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

W

dlong dash abates—where I once was, the

waders team, rich foraging is // // in their sights—time for a gentle

// I stand motionless within a frame.

Wading fearlessly through // // the cold receding sea, with hair the

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

nd of dark // // We’ll sing waes hael,

waes hael, hurrah! hurrah! // //

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

f Fruit Trees // // We sing waes hael,

waes hael, hurrah! hurrah! // // A cup and a toast to seed, sapling,

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

ic of day and of dark // // We’ll sing

waes hael, waes hael, hurrah! hurrah! // //

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

Planting of Fruit Trees // // We sing

waes hael, waes hael, hurrah! hurrah! // // A cup and a toast to seed

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

gamboling gluttonous // // through the

waft from the grasses // // and unseen by their neat // // nihilaria

Nil Charge / Nil Return

My skin feels ’kin to a burning fire’s

waft , // // Sizzling at every edge and spitting ’oft. // // My open’

[What have we done]

hlegethon, // // Carrying your burning

wails into Acheron // // Your river of woe and death. // // Never to

t the breast against // // And worship

waist -deep in hands // // That tilled the salty earth // // No less

// // I want her to cut me open at the

waist with her clavicle // // And put me back together and seal the w

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

our mouth. // // My hand falls on your

waist // // your body is so familiar // // yet I have never known yo

r mask // // with steel miles ahead in

wait // // and then a new city. // // Now you are relegated to obser

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

ait instead. // // Like a Wiccan would

wait , because she knew // // That such a thing as Spring would come a

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

ter // // And should keep me going for—

wait …! // // DAEDALUS // // I blame the King’s first commission //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ng and swimming, and I swum back to you—

wait , don’t kiss me, I’m trying to finish the story. And I swam back t

[So the moon was there]

o return to dream—the // // Stars will

wait for him. // //

Here be dragons

s // // moles tubers // // worm roots

wait // // for spring // // when dried blood scatters // //

yew needs dried blood in spring

/ // Men and listening children // //

Wait for the ring of a bell, // // hush, presents, crib, Christ Kind:

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

// Right? // // All Mary had to do was

wait . Give it three days and He’ll return // // And bring salvation a

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

// But maybe I don’t need to sing; just

wait instead. // // Like a Wiccan would wait, because she knew // //

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

e arrive too late. // // Ariel. I am a

wait . // // So light a fire to the fang // // that cannot be reached

l’esprit d’escalier

em now. // // After all, it was in the

wait that we glimpsed magic. // // We witnessed in the silence, the d

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

ween the shining silver trees // // He

waited for the world to freeze // // And ice to form upon the breeze

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

// and to the place where I anxiously

waited with my coffee. // // Hours later we lay on the floor of your

[I often think of that January morning]

same bar // // with the same familiar

waiter pouring wine, awed and appalled // // by our own consistency,

ed me. // // In no-color, no-shape cup

waiter serves // // My tea. Sugar bowl fills not-white tablecloth sea

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

time we found coffee and wine, // // a

waiter who looked like a brother, and a place to talk. // // Years la

ps. // // I replay too detailed memory

waiter’s goodbye, smile of cabbie; // // Ambient objects. // //

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

ips and scores // // his mark into the

waiting clay; // // Telling the future his signature flaw. // // Cre

neath your branches, breathless, // //

Waiting for a moment to arrive, // // When out of your body comes un

The Tree of Wisdom

low depth of field // // Like a spirit

waiting for its clay; // // Because the abstractions of experience //

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

you’d been sat there for days and days

waiting for me to come back, the tea was still hot. And so we just sat

[So the moon was there]

st past my horizon. // // Body aching,

waiting , for my chalk outline. The last mark I’ll make, // // White a

Snapshot Endings

ay I feel // // My bones grow old with

waiting for the feel // // Of earth against their sides instead of fl

[My face is old now]

// // and, dressed for dinner, // //

waiting for the gong // // and one day to be asked. // // My own—a s

A Room of Her Own

el— // // This is where I hide, // //

Waiting for the smell in order to // // inhale the air that you’ve //

// Sighing, I make up my mind, // //

Waiting for when, the // // Doors clamp tight shut, like an oyster, (

Poems on the Underground

red blue sleeve; we’re worn // // with

waiting in dissention and denial. // // What will our children think,

ows gnaw at something worse. // // the

waiting lists are long, and you are drained. // // the billows settle

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

ating crashed-crushed // // Ideas, the

waiting of night upon night, // // An expectant lie on the grass, //

t rush now past the wee hours of // //

waiting on fronted news, the foreplay tense, // // the hot slit in a

Aubade to Girton

ad my chance—I have no more— // // I’m

waiting on tomorrow’s world; // // I’m ill; I’m hurt; I’m tired; I’m

the bones you crushed can rejoice. it’s

waiting there for you. maybe one day my skin will be stripped enough.

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

you exist outside of me // // Am I the

waiting well? // // For rainy days are far between, // // In restles

Who am I, Bernard?

follow him. // // There was a week of

waiting while they fought it out. // // There was a lull— // // But

Black September

to Its challenge. He slows down, stops,

waits , pontificates. Time and flux goes ahead of him, leaving him in t

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

// // The Sun, gentle, is rising in my

wake . // //

and rhythm of a bell… // // Were I to

wake alone I would be weeping // // With shiftless sorrow, restless,

e living things? // // With dreams you

wake , and feel as if you’d never shut your eyes, never ever not been s

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

il it breaks— // // Onward—I watch the

wake — // // And further—the ships nestle // // In their resting plac

From Trebetherick Point

Here be dragons // //

Wake as three screams take // // Flight, from window to shadow // //

Here be dragons

Wake . // // Feel the water. Push out below, // // tendrils into the

Home, with you // //

Wake me up to the smell of smoke, // // Midday, in dirty sheets with

Could I foretell the future // // The

wake of light on water // // Curved ache of a clear horizon // // Yo

/ You hold your hand in mine // // The

wake of light on water // // Whales singing the day in // // You hol

y-five // // Blow through the windows,

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

Sixteen Forty-Five

. // // Behind each moored boat runs a

wake : time to gush full spate. // // Now my headlong dash abates—whe

tless, rootless dread. // // Instead I

wake to warmth, to find you sleeping, // // My living comfort, burrow

home, // // Until you’re gone. // //

Wake up alone to empty thoughts, // // In the early evening now, day

A Hymn to a Loved One // // We

wake up to Radio 3, // // Hark! the herald angels. // // Float downs

A Hymn to a Loved One

stirs, // // As our son within // //

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

Here be dragons

For you will see the Dayspring at your

waking , // // Beyond your long last line the dawn is breaking”. // /

ry. // // They rustle through me in my

waking dreams // // And so I’ll have a heart-, a head-, a handful whe

The Cutting Edge

les’, as it were. // // But yesterday,

waking early, I observed // // open-a-fraction doors, down the corrid

happens that we miss or forget, // //

waking from dreams of the house in my head, // // that old haunt stil

ways I found myself staring at the sea.

Waking , sleeping, dreaming. // // I am still dreaming; everything bre

[I often think of that January morning]

Walcott begins Omeros] // // Walcott begins Omeros with cutting down

[Walcott begins Omeros]

[Walcott begins Omeros] // //

Walcott begins Omeros with cutting down some cedars: // // We shudder

[Walcott begins Omeros]

south to the Martello tower, // // we

walk along the banked-up track // // behind the wall, level with the

Walking in winter

tting on my neck. // // I know now you

walk as a man angel hunter. // // I could vomit // // Blood and wate

new city and in love, we took a mapless

walk // // at dawn, choosing our course by instinct, taking // // le

meadows // // to Grantchester. As we

walk back // // against the wind it starts to snow. // // A snowdrif

Walking in winter

skin, the seeping rot of loneliness. I

walk // // Barefoot across the damp ground of my thoughts, // // Squ

[I am almost 25 years old]

all along, it seems. // // And we can

walk smugly, the both of us, into the Spring sunset, // // Because th

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

e subsoil of your oldest memory. // //

Walk through the outer darkness of the world // // Towards a buried m

The Magic Apple Tree

ried in the rubble of your fall. // //

Walk through the present darkness till you come // // To the stone st

The Magic Apple Tree

he open path leads on, // // a gentler

walk , to bare bleak Malham Tarn. // // Then back to skirt the edge of

Daydream Dale Journey

/ One cold winter’s afternoon // // we

walk to the edge of town and on // // the mile across the river meado

Walking in winter

/ // That golden afternoon in which we

walk // // Together through the meadow? Touch and talk // // Are min

Is it a memory?

/ and every mile is two, // // and I’d

walk twice that for you. // //

at themes as these, // // talking they

walked and walking talked— // // but never once of cheese. // //

// Everything snapped and you left, you

walked away. // // So I struggle to find an end, an epilogue. // //

The Other Side of the Line

Cheshire cat accosted them, // // then

walked his wild way // // alone. In Swale- and Wensleydale // // th

de of blue. // // We hugged goodbye. I

walked home and made coffee, // // then sat and poured my thoughts ov

[I often think of that January morning]

ether, dreaming // // of nothing as we

walked through the waves. // // Lying dizzily on the cliffs, we liste

[I often think of that January morning]

On plaster casts. // // No longer when

walking down the street can one compare each specimen, // // Like one

Bearded Thoughts

Walking // // // // 2H // // ‘Two Hard’, too hard. // // School s

Three Ways of Walking

, flying, feeding in the fields, // //

Walking , hopping, stirring earthly leas, // // Serenading us among ou

[Walcott begins Omeros]

// my index finger extended in front,

walking in a straight line, tied to the inexorability of pace and //

king in the meadow] // // They saw him

walking in the meadow // // In May he stood beneath the willow // //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

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

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

Walking in winter // // Berkshire, 1962-3 // // This year it snows o

Walking in winter

Wooden // // Her

walking -stick is a divining-rod // // or an oil rig, thudding into th

s these, // // talking they walked and

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

// more boat or cycle rides // // more

walks , more bluebell woods // // more curlews, more ragged, slanting

After the blood has been wiped from the

wall — // // After the wires we'll thread through your jaw— // // We'

A continuous shriek throbs against the

wall // // And the tree falls silent after receiving no entry. //

Snapshot Endings

ry wave tries hard // // to breach the

wall . And when it hits just right // // the spray rises a mile into

Walking in winter

-gated pointed arch // // piercing the

wall , built like the house // // of weathered Cotswold stone. // //

// forgotten quotations unpeel from the

wall // // glide down. // //

g the banked-up track // // behind the

wall , level with the top, // // running the gauntlet of the winter st

Walking in winter

// surety of pressing the phone on the

wall miles away // // in a world of digit meets digits, // // space

You glimpsed it once within the garden

wall , // // The image of an ancient apple tree, // // The fall of l

The Magic Apple Tree

it’s only your head // // Hitting the

wall , then the floor // // As it consumes you // // And it’s not a s

A Translation of

Wallace Stevens’s ‘Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction’, section 1: ‘It Mu

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

ouse; enclosed within its arms // // a

walled garden, left untended // // for maybe thirty years. A winding

oreign coin of size of 20p fell from my

wallet in stopping taxi, // // Filled that space for years—It makes n

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

breaking // // concentration until the

walls dissolved around me, the small house // // of my room washed aw

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

about breaking // // things scratching

walls hiding under bedsheets, // // buoyed by the colourless memory o

the steady gaze of grey // // hospital

walls . Roses in empty wine bottles unfolded in the house, // // anxio

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

feel too much. // // // // …Bleached

walls stare into pale skin, each keeping the warmth // // In while th

Snapshot Endings

by-faced gangster chic, // // How many

Walts do we see in Market Square on a Friday night? // // We distrust

Bearded Thoughts

// and Barden Bridge—and now I flick my

wand // // some miles of dale and moor to skip across // // and find

Daydream Dale Journey

rly in the evening, we left the school.

Wandering out along the darkening lanes we went to cross the river, bl

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

Wandlebury Hill // // Are // // you // // Gog or // // Magog? Tell

Wandlebury Hill

gged cleft. // // A wax of fire—shrill

waning hearts— // // Then silence, and my life bereft. // // Dinner

o make a difference old, // // I don’t

wanna be told ‘I love you’. I want it // // To come and wreck me. //

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ping // // and deleting, admit my ugly

want as the drummer // // sweats because it’s supposed // // to hurt

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

emanates always from her eyes. // // I

want her to cut me open at the waist with her clavicle // // And put

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

d my legs start to give, // // I don’t

want her to pay any attention. // // She’s too busy cavorting around

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

limping blind through Siberia, // // I

want her to restart the solar system with the light // // That emanat

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

something (“how are you?”) // // and I

want her to say something back. // // I open my eyes // // She is no

/ I don’t wanna be told ‘I love you’. I

want it // // To come and wreck me. // // And I don’t mean ‘wreck’ a

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

I want them there // // Or whether you

want my voice, my eyes. // // Probably not. // //

// Obsessive over the kind of love they

want reserved // // For romance but I am too porous, every touch soak

[I am almost 25 years old]

the College bird. // // The burr-sore

want some fast relief: // // Heat-treatment is the only cure; // //

BURR (or Brrrrr)

dered catatonic by the impact. // // I

want someone whose smile makes the sun fizzle out in modesty // // So

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

fate, // // You’d best make a bet I’d

want that wave to be set // // in motion by my beloved, her gleaming

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

f their imaginations stoked // // Some

want the facts as hard and cold, as they very thing cheese! as it is g

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

t their soul to be gently stroked; they

want the fire of their imaginations stoked // // Some want the facts

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

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

want the rest. // // I want to hold the book // // of you. You woul

Stone, Paper, Scissors

heese! as it is growing old // // They

want the superb, the surreal, the mundane, a torrent of individuality

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

e more from art that cheese // // They

want their soul to be gently stroked; they want the fire of their imag

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

nto mine. // // I can’t tell whether I

want them there // // Or whether you want my voice, my eyes. // // P

id not ask them to come, I did not even

want them to come. You feel this too don’t you: in your sleepless nigh

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

d my bones will clatter. // // I don’t

want to align my chakras; I want to them to shatter. // // I’m sure i

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// the softness of her hair. // // I

want to ask her something (“how are you?”) // // and I want her to sa

ailed to spot, // // But I feel like I

want to be entirely destroyed by love. // // Not like that. // // I

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ot through to me. // // I don’t always

want to be having this conversation with myself. // // For years—for,

if it doesn’t kill me // // I at least

want to be rendered catatonic by the impact. // // I want someone who

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ccess comes sweet at last. // // All I

want to do is cut you up. // // My hands snip snip in the air. // //

[So snow falls outside]

rge to fit inside your head. // // You

want to escape // // But you can’t, // // But you won’t // // Becau

and a sky of blue. // // Like a seed I

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

[I often think of that January morning]

