Stephen Robertson

Slanting Lines

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.

C

—broccoli?  // Some fruit // Present for
C —book?  // Coat to cleaners // Pay newsagent // Bulbs for kitchen ligh
s—CS 60W screw???—check first // Cash m/
c // Washing // Plan finances—get advisor?  G’s contact maybe // Ring M
the wayward seed, // Planting out this
cabbage -bed— // She was once a lady’s maid // In gracious, towered Cam
the island in the river, // Tending her
cabbage patch forever, // The hermit of Shalott.  //
phones speak out— // add to the road’s
cacophony .  // Through air and ether people mutter, shout, // voices, i
phones speak out— // add to the road’s
cacophony .  // Voices coming from the room next door: // thesis and ant
/ with anglo-saxon attitudes // then to
Caerphilly came.  // They lingered long in Leicestershire; // red was t
s College // The Chimney; Cranmer Room;
Café Bar // courts; staircases; playing fields // One to five hundred:
eet-corner box.  // I love you.  // Wi-fi
café .  Send a letter.  // Laptop, plug in power socket.  // Click to send
of iron plate glue east // Grow face fa-
cai thick soup.  // XO sauce explodes to grow the fragile bone.  // The
// The impregnable fortress makes fish
cake .  // Fried kind’s of seafood in monolith // Do the crispy bean cur
// —in muesli, say, or maybe Christmas
cake , // or more appropriately, Suliman’s pilaf.  // But stay me not wi
ge ground // smoked trout, wevet, bone,
calamine // lichen, brinjal, radicchio, citron, calluna // brassica, h
ing a sourdough starter.  //   // In the
California gold rush of 1849, and again in the Klondike in 1896, in or
l // effect.  At last we felt we had to
call // a halt to worry, and agreed to sell // for demolition, move to
bases, // and fighters too.  The siren
call // is in reverse, a brief release— // until the following night a
ach // to reach by boat.  That place we
call Japan: // against the sky, a line of those same firs // looks vag
easily win—but // there was an old man
called Michael Finnegan— // crowds stopped by his strange shenanigan /
Beginagain // There was an old man
called Michael Finnegan.  // He grew whiskers on his chin—but // the wi
comfort in—but // there was an old man
called Michael Finnegan.  // The wind came up and blew him in again.  //
earching in—but // there was an old man
called Michael Finnegan— // thought his profile needed broadening // t
ds stopped by his strange shenanigan //
called out all their kith and kin—but // the wind came up and blew the
ose to a version of Rodin’s Balzac, and
called “Post-Balzac”.  It is a full-length bronze cape, upright and ro
// But the next war comes, and D is now
called up.  // First to Hunmanby on the north-east Yorkshire coast // f
ws face seaward // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // against the current pushing strongly townward.  // Breath th
in the harbour; // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // at the bar the waves are washing over.  // Breath the scents
banks.  Listing // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // boats are stranded at their stations, waiting // Breath the
// Look up, look up, my love—the sky is
calling .  // Dark shapes are calling each to each: a throng // moves no
—the sky is calling.  // Dark shapes are
calling each to each: a throng // moves north against the fading eveni
h and lift them // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // echoes of the distant sea-swell rock them // Breath the sce
slow accretion // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // in places it has lost, reoccupation // Breath the scents th
ng turn, begins // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // retreating back the way it came, regains // Breath the scen
est actors of the age.  // Thank you for
calling Shakespeareline. // * pronounced ’four hundred’ //
gentle trickle // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // the drying sand with muddy spots bespeckled.  // Breath the
round once more // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // to face the town, runs headlong for the bar, // Breath the
els water rises // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // to the edges of the sea-grass—pauses, // Breath the scents
soft, receding // Hear the marsh-birds
