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

T

reater // // Then when sat around this

table , // // A crowd of faces linked by tinsel and blood, // // Whil

. // // Under the window, on the patio

table , // // a kestrel is plucking the flunked corpse: // // discard

nto a million messy shards. // // The

table and children and paper and dust appear // // Recycled as the m

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

deep-veined wood // // Of an old pine

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

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

right. // // The line of bodies on the

table in // // The dust-white room are children. // // Part of the n

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

se inside. A woman leans // // upon a

table in the window, looks // // out into sunlight, over grass, towar

Cape Cod Morning

does that silence sit with you at each

table ? // // You’re already looking at me, somehow knowing, // // So

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

// My tea. Sugar bowl fills not-white

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

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

ewing machines on (animated) dissecting

tables ’, as it were. // // But yesterday, waking early, I observed //

er thoughts, like chairs drawn out from

table’s edge, // // Awaited those who knew how to be guests. // // T

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

e one in the oven. // // Teacakes were

taboo . I wasn’t even // // allowed to bring up the subject of Lindt.

Chocolate Sonnet

// // Blind to the consequence: // //

Tabula Rasa. // //

ed creases of downy skin // // and the

tactless scratch of green biro. // // I have to keep running to feel

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

s blew bubbles. Beneath the flushed sea-

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

Just a Small Fish

gold-wrought // // Over-thought in the

tail -end; by day at poet’s sea of glass and fire; // // (too hopeful

of relatives. // // Fields of Athenry

tails off, // // (Too slow, // // Too sad) // // Leaving us to deci

Wild Mountain Thyme

bindweed. Deposited, blooming with the

taint // // Of former stages of my seven skins; // // A chronicle of

/ // Slowly starts to disperse. // //

Take a listen, // // This is how the rain now sounds, // // This is

Who am I, Bernard?

f the immortal rhymists // // It would

take a poet with supreme imagination to create from cheese an immortal

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

yet you stay // // inside my head, and

take away my will // // to find a way. // // The final fray // // r

// // I noticed the sign said // // ‘

take care, ail road’ // // ahead, on the rail road // // a deer had

ll explode // // And the watery sounds

take control of your body // // But no one can hear them // // And n

All is not yours to surrender // // I

take even your liquid mirror // // Is there no more you can do // //

be dragons // // Wake as three screams

take // // Flight, from window to shadow // // A child’s voice deepe

Here be dragons

Pontius // // One could not

take her painting very seriously // // Nor his watching from the wind

to leave the fire for a while // // to

take him to the house. // // I always regretted, felt cheated by //

l abyss // // please come and claim it—

take it back— // // you wasted ink and were bound to miss. // // Fro

The Dead Letter Office closes down

ment where opposites attract. // // Oh

take me back to the start. // //

The Scientist // // Oh

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

es linger; // // I am watching the boy

take off his shoes, // // Slipping them easy as peel from his moon-si

sium moon. // // One night soon I will

take off my boots, // // Slip out from under the heavy trees // // A

gap // // Among the passengers) // //

Take out the book before the faceless passengers // // And fill my mi

Poems on the Underground

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

Take some distance. // // We live in morbidity, // // Submissive or

[She points to the sky]

Wells in winter // // We

take the path beside the wood—the fir // // and silver birch along th

Wells in winter

three years in boxes. // // I want to

take this moment and fossilise it. // // forgotten quotations unpeel

ur the holy water down the sink, // //

Take up the pom-pom instead. // // But that wouldn’t kill the dead. /

ts and we’re all in boy // // and I’ll

take you for all that you’ve got. // //

Jerusalem, 21 January 2009 // // ‘I’ll

take your coat. Ehud will fix a drink. // // How was the flight? Few

// Lunch was hard, strong cheese // //

taken amongst the bums // // in the silence of exiles. // // No surp

Tridente, 10th September

fruit? // // Each spent page something

taken // // For something to be returned, // // October’s secret lef

leaves might fall

ar, of course, it’s mine. // // You’ve

taken residence beneath my skin, // // And sewn our hearts together u

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

n the wind? // // What winged seed has

taken root, // // Those drawings I made years since // // Of shapes

leaves might fall

a picture of you that we love, // //

Taken when you were only three months old. // // In it you’re lying o

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

s power // // (But only late at night,

taken with port) // // I like them all and sample every sort // // f

Cheese is the medium

lake // // But the things that heaven

takes , // // Human things that Michael breaks // // Will wash away h

an energy saving light bulb, // // It

takes its time to warm up, and can, apparently, cause a rash, // // B

I’ll never work for Hallmark

// Towards that moment // // Where it

takes off. // // One stride too far, // // Over an edge too steep //

Falling Is Like This

ded with chalk and bone. // // Tarweed

takes root and // // Its appetite carves sharp to sign the paper, //

h a still? Local // // excise officer

takes to // // dropping by unannounced. // // Catch them at it— //

There must be moonshine

ur of the brightest ripest ones, // //

takes yard eggs, flour, fruit of the citronnier // // and bakes a tar

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

// // White and pure, unlike the life

taking it’s last steps. // // // // …Screeching brakes and crunchin

Snapshot Endings

dawn, choosing our course by instinct,

taking // // left or right according to our whim, or how the light //

Tale // // alright: once upon a time, // // a girl in a cloak of sym

ful by half in the dawning). // // End-

tale : November song seeks mist-blue port, so // // Defying stormy-wea

terval // // There is a forty-one year

tale to tell // // —could I but find the words to make it plain. //

en in the deeps, // // leaves from the

tale -tree lifted, swift and free, // // shining, re-combining in thei

example will never be found. // // His

talents astound: // // Listen // // to // // His // // Voice // /

sted on the sea: // // its scales, its

tales , and its bitter // // fomenting glory in the great not-me. //

gpie? // // and the magpie says: fairy

tales formally feature // // insufficient details to impart one speci

, // // Are obscured by Middle-Eastern

tales // // Of a boy-king. // // Seeming deathless, // // The year

Before Christmas

, // // Are obscured by Middle-Eastern

tales . // // The supple green branches, // // Seeming deathless, //

Before Christmas

/ what about the women come and go and

she was raped by a swan // // I mean,

talk about a half remembered mythic method // // I can’t even remembe

Together through the meadow? Touch and

talk // // Are mingled as we sit beside the stream // // And watch t

Is it a memory?

ack where we started. // // // // We

talk less now— // // Leave notes that are no more than signs— // //

// // play tennis on the lawn, // //

talk of equality and love, // // the fight to win our rights. // //

A Room of Her Own

// // Than WB Yeats // // For all his

talk of old men’s lust and rage. // // I’ve glanced awhile at poets o

indow to the soul // // but eyes don’t

talk to God: // // mouths do // // mouths don’t talk to God: // //

Same but differenT

don’t talk to God: // // tongues don’t

talk to God // // sweet symphonies rely solely on sound // // meanin

Same but differenT

d: // // mouths do // // mouths don’t

talk to God: // // tongues don’t talk to God // // sweet symphonies

Same but differenT

e, hetero, // // but at least it won’t

talk to me on the train. // // This might have been a very bad move.

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

omise me—let’s run when you can run and

talk when words you have mastered, // // Let’s sit cross-legged at ho

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

o looked like a brother, and a place to

talk . // // Years later we went back and made the same unchartered //

// // talking they walked and walking

talked — // // but never once of cheese. // //

ad the flower-borne messages // // and

talked to relatives not seen for years. // // It had to be, but it wa

ail road rail road!’ // // he kept on

talking // // and couldn’t be stopped // // he loved it… crossing //

crossing’ // // then the train did the

talking // // and we all went quiet // // but he wasn’t quiet // //

re stopped, // // and had long stopped

talking . // // but there’s no use in talking // // when everything’s

phones speak out. // // So many people

talking : can we doubt // // that somewhere herein lies some deep phi

driver yelled ‘quiet’ // // we kept on

talking // // I noticed the sign said // // ‘take care, ail road’ //

in that was crossing // // did all the

talking — // // my deer, at the railroad, // // done. ‘It’s him’ you

and such great themes as these, // //

talking they walked and walking talked— // // but never once of chees

t my dear’s words. // // They can’t be

talking to me. // // I’ll be interested to see how it all turns out.

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

d talking. // // but there’s no use in

talking // // when everything’s been said. // // In the dead, we sto

e meetings with old friends // // more

talks , more silences // // more sleeps, more sleepless nights, more d

notonous. // // But if a tidal wave as

tall as the Empire State // // Really is gonna come to make us all me

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ind the trees beyond the meadow, // //

tall grasses glowing in the morning sun // // below and to the right.

Cape Cod Morning

u strike flint to raise a good fire. I

tally days with snowdamp sticks. // //

n thrall to notions of her name, // //

tame linnets nibble for to follow // // and trade with her their need

/ The upstream coming down ’coming more

tame // // The closer to the hope-made sky I came. // // Then, as a

[What have we done]

ws uneasily // // Over the tanning-bed

tan that won’t glow healthily. // // But they miss the glimmer of pri

e the hum of pub chatter // // And the

tang of good-humoured sweat // // Along with the crispness of a river

y orbing tyrant queen; // // Umbilical

tangen skywards, cut clean. // // I am the moon-child broken free, //

// Fate. // // Shift essential, // //

Tangential // // To the Jura // // Mandala. // // As the hadrons co

Small Particles in the Small Hours

te page // // as your letters arrived,

tangible amidst my dreaming. // // I huddled by the flickering fire a

[I often think of that January morning]

ory lenses your beauty. // // Glacial.

Tangled in cables. // // Spirit, they’ve vanished! // //

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

em? // // Millennia lived together, so

tangled in this flesh— // // Survival does not equal dividing. Is thi

behind me, // // swaying in a Finnish

tango // // to the ship’s pitch and yaw, // // borrowed eyes seeing

// // New Year. Gaza, 2009 // // The

tank commander, aiming well, // // Took out the vacant ground floor f

irt that flows uneasily // // Over the

tanning -bed tan that won’t glow healthily. // // But they miss the gl

// For, if it could, it would feed even

Tantalus . // // The frequent sticky thrill of that first bite of frui

I want to see the rest: // // a ticker-

tape parade, // // a paper-shower of life: // // your driving licenc

Stone, Paper, Scissors

r around crumbling // // Pages // //

Tapering towards well-thumbed // // Edges— // // Their camouflage of

e // // lives woven in cloth, // // a

tapestry , // // by which // // all that’s left of us // // is sold

In a charity shop

palms and fingered trees press tip and

taproot // // down through decomposing leaves and drenching mist. //

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

/ // a sudden coalescence of storm and

tar // // shuddering down the motorway // // to loom as close // //

artificial sparkle // // And hearts as

target practice. // // I should have gone a long time ago, // // Fee

ing from refracted // // oil-light off

tarmac . As you // // fingertipped your way through // // measured mu

luc bat to mr. beam

, petrified, // // Frozen in flight on

tarmac soar // // No scar or battle wound, // // Just resting, feet

Urban bird watching

folly, // // Gliding over crystalline

tarmac . // // The limestone’s awake, the vestibules are glowing, //

// a gentler walk, to bare bleak Malham

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

Daydream Dale Journey

ut knowing that to hold on // // would

tarnish it all I can do // // is let it pass through and hope // //

it of the citronnier // // and bakes a

tarte au citron meringuée. // //

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

// Girded with chalk and bone. // //

Tarweed takes root and // // Its appetite carves sharp to sign the pa

nd my fear is I will not live up to the

task . // //

m confined, // // Tell us to start the

task assigned // // For three grim hours. For my degree // // I fear

Exam Room Villanelle

rate // // Completion of our necessary

task to fight // // And crush this evil force. We did appreciate //

// That friend he’d picked // // —his

tasseled hat // // and pink cravat— // // just gazed at Nick, // //

ed yourself, and like beads loosed from

tassels // // the cap of each i let lavender and thistle // // spro

// An uncooked morsel. // // How do I

taste ? // //

// Especially today. // // You don’t

taste anything, // // Because you’ve already finished yours. // // W

y. I like it. // // But I can’t

taste it anymore. // // Let’s see, ah yes, here we are: // // three

river of woe and death. // // Never to

taste , never to touch // // Drift amidst the scattered echoes // //

// // Untranslatable pain. // // What

taste on the air // // Led you here? See her red hair // // Last nig

Here be dragons

e crispness of a river’s skin. // // I

taste the contentment of bees, // // The exhilaration of rowers, //

rnt necks and thirsty flowers. // // I

taste the faint rustle of grass as I sit on it, // // The tickle of i

Pimm’s // // I

taste the hum of pub chatter // // And the tang of good-humoured swea

that get stuck to my clothes. // // I

taste the jigsaw created by leaves overhead, // // With the clammy fi

r // // Ring and middle finger, // //

Taste the lies on your tongue— // // I’ve been busy. // // Amidst th

Fall for————

you, and yearn for you, // // And can

taste this longing in the back of my mouth, you’d laugh. // // After

I’ll never work for Hallmark

ou // // Mercy! I implore you // // A

taste to slake this thirst. // // Naïve one, mercy, // // Is not som

l grey // // tea with you, all I could

taste was pure happiness and honey. // // Summer swam round, and the

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

ts with his mossed cottage trees // //

tasting the words themselves lke cottage cheese // // To Eliot, diffi

Cheese is the medium

nforced, leaving me // // Gripping the

tatters of hope in my fist. // // With nothing left to fight for, I b

The Other Side of the Line

Fall for———— // // Passing Fall in

tattooed cold, // // Misted breath on misted grass. // // Dew dapple

Fall for————

stylish, and it’s deft: // // Any half-

taught infant can contrive // // To lean a pile of lines towards the

In Defence of Evolution

oat pulling // // The wire from within

taught // // I’ll hide behind my Wyatt today who knew // // Existing

/ // Were nature, these forms so often

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

Sestina to an English Teacher

// Might, from time to time, consent a

tawny arm to drape. // //

beached her on Naxos, written off as a

tax loss, // // Raised black sails, and now I’m in clover. // // ARI

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

// “It’s been a fiasco, a drain on our

taxes . The // // tendering process was not at all fair. // // The p

Troubled waters

of 20p fell from my wallet in stopping

taxi , // // Filled that space for years—It makes no sound as it drops

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

come through. // // I’ll give it some

taxpayer funding, and get old saint // // George of the Chancel to th

Troubled waters

e… // // Sol… // // tod // // elcaro

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

Hercules et Oracle

not despair // // now men can come to

tea . // // An eco-room. // // A modern phoenix // // risen from old

A Room of Her Own

nd you’d made me a cup of tea—chamomile

tea —because I was cold. And although you’d been sat there for days and

[So the moon was there]

/ The page, like linen freshly laid for

tea , // // Bid hieratic welcome to those gods, // // Or ghosts, or g

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

back to you, and you’d made me a cup of

tea —chamomile tea—because I was cold. And although you’d been sat ther

[So the moon was there]

ls. // // Float downstairs, put on the

tea . // // Ding dong, ding dong, merrily. // // We enter mass to ban

A Hymn to a Loved One

in my genes and my hair // // And the

tea -leaves showed me nothing to fear; // // But I cried a splashy Vic

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

th matching spoon; // // The miniature

tea pot // // (Worth mending, Nan said, it’s genuine Limoges); // //

r, no-shape cup waiter serves // // My

tea . Sugar bowl fills not-white tablecloth sea. // // Daily no-feelin

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

d days waiting for me to come back, the

tea was still hot. And so we just sat there, and the trees weren’t pin

[So the moon was there]

the question // // What we cooking for

tea ? We could have Prometheus again. We had that last Saturday.

ans. But drinking warm earl grey // //

tea with you, all I could taste was pure happiness and honey. // // S

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

e wine stained lips and glasses, // //

teabags gone furry in the heat, // // an empty bookshelf // // what

ook like you’ve one in the oven. // //

Teacakes were taboo. I wasn’t even // // allowed to bring up the sub

Chocolate Sonnet

/ // We hold you treasure, evermore to

teach . // //

recesses of your rabbit’s hole. // //

Teach her dutifully that // // A woman fallen has no reason to live,

// // Almost as often as him trying to

teach me to change the laces in my shoes, // // Increasing in frustra

Three Pieces of Advice

one // // No school today. Miss cannot

teach us Greek; // // No breath remains to show how we might speak //

writing, say that you had been // // A

teacher and must be exemplar for // // The ‘women’s college’ where th

Sestina to an English

Teacher // // I wondered if // // you hated words— // // those word

Sestina to an English Teacher

wilt upon each soft pale shirt, // //

teaching by strange example that the human heart // // is as much a n

its recycled shell, while a translucent

team // // of chameleon shrimps held a whiskery love-in and hoydenish

Just a Small Fish

ash abates—where I once was, the waders

team , rich foraging is // // in their sights—time for a gentler strea

. // // Ah but before little hands can

tear at tissue // // Stille Nacht must be sung before the crib, // /

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

// // But I cried a splashy Victorian

tear , // // Finding the day so new and so odd, // // With the gain o

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

ng to the concrete, eyes screaming from

tear gas // // Thrown by Apartheid police. // // And me realising th

Three Pieces of Advice

nd the wood, // // The ghoulish form’s

tear in the air re-sewn // // So through it dancing branches from roo

[What have we done]

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

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

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

tear -kissed under mask // // with steel miles ahead in wait // // an

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

prayer // // Into a child’s chest, and

tear out his heart // // Like it didn’t belong there, because it was

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

ing him closer to the exotic East. Each

tear was worth the glor- // // y of the find in the name of God for t

// Faith, as delicate as I, can // //

Tear with a sharp breath or vicious statement. // // But your line st

The Other Side of the Line

very gate of heaven // // We sowed in

tears , but here’s the golden grain: // // We won’t give up our love,

An Easter Triolet

azing from a clifftop grave // // Your

tears mingling with the rain // // Could I foretell the future // //

he ocean rolling beneath us // // Your

tears mingling with the rain // // Great Skellig slate grey and wet /

// Her blushed cheeks moistened with my

tears . // // Momentary flashes of white coats and pitying faces // /

, // // When it brings its audience to

tears // // Or lets them feel or empathise. // // For the writer may

air // // And mildew took the place of

tears // // The boy without a face. // // July came, and the woods g

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

ow yourself, vain paragon, // // Your

tears will recreate Cocytus and Pyriphlegethon, // // Carrying your b

him closer to the pristine West Isles.