// Telling you about things you don’t

want to hear. // //

// to hurt and the crowd hear what they

want to hear; // // instead I’m staring at want’s damp shoes // // o

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

// of reach. I want the rest. // // I

want to hold the book // // of you. You would be soft, // // whole,

Stone, Paper, Scissors

ing anywhere but near. // // Here they

want to leave, // // There, the sound of boots make me dry heave. //

Ode to a map of the world

below. Pause. I think I just

want to really feel. // // Un-pause. Furl my sparrow wings poised at

ow to write poems // // because I just

want to scream them until I’m hoarse, // // to admit my narcissism be

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

ate. // // Death certificate. // // I

want to see the rest: // // a ticker-tape parade, // // a paper-show

Stone, Paper, Scissors

hild” and I can bend and break when you

want to snap me. cleanse me with hyssop and I won’t be clean. wash me

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

s // // three years in boxes. // // I

want to take this moment and fossilise it. // // forgotten quotations

// the focus of her gaze: does he not

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

Cape Cod Morning

// I don’t want to align my chakras; I

want to them to shatter. // // I’m sure it’s not abnormal. Otherwise

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

jected love letters abandoned. // // I

want you to feel the same, but— // // I’ll call you back soon. // //

Fall for————

acker than coal. if my truth is wrong I

want you to gouge it from me. use blunt, hoping, hoping and hoping. le

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

aise // // might just be musing if I’m

wanted now // // by you alive or dead? Live I could raise // // a co

Between Life and Death

resco eyes, // // I had to show what I

wanted so to tell. // //

in an instant // // when all I’d ever

wanted was to be free // // from any of the associated risks and haza

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

n thinking // // ‘that’s what she’d’ve

wanted ’. // // Her scarf, her necklace. // // That brooch. // // Or

In a charity shop

ly, // // Muscles eased and tired, not

wanting everything. // // There was a hint or flash of something //

[The sun flattened]

eless and hopeless, pathetically // //

wanting no more and // // expecting no // // less. // // Tim was th

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ipping my toe // // This is where s/he

wants me to stay. Wishing for a chest. // // I am

[She points to the sky]

to hear; // // instead I’m staring at

want’s damp shoes // // on the dark path back from college, refusing

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

ebb // // ignites arena morn: // // I

war dirt-up, image-bled, // // if nine demon ever did, god-won // //

Hercules et Oracle

/ Nameless faces tell us we’re going to

war , // // I wonder where they think we’ve been. // // Each in our u

// // There was a bitter, civil // //

war in Jordan. // // There was a gun. // // There was a bullet, stra

Black September

War is not nice’—Barbara Bush // // There is a picture of you that we

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

an unseen enemy on his way up. // // ‘

War is not nice’, but we accept the battles // // In return for our s

the silence spell our hexagram. // //

War means supplication: the hexagram— // // Once print, now prayer—in

Sixteen Forty-Five

ing by our narrative. // // Isn’t this

war ? // // She points to the sky. // // See from up there, // // T

[She points to the sky]

// // Just so his father, prisoner of

war // // Then casualty of blue austerity; // // Just so my father,

Black September // // // There was a

war . // // There was a bitter, civil // // war in Jordan. // // The

Black September

lds its fire- // // Tongued text: this

warfare is the strife that binds. // //

Sixteen Forty-Five

Warfare // // Nameless faces tell us we’re going to war, // // I won

rm the space. // // Our voices, // //

Warm . // //

Wild Mountain Thyme

the valley sound // // through still,

warm air, // // clear to my vantage point on higher ground. // // Vo

the valley sound // // through still,

warm air. // // On the top deck of a 68 // // Voices, ipods, phones

s a bore. // // How he strides, // //

Warm air turbulent // // expanding billowing fabrics, // // Exquisit

’Tis pity he’s a bore

d Mountain Thyme, // // And our voices

warm // // And swell around // // The sunken armchair left // // Em

Wild Mountain Thyme

// The swamp up which I move, ever more

warm , // // And though at start I find I face a swarm // // Of loose

[What have we done]

promise of a BA gown // // can keep me

warm , // // but I shall not despair // // now men can come to tea. /

A Room of Her Own

grief— // // Have protests along her (

warm ) corridor. // // Every Girtonian burrs like a Scot, // // At ev

BURR (or Brrrrr)

rness of their own oceans. But drinking

warm earl grey // // tea with you, all I could taste was pure happine

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

was to miss the glory of it— // // The

warm egg // // Dropping from the golden heaven of her vent // // Mis

[No point, she said]

on for one brief hour // // the air is

warm enough to melt // // the topmost layer. The frost returns // /

Walking in winter

— // // is-my-beloved-son yawn. // //

Warm flesh through feathers pressed // // like a sponge-print. // //

/ I’m roped on to the source, luminate,

warm , // // Floating up seemingly by force ’gainst law // // Of Newt

[What have we done]

u look so nice: fresh-dressed and still

warm from // // Your bath—calm as the sun’s unknowing light, // // N

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

on air’s pale vellum, // // Us in the

warm , in the yellow, // // The outside plumbing blues and blacks. //

the nilherds are snoring // // wrapped

warm in their nilpelts // // the nil strain – tight pressed // // in

Nil Charge / Nil Return

els to be standing here // // but it’s

warm inside // // so we leave // //

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

it amongst the blooming heather, // //

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

Wild Mountain Thyme

at sundown // // when it rains great,

warm // // Mediterranean drops. // //

Tridente, 10th September

ight // // drink! and be merry! // //

Warm , mellow bread breath chanting and a song // // drink to win

Drink and be merry

offee, // // filling and unfilling the

warm mug in murky waves. // // The ink I wrote to you in was always b

[I often think of that January morning]

f you. You would be soft, // // whole,

warm . Not paper. // // I am using scissors to cut // // a square aro

Stone, Paper, Scissors

slept on // // their chest to keep it

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

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

throes, // // Now, bursar, now, let us

warm our toes. // //

BURR (or Brrrrr)

Christ! and be merry! // // Sanitized

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

Drink and be merry

er twelve months now. // // Our voices

warm the space around it, // // Hide it amongst the blooming heather,

Wild Mountain Thyme

/ // Pick around it. // // Our voices

warm the space. // // Our voices, // // Warm. // //

Wild Mountain Thyme

light bulb, // // It takes its time to

warm up, and can, apparently, cause a rash, // // But you’d roll your

I’ll never work for Hallmark

essly, compact // // No more as to the

warm we came, and roll’d // // Away to join my sweat and flesh below,

[What have we done]

only reach the red front door, porridge

warm with honey // // sits upon the stove, and my Grandmother will lo

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

heets creak in the night as you wrap up

warm with worn-out future thoughts, // // Of poems half-remembered, l

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

top moth-light. Rendered absurd— // //

warmed by un-canned laughter and crackling fire-breath // // (Sound-b

d. // // In it you’re lying on the sun-

warmed , deep-veined wood // // Of an old pine table. Between the wood

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

ispered words hushed round // // a sun-

warmed pillowed land of // // South Georgia sunsets, and // // bouga

luc bat to mr. beam

ult // // of night-time on my radiator-

warmed skin // // And the crunch of the season underfoot // // And t

[The sash rattles up]

l at home // // the small gas fire has

warmed the room // // against the cold outside. // // (But that was

Walking in winter

o that, your pancake-batter skin is the

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

// grass and trees outside her window,

warming // // in the sun? Or maybe nothing—maybe she // // is pensi

Cape Cod Morning

Spread out a green canopy // // in the

warming sunlight. Soak up the rays and the air. // // Transform the c

colours of the flames. // // Drawn by

warmth , I came to see you, // // which I do. You look back at me. //

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

// // I’ll call you back soon. // //

Warmth in 5 o’clock dark, // // You smell like watching rain fall //

Fall for————

stare into pale skin, each keeping the

warmth // // In while the branch outside knocks, drum-like, // // Po

Snapshot Endings

hundred years // // With this aura of

warmth // // Its amber hues remind me // // of what it is to be aliv

rt made of // // iron and stealing the

warmth of his ring. // // Fiddling, jittering, spluttering, crying //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

, // // smell the air, // // feel the

warmth of the fire, // // listen to the lapping of the water, // //

ernoon as my leg // // slumbers in the

warmth of the radiator // // and the snow is no longer faintly fallin

why i’m getting into Christmas

e water and unremarkable in the morning

warmth ; // // our exquisitely ice-etched selves drowned, like ice cub

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

such thing as cold, just an absence of

warmth ? // // That can’t be right. // // Let me check the textbook a

Three Pieces of Advice

ootless dread. // // Instead I wake to

warmth , to find you sleeping, // // My living comfort, burrowed in ou

e seen the sun? // // I still feel its

warmth . // // [You’d brighten my day more.] / [Too long.] / [ Winter

Whales sing because they have a song

rust. // // The shuttle flits through

warp and weft // // And hands recall hands from silent dust. // // T

any which way, were still turf slightly

warped . // // Eat junk? You might as well rummage through bins, //

Chocolate Sonnet

en wave-shapes // // dipping into knot

warps and sanded-down blemishes) // // To imagine // // (your contou

who dares me eat a peach? // // Time’s

warring chariots can clatter by— // // we have the earth, the water a

e. // // Its five red petals breed six

warring tongues // // That in the silence spell our hexagram. // //

Sixteen Forty-Five

balance. // // The brave and fearless

warrior will cross the road // // To avoid the reminder that success

the verge of sleep // // When all our

wars are done, // // Falling towards the verge of sleep // // Where,

The Daily Planet

the fathers they had

wars but not like these did they ever ask the question // // Wh

battle rolls, // // The skirmishes and

wars , // // What peace or treaty can there be // // Between two worl

The Daily Planet

way, the ideal me, // // A little less

wary , a little more loved, // // Turns away and continues onwards //

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

wary orbits we must keep // // Around our dying sun, // // Falling t

The Daily Planet

things that Michael breaks // // Will

wash away his refuge. // // As he watches from the window // // For

mpty sushi restaurant. // // 3. Always

wash blood off in cold water. // // 1, given to me for the first time

Three Pieces of Advice

k bleeds a honey // // that will never

wash from my hands. I guard myself like a honeycomb house. // // I wo

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

aggers cold. // // My eyes obscured by

wash , I blindly dug // // My place, lifting my molten body’s mold //

[What have we done]

se me with hyssop and I won’t be clean.

wash me and I will be blacker than coal. if my truth is wrong I want y

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

tain your hands forever. // // Does it

wash off, I wonder, does it truly subside and quietly die in a corner

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

liquid form, they blend. // // A faded

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

[What have we done]

d me, the small house // // of my room

washed away on a tide of sleep. Suddenly I’m running. Grey // // wolv

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

eful compromise, // // the hours spent

washing bathroom tiles of blood. // // you pray for rain, but no reli

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

through the stacks // // Of discounted

washing powder and // // Garish Christmas wrapping paper, // // Look

The Notes You Have Left

ced that you’d slipped away? // // The

Washington distraction must have helped. // // So good of you to come

ft, // // I let my body fall again, be

wash’d // // Into direction mapp’d by playing drums. // // One knife

[What have we done]

ept a gust // // Of fumes and dust and

waste , and she was left a- // // mid the disappointing debris of the

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

ice. // // And, I wish // // We could

waste another afternoon // // away. // //

g off our kids: ruthless in cutting off

waste ! // // Fairy-free gardens have as many colour purples raining;

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

and charr’d, // // Destin’d to be the

waste fate does discard. // // Yet, time allowed, what seems fine cha

[What have we done]

says: // // you should’ve written The

Waste Land first time round Nickerson. // //

[the typist puts her knickers on]

// // the next: “getting so drunk is a

waste of // // my time, the college’s time, the porter’s time,” etc.

Aubade to Girton

f me, // // Though you might, let this

waste of sea intervene. // // The horizon, I know, won’t let me forge

I could never be (ready)

, unkind // // and lewd; you onanistic

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

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

y with the rest. // // The man has not

wasted his life— // // It’s been well-spent, and’s gone exactly as he

e and claim it—take it back— // // you

wasted ink and were bound to miss. // // From now on all unaccountabl

The Dead Letter Office closes down

s can’t tell me enough, // // That I’m

wasting my life away— // // But your room is my escape, // // You, w

tirring forms are flickering. // // We

watch and hold each other’s hands till evening, // // And as we watch

Is it a memory?

tered windows of the next train— // //

Watch , as all the panes steal your reflections. // // I look at you,

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

th, // // Where frontiersmen stand and

watch // // Elbowed dog-wise against the rumour // // Of Africa. //

’s hands till evening, // // And as we

watch , our souls dart to and fro // // Between the lights of speech a

Is it a memory?

d remote— // // His angel sisters keep

watch over // // The stillness of their mother’s house. // // The to

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

from // // out of the darkness, // //

watch the brightness // // squirm, then smile, then // // strike wit

Bright, Pale Yellow

tusk! tusk! // // your eyes, weighted,

watch the glass // // snatch its sound out the air. // // in little

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

as we sit beside the stream // // And

watch the minnows swim against the flow. // // They dart between dark

Is it a memory?

/ sighs to my teeth. // // Deafness, I

watch the sea. // // See ripples. She’s watching too. // // He needs

l’esprit d’escalier

ldn’t you just sit,’ I ask, // // ‘and

watch the street outside change, // // and the people // // change,

In a charity shop

brims until it breaks— // // Onward—I

watch the wake— // // And further—the ships nestle // // In their re

From Trebetherick Point

ve set you going like a fat gold clock (

watch !) ticking // // Boxes on an Apollo checklist; stuck at some poi

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

of words unspoken— // // She hopes to

watch you drown. // // When you exist outside of me // // Am I the w

Who am I, Bernard?

ellation lost // // On a promontory we

watched // // And the night stared back // // The shock of a constel

om that night // // On a promontory we

watched // // As the thunderstorm struck the sea // // The shock of

s with its swinging fleur-de-lys // //

watched by the crystal prism’s sharp-cut eye? // // It represented su

Compass Reading

/ // ankles, her throat. It squatted,

watched her, penned // // a tribute with a claw pisswet, bloodwhorled

we’re not in Kansas, anymore // // I

watched my grandfather die in his voice. hurry boy, “your light points

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

/ So we lay on the rock in the heat and

watched the sea’s magic // // unfold to the music of wind and the gli

Just a Small Fish

// cutting through the quiet. // // I

watched you, crossing // // your arms. At the Railroad // // we were

turned a page, // // and every night I

watched your mind dreaming // // before my unconscious swallowed me l

[I often think of that January morning]

Will wash away his refuge. // // As he

watches from the window // // For the final stroke // // In Lily’s m

// Sat behind the counter, // // old

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

In a charity shop

ping us tied to the hundrum: // // you

watching and I, lamely, pretending // // to read. Then you were bendi

// no-one else to spend her days // //

watching , and so thought she might // // hide the fact // // in stal

In a charity shop

ll the wide obliging sea // // Nor his

watching from the window, chin-heavy // // Will sweep away this red r

painting very seriously // // Nor his

watching from the window, impassive // // Blood dries quicker than pa

other sits in the corner, // // she is

watching me as I sleep, // // from the wicker chair. // // I need no

your kohl eyes must have stared // //

Watching new generations play. Then dared // // A young voice call: ‘

// For something always exists - // //

Watching others, irregularities abound, and you realise how very diffe

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

n 5 o’clock dark, // // You smell like

watching rain fall // // In burnt amber light, // // With an old mov

Fall for————

bone-ground my eyes linger; // // I am

watching the boy take off his shoes, // // Slipping them easy as peel

all alone with our // // Camel lights

watching the floating moon. // // We went driving in your parents’ ca

atch the sea. // // See ripples. She’s

watching too. // // He needs to hear the screams, // // But all I do

l’esprit d’escalier

watchingOn the Huntingdon Road. // // They found him, petrified, //

Urban bird watching

urse // // has a source // // of pure

water : a still. // // Garden shed // // with a still? Local // //

There must be moonshine

re. // // The others too I love—Earth,

Water , Air—but Fire // // is something else again. // // A memory //

ing to echoes through earth, I long for

water and a sky of blue. // // Like a seed I want to grow. But all I

[I often think of that January morning]

re, // // listen to the lapping of the

water , // // and gaze into space. // // We have the space // // and

me lives in fire, // // leaving us the

water and the air. // //

atter by— // // we have the earth, the

water and the sky. // //

t frosted on car windows // // will be

water and unremarkable in the morning warmth; // // our exquisitely i

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

eet. // // The speckles of weed on the

water are like chips of dark gold // // Under the magnesium moon. //

To touch and brush a sheen of light on

water // // As though behind the sky itself they traced // // The sh

seconds before waves flooded my boots,

water breaking // // into damp dust around my knees and my smile brea

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

—I’m used to humour. // // Yeah. Drink

water ? // // Can’t drink anything without it. // // You know what I

Whales sing because they have a song

ised and primed // // as she flees the

water channelling below. // //

sunk without trace // // to greet the

water channelling below. // // And you, voyeur, // // approach the l

is, // // she jumps // // to meet the

water channelling below. // // Held aloft by spray // // she floats

ing beneath her feet // // to meet the

water channelling below. // // The crowds stand restless with suspens

d the gleam // // Of sunlight in green

water —come and go // // Like us from depth to height—suddenly seem //

Is it a memory?

