea instructions. // // Ambient objects

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

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

’d, imbues with cloud our sight, // //

Surrounding ev’ry face we meet with Blight, // // Whose knived line c

[What have we done]

ze away my hours // // safe from view;

surrounding spectra // // blinding from refracted // // oil-light of

luc bat to mr. beam

ether, so tangled in this flesh— // //

Survival does not equal dividing. Is this the poem? // // They told y

So, free verse, then, seems fittest to

survive . // // It’s democratic, stylish, and it’s deft: // // Any ha

In Defence of Evolution

on, // // The post-it note // // (The

survivor of technological advance, // // Its virtual descendants gra

o cold. // // 2. Never eat at an empty

sushi restaurant. // // 3. Always wash blood off in cold water. // /

Three Pieces of Advice

passed us by as we stood on the bridge,

suspended sense of solid pavement in smokefilled grey. I asked you why

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

roots grown // // Do frame the stars,

suspended , understood // // By me, who gapes up from my shelter home.

[What have we done]

by too bright, // // White-gold light,

suspending patterned navy seats. // // Accompanying us: families, wor

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

. // // The crowds stand restless with

suspense // // to capture the flight and fall of // // the girl pois

anissimo // // We begin. // // A long

sustained note; a perfect third; // // Each of us with our own concer

n walked his wild way // // alone. In

Swale - and Wensleydale // // they passed the following day. // // Of

// O reputation, reputation, devour and

swallow her whole, // // Drive her mad within the recesses of your ra

// To all the words whose smoke the sky

swallowed . // //

// // // // But you’d already

swallowed it. // // I know, and that’s how it saved me. The moo

[So the moon was there]

he sky—it’s easier than it sounds—and I

swallowed it whole. // // // // What happened to the sky? //

[So the moon was there]

d dreaming // // before my unconscious

swallowed me like an ocean of blue. // // The sadness settled once yo

[I often think of that January morning]

rs felt so sorry for it. But once I had

swallowed the moon, the stars all smiled and rushed to become bubbles

[So the moon was there]

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

swallowing saltwater streams under fluorescent light. // // Autumn in

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ould choke you, yet // // She imagined

swallowing them, and her tongue, // // Thinking of what she’d have gi

// and flocks of starlings, sparrows,

swallows know // // that one for all and all for one is right // //

, I’m trying to finish the story. And I

swam back to you, and you’d made me a cup of tea—chamomile tea—because

[So the moon was there]

ankly at the branches. // // The world

swam occasionally, // // Left hand knotted in a white tissue, // //

[The sun flattened]

pure happiness and honey. // // Summer

swam round, and the bees spread rumour of honey, // // but all I coul

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

lush of half-solid and rise, // // The

swamp up which I move, ever more warm, // // And though at start I fi

[What have we done]

t just don’t tell me she was raped by a

swan // // I mean, talk about a half remembered mythic method // //

that blooms // // From old fashioned,

swan -necked cycles. // // The pinked sky of dinner has given way. //

// And though at start I find I face a

swarm // // Of loosen water rocks, I soon surmise // // The more I c

[What have we done]

nching aphids. // // I will char those

swatches dotted with herds of woollen teeth. // // I will close your

Aubade to Girton

rise // // And let the music now hold

sway // // In harmony, it shows the way // // To reach beyond—to tou

he ghosts which drift behind me, // //

swaying in a Finnish tango // // to the ship’s pitch and yaw, // //

, // // High-up, grass-cutting, // //

Swaying like fans // // Or parroting particulars // // Drowned in ch

er // // And the tang of good-humoured

sweat // // Along with the crispness of a river’s skin. // // I tast

came, and roll’d // // Away to join my

sweat and flesh below, // // My knife no place to cling, my life to s

[What have we done]