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

egy and tragedy, could // // smile and

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

Sestina to an English Teacher

// Rhythmed by the clink-clink-clink of

teaspoons against the side of mugs. // // And though our unkind inact

/ old watches spread, // // bracelets,

teaspoons // // neatly priced, // // hunch-huddled, // // a child-l

In a charity shop

Martha // // Dirty saucers. Damp

teatowels . // // The steady drip-drip-drip of drying plates on the dr

he post-it note // // (The survivor of

technological advance, // // Its virtual descendants grace // // Th

home, // // but now I’m back // // to

teddy and a baby brother’s cry. // // The virus makes me look // //

A Room of Her Own

ory // // (nineteen-sixty-one or so—my

teens —already // // between the end of the Chatterley ban // // and

Falling Is Like This // //

Teetering on the edge of // // A big idea. // // Each line, a step,

Falling Is Like This

lence unspoken fear gritting the

teeth and fingers // // the forbidden room // // groans and secrets

Drink and be merry

charging cables, // // And my missing

teeth , // // And the probiotics, // // And the dust illuminated betw

Frighteningly Inert

r // // In creams and gels. // // His

teeth are polished by professionals, // // Shirts meticulously casual

m running, running from the grey // //

teeth breathing just beyond my shoulder blades. An unsteady light //

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

less, ceaseless. She // // sighs to my

teeth . // // Deafness, I watch the sea. // // See ripples. She’s wat

l’esprit d’escalier

e swatches dotted with herds of woollen

teeth . // // I will close your goddamn curtains for you. // //

Aubade to Girton

ld have smiled by now, at least. // //

Teeth , showing, to break the ice // // And cut the tension. // // I

und, // // In your uneven smile, sharp

teeth , // // Your voice, I love the sound— // // I need you. // //

Fall for————

mostly harmless, with a past // // Of

telephonic hygiene? It never forms // // Intelligence, to burn a gem-

/ // I had to show what I wanted so to

tell . // //

weeney did bad business. // // You can

tell a lot about a man from his beard, so I’m told; // // His pedigre

Bearded Thoughts

/ // There is a forty-one year tale to

tell // // —could I but find the words to make it plain. // // Two b

n’t feel like home anymore // // yeah,

tell me about it, but just don’t tell me she was raped by a swan // /

cked // // anything not yet broken, so

tell me // // contrary poltergeist what is it you // // see in my mi

d and lazy, // // And my parents can’t

tell me enough, // // That I’m wasting my life away— // // But your

me try that just // // one more time.

Tell me have you seen Schiele’s // // Levitation, the curled toes the

ffirmed by sun, love, and drinks // //

Tell me, is there anything worth more // // Than the light dancing on

I could never be (ready)

d my eyes are a deeper grey. // // You

tell me it’s difficult to love a light, when every darkness is a remin

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

o remained through // // the year. You

tell me my honey hair is darker now, and my eyes are a deeper grey. //

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// // you // // Gog or // // Magog?

Tell // // me of cut chalk and // // turf scalped red, ley lines and

Wandlebury Hill

yeah, tell me about it, but just don’t

tell me she was raped by a swan // // I mean, talk about a half remem

meaning will forever elude you— // //

tell me something else I will not forget. // //

possibility of preservation. // // You

tell me there is // // always something I could have done differently

could have done differently. // // You

tell me there is // // no possibility of preservation - // // but se

sh, // // But you’d roll your eyes and

tell me we’re late for dinner. // // So I’ll tuck my mind back inside

I’ll never work for Hallmark

/ I hear whispers in the weather // //

Tell of flames beneath shed skin, // // The old so neatly severed //

leaves might fall

ecognisable // // Than ever before. To

tell the solid // // Cost from the worthless losses; // // That five

Vicious or Virtuous?

o thought into that verb, // // But to

tell the truth would greatly disturb // // The poem’s appeal or myste

of her gaze: does he not want // // to

tell ? // // This painting has a private life. // //

Cape Cod Morning

hilling hall where I’m confined, // //

Tell us to start the task assigned // // For three grim hours. For my

Exam Room Villanelle

Urban Warfare // // Nameless faces

tell us we’re going to war, // // I wonder where they think we’ve bee

are plastered onto mine. // // I can’t

tell whether I want them there // // Or whether you want my voice, my

// // … // // i have a strong urge to

tell you how it feels to be standing here // // but it’s warm inside

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

hecised son (/sun) // // Sceptics will

tell you that, // // Astrologistically, // // This is convenient //

TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKETO BE HERE IN THIS PLACE // // black // /

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

his mark into the waiting clay; // //

Telling the future his signature flaw. // // Creation stutters throug

voice in the back of your mind, // //

Telling you about things you don’t want to hear. // //

in these kitchen goods? // // He never

tells . But in each piece // // The inner thought is evident: // // T

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

t hands through perfect hair. // // He

tells us he is having an affair. // // Like I’d know // // I think—

threatened to be absorbed // // by the

temerity of this Alaskan scene. // // It may be the coldest day of th

why i’m getting into Christmas

iteness. // // Who will join me in the

temple ? // // A hand will skim mine as we present our offerings. //

kshops and digs // // and stand in the

temple // // announcing // // UNESCO // // world // // heritage //

. // // Philosophies are aired, // //

temple columns spaced, // // lightning rods earthed. // // On the da

rd of Liberty arose // // And drew the

temple down on English tongues. // // Huntsman, lord of a thousand bl

Sixteen Forty-Five

ruins of markets, // // Coiling round

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

Temple // // The moon is no longer my goddess. // // I praise Venus

in. Throw open // // the fire-coloured

temptations , welcome in // // the roaming bees. // // Feel the fire.

us—of weighed and measured mass // //

Ten billion years from this. Yet few’ll then know, // // Or knowing g

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

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

A Hymn to a Loved One

lmost all—are duds. Nevertheless // //

ten thousand different species rise and fall // // and rise again. Gr

six hundred and forty muscles, and all

ten toes. But the moon saved me— // // // // But you’d alread

[So the moon was there]

no, hardly thus. // // Some miles are

ten , while others swiftly pass. // //

Walking in winter

Patrimony // // My grandad

tended to old men when young, // // The kind who’d spent a lifetime i

the caresses of that pen most famously

tender // // Forever stained with the Bard’s loving lines, she found

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

! // // Sanitized warm parsnip smells

tender goose and the great pudding // // drink! to Christ! and be m

Drink and be merry

like a blessing on the broken // // I

tender this in thankfulness, a token // // Of what cannot be spoken f

ntines Day a kick from the stomach, the

tender // // Violence of a body’s ripening—is this the poem? // // S

n Mars, // // Then I might search your

tender wounds // // And you my battle scars, // // Then you might pu

The Daily Planet

asco, a drain on our taxes. The // //

tendering process was not at all fair. // // The pledges from busines

Troubled waters

and relaxation in which he receives the

tenderness of nature. What is he like? What is his name? I don’t know

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

Feel the water. Push out below, // //

tendrils into the dark and damp. Now push out above, // // buds into

springing, // // The vine and all its

tendrils , // // Unfold from the face, // // Trip from the tongue //

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

// We share hot chocolate, // // play

tennis on the lawn, // // talk of equality and love, // // the fight

A Room of Her Own

ey Hill is sour // // Larkin ascerbic,

Tennyson has power // // (But only late at night, taken with port) //

Cheese is the medium

s rolled, // // I need characters like

Tennyson , // // Who improve, like port and venison, // // And turn l

/ waiting on fronted news, the foreplay

tense , // // the hot slit in a letter, the shriek. // // I have neve

Aubade to Girton

s suicide, and sugar mice // // were a

tensed trap, and truffles could be wrapped // // any which way, were

Chocolate Sonnet

ng, to break the ice // // And cut the

tension . // // I should have spoken by now, but… // // I should have

ght and strain of the wave-thick // //

tentacular lashings at surge; // // and I in my belly cave singing //

// The avenues just run as ‘First’ to ‘

Tenth ’ from right to left. // // Milan and Barcelona and Vienna and B

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

sever // // Sov’ran // // ultra regna

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

Hercules et Oracle

of individuality across the page’s lush

terrain , // // But never those things that have the amazing audacity

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

/ // // I heard the reply and it was

terrible and dreadful and silent // //

[I whispered my name into the trees]

e frame, the dusty sepia. // // We are

terrified of what the beard might hide, // // What it might mean if a

Bearded Thoughts

hood snow. // // Humming show tunes to

test my voice // // Or lack thereof, because there isn’t anything wor

The Notes You Have Left

ppointed // // but still loved it. To

test them it painted // // over their scales or feathers as they slep

ine // // But for now just these words

tether us together to our old home. // // Home is a name spoken well,

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

ct ballad form—four-line stanzas, three

tetrameter and one trimeter, rhymed ABAB. How prosaic! My judicious

miracle will occur, // // A sonnet or

tetrameter will appear as if by magic, // // Out of the magician’s ha

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// // In circling curlicues of sacred

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

The Cutting Edge

ghts, // // Squelch the compost of old

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

[I am almost 25 years old]

/ // Excising every sign-post from the

text // // Paring all the parts that point away // // To something o

The Cutting Edge

y-five unfolds its fire- // // Tongued

text : this warfare is the strife that binds. // //

Sixteen Forty-Five

can’t be right. // // Let me check the

textbook again. // // 2, said half-jokingly on holiday in Singapore,

Three Pieces of Advice

// Gray street lamps passing by show no-

texture of headrests. // // Foreign coin of size of 20p fell from my

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

Looking back, it’s flown by. On his 13

th birthday we had that big party down the pub, // // and for her 21s

th September // // With domes at our backs— // // the city ragged li

Tridente, 10th September

shore. // // Of bridges traversing the

Thames here in London, we’ve // // just thirty three—surely room for

Troubled waters

There’s none to hold you // // Here’s

Thanatos to claim you, // // You will never know the wilderness of mi

ckers sound, the jokes renowned— // //

Thank God for the paper crown. // // Young and old. // // It hides m

A Hymn to a Loved One

// Without too many ‘please’, // // ‘

Thank you’ and ‘excuse me’s slips from my mind // // As I pour with t

Poems on the Underground

g on the broken // // I tender this in

thankfulness , a token // // Of what cannot be spoken face to face; //

ven- // // handed air of gravitas. Our

thanks , and come again’. // // The Envoy. Gaza, 1 March 2009 // // N

// No isle is truly godforsaken, give

thanks for His majesty, // // these three hills awash in blooms, arch

Ieri- Land of the Hummingbird, give no

thanks for majesty // // or those three hills awash in blooms, archin

If only it would keep you here]. // //

Thanks for today. It was nice seeing each other, wasn’t it? // // Lik

Whales sing because they have a song

Of Newton. Each light-ray does one ice

thaw , // // Reflecting light through perfect diamond form, // // Shi

[What have we done]

! // // Stay! Desert not him who loves

thee ! // // Cruel one! Forgive me! // // I know not what I’ve done!

and sealing wax, // // and such great

themes as these, // // talking they walked and walking talked— // //

g birdsong. // // I made you the ideal

theory : // // An unsystematised list of every correct proposition. //

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

Theory (for Girton choir) // // In the beginning, // // only this, //

hate the bugger more. // // And so my

theory for this open sore: // // Verse forms, like fashions, fit the

In Defence of Evolution

e of Evolution // // I’m thinking up a

theory to explain it— // // Why Rhyme Royal is such a bloody chore. /

In Defence of Evolution

of a submissive kind // // Which three

therapists and a college counsellor failed to spot, // // But I feel

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

w tunes to test my voice // // Or lack

thereof , because there isn’t anything worse // // Than boredom. Excep

The Notes You Have Left

e day all the books drew blanks? // //

There’d be nothing to write about for one. // // (but they’d find som

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

aw // // to the ocean: I have no feet.

There’ll be time to meet— // // now my flesh becomes fare: // // mea

d sailed with the oaf, resolute. // //

THESEUS // // I blame my dad. Such a loser // // To marry Medea. I a

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

lls rolled heavenward, phonemes falling

thick and fast // // their babble: tongues, their diphthongs dripping

Same but differenT

gainst the wire brush // // of David’s

thick black hair, // // staying in place until at home // // the sma

Walking in winter

’s patient page. // // I remember your

thick handwriting on that white page // // as your letters arrived, t

[I often think of that January morning]

own // // Might and strain of the wave-

thick // // tentacular lashings at surge; // // and I in my belly ca

s // // Over itself, a growing potion,

thick // // To perfect brew’d. My bones grow Ache and Lack; // // Bu

[What have we done]

ys it rains; pumpkins pockmark; cushion-

thief strikes) // // again I imagine it forked by lightening, white a

forth your K. // // So when the silver

thief (who always came // // on Thursdays) took our memories, why did

Compass Reading

was not fed. // // So the cat sat, so

thin and impatient, // // but then… bittersweet jubilation! // // He

The Failing of the Cheese

But we are not honest. // // The only

thing a beard hides is a chin. // // Perhaps we’re scared to look his

Bearded Thoughts

our loves? // // That there’s no such

thing as cold, just an absence of warmth? // // That can’t be right.

Three Pieces of Advice

it, because she knew // // That such a

thing as Spring would come again. // // Ostara didn’t need viscera wr

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

he facts as hard and cold, as they very

thing cheese! as it is growing old // // They want the superb, the su

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

et him be crowned. // // He’s the real

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

with fresh Gorgonzola … // // but the

thing is, she so rarely ate it. // // His confidence shaken, near sho

The Failing of the Cheese

Goin’ Away. Same As You. Maybe The Only

Thing Is…The Knowin’ // //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ies became water. The moon was the only

thing keeping the sky in place, you see, because the stars felt so sor

[So the moon was there]

-dee-dee,” said the minstrel, “The only

thing // // Left of this life is its sweet melody. So // // Fiddle-d

Jonathan’s Deathbed

my scorn tucked in a mason jar, the one

thing left. she only hears whispers, “I just think of him as a child”

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

love-song, // // a meaningless // //

thing . // // Molly, his wife, would pursue his creation with // // c

Jonathan’s Deathbed

de my eyelids. // // Is it true that a

thing of // // (heart-stopping) beauty looks at you // // you do not

it is a given // // And here’s a given

thing that lives again. // //

An Easter Triolet

// // And is perfect, // // Like the

thing that you were. // // The morning still falls // // And squalls

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

hey, maybe if I continue to sing, that

thing // // That’s on the tip of your tongue, // // That reason why

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

ow.” // // Why snow? That seems an odd

thing to say, right? I mean // // what about the women come and go an

ernize to someone else’s eyes, affirm a

thing , touch a cord // // ‘umbrellas meeting sewing machines on (anim

s. // // Fresheners’ smell is the only

thing we can see, // // Gray street lamps passing by show no-texture

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

itself, you know, nothing can even be a

thing without anything, // // For something always exists - // // Wa

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

Things a man should know // // You’re obtuse—and a pain. Now PLEASE l

Things a man should know

For light, for love, for greater // //

Things , and left our brains lame, // // Reduced to an inability to ca

e worm is a serpent // // And whispers

things . // // And the voice grows louder and louder // // And it’s s

// but may you revel in this world of

things // // as I today: you look and autumn springs. // //

My vocabulary // // Can describe many

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

I’ll never work for Hallmark

ur love, it is a given // // And given

things can always live again. // // The stone is rolled away, the roc

An Easter Triolet

ing mist. // // This is where the good

things go to die. Light // // and air, pools and palaces, sanity //

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

rgot to check if I was versed // // in

things grammatical, your bubble burst. // //

Between Life and Death

POLONIUS Very like a whale. // // Odd

things have strewn the floors today: quicksand clumps, capsized melon

into my mind // // Of poetry and other

things , how they please, // // Hope that the gods of Underground will

Poems on the Underground

the air. // // Ha ha ha. // // Great

things I can destroy, // // Look, the sun is dead. // // I killed it

[So snow falls outside]

s me with gentle reproach // // Of the

things I could never be: // // There for you, // // Or ready to leav

I could never be (ready)

ind for release. // // Until I cry for

things I never had // // And laugh at memories I never made. // // I

Writing to explore

// // One by one, // // I hold these

things in my hands— // // The familiar blunt fingers and shallow nail

Marcus. The boundary between two // //

Things is just a matter of timing. Is this the poem? // //

on down the creek // // bearing loose

things left afloat. // // Behind each moored boat runs a wake: time

yes seeing // // some earlier draft of

things , // // lost in a cold, particulate light. // // Is this the d

our body and the world. // // Careful,

things might fall // // Where the senses cannot feel— // // This is

ss // // Reflect, despairing, that all

things must pass. // // Unless, emboldened by our revelry, // // We

ns that pretend to be the foundation of

things . ‘Reality’ is clean, simple and purely luminous. It is difficul

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

les down somehow. // // A change, some

things remain, I must be heard // // I must be free. A timed renaissa

nt still knocking about breaking // //

things scratching walls hiding under bedsheets, // // buoyed by the c

// Sweet like shalimar, // // And of

things that are gone // // Since we went driving in your parents’ car

artbreaking song // // Reminding me of

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

, we chose // // a name that meant all

things // // that dazzle and move and wave; // // small but unending

Stone, Paper, Scissors

’s lush terrain, // // But never those

things that have the amazing audacity to contain nothing more than the

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

the gunshot on the lake // // But the

things that heaven takes, // // Human things that Michael breaks //

things that heaven takes, // // Human

things that Michael breaks // // Will wash away his refuge. // // As

eet like shalimar // // Played on over

things that were // // Wrong, that heartbreaking song // // Remindin

continue to sing, because you do crazy

things // // To get back what you need. // // So that HAL might set

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

is absolute. // // Fronds and furtive

things unfurl while forest // // palms and fingered trees press tip a

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

weave my name // // For these are the

things we can call our own. // //

// // trip, remembering nothing of the

things we’d seen, // // choosing again without design. We ended in th

quietly die in a corner like the living

things ? // // With dreams you wake, and feel as if you’d never shut y

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

of your mind, // // Telling you about

things you don’t want to hear. // //

at night I lie awake and call. // // I

think about the time we met, how long ago // // It was, before we eve

[My face is old now]

le classes’ ancient knowledge. // // I

think again of coal-dust in the chest. // // If he who fell at Passch

d denial. // // What will our children

think , and is it fair // // to leave them, as the offspring of divorc

Poetry is not made by Man, as you might

think , but by It. Poetry came from It, as we do not really know how to

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

n affair. // // Like I’d know // // I

think — // // He is no loathsome sprezzateur // // Nor some unsavvy s

cks out her eye. // // the left one, I

think . // // I don’t actually remember that well. // // and the girl

// But please make it soon, because I

think I just called you God. // //

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

// the blood below. Pause. I

think I just want to really feel. // // Un-pause. Furl my sparrow win

// I suppose. // // I will die here, I

think . // // I know not if this is an abyss, // // A joke, // // Or

Apathy // // I could die here, I

think . // // I know now your real name. // // I could fold my shatte

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

think — // // I should very much like to hold you // // over // // a

// I think the sky is tragic, // // I

think it is tragic because it is never not there. // // Feel free to

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// Now we’re “an item”, // // and you

think it’s out of choice. // // *Section C includes a Part divided in

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

you praised so much—if you would // //

think I’d misunderstood if I saved // // myself from regret, if I use

Sestina to an English Teacher

i’m slowing // // down // // i // //

think // // i’m // // going // // to … // // [exit stage right ac

the windmill’s lament—a short play

at i could // // SLOW DOWN ... o ... i

think i’m slowing // // down // // i // // think // // i’m // //

the windmill’s lament—a short play

// of the world, dragonlike, I was, I

think , // // less a hatchling, head under my own wing, // // and mor

ust be Abstract’ // // 1. // // Don’t

think . Look. Just look, look around! Don’t be blinded by preconception

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

left. she only hears whispers, “I just

think of him as a child” and I can bend and break when you want to sna

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

into day // // Into night. Try not to

think of me, // // Though you might, let this waste of sea intervene.

I could never be (ready)

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

[I often think of that January morning]

of that January morning] // // I often

think of that January morning together, dreaming // // of nothing as

[I often think of that January morning]

reasing in frustration exponentially (I

think that’s the one), // // Every time I thought a pot was getting h

Three Pieces of Advice

in-between the sheets. // // I used to

think the best songs had been sung, // // That genius is destined to

man, concerned with an honesty which we

think the skin provides, // // But we are not honest. // // The only

Bearded Thoughts

ay it was tragic, most likely. // // I

think the sky is tragic, // // I think it is tragic because it is nev

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

p, // // your foot upon the crust, you

think // // ‘This time, it will hold my weight.’ // // But every ste

Walking in winter

not abnormal. Otherwise OK Cupid would

think twice // // About having one of its stupid questions to break t

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

think we have to conclude // // that the Greeks // // were mistaken.

oing to war, // // I wonder where they

think we’ve been. // // Each in our uniforms, black suit, striped tie

apless victim to con.” // // So if you

think your love and your roses // // Your good looks, better bank sta

es thoughts in the mind // // Of every

thinker it lands upon, // // Contrasting gentle with the strong // /

ated racks. // // She looks up, // //

thinking aloud like a dream, // // ‘There are some days,’ she says, /

In a charity shop

swallowing them, and her tongue, // //

Thinking of what she’d have given—anything but her dignity // // To b

being brought back here, // // her son

thinking // // ‘that’s what she’d’ve wanted’. // // Her scarf, her n

In a charity shop

he little fishes swim in packs, and I’m

thinking , the fuck will they do if they catch the what, water? Why wou

Whales sing because they have a song

In Defence of Evolution // // I’m

thinking up a theory to explain it— // // Why Rhyme Royal is such a b

In Defence of Evolution

In search of // // I catch myself

thinking while writing ‘is this the poem?’ // // Words catch my mouth

d. // // Lame understanding wretch who

thinks rhymes wrench’t // // sufficiént; you claim sans rhyme it’s pr

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

endless life. I wondered if your // //

thinning blood resented life, // // words mocking your condition—if /

Sestina to an English Teacher

// // A long sustained note; a perfect

third ; // // Each of us with our own concerns. // // I’ve lost my ke

l place until hardened into rock // //

third , freeze for centuries until // // crystallized into meaningless

// // The ‘women’s college’ where the

third years saw // // They had just funds enough to pay and brought y

mplore you // // A taste to slake this

thirst . // // Naïve one, mercy, // // Is not something to which you

// // The pink heat of burnt necks and

thirsty flowers. // // I taste the faint rustle of grass as I sit on

were just simply overcome; // // This

thirteen -and-a-half mile Eden seemed to be divine. // // And so they

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ou wrong. // // Only an infidel writes

thirteen lines. // //

Thirteen LinesA song in word-music. // // Love sent you to the desert

n’s best effort at defence // // drops

thirty feet into a hole. // // Cambridge, circa 1966 // // One cold

Walking in winter

hames here in London, we’ve // // just

thirty three—surely room for one more. // // Now it happens my old fr

Troubled waters

garden, left untended // // for maybe

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

cky clay. // // Between rutted mud and

thistle bloom // // We pick our path along the hollow way // // Hand

Sun. // // Threaded with thoughts that

thistle -scratch // // and bounce back: big prizes! // // glossier gl

[A spinning spider]

// the cap of each i let lavender and

thistle // // sprout from its neck, to wilt upon each soft pale shir

s one // // it holds the stress in the

thoracal zone // // springing the bird to post-Jurassic flight // //

sh and singing pain // // Of lashes; a

thorn halo hallows your head, // // Vice-like; your pierced side hold

would have read Section C* // // more

thoroughly // // if I’d truly intended to avoid falling. // // Now w

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

sh, // // To let go of leaden years as

though a mouthful of smoke, // // To find new ways to no longer hold.

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

hich I move, ever more warm, // // And

though at start I find I face a swarm // // Of loosen water rocks, I

[What have we done]

ush a sheen of light on water // // As

though behind the sky itself they traced // // The shift and shimmer

last few bottles that remain, // // As

though delirium could dull the pain. // // But out there in the dark

Angelic messengers who say // // That

though he finds himself alone, // // Life’s pawn at lifetime’s darker

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

nd now, at last, // // you’re out. And

though I dreamed I saw // // your coming in the night, I can no more

eat or two and make a gap // // There,

though if it were less busy I wouldn’t mind // // Standing, would //

Poems on the Underground

Fire // // My sign is Aries.

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

pumping acid yet, // // I carry on, as

though I’m craving more. // // My shoes have turned a whole new shade

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

// // …and pension protection. // //

Though , just on reflection, // // Our model excludes gravitation. //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

he Beatles’ first LP; // // strangely,

though , not sex but fire). // // See this: // // the large, dilapida

ns against the side of mugs. // // And

though our unkind inactions told you otherwise, you kept your faith //

haps be comforting // // as any fruit,

though Suliman’s pilaf // // is real comfort food. But comfort me no

The well of love

settle low, cold as a curse, // // but

though the thunder roars, it will not rain. // // your ribs are kindl

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

wers // // to folk problems // // and

though they were wrong // // about the girl on the stool // // the e

-parched silence. // // You held fast,

though those rattling serpent-words // // You heard hissed ‘Arrogance

stake was suggesting the cotton— // //

Though to let him get lost seemed too rotten. // // Now I wish that I

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

my death has deeply touched // // me.

Though unknown to you, still you bewail // // my loss – but ask my co

Between Life and Death

seem cut and twisted everywhere. // //

Though , via a chink a softer glare // // suggests I need not now desp

ever sought to bear? // // It’s not as

though we’ve ceased all intercourse. // // In truth I’d not part now,

o night. Try not to think of me, // //

Though you might, let this waste of sea intervene. // // The horizon,

I could never be (ready)

nk that’s the one), // // Every time I

thought a pot was getting hot instead of a flame losing heat. // // S

Three Pieces of Advice

, // // I don’t suppose you have often

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

ount, the universal word, a thrifty fox-

thought , golden delighted kept at bay from the quiet and rustling exam

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ye // // and he’d be gripped. // // I

thought he’d itch // // if I’d no stitch. // // Oh! why // // did I

The Tree of Wisdom // // I

thought I understood you once, // // Believed you were more than you

The Tree of Wisdom

whiff // // of sweat and gin. // // I

thought if I, // // demurely stripped, // // I’d catch Nick’s eye //

n, wet-yellow, gold-wrought // // Over-

thought in the tail-end; by day at poet’s sea of glass and fire; // /

ay agree, but he lies, // // He put no

thought into that verb, // // But to tell the truth would greatly dis

lls. But in each piece // // The inner

thought is evident: // // These objects are his household gods, // /

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

// “The Romans were honest // // they

thought it was all // // girls, grapes and snow.” // // Why snow? Th

ss it is tragic, // // And even if you

thought it was, // // You must plan what you say, // // Control what

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// This is the en-suite life. // // I

thought I’d fledged, // // abandoned the embarrassment of home, // /

A Room of Her Own

, rhythm, and repetition rather than by

thought . Just like in nature’s murmuring, Dionysus rules and Apollo is

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

Déjeuner // // I

thought Nick old, // // but devilish. // // He’s in a raffish // //

charitable, // // sad. // // ‘Yes,’ I

thought , ‘nothing ever // // changes.’ I wondered // // if she’d pic

In a charity shop

, // // I don’t suppose you have often

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

dence shaken, near shot dead, // // he

thought of some words that Pol Pot said, // // and he almost did best

The Failing of the Cheese

seemed to be divine. // // And so they

thought of what two-day-old Adam must have done: // // Alone in brand

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

et us fall, and let us grow, // // One

thought , one heart, one voice, one song. // // Diminuendo— // // sof

spend her days // // watching, and so

thought she might // // hide the fact // // in stale jumpers // //

In a charity shop

sed. She left the door ajar— // // She

thought she’d heard the breath of the unknown— // // But through the

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

d not be dissuaded, // // and probably

thought that he’d made it // // when he chose to cajole her // // wi

The Failing of the Cheese

th birthday is nearing— // // brings a

thought that is far from cheering: // // that while the past // // w

aphite, // // Wrist responding to each

thought // // That strides in freedom on an edge // // Between idea

Three Ways of Walking

folk of Greece. // // But I’ve always

thought // // that there’s something to be said // // for the wisdom

elf-confessed skeptics // // privately

thought // // that this was // // one // // great // // conceptual

Cookies and rainbow, // // Did what I

thought was right, // // Shunned… but I grow. // // Feeling when it

A Tribute to AQOH

an, // // I saw a man on the bus who I

thought was you // // Dear Alan, // // I knew he couldn’t have been

d mechanically in the perfection of his

thought . Who can help this helpless man? Perhaps only the ecstasy and

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

craft // // and skill, and yet I never

thought you deft // // enough to use so delicate a dial. // // Why s

Compass Reading

voice of reason, an echo // // Of some

thought you once had, // // But couldn’t hold. // // Yet, when I sta

Writing to explore

peer at you sideways // // drawing my

thoughts along your wooden wave-shapes // // dipping into knot warps

Crushed // // My

thoughts are a maelstrom, a cacophony, // // Crashing, shrieking, //

osemary for remembrance and pansies for

thoughts , // // Barbiturates for the beauties and kitchen ovens for t

rites of the mind // // Grow branching

thoughts , bear fruit. // // A song // // Where birds once chorused a

Thoughts // // Beards seem to be out of fashion nowadays— // // The

Bearded Thoughts

at are the other passengers. // // And

thoughts begin to press into my mind // // Of poetry and other things

Poems on the Underground

’re gone. // // Wake up alone to empty

thoughts , // // In the early evening now, day dead, // // And there’

undefined. // // A word that initiates

thoughts in the mind // // Of every thinker it lands upon, // // Con

t away, the volumes shelved, // // Her

thoughts , like chairs drawn out from table’s edge, // // Awaited thos

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

s you wrap up warm with worn-out future

thoughts , // // Of poems half-remembered, long ago destinies rolled u

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

e coffee, // // then sat and poured my

thoughts over a journal’s patient page. // // I remember your thick h

[I often think of that January morning]

yes, // // Holding and held by darling

thoughts , // // Smile’s phantom echoing inchoate affections, // // A

/ Barefoot across the damp ground of my

thoughts , // // Squelch the compost of old text messages between my t

[I am almost 25 years old]

would avoid dreaming // // of you. The

thoughts still hurt. Like bruises, existing as echoes // // of former

[I often think of that January morning]

ow case, wishing those ‘thoughts’ away,

thoughts that are not yours. In your ennui, you tried to control them,

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

/ // Can describe many things, but the

thoughts that race // // Through my heart when I breathe in what you

I’ll never work for Hallmark

inks from the Sun. // // Threaded with

thoughts that thistle-scratch // // and bounce back: big prizes! //

[A spinning spider]

’ll happen again. // // If half-formed

thoughts will drip // // From the lips of this voice // // Like sali

Writing to explore

tching your pillow case, wishing those ‘

thoughts ’ away, thoughts that are not yours. In your ennui, you tried

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

ish tongues. // // Huntsman, lord of a

thousand blooded tongues // // Master of the hollow forest, who binds

Sixteen Forty-Five

to disappear. // // Now the chain is a

thousand daggers, // // Piercing you, making you scream. // // But t

t all—are duds. Nevertheless // // ten

thousand different species rise and fall // // and rise again. Great

red chaos with a raucous song: // // A

thousand geese are flying into night. // //

Wells in winter

fallow, // // la belle dame. // // In

thrall to notions of her name, // // tame linnets nibble for to follo

he muscular he-brute: // // Provided a

thread , left her brother stone dead, // // And sailed with the oaf, r

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

the wall— // // After the wires we'll

thread through your jaw— // // We'll build you up better than ever be

druid, one drinks from the Sun. // //

Threaded with thoughts that thistle-scratch // // and bounce back: bi

[A spinning spider]

her using twine. // // You’re sure our

threads are finally aligned, // // So why do mine feel ready to unwin

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

gram // // Of blazing damage. Kinship,

threat , and fire // // Contend for right in sixteen forty-five— // /

Sixteen Forty-Five

ie, to prove there was // // A hideous

threat to all the World. // // A hideous threat to all the World? //

reat to all the World. // // A hideous

threat to all the World? // // Lie? To prove there was // // He had

it looks // // Forlorn enough to be a

threat to // // Something. // // A cycle of conversation fills the r

Vicious or Virtuous?

slowly absorbed by paper // // as I am

threatened to be absorbed // // by the temerity of this Alaskan scene

why i’m getting into Christmas

ke mine, heaves with caged spite // //

Threatening to escape. Getting nowhere, I stare // // Harder, longer

// All Mary had to do was wait. Give it

three days and He’ll return // // And bring salvation and sunshine an

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

nce, swimming // // awards, your grade

three flute— // // all, all are floating // // through the air and o

Stone, Paper, Scissors

s been roiling now for more // // than

three fraught years – with bitterness and bile // // sieved through o

Three gay rituals // // Through doors of luminescent playfulness, //

Three gay rituals

s to start the task assigned // // For

three grim hours. For my degree // // I fear I am not in my perfect m

Exam Room Villanelle

ve thanks for His majesty, // // these

three hills awash in blooms, arching heavenwards in certain praise //

e no thanks for majesty // // or those

three hills awash in blooms, arching skyward only to praise // // nat

// // But he was dead: // // had died

three hours after his arrival, // // was buried in an unmarked grave.

Black September

was not the memory we needed. // // So

three months later, we met again // // on a Suffolk shingle beach. //

love, // // Taken when you were only

three months old. // // In it you’re lying on the sun-warmed, deep-ve

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

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

Three Pieces of Advice

Let’s see, ah yes, here we are: // //

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

her days were there, really? // // All

three removed their clothes, as seemed appropriate, // // The boys sc

Here be dragons // // Wake as

three screams take // // Flight, from window to shadow // // A child

Here be dragons

ere in London, we’ve // // just thirty

three —surely room for one more. // // Now it happens my old friend is

Troubled waters

y strict ballad form—four-line stanzas,

three tetrameter and one trimeter, rhymed ABAB. How prosaic! My judi

rsion of a submissive kind // // Which

three therapists and a college counsellor failed to spot, // // But I

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

a 1958 // // After the floods of fifty-

three // // they raised the ramparts: giant concrete blocks // // o

Walking in winter

here’s been fifteen homicides and sixty-

three violent crimes”—tv-light // // and wonder: do I have it, or no?

Three Ways of Walking // // // // 2H // // ‘Two Hard’, too hard. /

Three Ways of Walking

to rush // // you finite proof ‘within

three working days’. // // In limbo here I can no longer vouch // //

Between Life and Death

ugh to pay and brought you here. // //

Three X-rays and a CAT scan for an air- // // Conditioned corpse. A q

ty bookshelf // // what remains // //

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

el the heat upon my face. // // Twenty

three years later, when my mother died // // we had the proper formal

ce. // // And me realising that he was

three years older than me when his mother died, // // That there’s st

Three Pieces of Advice

this meme of after-night // // On the

threshold of genesis, in what purgatory shall I persist? // // To tha

// You joined relations that they also

threw // // Into the asp-bored sand to rest for two millennia. // //

tion // // as Paradise offers // // a

thrice -empty // // shun. // // Death’s minstrel followed this path o

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ord is paramount, the universal word, a

thrifty fox-thought, golden delighted kept at bay from the quiet and r

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

en Tantalus. // // The frequent sticky

thrill of that first bite of fruit // // While propped against the tr

// as she indulges in a spot // // of

thrilling , but too quick, arson— // // under the brown fog of a winte

[the typist puts her knickers on]

scholarship // // to read and pen and

thrive , // // even without degree. // // My maths proves useful: //

A Room of Her Own

skin, to the scream stuck // // In my

throat . // // Her chest, like mine, heaves with caged spite // // Th

butterflies // // Brush the back of my

throat . // // I should have smiled by now, at least. // // Teeth, sh

a girl’s wrists, her // // ankles, her

throat . It squatted, watched her, penned // // a tribute with a claw

star, // // So that I do not slit this

throat . // // Light a fire to the fang. // //

l’esprit d’escalier

orget how it sounds when you clear your

throat , // // Or the face you pull in the mirror when fiddling with y

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

mirror // // Clearing the gravel in my

throat pulling // // The wire from within taught // // I’ll hide beh

// Pentameter as breath from nature’s

throat ; // // To me it’s just another tyrant’s coat. // // So, free

In Defence of Evolution

// // And now the song bursts from our

throats // // And now our hearts are opened wide // // To hear the W

d machinery. // // A continuous shriek

throbs against the wall // // And the tree falls silent after receivi

Snapshot Endings

r’s hot, // // Only we are left in its

throes , // // Now, bursar, now, let us warm our toes. // //

BURR (or Brrrrr)

Dark shapes are calling each to each: a

throng // // moves north against the fading evening light. // // Sla

Wells in winter

d saint // // George of the Chancel to

throw in some too.” // // So the project proceeds with a little more

Troubled waters

into the waxing light, the spring rain.

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

reds and golds replace the greens. Now

throw the canopy too // // to the winds, let it whirl away // // int

the imagination fires. // // Pots are

thrown and fired, // // crops are watered. // // Seasons and years a

te, eyes screaming from tear gas // //

Thrown by Apartheid police. // // And me realising that he was three

Three Pieces of Advice

// turtles and all reptilian life thus

thrown // // into the evolving curve of modern flight // // now trad

s, // // catseyes like bouquets // //

thrown into the night behind us. // // And now, deep in the wilds of

every moment the burring grows, // //

Thrushes migrate where the weather’s hot, // // Only we are left in i

BURR (or Brrrrr)

/ shared only with my Euclid // // and

Thucydides . // // My visitors all knock. // // We share hot chocolat

A Room of Her Own

ildish hands // // Giving a final dull

thud as they fall to the ground. // //

is a divining-rod // // or an oil rig,

thudding into the ground // // to draw up lubrication for her joints.

// Pages // // Tapering towards well-

thumbed // // Edges— // // Their camouflage of grease spots // // L

transparent blister of a moon, // // A

thumbtack lighting the midges and her // // Blackened soles, he lies

atched from flight // // With wheeling

thump . // // Icarus, spread-eagled in the cycling lane. // // With b

Urban bird watching

// heroic but futile, // // impetuous

thunder // // and ultimate payment. // // Pens open and ready, // /

Nil Charge / Nil Return

cold as a curse, // // but though the

thunder roars, it will not rain. // // your ribs are kindling; breath

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

n a promontory we watched // // As the

thunderstorm struck the sea // // The shock of a constellation lost /

s like a Pollock painting // // As the

thunderstorm struck the sea // // Years from that night // // On a p

tion // // It is 8:11 in my bathroom a

Thursday // // I am a naked Hamlet shaving in the mirror // // Clear

silver thief (who always came // // on

Thursdays ) took our memories, why did // // he stoop to brass? Why do

Compass Reading

// // ‘Every mile is two’? no, hardly

thus . // // Some miles are ten, while others swiftly pass. // //

Walking in winter

s a million times yes I declare! // //

Thus the sonnets of Shakespeare will forevermore consume, the beings,

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

e // // turtles and all reptilian life

thus thrown // // into the evolving curve of modern flight // // now

The first notes to // // Wild Mountain

Thyme , // // And our voices warm // // And swell around // // The s

Wild Mountain Thyme

Thyme // // Christmas day. // // We’re all at my gran’s house, // /

Wild Mountain Thyme

shape like a camel. // // POLONIUS By

th’mass and it’s like a camel indeed. // // HAMLET Methinks it is lik

/ Than boredom. Except the non-existent

tick // // Of your digital clock, resting next to my head. // // “No

The Notes You Have Left

// // I want to see the rest: // // a

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

Stone, Paper, Scissors

ou going like a fat gold clock (watch!)

ticking // // Boxes on an Apollo checklist; stuck at some point, stil

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

tle of grass as I sit on it, // // The

tickle of its many spears on bare toes, // // And the fragments that

see // // The canopy of green fingers

tickling the clouds // // And the saffron-yellow orbs of our mango tr

gets a bit monotonous. // // But if a

tidal wave as tall as the Empire State // // Really is gonna come to

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// Usurping the old shore with the new

tide . // //

tide // // First I carefully let go // // just as far as I can reach

auntlet of the winter storm. // // The

tide is high, and every wave tries hard // // to breach the wall. An

Walking in winter

ouse // // of my room washed away on a

tide of sleep. Suddenly I’m running. Grey // // wolves behind me and

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

s of paper cluster // // In clouds and

tides to carry // // In light like a welcome guest. // //

chairs, the cat, // // drew up rotas,

tidied up upstairs, // // let the flower-arrangers in when they came

// Alone in the desert, strangled by a

tie . // //

e stealthily // // And know the simple

tie , knotted with pride // // And ironed shirt that flows uneasily //

ch in our uniforms, black suit, striped

tie // // Marching to the front line, clutching our briefcases // //

day night, the tv on, // // keeping us

tied to the hundrum: // // you watching and I, lamely, pretending //

d in front, walking in a straight line,

tied to the inexorability of pace and // // surety of pressing the ph

ered // // What it might be like to be

tied up, or otherwise encumbered, // // Or maybe forced to wear somet

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

could never be bothered to wrap. // //

Ties , from when he tried to make an effort // // and make her proud;

r been this close. // // The pond is a

tight circle of moon, eyelashed with heavy grasses. // // His pointed

e vapours held betwixt these lines move

tight // // Into gaping personages then, quick // // As they dance i

[What have we done]

their nilpelts // // the nil strain –

tight pressed // // in a circlet of steel. // // Haunch-heaving and

Nil Charge / Nil Return

aiting for when, the // // Doors clamp

tight shut, like an oyster, (Would // // Someone please // // Make a

Poems on the Underground

what it is to be alive. // // “Hold me

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

/ Tightens coils, wrenches words // //

Tightens coils, a crucible // // Refining through fire. // // The pa

/ // Cremates Glede-eyes garnet // //

Tightens coils, wrenches words // // Tightens coils, a crucible // /

ne-cage // // The word-worm encircles,

tightens its coils, and the wordsmith // // And wrings and wrenches w

I was. I was there with my crown pulled

tightly over my ears, and I was happy, really happy. I was stood in a

[So the moon was there]

eses, and the mystery of mustard yellow

tights . // // My bursting flight of spotlit laughing on the pavement

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

easured musings, down below // // your

tightwires I would slowly // // mimic your steps; growing day by day,

luc bat to mr. beam

// A pant in the night, // // Panthera

Tigris gulps the moon. // //

He who made the Lamb

wyngachu. // // They jostle and press ’

til , // // abrading the bolt-rust, // // they burst through their bi

Nil Charge / Nil Return

h. He loved the light // // Refracted—'

til it burst—became a mass // // Of scum. For us, lost Space and Eart

t // // And don’t count your winnings ’

til you’re in the clear. // // Play your men like your cards, dear, a

ple bursts kiss compost // // mushroom-

tiled and moss-gilded // // a summerwake heap of sawdust and soil //

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

// // the hours spent washing bathroom

tiles of blood. // // you pray for rain, but no relief. dry-heave //

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

// We watch and hold each other’s hands

till evening, // // And as we watch, our souls dart to and fro // //

Is it a memory?

e stars turned blue // // He lay there

till his breath ran cold // // The boy without a face. // // Between

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

in circles must i keep on // // GOING

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

the windmill’s lament—a short play

ds I know. // // (How many miles to go

till I can sleep?) // // But then, just as I feel like letting go, //

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

earth’s slow // // Bleed, four nights

till it sheds // // Its shadow to bloom // // In the vast, dust-fill

Here be dragons

n the last May bursts of spring. // //

Till now there’s only been a fist, // // Half giving and half holding

ing him with grace. // // He lay there

till the grass grew high // // He lay there till the stars turned blu

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

the grass grew high // // He lay there

till the stars turned blue // // He lay there till his breath ran col

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

// Dig, let loam glaze the // // pain,

till we // // forget // // your // // name. // //

Wandlebury Hill

/ // Walk through the present darkness

till you come // // To the stone steps, the lions, the façade, // //

The Magic Apple Tree

worship waist-deep in hands // // That

tilled the salty earth // // No less than home. // // The burden of

rate a melody // // In the supermarket

tills ’ // // Incessant beeping // // A granite sword looming, // //

Magnetic Mountain

we are. // // After the slip from the

tilt of the stool— // // After the grip of the hinge of the door— //

the drowning which was meant? // // My

tilt -shift vision // // of Prospero’s storm: // // cellophane sea an

// // expecting no // // less. // //

Tim was their orphan, withdrawn with elation at // // endless results

Jonathan’s Deathbed

en I end something // // For the first

time . // //

Snapshot Endings

Fairy Tale // // alright: once upon a

time , // // a girl in a cloak of symbolic colouration // // meets a

ctice. // // I should have gone a long

time ago, // // Feet, turning, past sloppy kisses // // And out the

/ // Having abandoned their shoes some

time ago, // // Print a wide arc, then slope down towards // // A st

he waste fate does discard. // // Yet,

time allowed, what seems fine chance will be // // And, likewise to t

[What have we done]

/ Dawn // // Five o nine, // // Swiss

time ; // // An accurate // // Fate. // // Shift essential, // //

Small Particles in the Small Hours

slows down, stops, waits, pontificates.

Time and flux goes ahead of him, leaving him in the dust. He revels jo

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

and embrace, // // Will catch me this

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

in brand new Paradise with infinite-ish

time . // // And so they split their Garden up in perfectly straight l

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

ll expend // // themselves in riffs of

time and space, // // in overlapping amplitudes of bliss, // // patt

// // And timelessness resounding into

time . // // And when the heart is full of quietness // // Begin the

r past // // Journey through your seed

time and your summer // // And through the fall of every fruiting tim

The Magic Apple Tree

nd that the creature, transfixed by its

time -blown boughs, // // Will find itself returned to the perfect lig

[At the coinciding point of the years]

ere minutes, hours, and days run not to

time // // But to a vivid centre— // // There stands a tree // // R

[At the coinciding point of the years]

groans and secrets // // and when the

time comes we will pray for you, and try not to forget // // Stocking

Drink and be merry

otless nape, // // Might, from time to

time , consent a tawny arm to drape. // //

// The stealthy scissors of a blinded

time // // Cutting through accretions of the past // // Dully and da

The Cutting Edge

hrough part-drawn shades, // // Liquid

time daubed on air’s pale vellum, // // Us in the warm, in the yellow

time, the college’s time, the porter’s

time ,” etc. // // To some other wide-eyed labour-eager chosen one //

Aubade to Girton

// back across the page: // // Love,

Time , Ever, Age. // //

of digit meets digits, // // space and

time exploded // // to a single // // point // // Could this induce

ng fire // // of the sun marks passing

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

rich foraging is // // in their sights—

time for a gentler stream. // // Now I feel the flood’s return // //

Renewal // // Good

time for it, autumn. // // Now we’ve stooked up in a corner and shed

o sleep … Brrng! Brnng! // // No

time for that sunshine, get up and go // // you’ve got that in you no

entiment, // // and she never had much

time for times past. // // So the half-full tin of strawberry mints /

-notes resound. // // He’ll never lose

time , he’s carefully wound. // // A finer example will never be found

(I think that’s the one), // // Every

time I thought a pot was getting hot instead of a flame losing heat. /

Three Pieces of Advice

/ we’ll feel where we are for the first

time : // // in the dark of dark, // // hungry every second of our li

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

like this. // // Farewell—farewell—our

time is gone, // // A farewell kiss and then we’re done // // One la

[A Farewell Kiss]

me the moons before we know // // What

time it is, before we can stretch across // // To that person who was

upon the crust, you think // // ‘This

time , it will hold my weight.’ // // But every step it drops you down

Walking in winter

And through the fall of every fruiting

time . // // Journey through the pictures packed like loam, // // The

The Magic Apple Tree

// // another crematorium. // // This

time Judith has chosen the music, // // a Beethoven string quartet. /

. // // Our space is the earth, // //

time lives in fire, // // leaving us the water and the air. // //

ng of which I am bereft. // // Slowly,

time makes its approach // // On this idle breeze, // // And summons

I could never be (ready)

o creep back in when I have gone. It’s

time : my end has come. // // Note by the senior author: When my assi

aves // // except your soft smile each

time my fingertips turned a page, // // and every night I watched you

[I often think of that January morning]

// [Long shot, vast sea.] // // Long

time , no see. // // [I missed you.] // // Stormy where you are? //

Whales sing because they have a song

// the cool night air // // slows down

time . // // Now is the time // // to lie on the earth, // // smell

er, // // Cleave the land. // // In a

time of dates that rot from inside out // // And will not dry // //

on snow snow-white. // // This is the

time of old shoes, // // when every step is new // // and every mile

larating // // assault // // of night-

time on my radiator-warmed skin // // And the crunch of the season un

[The sash rattles up]

Fibbonacci // // Once upon a

time , // // one word was all it took // // to set the pair of them o

t dawn. // // Immortality // // Is in

time , our blood coloured autumn. // // Artifice // // Risks going ag

hat I had, the arrogant cad, // // But

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

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ts of late modernity. // // None came.

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

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

lls up like a woodlouse] // // // //

time rolls up like a woodlouse and the skies // // go white, and noth

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

time rolls up like a woodlouse] // // // // time rolls up like a wo

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

should’ve written The Waste Land first

time round Nickerson. // //

[the typist puts her knickers on]

n’s // // through there, and space and

time // // seem cut and twisted everywhere. // // Though, via a chin

Time She Stands There] // // For A Long Time She Stands There, Given

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ime She Stands There] // // For A Long

Time She Stands There, Given To The Dreadful Clouds Crossing The Stars

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

Stay with the music, words will come in

time . // // Slow down your breathing. Keep it deep and slow. // // B

ildhood fever // // Which once spelled

time so slow. // // I hear whispers in the weather // // Tell of fla

leaves might fall

our mulling // // Minds one step at a

time ). // // Soon we lost our cognitive // // Sense, began to mime /

mine and mine // // was answering, and

time // // stilled, and out of the heart // // came a song of our fi

e slap me try that just // // one more

time . Tell me have you seen Schiele’s // // Levitation, the curled to

really, // // she was just passing the

time , // // that the whole reason she was // // sat, hunch-huddled /

In a charity shop

; // // I love that bubble-burst every

time . // // The cold he feels nudges at my booted feet. // // The sp

etting so drunk is a waste of // // my

time , the college’s time, the porter’s time,” etc. // // To some othe

Aubade to Girton

waste of // // my time, the college’s

time , the porter’s time,” etc. // // To some other wide-eyed labour-e

Aubade to Girton

// Verse forms, like fashions, fit the

time they fix— // // You can’t revive a worn-out box of tricks. // /

In Defence of Evolution

// I sang in jail. // // Give me some

time to blow the man down // //

will // // jump to join in, but needs

time to come through. // // I’ll give it some taxpayer funding, and g

Troubled waters

// // We have the space // // and the

time // // to cross the waters, // // explore the earth, // // and

// // Come fill the cup, we’ve little

time to drink, // // The ship of state’s about to plunge and sink, //

me and sit with me, // // We pick this

time to fall in love. // // Lights still flickering on the tree, //

A Hymn to a Loved One

the spreading sands and soft mudflats:

time to // // gather pace. // // Now I rush on down the creek // //

/ Behind each moored boat runs a wake:

time to gush full spate. // // Now my headlong dash abates—where I on

from marsh just covered in the slack:

time to let it dry. // // Now I cut new rivulets // // to drain the

// slows down time. // // Now is the

time // // to lie on the earth, // // smell the air, // // feel the

// the flotsam brought in on the flow:

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

the ocean: I have no feet. There’ll be

time to meet— // // now my flesh becomes fare: // // meat for man. H

ced in possibility // // For time upon

time to revisit as you swing down through the lines and rhymes // //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

arrow spotless nape, // // Might, from

time to time, consent a tawny arm to drape. // //

saving light bulb, // // It takes its

time to warm up, and can, apparently, cause a rash, // // But you’d r

I’ll never work for Hallmark

up and placed in possibility // // For

time upon time to revisit as you swing down through the lines and rhym

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

how the light // // was caught. After

time we found coffee and wine, // // a waiter who looked like a broth

wake and call. // // I think about the

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

[My face is old now]

he dogs that passed, for the very first

time , // // Were kindred panters of the air; // // The dead lived on

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

eir sides instead of flesh, // // That

time when all that I am will slide through the mesh // // Of the worl

[My face is old now]

lmost 25 years old. I cannot remember a

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

[I am almost 25 years old]

our clothes, // // I cannot remember a

time when I felt clean enough. // //

[I am almost 25 years old]

iety leaves, I cannot remember // // A

time when my shadow didn’t leave the oily residue // // Of embarrassm

[I am almost 25 years old]

nto the stage. // // There will come a

time when the new year is held back, firm by the wrist. // // // //

er. // // 1, given to me for the first

time while helping me with GCSE Physics, and repeated // // On a week

Three Pieces of Advice

more. // // Re-fill my glass, and this

time with Champagne, // // Drink down the last few bottles that remai

rk, // // ye fill the night; // // Oh

time ; // // ye slip, slip, slip away, // // Slipping slipping, slip!

at the moon. // // Bitter Creek, last

time // // You said this was the only way. // // Just please arrive

l’esprit d’escalier

arking my demiurge. // // Give me some

time // // You were the sea, you the surge, // // You were the lashi

// // change // // like friends with

time .’ // // Everything’s easy. // // It slips like oil through an e

In a charity shop

/ // Seasons and years are counted and

timed . // // Philosophies are aired, // // temple columns spaced, //

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

timed renaissance, I // // Must change my heart, must build my soul a

ess rising out of emptiness, // // And

timelessness resounding into time. // // And when the heart is full o

e Mum a call, // // and look up flight-

times for your daughter’s plane. // // Your life defined by the whist

// // and she never had much time for

times past. // // So the half-full tin of strawberry mints // // mus

, old rope. // // Boarding passes from

times they went for broke. // // Gifts they could never be bothered t

sts and in open spaces // // there are

times // // when the imagination fires. // // Pots are thrown and fi

urry, out of focus and unfeeling // //

Times , when the suns are this or that // // And become the moons befo

th an impenetrable stare, yes a million

times yes I declare! // // Thus the sonnets of Shakespeare will forev

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

s now, who dares me eat a peach? // //

Time’s warring chariots can clatter by— // // we have the earth, the

n two // // Things is just a matter of

timing . Is this the poem? // //

// // // Lover, the years have fine

timing , or fine luck, I’ve noticed: // // an old one dies, a young on

ing billowing fabrics, // // Exquisite

timpani of sole on pavement. // // How he glitches and slides, // //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

/ we'll make you a new one of china and

tin . // // After your hipbone, we'll put in a ball // // of steel an

ness Lighthouse; // // The rusty sweet

tin of icing tips, // // Individually wrapped in kitchen towel. // /

for times past. // // So the half-full

tin of strawberry mints // // must mean a sentry asleep at the post:

able, // // A crowd of faces linked by

tinsel and blood, // // While the ideal me waves from a mile away. //

cattered // // doll-like bodies, their

tiny faces // // far too clear. // // A wave breaks over us like a s

— // // By changing everything. // //

Tiny fingertips. // // (The winners in heartbreak.) // // “Biology i

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

one, // // Unseen or seen, did spark a

tiny fire. // // A lonely ember ’twas, and did require // // Some mo

[What have we done]

t // // palms and fingered trees press

tip and taproot // // down through decomposing leaves and drenching m

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

ek- // // ing end, Portugal could only

tip its hat. Columbus would sail // // again. Columbus was the beginn

uthed my name silently on the windswept

tip of the hill // // // // I bellowed my name to the slate grey s

[I whispered my name into the trees]

o sing, that thing // // That’s on the

tip of your tongue, // // That reason why you hung around in the firs

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

se; // // The rusty sweet tin of icing

tips , // // Individually wrapped in kitchen towel. // // One by one,

f history. // // But still at night, I

tiptoe to the door // // To rustle through these severed strips of l

The Cutting Edge

// Then where would we be? // // In a

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

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

s. // // Long into night we’re sitting

tired and carefree // // In the darkness of no-brand car’s back seats

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

’s world; // // I’m ill; I’m hurt; I’m

tired ; I’m bored; // // I’ve loved and now I’m torn apart… // // The

ened slightly, // // Muscles eased and

tired , not wanting everything. // // There was a hint or flash of som

[The sun flattened]

/ // More pink, more soft, and in this

tired state // // I fade into a peaceful sleep: a gate, // // A door

[What have we done]

// She stands, hunched and weary, too

tired // // To have held on. Head lowered, but her eyes // // Stare

r the brown fog of a winter noon // //

Tiresias the stripper’s son // // turns to me and says: // // you sh

[the typist puts her knickers on]

ne condensed to a mere bromide. // // ’

Tis pity he’s a bore. // //

’Tis pity he’s a bore

forms of that abyssal goddess. // // ’

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

’Tis pity he’s a bore

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

’Tis pity he’s a bore

iled to pine in ecstatic agony. // // ’

Tis pity. // // Some ancestral memory is unseated // // From its pla

’Tis pity he’s a bore

on I remember this, // // Not the torn

tissue or even the treasure beneath. // // My Grandmother says she sa

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

Ah but before little hands can tear at

tissue // // Stille Nacht must be sung before the crib, // // Two ve

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

ly, // // Left hand knotted in a white

tissue , // // The right hanging, something sad inside. // // A cloud

[The sun flattened]

in a bubble that you know // // Soaped

Titan in his bath. He loved the light // // Refracted—'til it burst—b

we'll put in a ball // // of steel and

titanium , wedged in the hole, // // with a stem in your marrow to go

st to seed, sapling, and snag— // // A

toast and a cup to the soil and loam, // // To the litter of leaves a

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

ael, hurrah! hurrah! // // A cup and a

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

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

a bygone age // // Of yellow Victorian

tobacco -stains upon the creamy-white // // Bernard Shaw, the voluptuo

Bearded Thoughts

ng a cool kiss, // // prone on a white

toboggan , // // doubling your speed, and again; // // the surprise

s Roma: // // Erde… // // Sol… // //

tod // // elcaro te se lucreh* // // * ‘You flesh to atone’ (Google

Hercules et Oracle

it d’escalier // // I keep remembering

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

l’esprit d’escalier

remembering today, // // As in, // //

Today , I keep remembering. // // Maybe it’s a lacuna of my // // sle

l’esprit d’escalier

the fish. // // Anyways, how was your

today ? // // I woke up at 5. // // [P.M.] // // Shit. How long sinc

Whales sing because they have a song

ll // // to find a way. // // And now

today // // is ending. I suppose tomorrow’s still // // another day

g // // It seemed, only it wasn’t blue

today , // // It was deep and grey when // // It appeared, the sun ju

[The sun flattened]

would keep you here]. // // Thanks for

today . It was nice seeing each other, wasn’t it? // // Like a breath

Whales sing because they have a song

Hermione // // No school

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

// // So, plummeting down Castle Hill

today // // past the old motte, I cast away // // all such signs. Ma

d— // // or deceived ourselves? // //

Today , polyester jackets, unadorned // // Mutely cry out for someone

Magnetic Mountain

/ // Odd things have strewn the floors

today : quicksand clumps, capsized melon cubes, stranded sea monkeys //

s // // to folk problems // // hoping

today // // she’d speak // // common Greek. // // No one asked //

ctogenarian sits: caught // // in the—“

today there’s been fifteen homicides and sixty-three violent crimes”—t

taught // // I’ll hide behind my Wyatt

today who knew // // Existing on hot coals blisters the feet // // J

you are glad to feel, // // Especially

today . // // You don’t taste anything, // // Because you’ve already

vel in this world of things // // as I

today : you look and autumn springs. // //

he Line // // “I drew a line under you

today .” // // You spat in my face. // // And swiftly it scratched ac

The Other Side of the Line

ltar draped in bells and mistle- // //

toe as an instrument whose strings sing of souls hurt. // // Blind, d

great flow // // Of white from top-to-

toe . Each day I feel // // My bones grow old with waiting for the fee

[My face is old now]

toe // // This is where s/he wants me to stay. Wis

[She points to the sky]

ropriate, // // The boys scrambled up,

toecurling -wise and like two young // // Eves, in a flurry of speckle

/ // Now, bursar, now, let us warm our

toes . // //

BURR (or Brrrrr)

/ The tickle of its many spears on bare

toes , // // And the fragments that get stuck to my clothes. // // I

hundred and forty muscles, and all ten

toes . But the moon saved me— // // // // But you’d already sw

[So the moon was there]

// of scaffold. And why not wriggle our

toes in bits of old bran and chaff // // mixed up with sawdust from o

compost of old text messages between my

toes , // // Obsessive over the kind of love they want reserved // //

[I am almost 25 years old]

below us // // the dark grass mops our

toes // // // // the cold air stings my lips // // … // // i hav

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

Schiele’s // // Levitation, the curled

toes the moment // // of departure, are you afraid do you // // unde

, and dropp’d beneath, pass’d ’neath my

toes // // To endless death, rinsing me feet to nose. // // But just

[What have we done]

ith her clavicle // // And put me back

together and seal the wound with her mouth // // So that I have a lip

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ness. // // Helium and hydrogen hauled

together // // at our heart’s core. // // I keep us cold in a glass

/ I often think of that January morning

together , dreaming // // of nothing as we walked through the waves. /

[I often think of that January morning]

core. // // Helium and hydrogen hauled

together . // // I'm not sure when we collected this specimen of sadne

/ // and when their lips and legs lock

together in an unbreakable twist // // their kisses aren’t words //

Same but differenT

page, my skin, // // Until they settle

together // // Nestled in a form I had not meant // // Bringing a me

Writing to explore

s this the poem? // // Millennia lived

together , so tangled in this flesh— // // Survival does not equal div

olden afternoon in which we walk // //

Together through the meadow? Touch and talk // // Are mingled as we s

Is it a memory?

But for now just these words tether us

together to our old home. // // Home is a name spoken well, // // By

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

ath my skin, // // And sewn our hearts

together using twine. // // You’re sure our threads are finally align

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

in the kitchen, // // Keeping her mind

together // // While we’re all fixing // // Absences with cream, whi

Wild Mountain Thyme

elsewhere, as deep as port, as rich as

Tokaji , // // your head bobs in peace upon a heart’s-blood bouquet. /

// // I tender this in thankfulness, a

token // // Of what cannot be spoken face to face; // // Your glance

Token // // Your glance is like a blessing on the broken, // // Your

ts are his household gods, // // Found

tokens of her whiter soul, // // Icons for his orphaned heart, // //

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

lot about a man from his beard, so I’m

told ; // // His pedigree and personal grooming, how he values himself

Bearded Thoughts

difference old, // // I don’t wanna be

told ‘I love you’. I want it // // To come and wreck me. // // And I

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

nds to hold // // and promised stories

told // // of daughters, lovers old, trapeze // // swingers and graf

luc bat to mr. beam

/ Nothing to argue with here. // // 3,

told over the phone last week, with me complaining about a getting a n

Three Pieces of Advice

ragic, // // At least, that’s what I’m

told , that even the comedy is tragic, // // Well, if you say so. //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ntelligible, or unoriginal. // // If I

told you I’d die without you, that our love flows through me // // Li

I’ll never work for Hallmark

// // And though our unkind inactions

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

dividing. Is this the poem? // // They

told you sharks never turned on their pilots—that’s your blood // //

went home to get the dinner on. // //

Tomorrow —the same. // // find a bunch of flowers for a suffering frie

now today // // is ending. I suppose

tomorrow’s still // // another day // // to find a way. // //

e—I have no more— // // I’m waiting on

tomorrow’s world; // // I’m ill; I’m hurt; I’m tired; I’m bored; //

arker edge, // // The one who gave him

tone and form // // Is still the guardian of his life // // Is still

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

jump a major fifth— // // And down the

tone I never can hear— // // And rise again— // // And don’t go shar

ir priest bless by its // // psalmodic

tone —only heaven can sing. // // Parodied mastery, pantomime mystery

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// // within the crepusc // // -ular

tone , the tusk // // is ground // // into the small hole in my side

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

of wet grass. // // cowbwebs catch on

tongue and mesh eyes // // blinking on a pimpled trunk // // snail-s

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

// Blonde hair flicking like a snake’s

tongue . // // But her stylish-yet-affordable boots // // Do sometime

m echoing inchoate affections, // // A

tongue , dark and delicate, from a peak dangling, // // A curled query

e finger, // // Taste the lies on your

tongue — // // I’ve been busy. // // Amidst these love letters litter

Fall for————

raining fecund mass // // Unleashed. A

tongue of blinding, whippèd flame // // Sears all before, while beari

lips and // // their mother tongue the

tongue of love. // // they use their words, saying eyes are the windo

Same but differenT

// // Between the lines // // As the

tongue slips on significance. // // Above the belt, you’re a god, //

thing // // That’s on the tip of your

tongue , // // That reason why you hung around in the first place //

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

old from the face, // // Trip from the

tongue // // That speaks the Word // // Amidst the tympanum. // //

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

ng along, // // Airwards words off the

tongue . // // The sky was blue. // // That she knew, had known all a

[The sun flattened]

// their lips and // // their mother

tongue the tongue of love. // // they use their words, saying eyes ar

Same but differenT

/ She imagined swallowing them, and her

tongue , // // Thinking of what she’d have given—anything but her dign

lled in the juice that runs // // From

tongue to lip to lip’s corner and streams // // Into a bead collectin

’Tis pity he’s a bore

een forty-five unfolds its fire- // //

Tongued text: this warfare is the strife that binds. // //

Sixteen Forty-Five

nguages they cannot speak, // // their

tongues dancing // // their legs dancing in different tongues // //

Same but differenT

// // mouths don’t talk to God: // //

tongues don’t talk to God // // sweet symphonies rely solely on sound

Same but differenT

are not found. // // Re-call the river-

tongues from Alph to Styx, // // summon the summoners, the shaping sh

e // // Fends between adversaries. Old

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

Sixteen Forty-Five

// And drew the temple down on English

tongues . // // Huntsman, lord of a thousand blooded tongues // // Ma

Sixteen Forty-Five

// Huntsman, lord of a thousand blooded

tongues // // Master of the hollow forest, who binds // // The aged

Sixteen Forty-Five

// // makes no sound // // only their

tongues // // sing // //

Same but differenT

/ Its five red petals breed six warring

tongues // // That in the silence spell our hexagram. // // War mean

Sixteen Forty-Five

ing thick and fast // // their babble:

tongues , their diphthongs dripping, from // // their lips and // //

Same but differenT

// // their legs dancing in different

tongues // // their eyeballs rolled heavenward, phonemes falling thic

Same but differenT

// Here is Herbert, Tyndale, Eliot—rare

tongues // // Who in the fires of sixteen forty-five // // Found pro

Sixteen Forty-Five

ll never understand” why I had to leave

tonight . Clancy got loose and ran through an alley with keef, kefir, w

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

ng stormy-weather and determinism both,

tonight // // I only say: there’s not much to report. // //

style or that man’s wealth, // // But

tonight I smile and say, // // As I put their books away, // // Oh s

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

took a mapless walk // // at dawn, choosing our course by instinct, t

al diatribes // // in small. Then they

took on the look of all that marginalia // // you find from the smug

f (who always came // // on Thursdays)

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

Compass Reading

The tank commander, aiming well, // //

Took out the vacant ground floor flat, // // So those I loved precipi

ed his outspread hair // // And mildew

took the place of tears // // The boy without a face. // // July cam

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

upon a time, // // one word was all it

took // // to set the pair of them off— // // it was like triple tro

re there, amongst them all. // // They

took you away, at night I lie awake and call. // // I think about the

[My face is old now]

/ // he sees my lips as archaeological

tools // // extracting and brushing each letter // // in return he t

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

ears since // // Of shapes pinnate and

toothed , // // Like a hand, lobed or broken, // // When will they be

leaves might fall

s he won’t need us— // // He’s in with

top brass and so scorns Hamas. // // Where we die to live, he has zer

through still, warm air. // // On the

top deck of a 68 // // Voices, ipods, phones speak out— // // add to

he-horizon, an endless hill. // // The

top did seem but further every inch // // But ’hind did seem sure dea

[What have we done]

g condensation // // Bolting blind the

top -floor library– // // Like a vitreous slogan of a monument, // //

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

// // When flying to their messy, tree-

top nests, // // Settling down in comfort comparable to ours, // //

[Walcott begins Omeros]

// // behind the wall, level with the

top , // // running the gauntlet of the winter storm. // // The tide

Walking in winter

rows, a great flow // // Of white from

top -to-toe. Each day I feel // // My bones grow old with waiting for

[My face is old now]

finished yours. // // Would you like a

top up? // //

e air is warm enough to melt // // the

topmost layer. The frost returns // // to make a crust. The next tw

Walking in winter

u down // // into soft snow, up to the

tops // // of your gumboots. The mile or two // // to the village s

Walking in winter

magic revealed // // by the flickering

torch // // of a heartbeat. // // Over the bow // // I can see the

’m bored; // // I’ve loved and now I’m

torn apart… // // These whispers of our unquiet hearts // // I wonde

, // // And there’s no dusty sheets or

torn curtains // // Or your voice. // // And, I wish // // We could

/ // Hazy summer light filters through

torn curtains. // // You shed dust from your eyes, // // Blood dripp

reason I remember this, // // Not the

torn tissue or even the treasure beneath. // // My Grandmother says s

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

the superb, the surreal, the mundane, a

torrent of individuality across the page’s lush terrain, // // But ne

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

pstick smudge scar all the way round my

torso . // // And as the seal starts to weep and my legs start to give

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

he course? // // Coursing. // // [And

tossing and turning and tumbling me into the weeds.] // // Make sure

Whales sing because they have a song

to someone else’s eyes, affirm a thing,

touch a cord // // ‘umbrellas meeting sewing machines on (animated) d

ps // // Slide past lips // // Mellow

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

en first lines along the east // // To

touch and brush a sheen of light on water // // As though behind the

upon the pedestal of a saint, // // by

touch and instinct you descend to hide among // // the seeds spun by

ever-reaching steps, // // to hear and

touch and see // // what is buried well inside. // // Yes, this is w

alk // // Together through the meadow?

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

Is it a memory?

d you’d sooner chew nettles // // than

touch anything branded by Nestlé, // // that a hand-grenade of barbed

Chocolate Sonnet

death. // // Never to taste, never to

touch // // Drift amidst the scattered echoes // // Of long forgott

s below, // // The silent depths where

touch is everything. // //

Is it a memory?

mforts. // // We burn. // // We can’t

touch or even speak, // // afraid of the reflections; // // and when

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

For romance but I am too porous, every

touch soaks in, // // Seeping and spreading, mycorrhizal in my depend

[I am almost 25 years old]

shows the way // // To reach beyond—to

touch the light // // And now the song bursts from our throats // //

leaning over and reaching out as if to

touch what ran below in streams of oily debris, further than I could f

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

e. Consequently, they died as they lost

touch with true vitality of nature. // // 3. // // But poets have no

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

in the ground), // // Or even vicars,

touched by God, nothing to hide? // // Or the classicist, that type o

Bearded Thoughts

low // // And ebb of love like beaches

touched by waves // // From dawn far into the nights, before the word

[My face is old now]

// Your writhing at my death has deeply

touched // // me. Though unknown to you, still you bewail // // my l

Between Life and Death

/ // Of embarrassment on everything it

touched , my mouth // // Soils everything, my speech smeared into your

[I am almost 25 years old]

/ // Outside her window, // // Hardly

touched the panes, // // Instead was broken into pieces, // // Colla

[The sun flattened]

generations. Each // // sentient being

touches and reshapes // // the world around her, far as she can reach

ding into music now, we trace // // in

touches of a single string, our source, // // flowing in everything,

// // Overcooked recipe books— // //

Tough , stringy leather around crumbling // // Pages // // Tapering

t drums that cry vanité! // // vanité!

tous n’est ce que vanité! // // But, creeping further in, she finds a

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

the outer darkness of the world // //

Towards a buried memory of light // // Whose faded trace no photograp

The Magic Apple Tree

/ // Print a wide arc, then slope down

towards // // A still canal, laced with rust that blooms // // From

Translation of Wallace Stevens’s ‘Notes

Towards a Supreme Fiction’, section 1: ‘It Must be Abstract’ // // 1.

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

// // And that each life is a movement

towards contemplation // // Of its abounding moment // // And that t

[At the coinciding point of the years]

s // // out into sunlight, over grass,

towards // // some distant point outside the picture frame. // // Wh

Cape Cod Morning

idea. // // Each line, a step, // //

Towards that moment // // Where it takes off. // // One stride too f

Falling Is Like This

ever building, swelling, // // Oozing

towards the battlegrounds ahead. // // The clash where flesh meets wi

The Other Side of the Line

mmock Water // // Wend your way // //

Towards the edge // // Where fell breaks // // On nothing but the sh

epherdess, // // Down through the dark

towards the grey church spire // // In to its heart : the arching app

The Magic Apple Tree

contrive // // To lean a pile of lines

towards the left. // // You’d have to be a fool to feel bereft // //

In Defence of Evolution

// Around our dying sun, // // Falling

towards the verge of sleep // // When all our wars are done, // // F

The Daily Planet

n all our wars are done, // // Falling

towards the verge of sleep // // Where, lying side by side, // // Th

The Daily Planet

crumbling // // Pages // // Tapering

towards well-thumbed // // Edges— // // Their camouflage of grease s

y the juggernaut, // // chucked in the

towel and had to join the queue // // in servile severance. // // On

// // Individually wrapped in kitchen

towel . // // One by one, // // I hold these things in my hands— //

. // // The mile south to the Martello

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

Walking in winter

// // A dirigible anchored to demotic

towers - // // Half-deserted, effluvial. // // A surety of sound and

ffiti. // // In between your trees and

towers // // I’d gaze away my hours // // safe from view; surroundin

luc bat to mr. beam

afternoon // // we walk to the edge of

town and on // // the mile across the river meadows // // to Grantch

Walking in winter

/ The dodo royals are dragged about the

town // // And rhyme’s extinction means egality. // // At least that

In Defence of Evolution

mpagne. // // The carnival has come to

town , // // The breeze is on vacation as // // The hot work begins,

ed was the evening sky. // // By Derby

town they settled down // // on purple sage to lie. // // A Cheshire

ess of their mother’s house. // // The

townsmen wonder why he draws // // When all he draws are pots and pan

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

s, has seemed a sign— // // not of the

town’s past, but of your fine // // bones, feather-forming in the fas

Spin’s more dangerous // // Myth more

toxic // // groundzeronineelevenwaronterrorbinladenbombingssuicide //

ddling with your hair. // // You could

trace a line, like a long sleek ribbon, through all lived history //

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

// // From Ilkley’s old stone bridge I

trace a path // // against the stream, back up the river Wharfe, //

Daydream Dale Journey

, // // Whose knived line carv’s out a

trace , a Well // // Cascading in with all its mights to Hell? // //

[What have we done]

e. // // Resounding into music now, we

trace // // in touches of a single string, our source, // // flowing

tried] // // I have tried // // (as I

trace my hand along the wood-grain // // which falls from the mantelp

ried memory of light // // Whose faded

trace no photograph records. // // You glimpsed it once within the ga

The Magic Apple Tree

it now, away upstream… // // So every

trace of light begins a grace // // In me, a beckoning. The smallest

// to dive // // is gone, sunk without

trace // // to greet the water channelling below. // // And you, voy

mile, plastered on my face, // // As I

traced our path to this point. // // “Feel better soon” // // Wrappe

The Notes You Have Left

// As though behind the sky itself they

traced // // The shift and shimmer of another river // // Flowing un

low down, // // it tumbles, trembling,

traces mindlessly // // a girdle of the globe. It gleams and disappea

[A spinning spider]

wer, // // we walk along the banked-up

track // // behind the wall, level with the top, // // running the g

Walking in winter

filled up with bliss, ’cause // // he

tracked down his Whiskas // // while the dear mouse dropped dead of s

The Failing of the Cheese

listing. // // The death rattle of the

track’s devouring // // And an incessant nattering of the doors that

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

a spot we can see! // // What will you

trade for an eye? AI might be cis, white, male, hetero, // // but at

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

lving curve of modern flight // // now

trade in futures on the wishing bone // // and flocks of starlings, s

morning breaks upon the night // // we

trade in futures on the wishing bone // // and learn too late that on

bird to post-Jurassic flight // // to

trade in futures on the wishing bone // // Hall in Bones and Cartilag

linnets nibble for to follow // // and

trade with her their needs, (all fame, // // all hopes will doubtless

/ // To afford the crowns of Cain, the

trademarks of Hester, // // Until she falls dead. // // O reputation

Furcula // // //

Trading futures on the wishing bone // // clavicles fuse in birds’ an

, preserving those // // Old childhood

traditions of tree climbing delight // // Fruit eating and the inevit

ore books, more coffee cups // // more

tragedies , comedies, histories // // more shapes, more colours, more

you hated my words, // // the words on

tragedy and elegy, words // // you praised so much—if you would // /

Sestina to an English Teacher

you see (trying so hard to relate it to

tragedy ), // // And wondering, as you roll into the snug sheets, if i

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

or two - pretty scene, but where’s the

tragedy ? // // Back to the books, // // Back to the justification, /

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

/ // keep its humour through elegy and

tragedy , could // // smile and tease and pass on courage, save // //

Sestina to an English Teacher

ok at the sky anymore, not unless it is

tragic , // // And even if you thought it was, // // You must plan wh

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ologise. // // It is tragic, it is all

tragic , // // At least, that’s what I’m told, that even the comedy is

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

the sky is tragic, // // I think it is

tragic because it is never not there. // // Feel free to argue with m

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

most likely. // // I think the sky is

tragic , // // I think it is tragic because it is never not there. //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

gress. // // I apologise. // // It is

tragic , it is all tragic, // // At least, that’s what I’m told, that

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

s high up in the hills. // // Surely a

tragic loading, // // Something to analyze here. // // Nothing can s

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ind something) // // They’d say it was

tragic , most likely. // // I think the sky is tragic, // // I think

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

what I’m told, that even the comedy is

tragic , // // Well, if you say so. // // I have no idea, // // So I

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

step across the gap // // Between the

train and the platform, the gap // // Constricting in a press of bodi

Poems on the Underground

stays on that crossing’ // // then the

train did the talking // // and we all went quiet // // but he wasn’

ep as the // // Doors open, the // //

Train disgorging scores of ‘excuse me please’ // // As passengers //

Poems on the Underground

he one we were crossing. // // and the

train that was crossing // // did all the talking— // // my deer, at

but at least it won’t talk to me on the

train . // // This might have been a very bad move. But don’t panic, c

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

d you. You began dreaming // // as the

train travelled through snow and ever nearer to the waves, // // and

[I often think of that January morning]

ed by the shuttered windows of the next

train — // // Watch, as all the panes steal your reflections. // // I

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

ok for me forever // // on the passing

trains and platforms // // while I // // Am dancing on your blind sp

frivolous dance, and escape from their

transcendental intrusion, // // of You. // // 6. // // Let It come

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

ng moment // // And that the creature,

transfixed by its time-blown boughs, // // Will find itself returned

[At the coinciding point of the years]

t. Soak up the rays and the air. // //

Transform the coloured flower into coloured flesh // // and hide a se

/ // of former pain written across me,

transforming the body’s blank page. // // I don’t understand why you

[I often think of that January morning]

Flyte // // Awestruck Oxonians, // //

Transgenerationally , // // Can’t help but emulate, // // Try as they

aid ‘Forsooth, I must punish my uncle’s

transgression but feta or parmesan now THAT is the question’ // // Wo

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

// and its leaves have all been lost in

transit , // // and the birds and the branches are unseen. // // Her

* // // * ‘You flesh to atone’ (Google

Translate , 2014). // //

Hercules et Oracle

gs // // up a hill // // could hardly

translate // // for a snake // // that was itself // // spokesperso

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge // // I

translate Greek words from a slab of stone // // the size of an ancie

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

rushing each letter // // in return he

translates Latin eulogies // // and we imagine their last seconds //

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

for I am well of love. // // The usual

translation is not raisins // // but flagons. Flagons might indeed /

The well of love

Translation of Wallace Stevens’s ‘Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction’, se

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

The startling chartreuse yellow, // //

Translucent as childhood fever // // Which once spelled time so slow.

leaves might fall

om depth to height—suddenly seem // //

Translucent in the glancing lights that show // // Where their quick-

Is it a memory?

s claw from its recycled shell, while a

translucent team // // of chameleon shrimps held a whiskery love-in a

Just a Small Fish

dinner has given way. // // Under the

transparent blister of a moon, // // A thumbtack lighting the midges

w // // no gravestones // // poor yew

transplanted // // wide-lipped pots // // ornamental // // shape cl

yew needs dried blood in spring

sy Discourse // // // // // // //

Transport yourself to the moment when these immortal words spilled fro

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

de, and sugar mice // // were a tensed

trap , and truffles could be wrapped // // any which way, were still t

Chocolate Sonnet

Mundane, a gaudy colour. // // Like a

trap the hand snaps shut, // // Creases more, // // Folds into itsel

[The sun flattened]

s told // // of daughters, lovers old,

trapeze // // swingers and graffiti. // // In between your trees and

luc bat to mr. beam

eld // // Over the flame, some strange

trapped , // // Untranslatable pain. // // What taste on the air //

Here be dragons

but safety first – // // you’re in the

trash dear Wayne – you wongaboy – // // since you forgot to check if

Between Life and Death

You began dreaming // // as the train

travelled through snow and ever nearer to the waves, // // and to the

[I often think of that January morning]

Pieces of Advice // // 1. Heat always

travels from hot to cold. // // 2. Never eat at an empty sushi restau

Three Pieces of Advice

ed, slanting lines of geese // // more

travels , journeys, voyages, expeditions // // more books, more coffee

retch shore to shore. // // Of bridges

traversing the Thames here in London, we’ve // // just thirty three—s

Troubled waters

s, glassware, cruets, // // Vases, ash

trays , cups, and bowls. // // What does he see in jugs and jars? //

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

msily // // into the slow // // black

treacle of the night air // // and see the simplicity // // moonligh

[The sash rattles up]

ins, of people. // // Just you, steady

tread and glinted eyes, // // Holding and held by darling thoughts, /

lk-soaked silence. // // Darkened feet

tread over a foreign space // // Which whispers with frustration at i

Vicious or Virtuous?

// // Not the torn tissue or even the

treasure beneath. // // My Grandmother says she saw // // Angel’s fe

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

now at last you know // // We hold you

treasure , evermore to teach. // //

ting ‘is this the poem?’ // // Let the

treasure maps go Marcus. The boundary between two // // Things is jus

kle memory— // // elusive and illusive

treasure , she. // //

Daydream Dale Journey

letter, the shriek. // // I have never

treasured the fingerprint // // sonic resonances of a snore. // // W

Aubade to Girton

d, for now, the wilder moor. // // The

treasures to be found along my path // // are elemental: water, sky a

Daydream Dale Journey

our floorboards. // // Ooh go on then,

treat ourselves to a fancy dress daydream // // and puff that renovat

sore want some fast relief: // // Heat-

treatment is the only cure; // // Everyone should give the bursar gri

BURR (or Brrrrr)

irmishes and wars, // // What peace or

treaty can there be // // Between two worlds like ours? // // Could

The Daily Planet

Trebetherick Point // // I hold the hazy shades at bay— // // The su

From Trebetherick Point

there in the crook of the crown of the

tree . // //

/ But, creeping further in, she finds a

tree // // ablaze with fragrant lemon-yellow suns, // // and, pickin

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

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

// This is your own, your ancient apple

tree // // And here the light you buried for so long // // Leaps up

The Magic Apple Tree

er // // A journey to the magic apple

tree . // // And journey also, darkling, through your past // // Jour

The Magic Apple Tree

each creature must find its way to this

tree // // And that each life is a movement towards contemplation //

[At the coinciding point of the years]

see yourself, and through yourself the

tree , // // And through the tree at last, the buried light. // // Bo

The Magic Apple Tree

sh, presents, crib, Christ Kind: // //

tree aspark and fizzing, in a cavern // // so unknown but home. // /

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

urself the tree, // // And through the

tree at last, the buried light. // // Boughs form an arch, the painti

The Magic Apple Tree

hose // // Old childhood traditions of

tree climbing delight // // Fruit eating and the inevitably ripped cl

nd the saffron-yellow orbs of our mango

tree // // Dangling by such slender stalks from its laden boughs. //

the infinity of the other // // As the

tree drops its leaves like yellow coin: // // NOW // //

[At the coinciding point of the years]

throbs against the wall // // And the

tree falls silent after receiving no entry. // // // // …If you c

Snapshot Endings

// // The loaded branches of the apple

tree , // // Glow red and ripe and gold and bow themselves // // To b

The Magic Apple Tree

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

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

. // // Lights still flickering on the

tree , // // I ain’t sleepy either. // // The angel then sings out, “

A Hymn to a Loved One

moonrise // // Sung beside the candled

tree . // // It was so for my childhood too // // When my eyes search

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

the deeps, // // leaves from the tale-

tree lifted, swift and free, // // shining, re-combining in their dan

cation for her joints. // // Or it’s a

tree long bereft of its roots, // // a prop for mother nature’s grand

Tree of Wisdom // // I thought I understood you once, // // Believe

The Tree of Wisdom

o a vivid centre— // // There stands a

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

[At the coinciding point of the years]

ne; // // Outside our window the cedar

tree // // Shook its head along with me, // // Blankly dismissing th

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

feet // // Firm in convictions that a

tree so generous // // Could never refuse us its ripe children to eat

ipped clothes. // // Or does the mango

tree solitarily stand // // Still constant, fruit-laden, generous and

The Magic Apple

Tree // // Someday make a journey through the rain // // Through sod

The Magic Apple Tree

ce, // // pattering the pattern of the

Tree . // // Summon the summoners, and let them sing. // // The summo

l, // // The image of an ancient apple

tree , // // The fall of light through branches and the fling // //

The Magic Apple Tree

lds, // // When flying to their messy,

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

[Walcott begins Omeros]

fruit // // While propped against the

tree trunk, kept cool in the shade // // My brother beside me, compan

ribed arcana // // runes from the root-

tree written in the deeps, // // leaves from the tale-tree lifted, sw

happy. I was stood in a forest of pink

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

[So the moon was there]

s, // // Slip out from under the heavy

trees // // And join the boy who bathes in the light of the moon. //

ely, darkening bowers // // Of bushes,

trees , and living, dying flowers. // //

[Walcott begins Omeros]

rs and graffiti. // // In between your

trees and towers // // I’d gaze away my hours // // safe from view;

luc bat to mr. beam

lly composed: // // the sky behind the

trees beyond the meadow, // // tall grasses glowing in the morning su

Cape Cod Morning

Of rooks opposed to any sawing of their

trees , // // Choosing, building, flying, feeding in the fields, // /

[Walcott begins Omeros]

ed grass. // // Dew dappled on falling

trees , // // Dancing shoes over broken shards. // // Burnished leave

Fall for————

lear across a great river, where // //

trees , grass and flowers can stretch shore to shore. // // Of bridges

Troubled waters

face. // // Between the shining silver

trees // // He waited for the world to freeze // // And ice to form

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

t // // is flickering between needling

trees ; history assures me it’s a house. // // If I can only reach the

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

es] // // I whispered my name into the

trees // // I mumbled my name to the dank moss in the bus shelter //

[I whispered my name into the trees]

[I whispered my name into the

trees ] // // I whispered my name into the trees // // I mumbled my n

[I whispered my name into the trees]

start to feed us, // // When from the

trees in Girton’s driveway come the caws // // Of rooks opposed to an

[Walcott begins Omeros]

es, // // Collapsed into the shattered

trees // // Like water flows down drains. // // If there had been a

[The sun flattened]

be // // And, likewise to two falling

trees , my bone, // // Unseen or seen, did spark a tiny fire. // // A

[What have we done]

of light, the glowing // // grass and

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

Cape Cod Morning

while forest // // palms and fingered

trees press tip and taproot // // down through decomposing leaves and

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

om Creamy keats with his mossed cottage

trees // // tasting the words themselves lke cottage cheese // // To

Cheese is the medium

A Song for the Planting of Fruit

Trees // // We sing waes hael, waes hael, hurrah! hurrah! // // A cu

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

hot. And so we just sat there, and the

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

[So the moon was there]

one’s saying yes. // // Even the plane

tree’s drop-earrings // // Have almost reached their seventy-percent

// // holding for an instant // // it

trembles // // and // // vanishes. // //

was so scared that I could feel a fear

trembling and leaping between my synapses. In all six hundred and fort

[So the moon was there]

s man? Perhaps only the ecstasy and the

trembling of love could awake him from his fantasy. True awakening flo

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

choose to slow down, // // it tumbles,

trembling , traces mindlessly // // a girdle of the globe. It gleams a

[A spinning spider]

r Book and the Rose. // // This is the

trial of fire and fire, for fire // // Alone holds fast that which he

Sixteen Forty-Five

. // // When a Hero formed part of the

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

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

Tribute to AQOH // // // // ]I[ // // // // // // /

A Tribute to AQOH

squatted, watched her, penned // // a

tribute with a claw pisswet, bloodwhorled, // // and badinaged with h

o mark the beach. // // Now I start to

trickle back // // over wet ground, under sky, // // from marsh just

e flood’s return // // push against my

trickle home, // // to creep back in when I have gone. It’s time: my

nd the glittering ebbstream // // that

trickled the head of the pool. Sand shivered a hermit // // crab’s cl

Just a Small Fish

, a crime to confront. // // The light

trickled through, // // A liquid reminiscent of // // Our despondent

oded // // by stagnant recess overfull

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

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

// You can’t revive a worn-out box of

tricks . // // Just like you can’t wear medieval sleeves // // Or hab

In Defence of Evolution

Tridente , 10th September // // With domes at our backs— // // the ci

Tridente, 10th September

mantelpiece in rivulets) // // I have

tried // // (as I peer at you sideways // // drawing my thoughts alo

[I have tried] // // I have

tried // // (as I trace my hand along the wood-grain // // which fal

tried ] // // I have tried // // (as I trace my hand along the wood-g

that are not yours. In your ennui, you

tried to control them, restrict their frivolous dance, and escape from

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

/ // A hungry old cat (Siamese) // //

tried to draw out a mouse with some cheese. // // But his scheming wa

The Failing of the Cheese

ushes in my coffee. // // As much as I

tried to forget, the memories resurfaced in echoes, // // and always

[I often think of that January morning]

ered to wrap. // // Ties, from when he

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

to save your // // voice, your image,

tried to save your life— // // if only // // words could // // save

Sestina to an English Teacher

// // The tide is high, and every wave

tries hard // // to breach the wall. And when it hits just right //

Walking in winter

es, // // And in every reader the poet

tries // // To foreground something strange and new. // //

trifle (with double cream) // // Dr Foster went to Gloucester // // f

// // need a new project to keep me in

trim — // // now the Gurkhas are happy—some shiny erection to // // b

Troubled waters

-line stanzas, three tetrameter and one

trimeter , rhymed ABAB. How prosaic! My judicious removal of selected

/ // nature’s glory. He renamed you La

Trinitaria , holy // // Trinity, and then conquered and claimed you in

/ state His glory. This land I name, La

Trinitaria , holy // // Trinity. Let’s alight now and claim her in the

Trinitaria // // ONE // // Columbus was the beginning, caravels cre

renamed you La Trinitaria, holy // //

Trinity , and then conquered and claimed you in the name of God’s grace

land I name, La Trinitaria, holy // //

Trinity . Let’s alight now and claim her in the name of God’s grace. //

Triolet // // We won’t give up our love, it is a given // // And giv

An Easter Triolet

empts of two wheels // // To end this

trip early. // // “Sorry” // // Your absence, far more valuable //

The Notes You Have Left

ls, // // Unfold from the face, // //

Trip from the tongue // // That speaks the Word // // Amidst the tym

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

ck and made the same unchartered // //

trip , remembering nothing of the things we’d seen, // // choosing aga

he pair of them off— // // it was like

triple trouble! // // They simmered down when he was about five years

ain. Columbus was the beginning, he saw

triplet hills peak- // // ing out from the emerald isle’s southern sh

rtfelt sigh. // // As the violin plays

triplets // // The final note is sung // // Diminuendo—soft, my love

les singing the day in // // The heart

trips and is under way // //

Fugue by water // // The heart

trips and is under way // // A harbour adorned with lights // // Sho

e as she wheezes on through; // // The

triumphant honk of a goose (astray) // // Or the farm-wife, with clip

and far, the song // // Called you; in

triune harmony you ascended. // // Amended death. I wish I could be f

scuffling back on the dirt they earlier

trod . // // His eyes are deep dark centre stones, // // Buried in sq

’Tis pity he’s a bore

archaic, rather like a caveman or some

troglodyte . // // We are too sophisticated now, // // Roman, concern

Bearded Thoughts

lad it was an epic cause the Greeks and

Trojans fought for, instead of finlandia swiss, gubbeen and brin d’amo

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

ead. // // “No milk” // // Pushing a

trolley through the stacks // // Of discounted washing powder and //

The Notes You Have Left

of them off— // // it was like triple

trouble ! // // They simmered down when he was about five years old, /

e net of your head, // // But deep and

troubled the head rolls inwards, implodes // // Without a sound or si

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

Troubled waters // // The good Lady Lumley is pondering glumly. “I /

Troubled waters

ng the head, and ploughing // // a red

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

ld // // And wore the bottoms of their

trousers rolled, // // I need characters like Tennyson, // // Who im

’s blouses, // // dad’s old shirts and

trousers , // // sorry to let them go.’ // // The pace is always //

In a charity shop

he illusion holds until // // a single

truck tyre appears, // // a sudden coalescence of storm and tar // /

love could awake him from his fantasy.

True awakening floats on the ocean of sleep. // // 8. // // MacCullo

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

that isn’t yours and can’t // // Seem

true . But there you lie—innocently // // Staring past the camera’s sm

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

g // // Blair // // Lied, // // It’s

true . // // He had to // // Lie, to prove there was // // A hideous

on; laziness, it shows. // // Descend,

true nature sprouts, like damp, decant- // // ing fungus. Brutish, Br

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

t it will // // occasionally not breed

true . Now strife: // // the different dittoes must compete for life.

xcluded by the precision of reason. The

true poet, who I call the major man, is a man of night, revery, and mu

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

ill, and added to your breaking; // //

True predators fear this world’s raw // // Venality that spurns your

t I can’t convey. // // What we say is

true , // // « Quand la sage montre la Lune, l’imbécile regarde son do

[She points to the sky]

d looks on in horror) // // but in the

true sense: // // beating mind dying with beating body. // // Five m

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

a nail inside my eyelids. // // Is it

true that a thing of // // (heart-stopping) beauty looks at you // /

ntly, they died as they lost touch with

true vitality of nature. // // 3. // // But poets have not given in

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

here was // // He had to. // // ‘It’s

true ’ // // Lied // // Blair // //

gar mice // // were a tensed trap, and

truffles could be wrapped // // any which way, were still turf slight

Chocolate Sonnet

d! Sailors, all hail! // // No isle is

truly godforsaken, give thanks for His majesty, // // these three hil

C* // // more thoroughly // // if I’d

truly intended to avoid falling. // // Now we’re “an item”, // // an

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

// Does it wash off, I wonder, does it

truly subside and quietly die in a corner like the living things? //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

y you might // // Play when the stakes

trump the game, and then dear // // Keep your wits about you and your

news: // // vainglorious hope they’ll

trumpet forth your K. // // So when the silver thief (who always came

Compass Reading

d look like // // a section of spalted

trunk — // // blackstrap coaly seams // // making the wood marbled. /

bout its canopy, // // and her clipped

trunk is an ash boomerang. // // Old woman wobbles back to her old ma

t // // While propped against the tree

trunk , kept cool in the shade // // My brother beside me, companiable

mesh eyes // // blinking on a pimpled

trunk // // snail-spotted and blooded // // by stagnant recess overf

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

Below, bestial lust // // Striped with

trust , meaningless fucks and love celestial. // // Two-faced words in

tes that are no more than signs— // //

Trust that the old choices hold wordlessly. // //

// Smiles and bravado that shield the

truth // // From the handshake. // // A handheld spotlight skims the

Vicious or Virtuous?

e forms rarely see the light // // The

truth is that they’re dead because they’re shite. // //

In Defence of Evolution

and I will be blacker than coal. if my

truth is wrong I want you to gouge it from me. use blunt, hoping, hopi

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

we’ve ceased all intercourse. // // In

truth I’d not part now, no more would you, // // but each of us, face

I accused her // // Of suppressing the

truth —so condemning our youth // // To be fed to that Cretan abuser.

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

generated by this ennui: the desire for

Truth , something that doesn’t change and they can have. Consequently,

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

n falls upon me, // // And reveals the

truth that I had feared. // // I sit beneath your branches, breathles

The Tree of Wisdom

e sky. // // From above you’ll see the

truth . // // That we’ve always been satellites // // Going around, a

[She points to the sky]

into that verb, // // But to tell the

truth would greatly disturb // // The poem’s appeal or mystery. // /

gness. You are mewling death. // // In

truth , you stagnant, solipsistic bore, // // You’re nothing, utter no

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

all and high up. // // With my hands I

try and cut the sun. // //

[So snow falls outside]

, // // Can’t help but emulate, // //

Try as they might. // // Higgledy Piggledy // // Oscar Pistorius //

/ // I will, don’t worry. // // [I’ll

try , don’t worry.] // // Give me a ring. // // You got it. // // [O

Whales sing because they have a song

he time comes we will pray for you, and

try not to forget // // Stockings spongy carpets the window clad

Drink and be merry

y into day, into day // // Into night.

Try not to think of me, // // Though you might, let this waste of sea

I could never be (ready)

questions // // interrogate me slap me

try that just // // one more time. Tell me have you seen Schiele’s //

onto the desk and away, // // And you

try to catch them in the net of your head, // // But deep and trouble

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ou from moving, // // Clanking, as you

try to disappear. // // Now the chain is a thousand daggers, // // P

// That crashes over you // // And you

try to gasp for breath, but you can’t // // And it feels like your he

I am not in my perfect mind // // As I

try to get my brain on line, // // Searching amongst my fact-debris.

Exam Room Villanelle

nd rhymes // // Of everything you see (

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

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

oyal is such a bloody chore. // // I’m

trying to be cheerful, but can’t fain it: // // With every line I hat

In Defence of Evolution

owhere, I stare // // Harder, longer.

Trying to be less alive, // // To lose this odium before I lose mysel

e half-formed house // // Of the brain

trying to crystallize, but so often falls at the first hurdle, // //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

um back to you—wait, don’t kiss me, I’m

trying to finish the story. And I swam back to you, and you’d made me

[So the moon was there]

ng for that one item on my list. // //

Trying to keep on course, despite // // The best attempts of two whe

The Notes You Have Left

Catalogue d’Oiseaux: // //

Trying to make you love me again // // Is like notating birdsong. //

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

ly basis, // // Almost as often as him

trying to teach me to change the laces in my shoes, // // Increasing

Three Pieces of Advice

// // from keys to coots // // while

trying to turn a phrase // // or check a reference on-line. // // Th

A Room of Her Own

clipped // // wind curves // // moles

tubers // // worm roots wait // // for spring // // when dried bloo

yew needs dried blood in spring

good for scattering // // from plastic

tubs // // feeding yew // // crooked elbow // // no gravestones //

yew needs dried blood in spring

e we’re late for dinner. // // So I’ll

tuck my mind back inside itself, and let it linger // // On the stirr

I’ll never work for Hallmark

play “sleeping satellite” with my scorn

tucked in a mason jar, the one thing left. she only hears whispers, “I

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

rose. // // This is our hexagram: the

Tudor rose // // Of sixteen forty-five unfolds its fire- // // Tongu

Sixteen Forty-Five

r rose. // // This is Sweet Briar, the

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

Sixteen Forty-Five

s of luminescent playfulness, // // On

Tuesdays for the boys in crinkled shirts, // // A break from labs and

Three gay rituals

hat isn’t yours. // // Kat couldn’t do

Tuesdays , so you covered instead— // // put out the biscuits, the cha

// By hand, hardening to the rocks each

tug , // // The upstream coming down ’coming more tame // // The clos

[What have we done]

feel like if I rock back and inch, I’ll

tumble and my bones will clatter. // // I don’t want to align my chak

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ap, than choose to slow down, // // it

tumbles , trembling, traces mindlessly // // a girdle of the globe. It

[A spinning spider]

kle fumbling // // with phonemes, come

tumbling // // back across the page: // // Love, Time, Ever, Age. //

ng. // // [And tossing and turning and

tumbling me into the weeds.] // // Make sure to come up for air. //

Whales sing because they have a song

m bared fists against jaws, // // From

tumbling to the concrete, eyes screaming from tear gas // // Thrown b

Three Pieces of Advice

ng metal as gravity falls away. // //

Tumbling upwards, being pulled by an invisible string held // // By a

Snapshot Endings

ffee-stained plastic floor, its frailty

tuned by too bright, // // White-gold light, suspending patterned nav

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

rst childhood snow. // // Humming show

tunes to test my voice // // Or lack thereof, because there isn’t any

The Notes You Have Left

glass, // // But blotted quickly by a

tunnel’s vulgar arrival. // // Those old eyes are achingly familiar.

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

// // How he strides, // // Warm air

turbulent // // expanding billowing fabrics, // // Exquisite timpani

’Tis pity he’s a bore

Tell // // me of cut chalk and // //

turf scalped red, ley lines and hillforts, // // invasions and massac

Wandlebury Hill

rapped // // any which way, were still

turf slightly warped. // // Eat junk? You might as well rummage thr

Chocolate Sonnet

ves from a mile away. // // Bloated on

turkey and stale conversation // // The pack turns their inquisitive

ead on, Spirit. // // Dad balances the

turkey , // // He was better than his word. // // The crackers sound,

A Hymn to a Loved One

rink to Christmas! and be merry! // //

Turkey on a platter from John Lewis, cinnamon infused bread sauce and

Drink and be merry

om keys to coots // // while trying to

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

A Room of Her Own

/ of waves upon the sand. Eastwards we

turn , // // along the open beach, in rich sea air. // // Look up, lo

Wells in winter

// make a dash for the mountain, // //

turn and bellow their challenge // // from the rim of their ridge. //

Nil Charge / Nil Return

at me. // // The moment passes, and we

turn anywhere: // // fear reflects between our eyes, // // without w

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

one direction or the other, but I see a

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

Vicious or Virtuous?

ures— // // ‘You go!’ ‘Now me!’ ‘Whose

turn for riding?’ Is this the poem? // // Last night’s kiss a broken

e eternal angelic fight. // // Still I

turn from peat-smoke laughter and librarian’s plight // // To where,

s midwinter dawn. // // It completes a

turn in the air // // with slow brute grace, // // then passes, //

e a secret inside. // // Feel the air.

Turn in the four winds. Broadcast the secret // // to earth, as far a

ng’s front-page news, // // And we—we

turn it over so you will not see. // //

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

you seemed so sad, but all you did was

turn , leaning over and reaching out as if to touch what ran below in s

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

rove, like port and venison, // // And

turn life’s lead to poems of pure gold. // // I need the poets now, w

window // // As the branches dance and

turn , // // The startling chartreuse yellow, // // Translucent as ch

leaves might fall

iance will not sleep, // // You cannot

turn to stone. // // Here are the slips of paper // // where you liv

Stone, Paper, Scissors

your soft smile each time my fingertips

turned a page, // // and every night I watched your mind dreaming //

[I often think of that January morning]

I’m craving more. // // My shoes have

turned a whole new shade of wet. // // My Frost-bit ears resound with

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

high // // He lay there till the stars

turned blue // // He lay there till his breath ran cold // // The bo

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

th a bull/man’s exciting), // // But I

turned on the charm: made her help me to arm— // // And reel in my r

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

poem? // // They told you sharks never

turned on their pilots—that’s your blood // // In the water—they’ve a

gather up all of the pieces: // // He

turned out a bore—I was dumped on the shore // // And now I have wed

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

on the hills of green // // Everything

turned strangely, oddly quiet // // The wind that blusters is strange

- 20:8:03-12:03:04 // // You have not

turned to stone // // and yet it is as stone // // that we must show

Stone, Paper, Scissors

/ // Coursing. // // [And tossing and

turning and tumbling me into the weeds.] // // Make sure to come up f

Whales sing because they have a song

have gone a long time ago, // // Feet,

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

p the mar // // Of what we’d done from

turning sour, while // // Sweet like shalimar // // Played on over t

ssed obsidian. // // The Sun will keep

turning . We just need to stay here. // // Right? // // All Mary had

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

e wrack in a finflick. // // Our nets,

turning weed, revealed nothing: no blenny, no bream— // // It was jus

Just a Small Fish

less wary, a little more loved, // //

Turns away and continues onwards // // Until the mile has become two

// The world moves the same: // // It

turns but doesn’t alter // // Its alterations; // // Then why do you

[The world moves the same]

the typist puts her knickers on // //

turns off the record, flickers on // // the switch, grabs her car-key

[the typist puts her knickers on]

// I’ll be interested to see how it all

turns out. // // I change the disc, it is not a record (I did lie to

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

res the surface, finds a snag, and then

turns — // // shearing me. Clearing me myself from hide. Hide? // //

and stale conversation // // The pack

turns their inquisitive gaze // // On me. Questions launched from all

r. // // Poof! // // Another metaphor

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

asual pop-culture reference, // // She

turns to leave the polystyrene cemetery, // // Blonde hair flicking l

// Tiresias the stripper’s son // //

turns to me and says: // // you should’ve written The Waste Land firs

[the typist puts her knickers on]

s revision one makes one and one // //

turtles and all reptilian life thus thrown // // into the evolving cu

thin the crepusc // // -ular tone, the

tusk // // is ground // // into the small hole in my side where your

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

tusk ! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! // // your eyes, weighted, watch the gl

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

tusk ! tusk! tusk! tusk! // // your eyes, weighted, watch the glass //

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

tusk ! tusk! tusk! // // your eyes, weighted, watch the glass // // s

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

tusk! tusk! tusk!

tusk ! tusk! // // your eyes, weighted, watch the glass // // snatch

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

tusk ! // // your eyes, weighted, watch the glass // // snatch its so

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

ium freely falls around my head, // //

Tuxedoed and awaiting recognition // // Of how bizarre the night can

micides and sixty-three violent crimes”—

tv -light // // and wonder: do I have it, or no? this meme of after-ni

The Flower // // Monday night, the

tv on, // // keeping us tied to the hundrum: // // you watching and

haffinches // // were twittering. The

twain // // with anglo-saxon attitudes // // then to Caerphilly came

ark a tiny fire. // // A lonely ember ’

twas , and did require // // Some movement to its fickle flame inspire

[What have we done]

// // But ’hind did seem sure death. ’

Twas in this pinch // // I rose my head. Above it to my heart // //

[What have we done]

heart // // A crack in distance shone—’

twas my ember. // // The flame brought me to my feet remember // //

[What have we done]

h, // // high on your bristling Harris

Tweed lapel. // // The smell of disappointment and of smoke. // // Y

Compass Reading

y since last December, // // Just over

twelve months now. // // Our voices warm the space around it, // //

Wild Mountain Thyme

this kind of wound, // // Kid: you’re

twenty -four years old. // // Get over it. You swim or you drown, //

Did you bury her yet?

regretted, felt cheated by // // that

twenty -minute hiatus. // // But the fire bore us no grudge, // // an

d us back into its glow. // // Another

twenty one years, // // another crematorium. // // This time Judith

Spell // // Summon the summoners, the

twenty -six // // enchanters. Spelling silence into sound, // // they

// I feel the heat upon my face. // //

Twenty three years later, when my mother died // // we had the proper

bnormal. Otherwise OK Cupid would think

twice // // About having one of its stupid questions to break the ice

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

on // // or to reflect a man // // at

twice his natural size. // // This is my space for scholarship // //

A Room of Her Own

every mile is two, // // and I’d walk

twice that for you. // //

can see the evening’s // // last blue

twilight , // // pressed between // // stormclouds like a flower, //

// And sewn our hearts together using

twine . // // You’re sure our threads are finally aligned, // // So w

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

/ // to admit my narcissism behind the

twinkling guitar riff // // and yell my apologies instead of typing /

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

hen flickers past // // A Milky Way of

twinkling roseate light— // // Shape-shifting, whispers ‘there is mor

nd legs lock together in an unbreakable

twist // // their kisses aren’t words // // and the great big massiv

Same but differenT

egg laid by a too-proud rooster // //

twisted copper about a girl’s wrists, her // // ankles, her throat.

and space and time // // seem cut and

twisted everywhere. // // Though, via a chink a softer glare // // s

were beards upon the face, // // A Mr.

Twit complex, the psychologists (clean-shaven and in black) might say.

Bearded Thoughts

eddar Gorge the chaffinches // // were

twittering . The twain // // with anglo-saxon attitudes // // then t

That speaks the Word // // Amidst the

tympanum . // // But hard by the rood-screen here, // // His face is

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

s fall to the furrow, // // Amidst the

tympanum , // // Hard by the rood-screen here. // //

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

Green Man, Mid-Winter // // Amidst the

tympanum // // His stone hair startles from // // A face in the foli

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

household fire: // // Here is Herbert,

Tyndale , Eliot—rare tongues // // Who in the fires of sixteen forty-f

Sixteen Forty-Five

to hide? // // Or the classicist, that

type of beard that looks like that of Hercules // // On plaster casts

Bearded Thoughts

// // and yell my apologies instead of

typing // // and deleting, admit my ugly want as the drummer // // s

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

typist puts her knickers on] // // the typist puts her knickers on //

[the typist puts her knickers on]

typist puts her knickers on] // // the

typist puts her knickers on // // turns off the record, flickers on /

[the typist puts her knickers on]

// // Higgledy Piggledy // // Oedipus

Tyrannus // // Murdered his father // // And knocked up his mum. //

y, // // We make a stand against their

tyranny // // And, just before we stagger through the exit, // // Di

ar bow. // // No woman ruled by orbing

tyrant queen; // // Umbilical tangen skywards, cut clean. // // I am

throat; // // To me it’s just another

tyrant’s coat. // // So, free verse, then, seems fittest to survive.

In Defence of Evolution

usion holds until // // a single truck

tyre appears, // // a sudden coalescence of storm and tar // // shud

// // From BAE. Do please sit here and

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