the future // // The wake of light on

water // // Curved ache of a clear horizon // // You hold your hand

hang up her cross, // // Pour the holy

water down the sink, // // Take up the pom-pom instead. // // But th

ed into the shattered trees // // Like

water flows down drains. // // If there had been a bird // // No dou

[The sun flattened]

down below, the earth // // is mostly

water . // // From across the waters // // blow the evanescent airs /

ndergrowth. // // Silent drip-drops of

water from pelt. // // Soundless patter of padding paws. // // A pan

He who made the Lamb

// // 3. Always wash blood off in cold

water . // // 1, given to me for the first time while helping me with

Three Pieces of Advice

is pointed foot will break the skein of

water ; // // I love that bubble-burst every time. // // The cold he

Diorama // // Sheets of

water laminate the windows // // as if to reverse // // the myth of

ll not dry // // The boat rocks on the

water like a drum. // //

be shown, // // Did seem to rise that

water made of stone. // // Away dropp’d all my fat as up I rose, //

[What have we done]

Epicycle // // Wake. // // Feel the

water . Push out below, // // tendrils into the dark and damp. Now pus

g dark. // // Feel the earth. Feel the

water return // // to the dry ground. Let the cooling dark // // set

I find I face a swarm // // Of loosen

water rocks, I soon surmise // // The more I climb the softer each st

[What have we done]

und along my path // // are elemental:

water , sky and earth // // and rock and air; no fire and no gold, //

Daydream Dale Journey

// Absentmindedly I missed the jar of

water , swirling brushes in my coffee. // // As much as I tried to for

[I often think of that January morning]

ght from space // // reflected in inky

water , // // the cool night air // // slows down time. // // Now is

water // // The heart trips and is under way // // A harbour adorned

ky? // // Well, the skies became

water . The moon was the only thing keeping the sky in place, you see,

[So the moon was there]

pilots—that’s your blood // // In the

water —they’ve always been lying. Is this the poem? // // The cloud sh

. // // I could vomit // // Blood and

water upon my feet // // And say never, never forgive him // // He k

Water // // Wend your way // // Towards the edge // // Where fell b

and in mine // // The wake of light on

water // // Whales singing the day in // // You hold your hand in mi

ck will they do if they catch the what,

water ? Why would aquarium be a freshers’ event? // // You’re not anno

Whales sing because they have a song

moving-you- // // over-the-face-of-the-

water wings, // // detaching the head, and ploughing // // a red tro

t, because although it sat alone in the

watercloured skies, the moon could never be king. And I was king

[So the moon was there]

n layer upon layer of blue // // until

watercolours splattered my sleeves and the drowning page. // // Absen

[I often think of that January morning]

und and round, stuck to the bed, // //

Watered into the ground by the // // Endlessness repeating crashed-cr

are thrown and fired, // // crops are

watered . // // Seasons and years are counted and timed. // // Philos

// Adrift on spewing, insipid, lusting

waters , // // Aren’t I porous and malleable in the gloaming? // // I

Frighteningly Inert

is mostly water. // // From across the

waters // // blow the evanescent airs // // moistening the many-colo

// // and the time // // to cross the

waters , // // explore the earth, // // and send signal fires // //

Frighteningly Inert // // Adrift on

waters // // Stagnant, charged, ion wet, // // The pumice golem //

Frighteningly Inert

waters // // The good Lady Lumley is pondering glumly. “I // // nee

Troubled waters

laintive notes of accordion-song on the

waters , // // The voices straining from the windows of sunken palazzi

m cloud to cloud. // // The world went

waterwards again. // // Her right hand slackened slightly, // // Mus

[The sun flattened]

e your head will explode // // And the

watery sounds take control of your body // // But no one can hear the

es! // // It falls away // // Through

water’s edge // // To depths unknown (in feet at least) // // To Mel

eping the old girls— // // Grey in the

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

[No point, she said]

a bit monotonous. // // But if a tidal

wave as tall as the Empire State // // Really is gonna come to make u

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ny faces // // far too clear. // // A

wave breaks over us like a stage curtain, // // and it is last night

ting, feet cresting // // The concrete

wave . // // Days stretch out, like a wingspan // // And feathers for

Urban bird watching

// // But you won’t // // Because the

wave is a chain, // // Keeping you from moving, // // Clanking, as y

/ drawing my thoughts along your wooden

wave -shapes // // dipping into knot warps and sanded-down blemishes)

things // // that dazzle and move and

wave ; // // small but unending—Ondine. // // But finding a form to c

Stone, Paper, Scissors

a serpent // // But a great big black

wave // // That crashes over you // // And you try to gasp for breat

man down // // Might and strain of the

wave -thick // // tentacular lashings at surge; // // and I in my bel

// You’d best make a bet I’d want that

wave to be set // // in motion by my beloved, her gleaming eyes wet /

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

orm. // // The tide is high, and every

wave tries hard // // to breach the wall. And when it hits just righ

Walking in winter

understand why you never came back. The

waves // // always return to comfort the shore. The pain ached in wav

[I often think of that January morning]

led through snow and ever nearer to the

waves , // // and to the place where I anxiously waited with my coffee

[I often think of that January morning]

crease sea-squalls cannot reach // //

Waves are my shelter, I’m not far off off-shore // // Close to the la

led and rushed to become bubbles in the

waves around my shoulders. And I was scared that my skin would get sog

[So the moon was there]

en now I remember little of reading The

Waves // // except your soft smile each time my fingertips turned a p

[I often think of that January morning]

// a sound. // // A sound // // whose

waves expand, // // whose echoes still expend // // themselves in ri

era light // // flashed seconds before

waves flooded my boots, water breaking // // into damp dust around my

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

gated to observer, // // My gallery of

waves framed behind glass. // // And I gaze too // // At frozen even

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

el and blood, // // While the ideal me

waves from a mile away. // // Bloated on turkey and stale conversatio

And ebb of love like beaches touched by

waves // // From dawn far into the nights, before the words // // Be

[My face is old now]

to comfort the shore. The pain ached in

waves . // // I painted my feelings in layer upon layer of blue // //

[I often think of that January morning]

dreaming; everything breaks over me in

waves . // // Like a seed listening to echoes through earth, I long fo

[I often think of that January morning]

// of nothing as we walked through the

waves . // // Lying dizzily on the cliffs, we listened to echoes upon

[I often think of that January morning]

use of ages, // // Sounding over black

waves of the sunset hour. // // Softly the last gondolier, dipping hi

ing and unfilling the warm mug in murky

waves . // // The ink I wrote to you in was always black, never blue,

[I often think of that January morning]

sea. // // I am glad of the sheltering

waves // // Until the ferry comes into harbour // // And I see that

faintly, far away, the churn // // of

waves upon the sand. Eastwards we turn, // // along the open beach,

Wells in winter

on, and in the air my grey // // scarf

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

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

. // // Of shoes and ships and sealing

wax , // // and such great themes as these, // // talking they walked

, and so I build myself like honeycomb.

Wax might create candlelight, // // but for now my light is stored, a

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

t choking from a jagged cleft. // // A

wax of fire—shrill waning hearts— // // Then silence, and my life ber

lations // // Of shorn hair and candle

wax , to the saint; // // The ram-head of the corpse cracks a smile. /

ort // // and make her proud; and four

wax -white earplugs // // in case one snored too loud. Two bashed hal

ow push out above, // // buds into the

waxing light, the spring rain. Throw open // // the fire-coloured tem

ill // // another day // // to find a

way . // //

in // // The heart trips and is under

ter // // The heart trips and is under

way // // A harbour adorned with lights // // Shoeless feet and unst

osted them, // // then walked his wild

way // // alone. In Swale- and Wensleydale // // they passed the fo

ve the necessary skill // // to find a

way . // // And now today // // is ending. I suppose tomorrow’s stil

its own // // And I, the more I let my

way be shown, // // Did seem to rise that water made of stone. // //

[What have we done]

/ After a little while, looking in this

way becomes annoying. It just comes and goes—we are forever anxiously

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

/ // Ships hang in the sky much in the

way bricks // // Might, if we built a Babel enough crane. // // Bums

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

seems to fit the air, // // And down,

way down in the pit of your stomach // // Is the fear, the absolute d

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

// this flower—momentary and no— // //

way ever to be preserved or pressed? // // And so the big words, disp

your natural law. // // What a pitiful

way for a predator to die, // // Alone in the desert, strangled by a

ing to B. // // Words fumble along the

way , // // From there to here, // // Ringing in my ear. // // //

[She points to the sky]

/ // We pick our path along the hollow

way // // Handfast; we unscroll your youth // // When ash-keyed bran

nting glory in the great not-me. // //

Way -hey, blow the man down // // Might and strain of the wave-thick /

last year. // // People finding their

way home. // // People leaning against this horizontal barrier // //

Way // // // Horse hooves sunk deep into sticky clay. // // Between

present absence, still // // to find a

way . // // I hear you say, // // “But life is for the living, do not

// and I can’t quite remember the first

way I saw it; // // lost like all beauty. // // But knowing that

ar— // // But still I don’t know which

way is home. // // My still eyes make their movement static, // // C

ult to look and experience life in this

way . It has no name, it exists, it shines outside of language and conc

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

// // go white, and nothing hurts the

way it should. // // resent the years of careful compromise, // // t

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

n, // // My practic’d pattern forged a

way its own // // And I, the more I let my way be shown, // // Did s

[What have we done]

girl once it’s over; // // There’s no

way I’d promised to love her. // // I beached her on Naxos, written o

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

// // I’ve lost my keys; I’ve lost my

way ; // // I’ve had my chance—I have no more— // // I’m waiting on t

time // // You said this was the only

way . // // Just please arrive too late. // // Ariel. I am a wait. //

l’esprit d’escalier

chicken // // is just the egg’s // //

way of making // // another egg // // then what I should // // not

Don’t count your chickens

eils, then flickers past // // A Milky

Way of twinkling roseate light— // // Shape-shifting, whispers ‘there

Woolly-jumpered existence in out-of-the-

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

Bearded Thoughts

t I have a lipstick smudge scar all the

way round my torso. // // And as the seal starts to weep and my legs

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

rry of speckled limbs lobbed apples her

way . // // She spat the pips, for they could choke you, yet // // Sh

and take away my will // // to find a

way . // // The final fray // // remains in memory, for good or ill,

t belong there, because it was the only

way // // The world would start again the next day. // // A clockwor

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

joke in that) // // Catch at only half

way there. // // Feathers blacken and unpeel // // With the mourning

Urban bird watching

tarmac. As you // // fingertipped your

way through // // measured musings, down below // // your tightwires

luc bat to mr. beam

ld sway // // In harmony, it shows the

way // // To reach beyond—to touch the light // // And now the song

in her garden // // in Reigate, on her

way to // // recognition, fellowships // // (Linnean Society 1904, /

There must be moonshine

ey say that each creature must find its

way to this tree // // And that each life is a movement towards conte

[At the coinciding point of the years]

Crummock Water // // Wend your

way // // Towards the edge // // Where fell breaks // // On nothing

// The pinked sky of dinner has given

way . // // Under the transparent blister of a moon, // // A thumbtac

t down // // By an unseen enemy on his

way up. // // ‘War is not nice’, but we accept the battles // // In

ffles could be wrapped // // any which

way , were still turf slightly warped. // // Eat junk? You might as

Chocolate Sonnet

e? // // Please, allow me to fade this

way : // // Wind-beat cotton, holes at the knee, // // Day into day,

I could never be (ready)

aspersions // // upon your nature, the

way you nurture, // // but as we intertwined at the centre // // of

// // // // // // // // // Dear

Wayne of Interpol: I have your mail. // // Your writhing at my death

Between Life and Death

first – // // you’re in the trash dear

Wayne – you wongaboy – // // since you forgot to check if I was verse

Between Life and Death

// // Days for seeing you in different

ways . // // Days enough for giving and receiving. // // Did I give e

// Began to stick and move in different

ways . // // I see it all, like spring it follows // // All before. E

[My face is old now]

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

Three Ways of Walking

/ // This is convenient // // In more

ways than one. // //

llible than our own, // // To find new

ways to hold, // // To hold without hands. // // But serene pain is

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

a mouthful of smoke, // // To find new

ways to no longer hold. // //

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

nd I bet I’d get more dates // // Than

WB Yeats // // For all his talk of old men’s lust and rage. // // I’

Desiring this man’s style or that man’s

wealth , // // But tonight I smile and say, // // As I put their book

x of tricks. // // Just like you can’t

wear medieval sleeves // // Or habits while you bike your kids to sch

In Defence of Evolution

pity he’s a bore // // I imagine he’d

wear my armour well, // // And send sandal’d feet scuffling back on t

’Tis pity he’s a bore

vites me in. // // Like everything you

wear , of course, it’s mine. // // You’ve taken residence beneath my s

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

new laces in, // // Because you can’t

wear quirky May Ball maroon-laced shoes // // To bury your mother. //

Three Pieces of Advice

e encumbered, // // Or maybe forced to

wear something restrictive, // // But that’s not even where I’m going

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ou know there’s nothing that I’d rather

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

d them again // // In the meat-market,

wearing each step forward // // Into last night’s night I cut // //

, // // The ice with which I rose grew

weary , crack’d // // So softly and remorselessly, compact // // No m

[What have we done]

Recasting the balance, // // the hill-

weary nilherds // // return to their high stools // // for extended

Nil Charge / Nil Return

ns away. // // She stands, hunched and

weary , too tired // // To have held on. Head lowered, but her eyes //

el. // // POLONIUS It is backed like a

weasel . // // HAMLET Or like a whale? // // POLONIUS Very like a wha

ed. // // HAMLET Methinks it is like a

weasel . // // POLONIUS It is backed like a weasel. // // HAMLET Or l

on’d ape, and stay the same, // // you

weasel without words, uncouth, unkind // // and lewd; you onanistic w

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

ist-blue port, so // // Defying stormy-

weather and determinism both, tonight // // I only say: there’s not m

where you are? // // Very blue. Lovely

weather . // // [Bad weather. Very blue.] // // So, how are you? //

Whales sing because they have a song

/ and the people // // change, and the

weather // // change // // like friends with time.’ // // Everythin

In a charity shop

// You always alone? // // Not in fair

weather . // // [My heart is a convertible with the roof always down.]

Whales sing because they have a song

sixth seal // // Whilst you speak the

weather of our little world // // (Wednesdays it rains; pumpkins pock

so slow. // // I hear whispers in the

weather // // Tell of flames beneath shed skin, // // The old so nea

leaves might fall

Very blue. Lovely weather. // // [Bad

weather . Very blue.] // // So, how are you? // // Small fish, big po

Whales sing because they have a song

he wall, built like the house // // of

weathered Cotswold stone. // // The box and holly // // were magnifi

ins nor jewels; just the old // // and

weathered hills, created by some force // // beyond imagination; and

Daydream Dale Journey

rows, // // Thrushes migrate where the

weather’s hot, // // Only we are left in its throes, // // Now, burs

BURR (or Brrrrr)

ne— // // And in the fabric of life, I

weave my name // // For these are the things we can call our own. //

picking now: // // For there she was:

weaving a registry of fifty shades of brown. // // Ships hang in the

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

other’s face, // // Beaming an endless

web around my field, // // Housing my growing self inside a shield, /

[What have we done]

know that mercy // // Is the spider’s

web that catches the spider? // // All is not yours to surrender //

– // // some, having parted, choose to

wed again. // //

mped on the shore // // And now I have

wed Dionysus // //

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

of sunlight in criss-cross rays // //

wedding chimes of line and light that got through to me. // // I don’

orne on the wind? // // Just a list of

wedding favours // // And a line not drawn on paper. // //

leaves might fall

in a ball // // of steel and titanium,

wedged in the hole, // // with a stem in your marrow to go with the p

Wednesday // // Another day of fresh cigarette burns, // // not fail

Wednesday Evening // // Brought my new friend to the Poetry Group //

Wednesday Evening

the weather of our little world // // (

Wednesdays it rains; pumpkins pockmark; cushion-thief strikes) // //

h. // // We must not rush now past the

wee hours of // // waiting on fronted news, the foreplay tense, // /

Aubade to Girton

my booted feet. // // The speckles of

weed on the water are like chips of dark gold // // Under the magnesi

in a finflick. // // Our nets, turning

weed , revealed nothing: no blenny, no bream— // // It was just a smal

Just a Small Fish

ng and turning and tumbling me into the

weeds .] // // Make sure to come up for air. // // Course. // // Goo

Whales sing because they have a song

r her to follow him. // // There was a

week of waiting while they fought it out. // // There was a lull— //

Black September

But cram enough inside and surely in a

week or two // // A miracle will occur, // // A sonnet or tetrameter

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

background— // // I’m not around this

week . // // Play with that same flowing vein, // // Running between

Fall for————

ere. // // 3, told over the phone last

week , with me complaining about a getting a nosebleed on // // A cris

Three Pieces of Advice

GCSE Physics, and repeated // // On a

weekly basis, // // Almost as often as him trying to teach me to chan

Three Pieces of Advice

in red light, // // Endeavours in but

weekly shut out blunt. // // They all are shunned and I am shut out t

Three gay rituals

odour, // // the musk and slip of six

weeks ’ work, either // // mustard gas and ether or your man’s flesh /

torso. // // And as the seal starts to

weep and my legs start to give, // // I don’t want her to pay any att

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

side, // // The angels of our planets

weep // // To see two worlds collide. // //

The Daily Planet

// // Were I to wake alone I would be

weeping // // With shiftless sorrow, restless, rootless dread. // //

nches are unseen. // // Her white hand

weeps about its canopy, // // and her clipped trunk is an ash boomera

// The shuttle flits through warp and

weft // // And hands recall hands from silent dust. // // The mis-st

scared that my skin would get soggy and

weigh me down. I was so scared that I could feel a fear trembling and

[So the moon was there]

casts of forms— // // Icons for us—of

weighed and measured mass // // Ten billion years from this. Yet few’

// Around in the passages—just losing

weight // // So it ends as a snack—not my feast on my plate. // // A

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

hink // // ‘This time, it will hold my

weight .’ // // But every step it drops you down // // into soft snow

Walking in winter

sk! tusk! tusk! tusk! // // your eyes,

weighted , watch the glass // // snatch its sound out the air. // //

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

rs with her laugh. // // It’s not that

weird , right? // // It’s like how I don’t enjoy a yoga class until my

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

d tides to carry // // In light like a

welcome guest. // //

n // // the fire-coloured temptations,

welcome in // // the roaming bees. // // Feel the fire. Spread out a

Who am I, Bernard? // //

Welcome to absence, these open // // Arms stretched as sundown. // /

Who am I, Bernard?

eshly laid for tea, // // Bid hieratic

welcome to those gods, // // Or ghosts, or guessed-at others who—she’

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

the fire bore us no grudge, // // and

welcomed us back into its glow. // // Another twenty one years, // /

Wells in winter // // We take the path beside the wood—the fir // //

Wells in winter

Crummock Water // //

Wend your way // // Towards the edge // // Where fell breaks // //

s wild way // // alone. In Swale- and

Wensleydale // // they passed the following day. // // Of shoes and

a place to talk. // // Years later we

went back and made the same unchartered // // trip, remembering nothi

of things that are gone // // Since we

went driving in your parents’ car. // //

/ Of dunes on the windshield. // // We

went driving in your parents’ car // // And didn’t stop until we’d go

For A. // // We

went driving in your parents’ car // // Out to the desert, // // Swe

s watching the floating moon. // // We

went driving in your parents’ car // // To see if we could stop the m

// // Boarding passes from times they

went for broke. // // Gifts they could never be bothered to wrap. //

behind us when we left // // and then

went home to get the dinner on. // // Tomorrow—the same. // // find

// a slight encouragement. As the day

went on, // // we generated quantities of fuel // // and built a roa

train did the talking // // and we all

went quiet // // but he wasn’t quiet // // ‘it’s ail road rail road!

dering out along the darkening lanes we

went to cross the river, black and cruel. This city now extinguished,

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

fle(with double cream) // // Dr Foster

went to Gloucester // // for a summer spin— // // and liked a lass f

/ From cloud to cloud. // // The world

went waterwards again. // // Her right hand slackened slightly, // /

[The sun flattened]

legends is reduced to droplets of pity

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

like « me ». // // To the East, to the

West , // // I wish a witch would show her face. // // But, Christ! F

Ode to a map of the world

- // // ing him closer to the pristine

West Isles. Tears would pay for the glor- // // y of the find in the

, // // Down border-lanes, and further

west // // Leaves and scraps of paper cluster // // In clouds and ti

s last night on the M56, // // heading

west , somewhere near Chester, // // the fog lights catching great dar

her face. // // But, Christ! From the

West to the East, // // All I can see is the Beast. // // Here’s to

Ode to a map of the world

Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002 // // Early in the evening,

Decomposed on Westminster Bridge, January 3, 2002

motion by my beloved, her gleaming eyes

wet // // From the cold wind on a bench on a freezing night, // // b

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ain // // Great Skellig slate grey and

wet // // Gazing from a clifftop grave // // Your tears mingling wit

ch beech nuts // // and heave clods of

wet grass. // // cowbwebs catch on tongue and mesh eyes // // blinki

[cyclamen in purple bursts kiss compost]

Dimming // // Four bare feet in the

wet grass; he and she, // // Having abandoned their shoes some time a

Now I start to trickle back // // over

wet ground, under sky, // // from marsh just covered in the slack: t

shoes have turned a whole new shade of

wet . // // My Frost-bit ears resound with words I know. // // (How m

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

// frost // // black // // sky // //

wet stones // // skittering onto the // // drain cover // // //

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

ach // // Great Skellig slate grey and

wet // // The ocean rolling beneath us // // Your tears mingling wit

on waters // // Stagnant, charged, ion

wet , // // The pumice golem // // On and off again, // // Averse to

Frighteningly Inert

days still dis-leave. Pale envy-green,

wet -yellow, gold-wrought // // Over-thought in the tail-end; by day a

pull myself into // // the comforting

wetness of your mouth. // // My hand falls on your waist // // your

Leviathan // // I, in the belly of the

whale fast, // // fasting, feasted on the sea: // // its scales, its

ke a whale? // // POLONIUS Very like a

whale . // // Odd things have strewn the floors today: quicksand clump

like a weasel. // // HAMLET Or like a

whale ? // // POLONIUS Very like a whale. // // Odd things have strew

e, // // You were the lashings and the

whale , // // You were the lark and yours the song // // I sang in ja

Whales sing because they have a song // // How are you? // // [Long

Whales sing because they have a song

hoeless feet and unsteady ground // //

Whales singing the day in // // The heart trips and is under way //

/ // The wake of light on water // //

Whales singing the day in // // You hold your hand in mine // // Sho

/ against the stream, back up the river

Wharfe , // // to Bolton Abbey, and the Strid beyond, // // and Barde

Daydream Dale Journey

all, love is universal and you can bet

whatever I say // // Someone, somewhere has heard it before. // // I

I’ll never work for Hallmark

e past // // Dully and daily deleting,

whatever is not next // // Sneering, and sniping and snipping, // //

The Cutting Edge

vacation as // // The hot work begins,

wheeling // // Round and round, stuck to the bed, // // Watered into

parrow snatched from flight // // With

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

Urban bird watching

unpeel // // With the mourning of the

wheels . // //

Urban bird watching

espite // // The best attempts of two

wheels // // To end this trip early. // // “Sorry” // // Your abs

The Notes You Have Left

// My arm fading back now, rocking with

wheels ’ folly, // // Gliding over crystalline tarmac. // // The lime

t play— // // The carter’s mare as she

wheezes on through; // // The triumphant honk of a goose (astray) //

// // To bless the fruitful earth from

whence they spring. // // These colours seem to fall from Eden’s ligh

The Magic Apple Tree

// But hindsight is always wise, // //

Whereas such beautiful moments, // // Rarely present themselves. //

Mosquito nights

they swim into that mirror pool, // //

Wherefrom they bounce onto the canopy, // // Sprinkling their light t

[What have we done]

another day. // // I cannot say // //

whether I have the necessary skill // // to find a way. // // And no

lastered onto mine. // // I can’t tell

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

ystery. // // As the importance is not

whether it was meant to be, // // But merely that on the page it lies

r domain, // // Not much caring // //

Whether there was a // // World beyond to explore. // // We sought t

ell whether I want them there // // Or

whether you want my voice, my eyes. // // Probably not. // //

e he pontif- // // icated through the

whiff // // of sweat and gin. // // I thought if I, // // demurely

grow their food amongst the sand // //

Whilst colonists enjoy resplendent views: // // Oppression’s language

been silent about cheese // // Because

whilst every subject is the message. // // Cheese is the very medium

Cheese is the medium

msays’ sitting room and listen to music

whilst I work // // And let the words go on like I’m not there. // /

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

Blank! Crack open the sixth seal // //

Whilst you speak the weather of our little world // // (Wednesdays it

g // // left or right according to our

whim , or how the light // // was caught. After time we found coffee a

o // // burnish my halo. Ah, I have a

whim // // to build a fine bridge clear across a great river, where /

Troubled waters

Is there no more you can do // // Than

whine with your final breath? // // I am one of those dread ancients

// // Unleashed. A tongue of blinding,

whippèd flame // // Sears all before, while bearing all we’ll know; /

first hurdle, // // Snaps like a rope

whipping in a breeze on a desert-plain, // // The pitch-white lake be

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

canopy too // // to the winds, let it

whirl away // // into the encroaching dark. // // Feel the earth. Fe

ge right accompanied by the ineffectual

whirring of defunct machinery] // //

the windmill’s lament—a short play

bones to pick up. // // A camera lens

whirs to focus on a hunched // // Body. One of the crowd in particula

Vicious or Virtuous?

liss, ’cause // // he tracked down his

Whiskas // // while the dear mouse dropped dead of starvation. // //

The Failing of the Cheese

team // // of chameleon shrimps held a

whiskery love-in and hoydenish // // bivalves blew bubbles. Beneath t

Just a Small Fish

all fixing // // Absences with cream,

whiskey , // // Guinness, the whole room // // A-glow. // // A postc

Wild Mountain Thyme

’d by playing drums. // // One knife’s

whisk’d out my hand, flies back and falls; // // The other comes to s

[What have we done]

spered my name into the trees] // // I

whispered my name into the trees // // I mumbled my name to the dank

[I whispered my name into the trees]

whispered my name into the trees] // // I whispered my name into the

[I whispered my name into the trees]

ich to rest—safe in the sound // // of

whispered peace around. // //

luc bat to mr. beam

// // His fighting machine. // // He

whispered sweet nothings // // And proffered a posy. // // She clutc

luc bat to mr. beam // // your

whispered words hushed round // // a sun-warmed pillowed land of //

luc bat to mr. beam

ter, old fiend, that I can hear, // //

Whispering across the sea, // // A name a little bit like « me ». //

Ode to a map of the world

jar, the one thing left. she only hears

whispers , “I just think of him as a child” and I can bend and break wh

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

nce spelled time so slow. // // I hear

whispers in the weather // // Tell of flames beneath shed skin, // /

leaves might fall

ed and now I’m torn apart… // // These

whispers of our unquiet hearts // // I wonder what he’s going to say?

r is undone, // // I’ll grasp the last

whispers . // // Over ocean, the storm sullen // // Slowly starts to

Who am I, Bernard?

yesterday’s wonder: // // a chorus of

whispers painted on // // the imprimatura of your skin; // // delica

g roseate light— // // Shape-shifting,

whispers ‘there is more to know’. // // Imprisoned in this cauldron w

Until the worm is a serpent // // And

whispers things. // // And the voice grows louder and louder // // A

ows about our windows // // And chases

whispers through my dreaming head; // // Dry voices sift and fall in

tread over a foreign space // // Which

whispers with frustration at its // // Invasion. // // A loop of ste

Vicious or Virtuous?

plane. // // Your life defined by the

whistle of the kettle; // // Rhythmed by the clink-clink-clink of tea

fy your age— // // Meanwhile, the wind

whistles in the chimney. // //

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

white . A yellow glare: // // 222 deaths in Cambridgeshire last year.

gain I imagine it forked by lightening,

white above again and // // the blood below. Pause. I think

ears ago // // —these days his hair is

white all through.) // // ‘Every mile is two’? no, hardly thus. //

Walking in winter

e stands beyond their glow. // // Red,

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

fast that all the colours blurred into

white . And I felt sorry for it, because although it sat alone in the w

[So the moon was there]

ike a woodlouse and the skies // // go

white , and nothing hurts the way it should. // // resent the years of

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

utline. The last mark I’ll make, // //

White and pure, unlike the life taking it’s last steps. // // // //

Snapshot Endings

ce // // Of souvenir china: // // The

white and yellow honey-pot // // With matching spoon; // // The mini

// Is man no less when odd and painted

white . // // Another having naught but shop door front, // // Who sh

Three gay rituals

/ An expectant lie on the grass, // //

White at first, newly-mowed, // // Shorn beneath its reasonable limit

ictorian tobacco-stains upon the creamy-

white // // Bernard Shaw, the voluptuous Darwin, the natty Disraeli.

Bearded Thoughts

rm, then smile, then // // strike with

white branches in a // // flash of white lights against // // bright

Bright, Pale Yellow

h my tears. // // Momentary flashes of

white coats and pitying faces // // And her, sobbing, while our futur

// // and make her proud; and four wax-

white earplugs // // in case one snored too loud. Two bashed half-he

// // As my hands grasp blindly for a

white flag. // // “I don’t know” spills from my lips in a constant li

a getting a nosebleed on // // A crisp

white formal shirt, // // And me realising that the method of erasing

Three Pieces of Advice

rs and eyebrows, a great flow // // Of

white from top-to-toe. Each day I feel // // My bones grow old with w

[My face is old now]

its frailty tuned by too bright, // //

White -gold light, suspending patterned navy seats. // // Accompanying

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

o lie upon the lease // // Leaving its

white grace. // // And then he breathed his last blue breath // // A

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

and the branches are unseen. // // Her

white hand weeps about its canopy, // // and her clipped trunk is an

nd losing his lunch // // all over the

white hillside, // // snow white upon snow snow-white. // // This i

eze on a desert-plain, // // The pitch-

white lake bed bare of life, // // All mountains and hills around, //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ith white branches in a // // flash of

white lights against // // bright, pale yellow, // // the same branc

Bright, Pale Yellow

Bridge // // Red and

white lights guide their journey, // // Light foliage for their const

you trade for an eye? AI might be cis,

white , male, hetero, // // but at least it won’t talk to me on the tr

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

fill your name already, // // Cast in

white marble by two gentle breaths. // // How different we look—you a

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

teps, the lions, the façade, // // The

white Museum with its plate-glass doors. // // Through these you pass

The Magic Apple Tree

Centaur // // Black on

white on black // // In your suit, you’re urbanely monochrome; // //

Salvage // // The ghost of the impact,

white on the window, // // catches my eye as I enter the kitchen: //

remember your thick handwriting on that

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

[I often think of that January morning]

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

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

bodies on the table in // // The dust-

white room are children. // // Part of the news they lie upon, they c

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

stare into reality // // I see a blank

white sheet, and withdraw, // // Back to my drooling muse, because //

Writing to explore

/ // // // … // // above us // //

white stars pierce // // the sky // // below us // // the dark gras

HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

ves // // My tea. Sugar bowl fills not-

white tablecloth sea. // // Daily no-feeling recurs in identical morn

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

recognition as your // // skin faded,

white . That was not your life. // // That shadow of your life was onl

Sestina to an English Teacher

lside, // // snow white upon snow snow-

white . // // This is the time of old shoes, // // when every step i

sionally, // // Left hand knotted in a

white tissue, // // The right hanging, something sad inside. // // A

[The sun flattened]

blowing a cool kiss, // // prone on a

white toboggan, // // doubling your speed, and again; // // the su

ll over the white hillside, // // snow

white upon snow snow-white. // // This is the time of old shoes, //

a lass from Lancashire; // // so milk-

white was her skin. // // In Cheddar Gorge the chaffinches // // wer

// // Each crescendo blasts my mind to

whiteness . // // Who will join me in the temple? // // A hand will s

sehold gods, // // Found tokens of her

whiter soul, // // Icons for his orphaned heart, // // Angelic messe

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

red, too short. I could // // see the

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

Tridente, 10th September

ion, reputation, devour and swallow her

whole , // // Drive her mad within the recesses of your rabbit’s hole.

ust the bearded barleycorn // // But a

whole field springing, // // The vine and all its tendrils, // // Un

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

ing more. // // My shoes have turned a

whole new shade of wet. // // My Frost-bit ears resound with words I

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

just passing the time, // // that the

whole reason she was // // sat, hunch-huddled // // behind the count

In a charity shop

th cream, whiskey, // // Guinness, the

whole room // // A-glow. // // A postcard with the robin // // And

Wild Mountain Thyme

esence. // // My Grandmother fills the

whole room with // // her hands, the wrinkles round her eyes, // //

trong // // Emotions felt when read in

whole . // // The writer scoffs when hearing praise // // Of how mast

/ // of you. You would be soft, // //

whole , warm. Not paper. // // I am using scissors to cut // // a squ

Stone, Paper, Scissors

asier than it sounds—and I swallowed it

whole . // // // // What happened to the sky? // // Wel

[So the moon was there]

ow. // // Become an open singing-bowl,

whose chime // // Is richness rising out of emptiness, // // And tim

their last seconds // // like the one

whose dog slept on // // their chest to keep it warm // // or the on

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

sound // // whose waves expand, // //

whose echoes still expend // // themselves in riffs of time and space

ng in the purple phlox, // // The hare

whose eyes at equinox // // Eyed the slowly roving ox // // Bellowin

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

Towards a buried memory of light // //

Whose faded trace no photograph records. // // You glimpsed it once w

The Magic Apple Tree

crid conversation with the dead, // //

whose ghosts go round in circles down from heaven, // // whose ghosts

und in circles down from heaven, // //

whose ghosts go round in circles up from Hell, // // Whose pace, with

ev’ry face we meet with Blight, // //

Whose knived line carv’s out a trace, a Well // // Cascading in with

[What have we done]

ngs circling in my strange heart // //

whose meaning will forever elude you— // // tell me something else I

o round in circles up from Hell, // //

Whose pace, within the strictest measure even, // // Breaks in the dr

l where that big baby hybrid is, // //

Whose sibling stood guard (to keep access barred) // // In a stench t

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ic by the impact. // // I want someone

whose smile makes the sun fizzle out in modesty // // So that the Ear

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ve built a pyre // // To all the words

whose smoke the sky swallowed. // //

and mistle- // // toe as an instrument

whose strings sing of souls hurt. // // Blind, dumb, deaf upon the pe

creatures— // // ‘You go!’ ‘Now me!’ ‘

Whose turn for riding?’ Is this the poem? // // Last night’s kiss a b

, // // a sound. // // A sound // //

whose waves expand, // // whose echoes still expend // // themselves

to old men when young, // // The kind

who’d spent a lifetime in the pit // // And come away with bruises an

sing; just wait instead. // // Like a

Wiccan would wait, because she knew // // That such a thing as Spring

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

watching me as I sleep, // // from the

wicker chair. // // I need not say anything because // // she fills

Wicker Chair // // My Grandmother sits in the corner. // // There is

// // There is a chair there, made of

wicker // // For her to perch on. // //

// // There is a chair there, made of

wicker // // For her to perch on. // // I am lying in the bed, my ey

eir shoes some time ago, // // Print a

wide arc, then slope down towards // // A still canal, laced with rus

e I had ’fore in-gazed faced me, // //

Wide -as-the-horizon, an endless hill. // // The top did seem but furt

[What have we done]

rter’s time,” etc. // // To some other

wide -eyed labour-eager chosen one // // I shall leave this garden ins

Aubade to Girton

er the kitchen: // // a dove, sprawled

wide in its this— // // is-my-beloved-son yawn. // // Warm flesh thr

nes // // poor yew transplanted // //

wide -lipped pots // // ornamental // // shape clipped // // wind cu

yew needs dried blood in spring

s quicker than paint // // But all the

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

ts // // And now our hearts are opened

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

// and the great big massive enormous

wide universe full of galaxies and black holes and stars // // makes

Same but differenT

d strong— // // May your spores spread

wide , your mycelium long, // // And your dark decomposing run all the

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

do you still feel // // Their loss? My

wife stirs, // // As our son within // // Wakes, to return to dream—

Here be dragons

of a goose (astray) // // Or the farm-

wife , with clippings from the youngest ewe, // // who cursed as the b

ingless // // thing. // // Molly, his

wife , would pursue his creation with // // care and affecting mathema

Jonathan’s Deathbed

ips, then my mouth will praise you. the

wild dogs cry out in the undulating skink night, “mother will never un

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

for the annual nil return. // // Nil,

wild -eyed and woolly, // // pent in a furry fury // // at the nilher

Nil Charge / Nil Return

ntones // // The first notes to // //

Wild Mountain Thyme, // // And our voices warm // // And swell aroun

Wild Mountain Thyme

Wild Mountain Thyme // // Christmas day. // // We’re all at my gran’

Wild Mountain Thyme

Later we scatter the ashes // // in a

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

t accosted them, // // then walked his

wild way // // alone. In Swale- and Wensleydale // // they passed t

gh above desk-jockey Cardiff // // the

wild wind // // from the heights of Gwyngachu, // // sweeps over the

Nil Charge / Nil Return

r— // // to leave behind, for now, the

wilder moor. // // The treasures to be found along my path // // are

Daydream Dale Journey

aim you, // // You will never know the

wilderness of mirrors // // For you there is naught but this. // //

he screams, // // But all I do is bark

wildly at the moon. // // Bitter Creek, last time // // You said thi

l’esprit d’escalier

behind us. // // And now, deep in the

wilds of the Irish Sea, // // the new year is sleeping within // //

against this horizontal barrier // //

Willing it to disappear— // // But still I don’t know which way is ho

c or Dylan // // If my muse were only

willin ’ // // I’d be On The Road, or in-between the sheets. // // I

adow // // In May he stood beneath the

willow // // In June he lay among the yarrow // // Pollen gilding hi

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

, we have nothing, everything swims and

wills around us. // // 5. // // For example, in my mind: here comes

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

// like overwound springs; // // nilly-

willy their horns reap // // the full cornucopia, // // gamboling gl

Nil Charge / Nil Return

histle // // sprout from its neck, to

wilt upon each soft pale shirt, // // teaching by strange example tha

equality and love, // // the fight to

win our rights. // // We have the vote, // // a royal charter too, /

A Room of Her Own

that you dangle me from. // // Frozen

winches and stays– // // I never earnestly looked at you // // (only

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

Wind // // All night the March wind blows about our windows // // An

a’s magic // // unfold to the music of

wind and the glittering ebbstream // // that trickled the head of the

Just a Small Fish

/ I once held you close; now I hold the

wind // // As it howls, painlessly, through my embrace. // // If onl

The Other Side of the Line

ease, allow me to fade this way: // //

Wind -beat cotton, holes at the knee, // // Day into day, into day //

I could never be (ready)

March-Wind // // All night the March

wind blows about our windows // // And chases whispers through my dre

ornamental // // shape clipped // //

wind curves // // moles tubers // // worm roots wait // // for spri

yew needs dried blood in spring

ove desk-jockey Cardiff // // the wild

wind // // from the heights of Gwyngachu, // // sweeps over the rumi

Nil Charge / Nil Return

er. As we walk back // // against the

wind it starts to snow. // // A snowdrift forms against the wire brus

Walking in winter

nd alder, // // What news borne on the

wind ? // // Just a list of wedding favours // // And a line not draw

leaves might fall

gleaming eyes wet // // From the cold

wind on a bench on a freezing night, // // because let’s not go home

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

urned strangely, oddly quiet // // The

wind that blusters is strangely keen. // // A dance, hypnotic; long,

ualls through your hair // // Like the

wind that I cannot contain by // // Mapping its every minuscule alter

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

ight fall // // What news borne on the

wind ? // // What winged seed has taken root, // // Those drawings I

leaves might fall

signify your age— // // Meanwhile, the

wind whistles in the chimney. // //

he depths hum through the reeds, // //

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

ended // // for maybe thirty years. A

winding path // // leads from the glazed back door // // through box

windmill’s lament—a short play // // O, // // MUST i keep on going r

the windmill’s lament—a short play

ave learned. // // Now I listen at the

window // // As the branches dance and turn, // // The startling cha

leaves might fall

rds, // // but grander far, a corniced

window bay // // in darker wood. Clear morning sunlight fills // //

Cape Cod Morning

re // // And the misting-up Dickensian

window . // // Bravely, someone intones // // The first notes to //

Wild Mountain Thyme

/ The ghost of the impact, white on the

window , // // catches my eye as I enter the kitchen: // // a dove, s

ng sea // // Nor his watching from the

window , chin-heavy // // Will sweep away this red refuse. // // Bloo

// // Stockings spongy carpets the

window clad in lights, closed against the great grey sky // // drink!

Drink and be merry

stmas // // I’m perched inside an open

window // // drinking coffee that leaves rings // // slowly absorbed

why i’m getting into Christmas

s refuge. // // As he watches from the

window // // For the final stroke // // In Lily’s masterpiece. // /

where October seeps through // // the

window frame. The city is a puddle of glistening yellow and grey, //

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// The sun flattened // // Outside her

window , // // Hardly touched the panes, // // Instead was broken int

[The sun flattened]

iously // // Nor his watching from the

window , impassive // // Blood dries quicker than paint // // But all

te ink. // // The snow has reached the

window ledge. // // No promise of a BA gown // // can keep me warm,

A Room of Her Own

woman leans // // upon a table in the

window , looks // // out into sunlight, over grass, towards // // som

Cape Cod Morning

// // (only out of you // // (Like a

window )); // // My pride clings like // // The pixillating condensat

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

ructionless. // // I will slip off the

window of her lily-ridden house and // // pursue the sunrise with a n

Aubade to Girton

the first to be drawn. // // Under the

window , on the patio table, // // a kestrel is plucking the flunked c

ve, our lives, our blood, and // // My

window on the world in all its hues: // // Our dialect, sweet sister

ke, // // Midday, in dirty sheets with

window open, // // Your newest song on the speaker, // // A cold cof

thing in the splinters of the shattered

window pane. // // There was an overcrowded hospital. // // There we

Black September

chance to be divine; // // Outside our

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

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

plight // // To where, in street-side

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

he sun // // presses through the dusty

window // // to fade the colours of the carpet, // // and people com

In a charity shop

three screams take // // Flight, from

window to shadow // // A child’s voice deepens, // // Like a changel

Here be dragons

ey use their words, saying eyes are the

window to the soul // // but eyes don’t talk to God: // // mouths do

Same but differenT

wing // // grass and trees outside her

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

Cape Cod Morning

ll night the March wind blows about our

windows // // And chases whispers through my dreaming head; // // Dr

ama // // Sheets of water laminate the

windows // // as if to reverse // // the myth of glass, // // but m

nd of the lawnmowers // // Outside the

windows , // // High-up, grass-cutting, // // Swaying like fans // /

rd // // for the desire to look in the

windows of other peoples’ homes, // // but I don’t remember or care w

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

s, // // The voices straining from the

windows of sunken palazzi // // Where mosaics are defaced with algae

t there’s // // a sickly glow from the

windows of the house on the corner, madly // // yellowed and drastic;

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

// // Or be eclipsed by the shuttered

windows of the next train— // // Watch, as all the panes steal your r

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

// // the fluster of lights // // in

windows of work-stale rooms. // // Stepping out, // // the crisp, ex

[The sash rattles up]

teen forty-five // // Blow through the

windows , wake the paper rose. // // This is Sweet Briar, the Tudor se

Sixteen Forty-Five

/ The patterns the night frosted on car

windows // // will be water and unremarkable in the morning warmth; /

[Five minutes after our hearts stop]

/ // From random junctures in primeval

winds // // a billion random patterns form—until // // an accidental

. // // Feel the air. Turn in the four

winds . Broadcast the secret // // to earth, as far away as it will go

recipice and reel // // Back to lupine-

winds , fire burn and chthonic cauldron bubble. Incorrigible night //

Sixteen Forty-Five // // Untimely

winds in sixteen forty-five // // Blow through the windows, wake the

Sixteen Forty-Five

Now throw the canopy too // // to the

winds , let it whirl away // // into the encroaching dark. // // Feel

oors and were blown // // About by the

winds of change. // // Something seemed greater // // Than the door

, the sandy scar // // Of dunes on the

windshield . // // We went driving in your parents’ car // // And did

/ // I mouthed my name silently on the

windswept tip of the hill // // // // I bellowed my name to the sl

[I whispered my name into the trees]

caught. After time we found coffee and

wine , // // a waiter who looked like a brother, and a place to talk.

/ with the same familiar waiter pouring

wine , awed and appalled // // by our own consistency, but back where

// Pour out the last of this Burgundian

wine // // Before those wretched wreckers draw the line // // That s

y // // hospital walls. Roses in empty

wine bottles unfolded in the house, // // anxiously mourning red peta

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

sultry heat; // // Memory lost in the

wine -fugue, the beautiful // // Give themselves to pleasure, and are

st as much for detection and wit as for

wine ? // // Has she guessed that this doggerel, painfully wrought, //

Wednesday Evening

// // The bread stayed bready and the

wine // // Passed up its chance to be divine; // // Outside our wind

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

searching for a word // // amongst the

wine stained lips and glasses, // // teabags gone furry in the heat,

// less a hatchling, head under my own

wing , // // and more an egg, framed by a serpentine // // mouth; les

and struck him blind and dead. // // A

winged beast can be so underhanded; // // its pupils were graves dug

hat news borne on the wind? // // What

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

leaves might fall

the cycling lane. // // With borrowed

wings a hedgehog // // Sprawls upon the pavement, // // Bristles for

Urban bird watching

name. // // I could fold my shattered

wings // // And speak the word too mundane to say // // And expire w

igy caves in, // // And far away green

wings are flying—is this the poem? // // In the Marianas, old souls d

hears make for irate avians // // With

wings clipped, // // Clipped wires and frames, // // Circuit mid-fli

Frighteningly Inert

-you- // // over-the-face-of-the-water

wings , // // detaching the head, and ploughing // // a red trough. /

feel. // // Un-pause. Furl my sparrow

wings poised at the precipice and reel // // Back to lupine-winds, fi

. // // Each step is pain // // With

wings too heavy to fly // // Drenched in the love that screamed from

e wave. // // Days stretch out, like a

wingspan // // And feathers form the funeral parade. // // A sparrow

Urban bird watching

d cannot // // bear very much reality (

wink here)”; // // next head: “bet you were a difficult child”; // /

Aubade to Girton

ng. // // Tiny fingertips. // // (The

winners in heartbreak.) // // “Biology is just stamp collecting” and

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

and sleight // // And don’t count your

winnings ’til you’re in the clear. // // Play your men like your card

arwin, the natty Disraeli. // // Youth

wins , // // Confines the noble beard to a // // Woolly-jumpered exis

Bearded Thoughts

clash where flesh meets wire and no-one

wins // // Except you, you and your line victorious. // //

The Other Side of the Line

The Green Man, Mid-

Winter // // Amidst the tympanum // // His stone hair startles from

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

chanting and a song // // drink to

winter ! and be merry! // // Fat boar bubbling in oil spit, and the la

Drink and be merry

, and the lamb is bled // // drink! to

winter ! and be merry. // // joy, pride swelling in the belly fear

Drink and be merry

winter // // Berkshire, 1962-3 // // This year it snows on Boxing Da

Walking in winter

Cycling Home on a

Winter Evening // // // // // // // // // // As if the act of

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

ighten my day more.] / [Too long.] / [

Winter has a jealous moon.] // // How’s the course? // // Coursing.

Whales sing because they have a song

arson— // // under the brown fog of a

winter noon // // Tiresias the stripper’s son // // turns to me and

[the typist puts her knickers on]

he’s shedding her leaves for // // the

winter now, // // but she’ll be blooming, // // and she’ll be spiral

ntying // // Itself from the hardened

winter nut // // And the half-hearted rust remains // // Of another

top, // // running the gauntlet of the

winter storm. // // The tide is high, and every wave tries hard // /

Walking in winter

splinter // // The Green Man comes to

winter , // // To the harness and the harrow // // As flails fall to

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

winter // // We take the path beside the wood—the fir // // and silv

Wells in winter

/ Cambridge, circa 1966 // // One cold

winter’s afternoon // // we walk to the edge of town and on // // th

Walking in winter

e door— // // After the blood has been

wiped from the wall— // // After the wires we'll thread through your

ead. // // The clash where flesh meets

wire and no-one wins // // Except you, you and your line victorious.

The Other Side of the Line

w. // // A snowdrift forms against the

wire brush // // of David’s thick black hair, // // staying in place

Walking in winter

gravel in my throat pulling // // The

wire from within taught // // I’ll hide behind my Wyatt today who kne

ized, // // demanding silence for each

wireless news: // // vainglorious hope they’ll trumpet forth your K.

Compass Reading

// With wings clipped, // // Clipped

wires and frames, // // Circuit mid-flight shorted. // // I am unsul

Frighteningly Inert

n wiped from the wall— // // After the

wires we'll thread through your jaw— // // We'll build you up better

ed, // // I crave to be equal to your

wisdom , // // But instead I find my mind is flawed. // // But then

The Tree of Wisdom

e satisfied. // // I am a fool without

wisdom , // // Feeding on borrowed wit. // // Your voice echoes off m

Wisdom // // I thought I understood you once, // // Believed you we

The Tree of Wisdom

at me, somehow knowing, // // Somehow

wisdom in fresh eyes showing. // // Somehow you fill your name alread

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

e’s something to be said // // for the

wisdom // // of poor folk // // who come from the hills // // looki

smen stand and watch // // Elbowed dog-

wise against the rumour // // Of Africa. // // The sky stretched, //

/ // The boys scrambled up, toecurling-

wise and like two young // // Eves, in a flurry of speckled limbs lob

ess as // // Paterfamilias; // // Son-

wise , he’s probably // // Better than some. // // Higgledy Piggledy

Beginning to write essays that in some

wise start to feed us, // // When from the trees in Girton’s driveway

[Walcott begins Omeros]

Mosquito nights // // It would be

wise to stop scratching now, // // And spare myself the future pain.

Mosquito nights

re pain. // // But hindsight is always

wise , // // Whereas such beautiful moments, // // Rarely present the

Mosquito nights

// To the East, to the West, // // I

wish a witch would show her face. // // But, Christ! From the West to

Ode to a map of the world

ll to you // // Just grant me this one

wish I beg you // // No flowers for my grave I pray you // // Mercy!

y you ascended. // // Amended death. I

wish I could be faithful. // // Lover, brother, I have done you wrong

slow i wish that // // i could SLOW i

wish that i could // // SLOW DOWN ... o ... i think i’m slowing // /

the windmill’s lament—a short play

reak? // // i WISH that i could slow i

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

the windmill’s lament—a short play

// // without rest or break? // // i

WISH that i could slow i wish that // // i could SLOW i wish that i c

the windmill’s lament—a short play

et lost seemed too rotten. // // Now I

wish that I had, the arrogant cad, // // But time passed—and I hadn’t

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

// // might just be you, despite your

wish that I // // should rest in perfect peace. I’m circumspect // /

Between Life and Death

eading Habits // // At first I used to

wish that I were Keats // // And then I wished I’d been one of the Be

Over Easy // // I don’t

wish to cast any aspersions // // upon your nature, the way you nurtu

ins // // Or your voice. // // And, I

wish // // We could waste another afternoon // // away. // //

ish that I were Keats // // And then I

wished I’d been one of the Beats // // I’d be Kerouac or Dylan // /

A Void // // The void between our

wishes // // And the reality we face // // Has never seemed greater

ight // // now trade in futures on the

wishing bone // // and flocks of starlings, sparrows, swallows know /

night // // we trade in futures on the

wishing bone // // and learn too late that one and one make none //

rcula // // // Trading futures on the

wishing bone // // clavicles fuse in birds’ ancestral night // // in

light // // to trade in futures on the

wishing bone // // Hall in Bones and Cartilage has shown // // the f

he wants me to stay.

Wishing for a chest. // // I am here. // // This is me. Period. //

[She points to the sky]

ess nights, clutching your pillow case,

wishing those ‘thoughts’ away, thoughts that are not yours. In your en

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

e surprise of the quiet couples and the

wistful young mothers to the surprise of the small boy playing in

[I whispered my name into the trees]

d the light beyond, // // Quenched any

wistfulness // // For light, for love, for greater // // Things, and

t // // Just as much for detection and

wit as for wine? // // Has she guessed that this doggerel, painfully

Wednesday Evening

hout wisdom, // // Feeding on borrowed

wit . // // Your voice echoes off my skull. // // Your eyes are plast

the East, to the West, // // I wish a

witch would show her face. // // But, Christ! From the West to the Ea

Ode to a map of the world

y // // I see a blank white sheet, and

withdraw , // // Back to my drooling muse, because // // When I write

Writing to explore

// less. // // Tim was their orphan,

withdrawn with elation at // // endless results embryonically won. //

Jonathan’s Deathbed

e your house, // // I stand motionless

within a frame. Wading fearlessly through // // the cold receding sea

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

sh Sea, // // the new year is sleeping

within // // cyclizine dreams, // // and I am reminded of yesterday’

enade of barbed calories // // nestled

within each bite of Cadbury’s, // // so bring on the celery. And a s

Chocolate Sonnet

us. // // L-shaped the house; enclosed

within its arms // // a walled garden, left untended // // for maybe

severed // // From the life which lies

within . // // Oak and hazel, beech and alder, // // What news borne

leaves might fall

, lost Space and Earth and form. // //

Within our bubble, Hubble shows the forms // // Of roiling supernovae

my throat pulling // // The wire from

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

grease spots // // Leopard-like // //

Within the corrugated cage. // // The petrified wood // // Of my gre

avy sockets. rust // // me down // //

within the crepusc // // -ular tone, the tusk // // is ground // //

tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

ph records. // // You glimpsed it once

within the garden wall, // // The image of an ancient apple tree, //

The Magic Apple Tree

board, // // Raw-edged— // // Wrapped

within the glossy blackness // // Of Dad’s funereal car. // // Later

falls; // // The other comes to slush

within the marsh, // // Melting into a liquid form, they blend. // /

[What have we done]

swallow her whole, // // Drive her mad

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

ircles up from Hell, // // Whose pace,

within the strictest measure even, // // Breaks in the drill and rhyt

ng exactly where you are, // // Remain

within the world of which you’re made. // // Call nothing common in t

ents of incarnation down // // to burn

within these apples and this bough, // // Which here and now at last,

The Magic Apple Tree

corpse to rush // // you finite proof ‘

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

Between Life and Death

loss? My wife stirs, // // As our son

within // // Wakes, to return to dream—the // // Stars will wait for

Here be dragons

ir. // // She’ll stone you back // //

Without a care. // //

darkening hour they saw // // The boy

without a face. // //

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

till his breath ran cold // // The boy

without a face. // // Between the shining silver trees // // He wait

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

his stiffened body there // // The boy

without a face. // // His only keepers were the fox, // // Crouching

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

took the place of tears // // The boy

without a face. // // July came, and the woods grew pretty // // Loc

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

these days it’s all I Am Legend

without a hint of irony // // Spin’s more dangerous // // Myth more

the head rolls inwards, implodes // //

Without a sound or sight of anything unusual - // // And the sheets c

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

t anxieties // // and sexual confusion

without any explicit // // engagement from responsible adult figures.

, you know, nothing can even be a thing

without anything, // // For something always exists - // // Watching

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

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

without ceasing, // // without rest or break? // // i WISH that i co

the windmill’s lament—a short play

to read and pen and thrive, // // even

without degree. // // My maths proves useful: // // I can assess my

A Room of Her Own

things we’d seen, // // choosing again

without design. We ended in the same bar // // with the same familiar

w eyes to his // // Point of the ring,

without disclosing the secrets // // He holds to his chest. // // Wr

Vicious or Virtuous?

o find new ways to hold, // // To hold

without hands. // // But serene pain is found in the effort to learn

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

inside a shield, // // And bathing me

without inside this place. // // I close my eyes and feel their cacoo

[What have we done]

rink water? // // Can’t drink anything

without it. // // You know what I mean. // // Course. // // You alw

Whales sing because they have a song

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

without rest or break? // // i WISH that i could slow i wish that //

the windmill’s lament—a short play

d and seven demons rise, // // Let him

without sin cast the first stone, // // Let her without skin be the f

in cast the first stone, // // Let her

without skin be the first to cry. // // Rosemary for remembrance and

This Easter Sunday was the first // //

Without the old sun-dancing Christ: // // The bread stayed bready and

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

/ Negotiate the other passengers // //

Without too many ‘please’, // // ‘Thank you’ and ‘excuse me’s slips f

Poems on the Underground

med // // to dive // // is gone, sunk

without trace // // to greet the water channelling below. // // And

r will be satisfied. // // I am a fool

without wisdom, // // Feeding on borrowed wit. // // Your voice echo

fear reflects between our eyes, // //

without words or comforts. // // We burn. // // We can’t touch or ev

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

e, and stay the same, // // you weasel

without words, uncouth, unkind // // and lewd; you onanistic waste of

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

noriginal. // // If I told you I’d die

without you, that our love flows through me // // Like blood, that I

I’ll never work for Hallmark

sia // // (even the kitchen sink bears

witness // // to Soviet columns of ice). // // But you seem unpertur

why i’m getting into Christmas

wait that we glimpsed magic. // // We

witnessed in the silence, the darkness and the secrecy // // When to

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

he game, and then dear // // Keep your

wits about you and your hand sleight // // And don’t count your winni

k is an ash boomerang. // // Old woman

wobbles back to her old man. // //

wails into Acheron // // Your river of

woe and death. // // Never to taste, never to touch // // Drift amid

extol, the properties of a property so

woefully dull. // // Are we not glad it was an epic cause the Greeks

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

/ Anyways, how was your today? // // I

woke up at 5. // // [P.M.] // // Shit. How long since you’ve seen th

Whales sing because they have a song

llow and grey, // // and everybody has

wolf -eyes in the rain. Their irises keep breaking // // me, and so I

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

leep. Suddenly I’m running. Grey // //

wolves behind me and I’m running, running from the grey // // teeth b

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

/ // Teach her dutifully that // // A

woman fallen has no reason to live, // // But do beware // // Someth

Woman Fallen // // Scarlet skins and serpent leaves, // // A paradis

s // // the room we glimpse inside. A

woman leans // // upon a table in the window, looks // // out into s

Cape Cod Morning

o cramping bend to lunar bow. // // No

woman ruled by orbing tyrant queen; // // Umbilical tangen skywards,

d trunk is an ash boomerang. // // Old

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

would be beards to compare, // // Men,

women , and children all. // //

Bearded Thoughts

ay, right? I mean // // what about the

women come and go and talk

er and must be exemplar for // // The ‘

women’s college’ where the third years saw // // They had just funds

led, // // if nine demon ever did, god-

won // // Arrêt. // // Anger // // art // // Lunar // // vos rêve

Hercules et Oracle

at // // endless results embryonically

won . // // Perfect formation and heartless damnation // // as Paradi

Jonathan’s Deathbed

// // and I am reminded of yesterday’s

wonder : // // a chorus of whispers painted on // // the imprimatura

myself like a honeycomb house. // // I

wonder about your house by the sea, and how long that photo remained t

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

onder] // // Your eyes are filled with

wonder as they gaze // // so deep between the colours of the flames.

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

et salt, // // a red nick cuts… // //

wonder began // // // // or I // // Iron Age bred, // // now stu

Hercules et Oracle

ree violent crimes”—tv-light // // and

wonder : do I have it, or no? this meme of after-night // // On the th

nds forever. // // Does it wash off, I

wonder , does it truly subside and quietly die in a corner like the liv

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

deflects skilful asking darts, // // I

wonder if I have no choice but to be selfish, presumptuous, breakable.

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

oured images of flames. // // Should I

wonder if my eyes deceive me? // //

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

dhood days. // // Now far from home, I

wonder if new children might // // Monkey-like prance from branch to

to explore // // When I write a line I

wonder // // Just exactly where it came from // // And if it’ll happ

Writing to explore

whispers of our unquiet hearts // // I

wonder what he’s going to say? // // We are but notes the piano plays

es tell us we’re going to war, // // I

wonder where they think we’ve been. // // Each in our uniforms, black

eir mother’s house. // // The townsmen

wonder why he draws // // When all he draws are pots and pans, // //

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

[Your eyes are filled with

wonder ] // // Your eyes are filled with wonder as they gaze // // so

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

ought, ‘nothing ever // // changes.’ I

wondered // // if she’d pictured // // her dresses // // being brou

In a charity shop

Sestina to an English Teacher // // I

wondered if // // you hated words— // // those words that you could

Sestina to an English Teacher

words with your // // endless life. I

wondered if your // // thinning blood resented life, // // words moc

Sestina to an English Teacher

sure, to be frank, part of me’s always

wondered // // What it might be like to be tied up, or otherwise encu

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

body comes understanding, // // And a

wonderful point to be derived. // // For inside you are a million pa

The Tree of Wisdom

rd to relate it to tragedy), // // And

wondering , as you roll into the snug sheets, if ink will stain your ha

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

r. // // I can see that I’m one of the

wonders , // // Can’t fault the regime that I’m under: // // Meals: f

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

history in the face, // // The bearded

wonders from a bygone age // // Of yellow Victorian tobacco-stains up

Bearded Thoughts

, he lies back in damp grass // // And

wonders when on earth all this will end. // //

// you’re in the trash dear Wayne – you

wongaboy – // // since you forgot to check if I was versed // // in

Between Life and Death

our grasp on // // The reality of the

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

/ // Of an old pine table. Between the

wood and you, // // There is the day’s newspaper, blazoned with //

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

a corniced window bay // // in darker

wood . Clear morning sunlight fills // // the room we glimpse inside.

Cape Cod Morning

// Now burns blackened words into dead

wood ; // // Cremates Glede-eyes garnet // // Tightens coils, wrenche

o kept away // // From the elm- // //

Wood door, not daring // // To step beyond our domain, // // Not muc

bull’s-eye. // // Not quite seeing the

wood for the balsa, // // knowing the great hereafter for elsewhere.

ed // // (as I trace my hand along the

wood -grain // // which falls from the mantelpiece in rivulets) // //

lackstrap coaly seams // // making the

wood marbled. // // Or maybe // // it could sort of peel away in pap

re lying on the sun-warmed, deep-veined

wood // // Of an old pine table. Between the wood and you, // // The

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

e corrugated cage. // // The petrified

wood // // Of my great-grandmother’s rolling pin, // // Solid as her

us, the sky is clear. // // Across the

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

Wells in winter

nter // // We take the path beside the

wood —the fir // // and silver birch along the dunes that run // // b

Wells in winter

/ // My open’d eyes do look around the

wood , // // The ghoulish form’s tear in the air re-sewn // // So thr

[What have we done]

/ And your dark decomposing run all the

wood through; // // Here’s to you, damson, and cherry, and plum // /

A Song for the Planting of Fruit Trees

o skip across // // and find myself in

wooded Janet’s Foss. // // Upstream again to clamber Gordale Scar //

Daydream Dale Journey

Wooden // // Her walking-stick is a divining-rod // // or an oil rig

beat of a pun, // // She presents the

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

s // // drawing my thoughts along your

wooden wave-shapes // // dipping into knot warps and sanded-down blem

ban mould // // not suited to // // a

woodland glade // // and dappled shade— // // and suited too. // //

ngs to an autumn frost. // // 1am, and

Woodlands court // // is the same as it always is: // // at once a p

[The sash rattles up]

t a courtyard. // // Still just me and

Woodlands court, // // separate beneath the stars, // // at 1am. //

[The sash rattles up]

se] // // // // time rolls up like a

woodlouse and the skies // // go white, and nothing hurts the way it

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

[time rolls up like a

woodlouse ] // // // // time rolls up like a woodlouse and the skies

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

thout a face. // // July came, and the

woods grew pretty // // Local people left the city // // Moved by lo

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

rides // // more walks, more bluebell

woods // // more curlews, more ragged, slanting lines of geese // //

n roses I once destroyed. I’m up in the

woods , now. it’s good in the dark, good in the dark, hoping, hoping an

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

Pseudonymous-ify: // // Called himself

Woody , // // And promptly found fame. // // Higgledy Piggledy // //

is likeness glimmering // // On coarse

woollen lapels // // As proof of our labour. // // After the red dus

Magnetic Mountain

har those swatches dotted with herds of

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

Aubade to Girton

// Confines the noble beard to a // //

Woolly -jumpered existence in out-of-the-way places, // // Lounging on

Bearded Thoughts

l nil return. // // Nil, wild-eyed and

woolly , // // pent in a furry fury // // at the nilherd’s final dema

Nil Charge / Nil Return

ritten word is paramount, the universal

word , a thrifty fox-thought, golden delighted kept at bay from the qui

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

from the tongue // // That speaks the

Word // // Amidst the tympanum. // // But hard by the rood-screen he

The Green Man, Mid-Winter

orning after // // I’m searching for a

word // // amongst the wine stained lips and glasses, // // teabags

// // yellowed and drastic; there’s a

word // // for the desire to look in the windows of other peoples’ ho

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

, // // No images allowed, the written

word is paramount, the universal word, a thrifty fox-thought, golden d

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

inventive // // And when I give you my

word , I’m giving you my all, // // These meaningless metaphors and si

I’ll never work for Hallmark

Thirteen LinesA song in

word -music. // // Love sent you to the desert’s hush-parched silence.

ill follow soon enough; // // A little

word so easy to excise // // Another snippet for the cutting room //

The Cutting Edge

e he couldn’t see the afterlife of that

Word . // // Speckled by starlight: You smoke-sigh and observe // //

/ Of faces lost and undefined. // // A

word that initiates thoughts in the mind // // Of every thinker it la

e turkey, // // He was better than his

word . // // The crackers sound, the jokes renowned— // // Thank God

A Hymn to a Loved One

my shattered wings // // And speak the

word too mundane to say // // And expire with the curse of your name

cci // // Once upon a time, // // one

word was all it took // // to set the pair of them off— // // it was

arts are opened wide // // To hear the

Word which sings of life // // To hear the Song, beyond the notes //

cop to shape the songsmith // // The

word -worm breaks from the bone-cage // // The word-worm encircles, ti

rm breaks from the bone-cage // // The

word -worm encircles, tightens its coils, and the wordsmith // // And

magma moltenly golden // // Hardens to

wordhoard -gems // // In the mind For the scop to shape the songsm

lution’, ‘what?’, or ‘no!’. Now they’re

wordless : // // unpenned letters from the past, encrypted // // in a

// // Trust that the old choices hold

wordlessly . // //

Like saliva onto the paper. // // The

words and ink slowly // // Seep deeper into the page, my skin, // //

Writing to explore

akable twist // // their kisses aren’t

words // // and the great big massive enormous wide universe full of

Same but differenT

// // you knew we saw you through your

words // // and your sardonic jokes, could // // see your hands shak

Sestina to an English Teacher

is hard. // // It is not that forms or

words // // are fixed, but that they slip // // and meanings multip

Stone, Paper, Scissors

// Like rain. Staining stones darker as

words attempt to fill the gap // // Between this point and somewhere

Snapshot Endings

t your eyes, never ever not been seeing

words before you, // // The guilt and hideous shame of not doing, rat

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

om dawn far into the nights, before the

words // // Began to stick and move in different ways. // // I see i

[My face is old now]

othing can drown out this voice and its

words . // // But then you look around // // And no one can hear it /

hile writing ‘is this the poem?’ // //

Words catch my mouth, bitter as lightning—is this the poem? // // The

o save your life— // // if only // //

words could // // save your life. // //

Sestina to an English Teacher

/ // // At first they were covered in

words : critical diatribes // // in small. Then they took on the look

heir glow. // // Red, white, and black

words disappear. // // I’m not so far away from home. // //

erved or pressed? // // And so the big

words , dispossessed // // by our ramshackle fumbling // // with phon

to your many mouths that // // breathe

words down the phone // // which I’ll never hear because I feel // /

why i’m getting into Christmas

contact with anything other than // //

Words . Each man seeks to draw eyes to his // // Point of the ring, wi

Vicious or Virtuous?

only— // // is only—the memory of kind

words // // fixed to a comforting face that could // // keep its hum

Sestina to an English Teacher

eum, Cambridge // // I translate Greek

words from a slab of stone // // the size of an ancient kin’s era //

Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge

// // Starting in A going to B. // //

Words fumble along the way, // // From there to here, // // Ringing

[She points to the sky]

music whilst I work // // And let the

words go on like I’m not there. // // I hate doing it, but I // // S

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

c bat to mr. beam // // your whispered

words hushed round // // a sun-warmed pillowed land of // // South G

luc bat to mr. beam

. // // My Frost-bit ears resound with

words I know. // // (How many miles to go till I can sleep?) // // B

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

I’d imagine you sitting and reading my

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

[I often think of that January morning]

ks and love celestial. // // Two-faced

words incarnate, bastard breed of loathing and love. // //

ft calfskin, // // Now burns blackened

words into dead wood; // // Cremates Glede-eyes garnet // // Tighten

// thinning blood resented life, // //

words mocking your condition—if // // you knew we saw you through you

Sestina to an English Teacher

ty (if only I could remember those long

words more better), // // Ranging over the snow sheets, stained now w

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ver the dragon // // speaking powerful

words // // not a reader of riddles // // but the riddle himself //

wed and bumbling along, // // Airwards

words off the tongue. // // The sky was blue. // // That she knew, h

[The sun flattened]

land. // // When you dismiss my bitter

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

f // // you hated my words, // // the

words on tragedy and elegy, words // // you praised so much—if you wo

Sestina to an English Teacher

flects between our eyes, // // without

words or comforts. // // We burn. // // We can’t touch or even speak

[Your eyes are filled with wonder]

tery with silence // // For had cheesy

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

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

e absolute dread of what may be. // //

Words run slipshod, all across the page and onto the desk and away, //

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

e tongue of love. // // they use their

words , saying eyes are the window to the soul // // but eyes don’t ta

Same but differenT

the fruit to me, // // That kept the

words so secretly. // //

The Tree of Wisdom

rself to the moment when these immortal

words spilled from the Shakespearean pen // // And flowing across the

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

than mine // // But for now just these

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

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

/ They buzz like passengers, the // //

words that please the mind, // // navigate the gap of have-been and w

Poems on the Underground

ar shot dead, // // he thought of some

words that Pol Pot said, // // and he almost did best her // // with

The Failing of the Cheese

if // // you hated words— // // those

words that you could // // say by heart—the ones you save // // ins

Sestina to an English Teacher

r could work out if // // you hated my

words , // // the words on tragedy and elegy, words // // you praised

Sestina to an English Teacher

mossed cottage trees // // tasting the

words themselves lke cottage cheese // // To Eliot, difficult, in col

Cheese is the medium

my ears to Antigone, blot out my dear’s

words . // // They can’t be talking to me. // // I’ll be interested t

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

r // // I wondered if // // you hated

words — // // those words that you could // // say by heart—the ones

Sestina to an English Teacher

garnet // // Tightens coils, wrenches

words // // Tightens coils, a crucible // // Refining through fire.

fe. // // Your young voice brought old

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

Sestina to an English Teacher

le to tell // // —could I but find the

words to make it plain. // // Two book-ends bracket our shared domain

ordsmith // // And wrings and wrenches

words to verse // // Scorched calfskin with meaning // // Of the sku

tay the same, // // you weasel without

words , uncouth, unkind // // and lewd; you onanistic waste of shame,

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

etched as sundown. // // Echo calls of

words unspoken— // // She hopes to watch you drown. // // When you e

Who am I, Bernard?

ur mothers milk // // But poets curdle

words until they bite, // // With substance and a flavour of their ow

Cheese is the medium

ble only // // by sight. For you these

words // // Were nature, these forms so often taught that you could /

Sestina to an English Teacher

ed gifts. As slowly // // the strange

words were sung // // by few, familiar voices. // // For some reason

[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

tive // // Sense, began to mime // //

Words which once we could // // Speak, to lose our grasp on // // Th

. I have built a pyre // // To all the

words whose smoke the sky swallowed. // //

ft and low. // // Stay with the music,

words will come in time. // // Slow down your breathing. Keep it deep

etry, you could save // // these dying

words with your // // endless life. I wondered if your // // thinnin

Sestina to an English Teacher

et’s run when you can run and talk when

words you have mastered, // // Let’s sit cross-legged at home and lau

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

eld fast, though those rattling serpent-

words // // You heard hissed ‘Arrogance. Omnipotence,’ // // Augment

ommand. // // They are not mine, these

words you make me use: // // Oppression’s language does not understan

// // the words on tragedy and elegy,

words // // you praised so much—if you would // // think I’d misunde

Sestina to an English Teacher

encircles, tightens its coils, and the

wordsmith // // And wrings and wrenches words to verse // // Scorche

need the poets who grew old // // And

wore the bottoms of their trousers rolled, // // I need characters li

“A Nasty Piece of

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

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

tting room and listen to music whilst I

work // // And let the words go on like I’m not there. // // I hate

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

breeze is on vacation as // // The hot

work begins, wheeling // // Round and round, stuck to the bed, // //

// // the musk and slip of six weeks’

work , either // // mustard gas and ether or your man’s flesh // // f

work for Hallmark // // If I could show you how I love you with this

I’ll never work for Hallmark

// They advertised who wasn’t made for

work . // // Now, blank verse seems to break those systems down: // /

In Defence of Evolution

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

less love of life. // // I never could

work out if // // you hated my words, // // the words on tragedy and

Sestina to an English Teacher

fluster of lights // // in windows of

work -stale rooms. // // Stepping out, // // the crisp, exhilarating

[The sash rattles up]

/ // Mendacious bigots do their deadly

work , // // Those creeping politicians breathing hate, // // Who pro

// Cheese is the very medium of their

work . // // We drink in language with our mothers milk // // But poe

Cheese is the medium

[Oh work] // // “Oh

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

eats. // // Accompanying us: families,

workers , couples, // // Phone-paralysed and book-engrossed, // // Pr

Shit, we’ve missed our stop.

o here I can no longer vouch // // for

working days, or if my real malaise // // might just be musing if I’m

Between Life and Death

h // // you finite proof ‘within three

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

Between Life and Death

Rs and layering up— // // Nothing else

works for the College bird. // // The burr-sore want some fast relief

BURR (or Brrrrr)

the self-confessed skeptics // // run

workshops and digs // // and stand in the temple // // announcing //

and // // fade, longing to change the

world ? // //

[The world moves the same]

was // // A hideous threat to all the

World . // // A hideous threat to all the World? // // Lie? To prove

and so odd, // // With the gain of the

world and the loss of God. // //

(R)evolution: Easter Rising

ng on and // // on—the noise the dream-

world appropriates for its own // // but you Break it with a smile an

t being touches and reshapes // // the

world around her, far as she can reach. // // Who is this now, who da

aring // // Whether there was a // //

World beyond to explore. // // We sought to do away // // With silly

he gap // // Between your body and the

world . // // Careful, things might fall // // Where the senses canno

intertwined at the centre // // of the

world , dragonlike, I was, I think, // // less a hatchling, head under

he ice, // // ‘Doesn’t the idea of the

world ending sometimes sound a bit nice?’ // // Everybody occasionall

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// // Drinking the potions // // The

world forced us // // To drink, potions which // // Were excellent (

ulls, // // Born of earth into stalled

world . // // Have you forgotten the early months of silence? // // O

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

Ode to a map of the

world // // Here’s to failure, here’s to fear, // // To the monster,

Ode to a map of the world

// // announcing // // UNESCO // //

world // // heritage // // status // // but saying // // that the

our blood, and // // My window on the

world in all its hues: // // Our dialect, sweet sister of our land. /

// mid the disappointing debris of the

world : // // Its fag ends and canisters of laughing gas. // //

[The room was plainness and preparedness]

more— // // I’m waiting on tomorrow’s

world ; // // I’m ill; I’m hurt; I’m tired; I’m bored; // // I’ve lov

rld. // // A hideous threat to all the

World ? // // Lie? To prove there was // // He had to. // // ‘It’s t

[The world moves the same] // // The

world moves the same: // // It turns but doesn’t alter // // Its alt

[The world moves the same]

world moves the same] // // The world moves the same: // // It turns

[The world moves the same]

we must show you outward // // to the

world . Naming // // you was not hard, we chose // // a name that mea

Stone, Paper, Scissors

I remember you called me a diamond in a

world of coal. A light // // through the mist, softly luminous and gu

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

hone on the wall miles away // // in a

world of digit meets digits, // // space and time exploded // // to

ly missed from the critically acclaimed

world of the immortal rhymists // // It would take a poet with suprem

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

f you, // // but may you revel in this

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

where you are, // // Remain within the

world of which you’re made. // // Call nothing common in the earth or

zed blankly at the branches. // // The

world swam occasionally, // // Left hand knotted in a white tissue, /

[The sun flattened]

er, blazoned with // // The spin of a

world that isn’t yours and can’t // // Seem true. But there you lie—i

‘War is not nice’—Barbara Bush

y. // // I am the king that buried the

world ; // // The only map of his kingdom perfect enough // // (For y

Catalogue d’Oiseaux:

g silver trees // // He waited for the

world to freeze // // And ice to form upon the breeze // // And snow

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

Walk through the outer darkness of the

world // // Towards a buried memory of light // // Whose faded trace

The Magic Apple Tree

ll’d dice // // I plucked from falling

world two daggers cold. // // My eyes obscured by wash, I blindly dug

[What have we done]

ll slide through the mesh // // Of the

world up into a vast, unyielding sky // // Untouched by bird, unseen

[My face is old now]

lst you speak the weather of our little

world // // (Wednesdays it rains; pumpkins pockmark; cushion-thief st

// // From cloud to cloud. // // The

world went waterwards again. // // Her right hand slackened slightly,

[The sun flattened]

make itself again, and fill // // the

world with dittoed offspring. Yet it will // // occasionally not bree

because it was the only way // // The

world would start again the next day. // // A clockwork Abraham, read

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

ill be irrefutable. // // We will shed

worldliness // // For a spasm of enlightenment. // //

s of our planets weep // // To see two

worlds collide. // //

The Daily Planet

w there to be ice, // // For such cold

worlds do not let flowing be, // // so passed I through, life’s ocean

[What have we done]

treaty can there be // // Between two

worlds like ours? // // Could I be lost in Venus, // // Could you be

The Daily Planet

lead us if we dare // // to unimagined

worlds that scare // // me. Something creepily malign’s // // throug

t clucked, and spat at the best of both

worlds . // // The monster hatched by a mother-serpent // // from an

eaking; // // True predators fear this

world’s raw // // Venality that spurns your natural law. // // What

o shape the songsmith // // The word-

worm breaks from the bone-cage // // The word-worm encircles, tighten

eaks from the bone-cage // // The word-

worm encircles, tightens its coils, and the wordsmith // // And wring

el it growing, growing // // Until the

worm is a serpent // // And whispers things. // // And the voice gro

wind curves // // moles tubers // //

worm roots wait // // for spring // // when dried blood scatters //

yew needs dried blood in spring

r history, and that is where // // the

wormholes lead. // //

ollow where, by cute design, // // the

wormholes lead, // // I have a very real fear // // there’s no assur

Wormholes // // The

wormholes lead us if we dare // // to unimagined worlds that scare //

Wormholes // // The wormholes lead us if we dare // // to unimagined

ed my two feet, too small, // // Into

worn and ripped slippers // // And shuffled over hardwood floors, //

The Notes You Have Left

// Through the hollows the years have

worn away. // //

into dense coils, // // Chopped up and

worn away until I forget how it sounds when you clear your throat, //

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

not made: revealed. // // Confused and

worn , I don’t know if I’m here. // // My form: beauty induced in smea

The chicken and the egg

ime they fix— // // You can’t revive a

worn -out box of tricks. // // Just like you can’t wear medieval sleev

In Defence of Evolution

k in the night as you wrap up warm with

worn -out future thoughts, // // Of poems half-remembered, long ago de

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

d through our shared blue sleeve; we’re

worn // // with waiting in dissention and denial. // // What will ou

l, don’t worry. // // [I’ll try, don’t

worry .] // // Give me a ring. // // You got it. // // [Once your vo

Whales sing because they have a song

to go. Drive safe. // // I will, don’t

worry . // // [I’ll try, don’t worry.] // // Give me a ring. // // Y

Whales sing because they have a song

tuck at some point, still. // // Don’t

worry Karl we have a program for the picking now: // // For there she

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

needs to understand. // // And doesn’t

worry with the rest. // // The man has not wasted his life— // // It

k thereof, because there isn’t anything

worse // // Than boredom. Except the non-existent tick // // Of your

The Notes You Have Left

// and in the hollows gnaw at something

worse . // // the waiting lists are long, and you are drained. // //

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

/ To beat the breast against // // And

worship waist-deep in hands // // That tilled the salty earth // //

. // // In Eastern Cape men show their

worth by rite, // // Both those who fit and those in awkward guilt. /

Three gay rituals

Listen, kid: // // Broken ribs aren’t

worth it, // // Kid: bandages aren’t for this kind of wound, // // K

Did you bury her yet?

ooks on Mass. // // So was the project

worth it? Should we mass- // // Protest the by-pass if the Vogons kno

n; // // The miniature tea pot // // (

Worth mending, Nan said, it’s genuine Limoges); // // The milk jug fr

rinks // // Tell me, is there anything

worth more // // Than the light dancing on this face? // // Than the

I could never be (ready)

sses; // // That five pence that isn’t

worth the creak // // Of bones to pick up. // // A camera lens whirs

Vicious or Virtuous?

loser to the exotic East. Each tear was

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

To tell the solid // // Cost from the

worthless losses; // // That five pence that isn’t worth the creak //

Vicious or Virtuous?

/ He’ll never lose time, he’s carefully

wound . // // A finer example will never be found. // // His talents

on tarmac soar // // No scar or battle

wound , // // Just resting, feet cresting // // The concrete wave. //

Urban bird watching

/ Kid: bandages aren’t for this kind of

wound , // // Kid: you’re twenty-four years old. // // Get over it. Y

Did you bury her yet?

/ And put me back together and seal the

wound with her mouth // // So that I have a lipstick smudge scar all

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

// // Then I might search your tender

wounds // // And you my battle scars, // // Then you might pull me f

The Daily Planet

// // The rails were like // // lives

woven in cloth, // // a tapestry, // // by which // // all that’s l

In a charity shop

ur shadows converged and it fled to the

wrack in a finflick. // // Our nets, turning weed, revealed nothing:

Just a Small Fish

/ Gifts they could never be bothered to

wrap . // // Ties, from when he tried to make an effort // // and mak

nd the sheets creak in the night as you

wrap up warm with worn-out future thoughts, // // Of poems half-remem

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ce // // That fine-boned beauty, linen-

wrapped and masked in paint? // // How many years your kohl eyes must

re a tensed trap, and truffles could be

wrapped // // any which way, were still turf slightly warped. // //

Chocolate Sonnet

tin of icing tips, // // Individually

wrapped in kitchen towel. // // One by one, // // I hold these thing

point. // // “Feel better soon” // //

Wrapped in layer after layer, like I’m // // Experiencing that first

The Notes You Have Left

/ While the nilherds are snoring // //

wrapped warm in their nilpelts // // the nil strain – tight pressed /

Nil Charge / Nil Return

led cardboard, // // Raw-edged— // //

Wrapped within the glossy blackness // // Of Dad’s funereal car. //

hing powder and // // Garish Christmas

wrapping paper, // // Looking for that one item on my list. // // Tr

The Notes You Have Left

I don’t mean ‘wreck’ as in emotionally

wreck . // // I mean wrecked as in ended. Leave nothing intact. As in,

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

love you’. I want it // // To come and

wreck me. // // And I don’t mean ‘wreck’ as in emotionally wreck. //

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

exit, // // Discover that we might yet

wreck their brexit. // //

as in emotionally wreck. // // I mean

wrecked as in ended. Leave nothing intact. As in, if it doesn’t kill m

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

ndian wine // // Before those wretched

wreckers draw the line // // That severs, and condemns us to decline,

and wreck me. // // And I don’t mean ‘

wreck ’ as in emotionally wreck. // // I mean wrecked as in ended. Lea

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

gain. // // Ostara didn’t need viscera

wrenched by obsessed obsidian. // // The Sun will keep turning. We ju

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

lede-eyes garnet // // Tightens coils,

wrenches words // // Tightens coils, a crucible // // Refining throu

and the wordsmith // // And wrings and

wrenches words to verse // // Scorched calfskin with meaning // // O

understanding wretch who thinks rhymes

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

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

aggot’s mind. // // Lame understanding

wretch who thinks rhymes wrench’t // // sufficiént; you claim sans rh

“A Nasty Piece of Work”

his Burgundian wine // // Before those

wretched wreckers draw the line // // That severs, and condemns us to

embrace // // of scaffold. And why not

wriggle our toes in bits of old bran and chaff // // mixed up with sa

// // groans and secrets // // blood!

wriggling life! a name! love! // // Candles, hats—shake the snow from

Drink and be merry

its coils, and the wordsmith // // And

wrings and wrenches words to verse // // Scorched calfskin with meani

e whole room with // // her hands, the

wrinkles round her eyes, // // the softness of her hair. // // I wan

the new year is held back, firm by the

wrist . // // // // And, lover, consider the running down of the str

y line to line // // Controlled by the

wrist of an amputee, // // I fear I am not in my perfect mind. // //

Exam Room Villanelle

With balanced clay and graphite, // //

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

Three Ways of Walking

er // // twisted copper about a girl’s

wrists , her // // ankles, her throat. It squatted, watched her, penn

ts // // He holds to his chest. // //

Wrists , shackled by counterfeit silver, // // Steeled against the dis

Vicious or Virtuous?

Writing to explore // // When I

write a line I wonder // // Just exactly where it came from // // An

Writing to explore

my drooling muse, because // // When I

write a poem, I can be // // Just exactly who I mean to be // // And

Writing to explore

ew blanks? // // There’d be nothing to

write about for one. // // (but they’d find something) // // They’d

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

ns to show how we might speak // // Or

write , approaching her in skill and elegance. // // New arts are need

oise of chain saws, // // Beginning to

write essays that in some wise start to feed us, // // When from the

[Walcott begins Omeros]

On nature // // To

write on nature is always ironic. // // These are leaves I write on,

lways ironic. // // These are leaves I

write on, // // Where the dendrites of the mind // // Grow branching

est emo and now I can’t remember how to

write poems // // because I just want to scream them until I’m hoarse

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

them feel or empathise. // // For the

writer may agree, but he lies, // // He put no thought into that verb

ons felt when read in whole. // // The

writer scoffs when hearing praise // // Of how masterful his pen appe

come freely, and look what nonsense it

writes ! How it is determined by sound, rhythm, and repetition rather t

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

done you wrong. // // Only an infidel

writes thirteen lines. // //

Is this the poem? // // Strange loops

writhe inside, nightmares can be sensitive creatures— // // ‘You go!’

Interpol: I have your mail. // // Your

writhing at my death has deeply touched // // me. Though unknown to y

Between Life and Death

et, stray. // // There was a young man

writhing in the splinters of the shattered window pane. // // There w

Black September

// // Found prophesy fulfilled. Their

writing binds // // Past with present: a poet’s hexagram // // Of ev

Sixteen Forty-Five

of // // I catch myself thinking while

writing ‘is this the poem?’ // // Words catch my mouth, bitter as lig

ne of mine? // // She scorns me and my

writing , I’m sure it’s the end // // Of a love that would flourish we

Wednesday Evening

// // you find from the smug graffiti-

writing reader: ‘Foucault!’, // // ‘evolution’, ‘what?’, or ‘no!’. No

sun you saw him lean // // To read the

writing , say that you had been // // A teacher and must be exemplar f

Writing to explore // // When I write a line I wonder // // Just exa

Writing to explore

xisting as echoes // // of former pain

written across me, transforming the body’s blank page. // // I don’t

[I often think of that January morning]

arcana // // runes from the root-tree

written in the deeps, // // leaves from the tale-tree lifted, swift a

ove her. // // I beached her on Naxos,

written off as a tax loss, // // Raised black sails, and now I’m in c

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

ave piled up eight or nine // // Close-

written sheets, but as for me // // I fear I am not in my perfect min

Exam Room Villanelle

ns to me and says: // // you should’ve

written The Waste Land first time round Nickerson. // //

[the typist puts her knickers on]

vieux corse and swiss // // Had I not

written this I confess with deepest regret, I would banish this rubbis

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

sual aid, // // No images allowed, the

written word is paramount, the universal word, a thrifty fox-thought,

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

it gets clear, // // This pain is very

wrong ! // //

A Tribute to AQOH

lk problems // // and though they were

wrong // // about the girl on the stool // // the earth is not silen

nly sung // // can’t be sung, can’t be

wrong // // and when their lips and legs lock together in an unbreaka

Same but differenT

/ // lines” I said. // // “somethings

wrong ” I said, // // cutting through the quiet. // // I watched you,

ll be blacker than coal. if my truth is

wrong I want you to gouge it from me. use blunt, hoping, hoping and ho

we’re not in Kansas, anymore

// // Lover, brother, I have done you

wrong . // // Only an infidel writes thirteen lines. // //

Played on over things that were // //

Wrong , that heartbreaking song // // Reminding me of things that are

vitality. // // 4. // // Modernity is

wrong . We cannot control nor predict anything. They preceded us, auton

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

rpus // // With Berlin in mind. // //

Wrote of his life in his // // Autobiographies, // // Loved for his

rm mug in murky waves. // // The ink I

wrote to you in was always black, never blue, // // and I’d imagine y

[I often think of that January morning]

// I have lost the receipt on which I

wrote your address and, as such, will be leaving this letter her

eye? // // It represented such a fine-

wrought craft // // and skill, and yet I never thought you deft // /

Compass Reading

eave. Pale envy-green, wet-yellow, gold-

wrought // // Over-thought in the tail-end; by day at poet’s sea of g

e guessed that this doggerel, painfully

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

Wednesday Evening

ithin taught // // I’ll hide behind my

Wyatt today who knew // // Existing on hot coals blisters the feet //