// icated through the whiff // // of

sweat and gin. // // I thought if I, // // demurely stripped, // //

e, // // Away dropp’d loosen hairs, my

sweat it froze // // And fell, and dropp’d beneath, pass’d ’neath my

[What have we done]

dmit my ugly want as the drummer // //

sweats because it’s supposed // // to hurt and the crowd hear what th

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

// In days gone by it was the fashion,

Sweeney did bad business. // // You can tell a lot about a man from h

Bearded Thoughts

from the window, chin-heavy // // Will

sweep away this red refuse. // // Blood dies quicker than paint // /

, we’ll keep her in our prayers— // //

sweep the kitchen floor and the leaves off the drive, // // do the Sa

herd’s final demands, // // stamp in a

sweep to the slope-edge: // // horns lowered, // // hides steaming,

Nil Charge / Nil Return

r snippet for the cutting room // // A

sweeping on the heap of history. // // But still at night, I tiptoe t

The Cutting Edge

/ from the heights of Gwyngachu, // //

sweeps over the ruminant chomp // // of a mutinous herd of nil. // /

Nil Charge / Nil Return

// spring; an ache and burn. // // How

sweet and clean was that return. // // How can we not believe in some

ould be happy now. // // Success comes

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

[So snow falls outside]

ws, wake the paper rose. // // This is

Sweet Briar, the Tudor seal, it binds // // One kingdom with another,

Sixteen Forty-Five

Reminding me of things that are // //

Sweet like shalimar, // // And of things that are gone // // Since w

s’ car // // Out to the desert, // //

Sweet like shalimar // // On the radio, the sandy scar // // Of dune

’d done from turning sour, while // //

Sweet like shalimar // // Played on over things that were // // Wron

ar // // That dusky silence hit // //

Sweet like shalimar. // // We were all alone with our // // Camel li

y thing // // Left of this life is its

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

Jonathan’s Deathbed

s fighting machine. // // He whispered

sweet nothings // // And proffered a posy. // // She clutched it and

does not understand // // Our dialect,

sweet sister of our land. // //

and youth, I choose // // Our dialect,

sweet sister of our land. // // Our learning is denied at your comman

n, you still bruise // // Our dialect,

sweet sister of our land. // // The poor must grow their food amongst

ld in all its hues: // // Our dialect,

sweet sister of our land. // // When you dismiss my bitter words offh

// // tongues don’t talk to God // //

sweet symphonies rely solely on sound // // meaningless sound, vertic

Same but differenT

Dungeness Lighthouse; // // The rusty

sweet tin of icing tips, // // Individually wrapped in kitchen towel.

and kept them company with honey // //

sweetened coffee, a palimpsest of limbs and layers leafing through //

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

, // // And our voices warm // // And

swell around // // The sunken armchair left // // Empty since last D

Wild Mountain Thyme

winter! and be merry. // // joy, pride

swelling in the belly fear // // the forbidden room // // groans

Drink and be merry

, // // My frustration, ever building,

swelling , // // Oozing towards the battlegrounds ahead. // // The cl

The Other Side of the Line

canoes claim to the crests, each sullen

swelling rock- // // ing him closer to the pristine West Isles. Tears

ow nine months the castle mound, // //

swelling with cartoon vigour from the surround- // // ing shops and o

doors that continue to open, // // The

sweltering smell of morbid recycled air. // // Our viewing of the cin

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

// // But through the door there only

swept a gust // // Of fumes and dust and waste, and she was left a- /

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

And Rome and Paris too have roads that

swerve and rise and fall, // // So why does New York City from the he

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

/ // leaves from the tale-tree lifted,

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

far enough to fall at from a height in

swift surrender. // //

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

// // You spat in my face. // // And

swiftly it scratched across the scene, // // Barricading your past be

The Other Side of the Line

// // Some miles are ten, while others

swiftly pass. // //

Walking in winter

the stream // // And watch the minnows

swim against the flow. // // They dart between dark shadows and the g

Is it a memory?

hat I sound like, he knows // // I can

swim . He knows, // // He knows— // // Did you, or did you not, hide

Did you bury her yet?

e’s renowned. // // He can run, he can

swim —he’ll never be drowned. // // You strike him and deep crystal ba

// Spill? // // All the little fishes

swim in packs, and I’m thinking, the fuck will they do if they catch t

Whales sing because they have a song

nst my mirror eye, // // And back they

swim into that mirror pool, // // Wherefrom they bounce onto the cano

[What have we done]

four years old. // // Get over it. You

swim or you drown, // // Kid. She swims and you drown. // //

Did you bury her yet?

ace to cling, my life to stow. // // I

swim through slush of half-solid and rise, // // The swamp up which I

[What have we done]

was safe. And so I started swimming and

swimming , and I swum back to you—wait, don’t kiss me, I’m trying to fi

[So the moon was there]

wn, and so I was safe. And so I started

swimming and swimming, and I swum back to you—wait, don’t kiss me, I’m

[So the moon was there]

r of life: // // your driving licence,

swimming // // awards, your grade three flute— // // all, all are fl

Stone, Paper, Scissors

re nothing, we have nothing, everything

swims and wills around us. // // 5. // // For example, in my mind: h

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

You swim or you drown, // // Kid. She

swims and you drown. // //

Did you bury her yet?

// For time upon time to revisit as you

swing down through the lines and rhymes // // Of everything you see (

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

f daughters, lovers old, trapeze // //

swingers and graffiti. // // In between your trees and towers // //

luc bat to mr. beam

lways kept // // your compass with its

swinging fleur-de-lys // // watched by the crystal prism’s sharp-cut

Compass Reading

sentmindedly I missed the jar of water,

swirling brushes in my coffee. // // As much as I tried to forget, th

[I often think of that January morning]

infested jaws // // From which stomach-

swirling growls // // Rattle, // // Instilling all the Seven Deadlie

rojans fought for, instead of finlandia

swiss , gubbeen and brin d’amour? // // And had Hamlet said ‘Forsooth,

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ich misguidedly discuss vieux corse and

swiss // // Had I not written this I confess with deepest regret, I w

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

// // Dawn // // Five o nine, // //

Swiss time; // // An accurate // // Fate. // // Shift essential, /

Small Particles in the Small Hours

off the record, flickers on // // the

switch , grabs her car-keys, // // handbag, puts her sneakers on, //

[the typist puts her knickers on]

generous and sun-browned // // Golden,

swollen mangoes unpicked by childish hands // // Giving a final dull

n incorrection. Adonai, Adonis, open my

sword lips, then my mouth will praise you. the wild dogs cry out in th

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

// Incessant beeping // // A granite

sword looming, // // We gaze across, to that rusty field // // Where

Magnetic Mountain

I started swimming and swimming, and I

swum back to you—wait, don’t kiss me, I’m trying to finish the story.

[So the moon was there]

But, once in a while, after // // The

syllables through my hair // // Then my bare feet on coarse carpet, /

Falling Is Like This

pon a time, // // a girl in a cloak of

symbolic colouration // // meets a magpie on the road. // // like, a

tongues don’t talk to God // // sweet

symphonies rely solely on sound // // meaningless sound, vertical, ho

Same but differenT

a fear trembling and leaping between my

synapses . In all six hundred and forty muscles, and all ten toes. But

[So the moon was there]

iful eyes, obedient lips, // // Voices

synchronising in prayer. // // Our devotion will be irrefutable. //

nt // // Zest bittersweet scent // //

Syrupy fingertips // // Slide past lips // // Mellow touch, a kiss /

// // I want her to restart the solar

system with the light // // That emanates always from her eyes. // /

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

/ Now, blank verse seems to break those

systems down: // // It’s open and adaptive and it’s free: // // The

In Defence of Evolution

horizontal, meaningful // // the solar

system’s magicians and musicians and mathematicians // // draw from a

Same but differenT