calling // water’s edge, the birds are searching, finding.  // Breath t
// lichen, brinjal, radicchio, citron,
calluna // brassica, hay, pelt, dove tale, pigeon // mouse’s back, mol
and forth and to and fro, // in a flat
calm air.  A winter storm // brings wild mountains of water crashing d
The line of pebble-dunes protects // a
calmer green oasis, band of salt-marsh // where barn-owls hunt their p
now recall.  // Up there are storms and
calms , // earthquake-waves and volcanic dust, // soft breezes and wint
// Lay pop case // plea as copy.  // Ape
calypso // place, so pay // a cosy Apple // app, coy sale.  // Aye, cop
ays of pain, // another summer, home in
Camberwell .  // Between the endpoints there were many days // —or shoul
reed to sell // for demolition, move to
Camberwell .  // (Two weeks later, British Rail’s plans // were scrapped
Distance chart //
Cambridge –Camden 59 miles //
shire, 1962-3 // Suffolk, circa 1958 //
Cambridge , circa 1966 // This year it snows on Boxing Day.  // The coun
rt piano piece.) // Standing around the
Cambridge crematorium, // dressed for the occasion, // we read the flo
es; footbridges // One to ten thousand: 
Cambridge // Petty Cury; Park Parade; Pretoria Road // streets; alleys
ngrad in Soviet days.  Kettle’s Yard in
Cambridge when it was still managed by Jim Ede (he would pick up a Bra
Distance chart // Cambridge–
Camden 59 miles //
f trade:  // England.  // Back the way we
came .  // All verse is born free.  //
last for days and days.  Each morning I
came down, // expecting to find it cold, but every day // the embers b
s calling // retreating back the way it
came , regains // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // the channel,
o-saxon attitudes // then to Caerphilly
came .  // They lingered long in Leicestershire; // red was the evening
ted on air // when Maggie’s encomium //
came to be known to ’im.  // Thomas Stearns Eliot // wrote poetry well,
spaper // dated 1933 // the year Hitler
came to power).  // Then we get on with our lives: // the repainting ca
an called Michael Finnegan.  // The wind
came up and blew him in again.  //
e’d flaunt a bushy grin—but // the wind
came up and blew it in again.  // Beards may need some clipping, shorte
ew whiskers on his chin—but // the wind
came up and blew them in again.  // Beards are good for finger-fiddling
all their kith and kin—but // the wind
came up and blew them in again.  // Beards are great when gales are thr
m-feeder dredges // Through the silt of
Camelot .  // But what is this small beaten path // Between two beds of
dgerows, by // The once-proud towers of
Camelot .  // Few people walk the brambled way // And fewer still will p
the mirror’s gloam // Dared she look to
Camelot .  // Not until the fateful day // When, gleaming in his knight’
e people fill // The wharfs and ways of
Camelot .  // Only one remains to shiver // On the island in the river,
e a lady’s maid // In gracious, towered
Camelot .  // Then, as winds of fortune blow, // It was arranged that sh
k time // Tickets to Glasgow 6th-7th //
Camera in bag for Mon // Did I submit tax form??  // Check L’s dob—70 n
From Brussels by local train to Ghent: 
canals and cobbled streets // and beer and chocolate shops // and chur
the rails.  I’m not such a mug.  // I’ve
cancelled his buses, no more will I pay for—and // now on the bridge I
been too far south all its life: // not
cancer , but capricorn.  // Objective // An exobladder.  // Strapped to m
st the bad news, then the good: // it's
cancer ; but it hasn’t spread.  // No balance here.  The bad // is bad i
P // The fall is denied.  // Anyway, the
cancer can be blamed // for many things.  Hard to tell, now, // which
able, // orange and penny.  // Brandy, a
candle : // heat till it catches fire, // pour out the blue flame.  // A
Babylon by
candlelight // How many miles to Barnard Castle?  // Three score, out/r
s.  // Feel the fire.  Spread out a green
canopy // in the warming sunlight.  Soak up the rays and the air.  // Tr
golds replace the greens.  Now throw the
canopy too // to the winds, let it whirl away // into the encroaching
edge, contains our own // tree-house, a
canted deck of ancient planks, // nailed across two angled branches, r
ounds // What the thunder said // Under
canvas // In hospital // Voices far across the valley sound // through
A cloppy sea // Lose pay
cap , // O palace spy.  // Lay pop case // plea as copy.  // Ape calypso
d to the right.  And rising left // the
Cape Cod house’s painted clapboard side.  // At centre, as if growing f
Cape Cod Morning // Almost accidental, but carefully composed: // the
Shickshock Mountains; Shippegan Island;
Cape Sable // bays; harbours // One to one million two hundred and fif
st-Balzac”.  It is a full-length bronze
cape , upright and rounded as if on the shoulders of its owner, but act
/ as it did a month gone, // BC (Before
Capricorn ).  // But of course that is not so.  // Seen from here, the fu
south all its life: // not cancer, but
capricorn .  // Objective // An exobladder.  // Strapped to my thigh // w
Capricorn suite // In other news // Polarity // Battle lines // The go
Carapace // Tiny hardness on tiny softness.  // Softness crawls over sa
Thornberry’s // photo gives Labour a //
cardiovascular // seismic event.  //
hey can whistle // as well for wind: we
care not a tittle.  // Many die—thus limiting their needs.  // This time
itre // another part of the bush.  Take
care not to spill // your precious hoard (I mean the ones you will del
The words within my head, what do they
care ?  // They rattle round, and link, and split, and fight.  // No voic
hills ranged all around // —they little
care .  // Voices far across the valley sound // through still, warm air
// to questions orderly, while exuding
care .  // Voices from the curtained bed next door: // someone else’s fr
e Cod Morning // Almost accidental, but
carefully composed: // the sky behind the trees beyond the meadow, //
r more sections, with plywood strips //
carefully cut and glued.  And labelled the front— // Nails: tacks, pan
rry with them their sourdough starters,
carefully protected in pouches around their necks or attached to their
till at college // Sergei Prokofiev and
Carl Orf // still at school // Aaron Copland and Kurt Weill // in thei
-drawered chest // given to me (budding
carpenter ) as a child // for nails and screws.  At some more ordered /
n // that covers the heath.  // On magic
carpet // the Prince of Crim Tartary // flies into the night.  // The p
ooted did I make my way?  // Across what
carpets , rugs or floors?  // I cannot say.  // The houses, and their roo
arries suburban trains; more rarely, //
carriages decked in the blue and gold livery // of the Compagnie Inter
// ply back and forth overhead.  Was I
carried for trade?  // Or in payment of taxes?  Or was I a trophy of wa
sy barriers just in time // to keep the
carriers of plague at bay.  // Yet someone here is staggering and stumb
ming that disturbs.  The line // mostly
carries suburban trains; more rarely, // carriages decked in the blue
he park at the back // a low embankment
carries the railway track.  // (Down the slope to the end of the street
ry American poet, // Mr Ogden Nash, and
carry on without much attention to metre, until I can mark its end wit
a map now, I have to use spectacles.  //
Carry them with me wherever I wander… but // help!  They are missing,
San Francisco bread, prospectors would
carry with them their sourdough starters, carefully protected in pouch
and rock // in filtered blue light, //
carrying hardness with it.  // Sometimes softness shelters inside hardn
ocal rumour states // that the train is
carrying nuclear waste; at the time // it is just the timing that dist
eeks // meandering through the marsh //
carve out sections of bank // leaving sharp cliffs of compacted mud.  /
s // each iteration // shifts the sand,
carves the coastline // into something new //
chelangelo // makes his work lasting by
carving in stone— // me, I’m not looking for such immortality, // life
es just to keep a healthy handle on the
case . // * following the example of the chemists and their sort // **
// gets the Red Margaret to look at the
case .  // “It’s been a fiasco, a drain on our taxes.  The // tendering
your thoughts, destroy or reconstruct a
case : // jump willing into every word-filled well.  // That book will t
se pay cap, // O palace spy.  // Lay pop
case // plea as copy.  // Ape calypso // place, so pay // a cosy Apple
the sign reads slow you down // just in
case we were driving too fast.  // I was probably driving too fast // t
n lights—CS 60W screw???—check first //
Cash m/c // Washing // Plan finances—get advisor?  G’s contact maybe //
rfectability except our own.  // In hard
cast bronze all hardness now replaced, // the soft and sensuous flesh
n.  Electrical components.  // A pair of
cast -iron supports for an old // high-level lavatory cistern, wonderfu
ght-have-been, // a different stitch to
cast ?  // No, I’m glad we did not meet // before the alotted time: // t
winter gales.  // Was I shipwrecked?  Or
cast overboard to avert shipwreck?  // I cannot now recall.  // Generati
l, // fall, fall into the writer’s well-
cast spell.  //
e: // fall, fall into the writer’s well-
cast spell.  // And now, this book, the here and now dispel // and conj
e: // fall, fall into the writer’s well-
cast spell.  // That book will set you puzzles which propel // your tho
e.  // Fall, fall into the writer’s well-
cast spell.  // That book will take you o’er a stormy fell // with her
andlelight // How many miles to Barnard
Castle ?  // Three score, out/return // Can I go there, with my eyesight
rtist, // models in clay or plaster, //
casts in plaster or cement or resin, // draws in pencil or pen or char
nto the night.  // The paraffin stove //
casts patterns of light on the // high bedroom ceiling.  //
nswer: // this cat-burglar’s Buster the
cat .  //
// on purple sage to lie.  // A Cheshire
cat accosted them, // then walked his wild way // alone.  In Swale- an
ere’s only one possible answer: // this
cat -burglar’s Buster the cat.  //
ear them crashing down.  // What is this
cataclysm ?  // Now the one just ahead // goes head over heels // on har
and die.  // But for the real turn, the
cataclysm // which will both inspire and destroy // so many poets and
acken.  // No fruit here—the thorns will
catch // at your sleeve, at the tails of your coat, // and sometimes a
sway, // the clouds scud past, // maybe
catch // close enough to make you jump, or far away, // the thud as on
us, makes us strong.  // Occasionally, I
catch glimpses // of the ranks ahead.  // But mostly, I can see // only
strike match // flame unfurls // twigs
catch // smoke curls // flame unfurls // smoke grows // smoke curls //
// strike match // tiny light // twigs
catch // strike match // flame unfurls // twigs catch // smoke curls /
e string!  // He swallowed the string to
catch the hook.  // That’s not in the book, to swallow a hook.  // He sw
takes to // dropping by unannounced.  //
Catch them at it – // there must be moonshine.  //
e sedge and the samphire, // the oyster-
catcher , the egret, the gliding gull.  // What do they know, the rain a
he beach.  // At water’s edge the oyster-
catchers , gulls // compete for surface scraps.  The beach is good // f
nce in a while // a perfect burst still
catches at my tastebuds // and drags me back again.  //
y.  // Brandy, a candle: // heat till it
catches fire, // pour out the blue flame.  // After lunch, a walk // th
ide, still // climbing the contours and
catching my breath again.  // Skirting the back of the Little Man preci
thered round about, a motley crew // of
categories in boxes, jars and tins: // the larger bolts and nuts and w
Polarity // Battle lines // The goat //
Catheter // The other side // The all-clear // Five days after Charlie
ke for me.  // But when my support // is
caught badly short // I’ll just have to ask ‘Where d’you pee?’  //
// to you, this is a dream in which I’m
caught .  // But through this land, this country I must go— // I’d paint
// To you, this is a dream in which I’m
caught // Which, come the dawn, will surely quickly pass.  // I’d paint
atment— // but that is a symptom, not a
cause .  // A // The fall drew blood.  // No such obvious culprit here, /
d metal-working vices added to those //
caused by generations of kitchen knives.  // Clearance time.  What can
choke // eat me instead.  // My ancestor
caused Eve to know // more than Jehovah thought she should— // but kee
Septilla
CD * // Please choose from the following nine // options: if you want
es—at best // a semi-stanza—and then to
cease ?  It seems // perverse—the more because the fellow // was not we
the barrel // the sound of scraping has
ceased .  // This drain germinates here.  //
atterns of light on the // high bedroom
ceiling .  //
wallpaper from walls, // distemper from
ceilings , // paint from woodwork, // lino from floors.  // (Under the l
// a new production for this year // of
celebration —every line // the Bard created for the stage // by the bes
clay or plaster, // casts in plaster or
cement or resin, // draws in pencil or pen or charcoal, // paints in o
in a wild part of the old South London
cemetery .  // Perhaps I should plant // some box or holly.  //
d house’s painted clapboard side.  // At
centre , as if growing from the clapboards, // but grander far, a corni
es roll on.  // How many years, decades,
centuries // have I lain upon this sandy seafloor?  // I cannot now rec
way down.  // It’s a level measured // a
century ago and // three hundred and forty miles // to the south-west:
life!  // From the moment almost a half-
century ago // when I first met your daughter // I have known fragment
of that wonderfully eccentric twentieth-
century American poet, // Mr Ogden Nash, and carry on without much att
with marks and signs accumulated over a
century and a bit.  There is an area about 2ft square of brush marks i
est, young man?  No, this is about // a
century and a half before Columbus.  // He is a leader of Flemish weave
brimstone // that will be the twentieth
century — // for this we have to wait // another thirteen and a half ye
ro, not the one // making the twentieth
century only // ninety-nine years long.) // Béla Bartók and Frank Brid
had a go at East Hills.  // A once in a
century storm, // that was thought to be.  // So perhaps they will // o
January Nineteen Hundred and One // The
century turns.  // Right on cue, Queen Victoria dies.  // (Next time aro
l.  // (She had chosen the music for the
ceremony // —a Schubert piano piece.) // Standing around the Cambridge
find some of them sublime— // Britten’s
Ceremony or the ones from Kings.  // If I can filter out the rest, the
find some of them sublime, // Britten’s
Ceremony or the ones from Kings.  // Whipped wide awake by what the thu
sive acceptance.  // Set against this, a
certain toughness, // hidden, but evident in the number, // best expre
solution lies // in their cups.  Thomas
certainly did his level best // to drink himself to death.  But for th
er than seeing it on the page they will
certainly know it.  //
some more ordered // stage of my life (
certainly long before // the children arrived) I divided each drawer /
/ at its door.  Rage too against // the
cessation of treatment— // but that is a symptom, not a cause.  // A //
e was her skin.  // In Cheddar Gorge the
chaffinches // were twittering.  The twain // with anglo-saxon attitud
// Dining table?  // No.  // Beside easy
chair ?  // No.  // On television?  // No.  // Desk?  // No.  // Bedside tabl
m again, more drawers and cupboards.  //
Chair with pile of clothes.  // Feel something…  // Shit!  The wrong tro
// in truth, how cheesy is the sometime
chalk .  //
Graves, the naked and the nude // were
chalk and cheese; so what would he have made // in twenty-ten, of all
daw is looming, inviting explorers—a //
challenge I cannot allow to go answerless.  // Lone expedition to conqu
ink you will miss // the instant jagged
challenge passing between them // or down to earth.  // Seconds later,
re-imagine?  Not to rave // at fate, at
chance , at // what has come about, but to close // an open sore, renew
children to look after— // there was no
chance for her to follow him.  // There was a week of waiting while the
// schizophrenia.  // After G’s death, a
chance // for something new: migrate south // to London, two grandchi
ing there wondering whether there’s any
chance // I could attract the attention of anyone.  // Haven’t passed w
ines must have crossed, // some passing
chance of might-have-been, // a different stitch to cast?  // No, I’m g
reasures, and regret not having had the
chance to show some of them to her.  Just for example:  Judith Shea’s
ing, and get old saint // George of the
Chancel to throw in some too.”  // So the project proceeds with a littl
ood only in relation to the bad.  // The
chances are said // to be good.  That’s good // enough, I suppose.  //
ur paths, or creeping through, // maybe
chancing on a hidden hollow which // will make a temporary home, until
and isolation palls.  // One more great
change , one more new beginning: // a different kind of home // here on
undaries.  The vital stress // expresses
change .  Some variant has found // how good sex is—to mix the genes aro
Igor Stravinsky.  // A turn, a period of
change ?  // Well, yes.  In all the arts // currents criss-cross, revolu
—impermanence’s permanence the rule.  //
Change will last forever.  // At intervals along the south horizon // c
ot so.  // Seen from here, the future is
changed // utterly.  And I have the scars // to prove it.  // Blitz.  T
ete for life.  // Another billion random
changes : all // —or almost all—are duds.  Nevertheless // ten thousand
small and playful, like the wind.  // It
changes direction from minute to minute; // gives me siblings to chase
ea-winds bring // The trickle slackens,
changes in the harbour; // Hear the marsh-birds calling // at the bar
n // running stream // rambling moor //
changing sea // blue sea // silver lake // purple moor // green forest
// Where are we going?  // Something is
changing : the ocean // is bottomless no longer.  // I feel something //
ers we cross are eastward: // under the
channel and then from France to Belgium.  // But we don’t notice them a
cise radial anchor lines.  // Across the
channel , tidal creeks // meandering through the marsh // carve out sec
at it would sink // a hole to build the
Channel Tunnel link.  // A monstrous hole, quite big enough to eat // t
h the scents the sea-winds bring // the
channel , turns the boats around once more // Hear the marsh-birds call
he river mouth the tides run strong.  //
Channels and banks of shingle shift and melt, // form and reform each
nder the sky.  // Oceans, rivers, narrow
channels , torrents, // tarns, and streams slow-flowing, under the sky.
the sea-winds bring // In the saltmarsh
channels water rises // Hear the marsh-birds calling // to the edges o
e forming, breaking, forming // ordered
chaos with a raucous song:  // A thousand geese are flying into night. 
or resin, // draws in pencil or pen or
charcoal , // paints in oils on hardboard.  // — // 1973.  Six-year-old
es something in the shapes, and using a
charcoal stick, makes some small additions.  And it becomes a scene, a
// I am transfixed as a horned goat //
charges towards me // from beyond the pale, under my guard, // below t
dares me eat a peach?  // Time’s warring
chariots can clatter by— // we have the earth, the water and the sky. 
ide // The all-clear // Five days after
Charlie Hebdo, I learn // that something is growing at the tail end of
ole’s or elephant’s breath // peignoir,
charlotte’s locks, nancy’s blushes // drop cloth, slipper satin, worst
Distance
chart // Cambridge–Camden 59 miles //
eir denotations, connotations.  // Roget
charted their associations.  // Zipf was counting their instantiations,
needs // be relocated every spring, the
charts // redrawn).  // The line of pebble-dunes protects // a calmer g
nute to minute; // gives me siblings to
chase or criss-cross // over and under // as we skip on the backs of t
was I pulled or pushed?  // Did I leap a
chasm , ford a raging torrent, // get rolled over by an avalanche, // f
cker under // the bubbling brooks, that
chatter and meander; // of Ellen, Norna, or of Rosamunde.  // Sorrow, l
teens—already // between the end of the
Chatterley ban // and the Beatles’ first LP; // strangely, though, not
achievement, but got // only a fib on a
cheap pun // [One iamb, two anapest] feet // [make up an eight-syllabl
and two.  // But for the two ones I must
cheat .  // Rage, // rage // against // the dying // of the light.  Do n
the house.  // I always regretted, felt
cheated by // that twenty-minute hiatus.  // But the fire bore us no gr
ulbs for kitchen lights—CS 60W screw???—
check first // Cash m/c // Washing // Plan finances—get advisor?  G’s c
g for Mon // Did I submit tax form??  //
Check L’s dob—70 next b/day?  // Dentist appointment—week of 10th // Wr
ng my journey unaided—I // just have to
check on my map for the best way back.  // Reading a map now, I have to
basement // Tickets for Once Sat night—
check time // Tickets to Glasgow 6th-7th // Camera in bag for Mon // D
I saw him see // across the criss-cross
checks and grids and patterned lattices of life // through glasses, da
e; // so milk-white was her skin.  // In
Cheddar Gorge the chaffinches // were twittering.  The twain // with a
g— // brings a thought that is far from
cheering : // that while the past // will last and last, // the future
nd walking talked— // but never once of
cheese .  //
he naked and the nude // were chalk and
cheese ; so what would he have made // in twenty-ten, of all the flesh
a note to his remark— // in truth, how
cheesy is the sometime chalk.  //
ase. // * following the example of the
chemists and their sort // ** because the margin is too narrow for a f
e and water: just the four— // but the
chemists need many more.  // The top of the table is sparse, but every
es north to the border // (bringing the
cheque and the postal order).  // Rhythmic verses with echoed refrain /
led down // on purple sage to lie.  // A
Cheshire cat accosted them, // then walked his wild way // alone.  In
ts // a miniature wooden eight-drawered
chest // given to me (budding carpenter) as a child // for nails and s
another of much later age: // a plastic
chest with small, clear plastic drawers // —unlabelled, but the nuts a
n’t count your chickens // … but if the
chicken // is just the egg’s // way of making // another egg // then w
// The prefecture of river drives meal
chicken , // Olive dish dried meat floss stir fries a leaf mustard.  //
Don’t count your
chickens // … but if the chicken // is just the egg’s // way of making
esh joins love’s embrace.  // Mother and
child are two, and now are one: // no perfectability except our own.  /
// given to me (budding carpenter) as a
child // for nails and screws.  At some more ordered // stage of my li
roper name of Gouriet) // had come as a
child sixty-odd years before // (well before the start of the first wo
thmic clattering noise of the train.  //
Childhood journeys by rail come back // to my memory, patterns of clic
the wild Suffolk blackberries // of my
childhood remain forever perfect, // forever simultaneously sweet and
ice // for demonstrating electricity to
children : // a wooden board on which are mounted // battery box, switc
f my life (certainly long before // the
children arrived) I divided each drawer // into four or more sections,
overcrowded hospital.  // There were the
children to look after— // there was no chance for her to follow him. 
ot.  // Years have passed.  The winter’s
chill // Lies fast upon the land so ill.  // Seldom now the skylark’s t
e to two thousand:  Jesus College // The
Chimney ; Cranmer Room; Café Bar // courts; staircases; playing fields
el Finnegan.  // He grew whiskers on his
chin —but // the wind came up and blew them in again.  // Beards are goo
eel town.  // Mother once ran a fish-and-
chip shop.  // A young rambler, you take part // in the mass trespass o
als and cobbled streets // and beer and
chocolate shops // and churches, churches, churches // and buildings t
ad, a speaker heard, // at every word a
choice has made.  // Those that they choose to use // to inform or conf
t; eight macbeth; nine // for any other
choice .  You’ll find // that every single play is here // a new produc
boar’s head.  // If Aristotle makes you
choke // eat me instead.  // My ancestor caused Eve to know // more tha
king, taking logs and drawing lines.  //
Chomsky looked for deeper motivation // underneath their surface combi
Septilla CD* // Please
choose from the following nine // options: if you want the tempest //
d a choice has made.  // Those that they
choose to use // to inform or confuse, // elate or validate or grieve—
r two successive summer holidays, // we
chopped and sawed and dug and then set fire to // the produce of our l
// grey mountain // jagged mountain //
choppy sea // swirling stream // smooth lake // dense forest // rough
Notes to a life // Milk // Sausages or
chops // Veg—broccoli?  // Some fruit // Present for C—book?  // Coat to
w what it is she sees?  The frame // he
chose has cut us off from looking at // the focus of her gaze: does he
er crematorium.  // This time Judith has
chosen the music, // a Beethoven string quartet.  // Afterwards Colin a
the proper formal funeral.  // (She had
chosen the music for the ceremony // —a Schubert piano piece.) // Stan
heir place // —in muesli, say, or maybe
Christmas cake, // or more appropriately, Suliman’s pilaf.  // But stay
// the planted forest, serried ranks of
Christmas pine // which begins a mile down the road // and into whose
vement.  // A bartender bent to work; //
chrome coffee machines.  // At the bar three people sit // all six eyes
colate shops // and churches, churches,
churches // and buildings that turn out not to be churches.  // