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

Y

t. Each tear was worth the glor- // //

y of the find in the name of God for the sake of gold. They mock- //

s. Tears would pay for the glor- // //

y of the find in the name of God for the sake of gold. They mock // /

the brightest ripest ones, // // takes

yard eggs, flour, fruit of the citronnier // // and bakes a tarte au

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

// it pulls the final prop. A hundred

yards // // of man’s best effort at defence // // drops thirty feet

Walking in winter

willow // // In June he lay among the

yarrow // // Pollen gilding him with yellow // // Yellow crowning hi

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

sh tango // // to the ship’s pitch and

yaw , // // borrowed eyes seeing // // some earlier draft of things,

he drilling bell // // And stretch and

yawn and kiss me. All is well. // //

all Particles in the Small Hours // //

Yawn , // // Dawn // // Five o nine, // // Swiss time; // // An acc

Small Particles in the Small Hours

e in its this— // // is-my-beloved-son

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

[Oh work] // // “Oh work, // //

ye fill the night; // // Oh time; // // ye slip, slip, slip away, //

fill the night; // // Oh time; // //

ye slip, slip, slip away, // // Slipping slipping, slip! // // Slipp

I use humour—I’m used to humour. // //

Yeah . Drink water? // // Can’t drink anything without it. // // You

Whales sing because they have a song

/ and she would have been, what, eight?

yeah , eight. // // Looking back, it’s flown by. On his 13th birthday

t doesn’t feel like home anymore // //

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

hat I’m under: // // Meals: fourteen a

year —all frozen (by fear)— // // But the service gets slow when it bl

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

// // It may be the coldest day of the

year // // but no Murder of absurd black penguins // // congregate t

why i’m getting into Christmas

Gaza Sequence // // New

Year . Gaza, 2009 // // The tank commander, aiming well, // // Took o

ucers’ x-ray-burning to my five- // //

year infant guilt. Fruitless to plead my case // // into that microph

Compass Reading

g. // // Seeming deathless, // // The

year is born again. The festival // // Of a boy-king // // Is but on

Before Christmas

g // // Is but one of many. // // The

year is born again. The festival // // Seeking the return of the ligh

Before Christmas

// There will come a time when the new

year is held back, firm by the wrist. // // // // And, lover, consi

black-stoppered oil caster. // // The

year is nineteen fifty-five; // // The man, Bologna’s drawing-master.

[A still life, with ceramic vase]

wilds of the Irish Sea, // // the new

year is sleeping within // // cyclizine dreams, // // and I am remin

er // // Berkshire, 1962-3 // // This

year it snows on Boxing Day. // // The country road not cleared for d

Walking in winter

he flickering light. // // Nearly-five-

year -old Colin // // needed a lavatory, and I had to leave the fire f

/ // 222 deaths in Cambridgeshire last

year . // // People finding their way home. // // People leaning agai

Interval // // There is a forty-one

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

make their nil capture. // // For this

year there’s no nil return. // // Nil Return // // While the nilherd

Nil Charge / Nil Return

that photo remained through // // the

year . You tell me my honey hair is darker now, and my eyes are a deepe

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// Like blood, that I pine for you, and

yearn for you, // // And can taste this longing in the back of my mou

I’ll never work for Hallmark

, left untended // // for maybe thirty

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

// That might have saved you all those

years ago. // // Conserved and published, now at last you know // //

old outside. // // (But that was forty

years ago // // —these days his hair is white all through.) // // ‘E

Walking in winter

just mean that in my current state, 19

years and // // Not enough months to make a difference old, // // I

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

nto its glow. // // Another twenty one

years , // // another crematorium. // // This time Judith has chosen

/ All before. Even now, after all these

years apart, // // I can look inside, and find you here, // // Like

[My face is old now]

/ crops are watered. // // Seasons and

years are counted and timed. // // Philosophies are aired, // // tem

relinquish, // // To let go of leaden

years as though a mouthful of smoke, // // To find new ways to no lon

[Red-hot and tear-kissed]

[At the coinciding point of the

years ] // // At the coinciding point of the years // // Where minute

[At the coinciding point of the years]

is conversation with myself. // // For

years —for, rather, rare nights between inky uterine nights—I’d dream:

// On the festival of Ferragosto // //

Years from that night // // Fireworks like a Pollock painting // //

the thunderstorm struck the sea // //

Years from that night // // On a promontory we watched // // As the

ed and measured mass // // Ten billion

years from this. Yet few’ll then know, // // Or knowing grasp, those

Sijo // // // // Lover, the

years have fine timing, or fine luck, I’ve noticed: // // an old one

y strays // // Through the hollows the

years have worn away. // //

kshelf // // what remains // // three

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

// and talked to relatives not seen for

years . // // It had to be, but it was not the memory we needed. // /

ping taxi, // // Filled that space for

years —It makes no sound as it drops. // // I replay too detailed memo

[Ambient objects surrounded me]

a brother, and a place to talk. // //

Years later we went back and made the same unchartered // // trip, re

heat upon my face. // // Twenty three

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

he meant it to. // // And he has some

years left in him yet. // // This man, at least, has nothing to be as

ts the way it should. // // resent the

years of careful compromise, // // the hours spent washing bathroom t

[time rolls up like a woodlouse]

dependency on // // Your voice, all 25

years of me dissolving into the bed, // // The stain anxiety leaves,

[I am almost 25 years old]

ey simmered down when he was about five

years old, // // and she would have been, what, eight? yeah, eight. /

f wound, // // Kid: you’re twenty-four

years old. // // Get over it. You swim or you drown, // // Kid. She

Did you bury her yet?

[I am almost 25

years old] // // I am almost 25 years old. I cannot remember a time /

[I am almost 25 years old]

ost 25 years old] // // I am almost 25

years old. I cannot remember a time // // When I didn’t feel, beneath

[I am almost 25 years old]

// And me realising that he was three

years older than me when his mother died, // // That there’s still so

Three Pieces of Advice

/ The ‘women’s college’ where the third

years saw // // They had just funds enough to pay and brought you her

aken root, // // Those drawings I made

years since // // Of shapes pinnate and toothed, // // Like a hand,

leaves might fall

] // // At the coinciding point of the

years // // Where minutes, hours, and days run not to time // // But

[At the coinciding point of the years]

now for more // // than three fraught

years – with bitterness and bile // // sieved through our shared blue

u before. // // I could stay a hundred

years // // With this aura of warmth // // Its amber hues remind me

ed and masked in paint? // // How many

years your kohl eyes must have stared // // Watching new generations

er, for Blair is here. // // After two

years ’ pay, this is the day // // He finally comes to Gaza (with chum

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

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

nd the twinkling guitar riff // // and

yell my apologies instead of typing // // and deleting, admit my ugly

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

the railroad crossing // // the driver

yelled ‘quiet’ // // we kept on talking // // I noticed the sign sai

ame. The city is a puddle of glistening

yellow and grey, // // and everybody has wolf-eyes in the rain. Their

[Somewhere on the mantelpiece inside your house]

// // Until your notes covered it like

yellow bricks. // //

The Notes You Have Left

Crossing // // “the

yellow bus had stopped // // at the railroad crossing // // the driv

/ // As the tree drops its leaves like

yellow coin: // // NOW // // and NOW // // and O

[At the coinciding point of the years]

/ Pollen gilding him with yellow // //

Yellow crowning him with grace. // // He lay there till the grass gre

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

home. // // Red, white. Red, white. A

yellow glare: // // 222 deaths in Cambridgeshire last year. // // Pe

s still dis-leave. Pale envy-green, wet-

yellow , gold-wrought // // Over-thought in the tail-end; by day at po

Of souvenir china: // // The white and

yellow honey-pot // // With matching spoon; // // The miniature tea

a generation // // Framed by the dusty

yellow // // Of that marvellous invention, // // The post-it note //

kling the clouds // // And the saffron-

yellow orbs of our mango tree // // Dangling by such slender stalks f

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

Bright, Pale Yellow

t alone // // As streetlights guide my

yellow path: // // Your silhouette stands beyond their glow. // // R

t was me. // // In an old book I see a

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

tree // // ablaze with fragrant lemon-

yellow suns, // // and, picking four of the brightest ripest ones, //

Lemon Pie in Zaïre

ds are glowing with // // bright, pale

yellow , // // the kind that shines through your // // skin in the su

Bright, Pale Yellow

e vellum, // // Us in the warm, in the

yellow , // // The outside plumbing blues and blacks. // // Damp lime

hite lights against // // bright, pale

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

Bright, Pale Yellow

nces, yeses, and the mystery of mustard

yellow tights. // // My bursting flight of spotlit laughing on the pa

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

d turn, // // The startling chartreuse

yellow , // // Translucent as childhood fever // // Which once spelle

leaves might fall

he sun sits sessile— // // The sand is

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

From Trebetherick Point

ded wonders from a bygone age // // Of

yellow Victorian tobacco-stains upon the creamy-white // // Bernard S

Bearded Thoughts

e yarrow // // Pollen gilding him with

yellow // // Yellow crowning him with grace. // // He lay there till

[They saw him walking in the meadow]

f the house on the corner, madly // //

yellowed and drastic; there’s a word // // for the desire to look in

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

that holds no for me // //

// // Is that the end? // //

Yes . // //

[So the moon was there]

o disagrees with an impenetrable stare,

yes a million times yes I declare! // // Thus the sonnets of Shakespe

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

n // // And somewhere someone’s saying

yes . // // Even the plane tree’s drop-earrings // // Have almost rea

taste it anymore. // // Let’s see, ah

yes , here we are: // // three recipes for Prometheus (a lá Kafka) //

impenetrable stare, yes a million times

yes I declare! // // Thus the sonnets of Shakespeare will forevermore

A Regrettably Cheesy Discourse

// // // // The moon? // //

Yes . I just pulled it out of the sky—it’s easier than it sounds—and I

[So the moon was there]

// // // You were king? // //

Yes , I was. I was there with my crown pulled tightly over my ears, and

[So the moon was there]

Anticipation // //

Yes , there will be more. // // More hills, dales, crags, beaches //

// what is buried well inside. // //

Yes , this is where I hide— // // and you can look for me forever //

// // charitable, // // sad. // // ‘

Yes ,’ I thought, ‘nothing ever // // changes.’ I wondered // // if s

In a charity shop

h to fill my happiness? // // Glances,

yeses , and the mystery of mustard yellow tights. // // My bursting fl

[Hidden behind the candyfloss burps]

secting tables’, as it were. // // But

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

ine dreams, // // and I am reminded of

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

snake’s tongue. // // But her stylish-

yet -affordable boots // // Do sometimes quake. // // Her high school

, // // because let’s not go home just

yet , all right? // //

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

s still left locked // // anything not

yet broken, so tell me // // contrary poltergeist what is it you //

s been fixed, and focuses below, // //

yet diurnal as a druid, one drinks from the Sun. // // Threaded with

[A spinning spider]

die here. // // I know. // // But not

yet . // // Each step is pain // // With wings too heavy to fly //

ass // // Ten billion years from this.

Yet few’ll then know, // // Or knowing grasp, those glaciers of flame

w than in your entirety. // // You may

yet grow to resemble your mother more than mine // // But for now jus

Loose Ghazal for Rumi

He cannot see // // The sea // // And

yet he knows // // It cannot be // // Less than close by. // //

// As if my veins weren’t pumping acid

yet , // // I carry on, as though I’m craving more. // // My shoes ha

Cycling Home on a Winter Evening

// // your body is so familiar // //

yet I have never known you before. // // I could stay a hundred years

ine-wrought craft // // and skill, and

yet I never thought you deft // // enough to use so delicate a dial.

Compass Reading

nd custom are no friend of ours. // //

Yet in determination progress flowers— // // An open habit jointly st

Three gay rituals

auty induced in smears of paint. // //

Yet in this well-formed image, I’m confirmed. // // Your mind, your h

The chicken and the egg

You have not turned to stone // // and

yet it is as stone // // that we must show you outward // // to the

Stone, Paper, Scissors

/ // the world with dittoed offspring.

Yet it will // // occasionally not breed true. Now strife: // // the

The lows into dry soil. My path has not

yet led // // In one direction or the other, but I see a turn // //

Vicious or Virtuous?

// // I should have danced by now, and

yet // // Legs, faltering, when I see you // // And her in that embr

Did you bury her

yet ? // // // // Listen, kid: are you, or are you not, // // The b

Did you bury her yet?

// Feeling much too small, // // And

yet , // // Much too large to fit inside your head. // // You want to

ent, // // and all the not-quite-never-

yet notes // // will be burnt to the sound of a piped lament. // //

The Dead Letter Office closes down

y keen. // // A dance, hypnotic; long,

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

pat the pips, for they could choke you,

yet // // She imagined swallowing them, and her tongue, // // Thinki

/ // And he has some years left in him

yet . // // This man, at least, has nothing to be ashamed about. // /

be the waste fate does discard. // //

Yet , time allowed, what seems fine chance will be // // And, likewise

[What have we done]

re a million pages, // // Of knowledge

yet to be explored, // // I crave to be equal to your wisdom, // //

The Tree of Wisdom

ervision faces // // seem too near—and

yet too far. // //

A Room of Her Own

// // Served iambic, al dente, but as

yet unsigned. // // Will my new friend accept that I mix with you lot

Wednesday Evening

med // // So pure and free, and // //

Yet we deemed // // It far beyond the realm // // Of serfs, and so k

e had, // // But couldn’t hold. // //

Yet , when I stare into reality // // I see a blank white sheet, and w

Writing to explore

the exit, // // Discover that we might

yet wreck their brexit. // //

ot kill // // another day.” // // And

yet you stay // // inside my head, and take away my will // // to fi

// // from plastic tubs // // feeding

yew // // crooked elbow // // no gravestones // // poor yew transpl

yew needs dried blood in spring

yew needs dried blood in spring // // blood ancestry // // phantoms

yew needs dried blood in spring

elbow // // no gravestones // // poor

yew transplanted // // wide-lipped pots // // ornamental // // shap

yew needs dried blood in spring

Before the best that Europe’s vineyards

yield , // // And all the fruits of forest, farm, and field // // Are

// // Serenading us among our garden’s

yields , // // When flying to their messy, tree-top nests, // // Sett

[Walcott begins Omeros]

t? // // It’s like how I don’t enjoy a

yoga class until my knees are at my ears, // // and I feel like if I

[Maybe it’s just the latent sign]

d rise and fall, // // So why does New

York City from the heavens look so flat? // // And why do all the nam

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

rely be a sin. // // Maybe the new New

Yorkers were just simply overcome; // // This thirteen-and-a-half mil

“In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines”

/ Thank God for the paper crown. // //

Young and old. // // It hides my nephew’s eyes. // // God bless us,

A Hymn to a Loved One

ambled up, toecurling-wise and like two

young // // Eves, in a flurry of speckled limbs lobbed apples her way

was a bullet, stray. // // There was a

young man writhing in the splinters of the shattered window pane. //

Black September

se of the quiet couples and the wistful

young mothers to the surprise of the small boy playing in the stre

[I whispered my name into the trees]

I’ve noticed: // // an old one dies, a

young one stumbles mumbling onto the stage. // // There will come a t

in robber crabs, // // But still their

young steal shells to hide in—is this the poem? // // The smallest ma

, // // That genius is destined to die

young , // // That you must expire like Shelley, // // Or the fire in

/ // My grandad tended to old men when

young , // // The kind who’d spent a lifetime in the pit // // And co

nts, that define your life. // // Your

young voice brought old words to life, // // age only antique, frailt

Sestina to an English Teacher

w generations play. Then dared // // A

young voice call: ‘who’s that?’ and no-one knew. // // You joined rel

rom its laden boughs. // // We were so

young when we smoothed the bark with our feet // // Firm in convictio

ble— // // Horrified by the naïveté of

younger affirmations: // // I am in control of my desires // // I am

Frighteningly Inert

the farm-wife, with clippings from the

youngest ewe, // // who cursed as the basket spills in sticky clay //

“bland,” // // But, full of energy and

youth , I choose // // Our dialect, sweet sister of our land. // // O

suppressing the truth—so condemning our

youth // // To be fed to that Cretan abuser. // // I’m a man at his

Cretan Quartet—a blame game

w way // // Handfast; we unscroll your

youth // // When ash-keyed branches dipped and prayed // // Not to h

uous Darwin, the natty Disraeli. // //

Youth wins, // // Confines the noble beard to a // // Woolly-jumpere

Bearded Thoughts

l in a burning crucible. // // The cat

yowls , and it all comes // // Beautifully crashing down, // // Life

[For A Long Time She Stands There]

f xx is aa and the second derivative of

yy is -gg. // // Those who did manage to solve the early parts of the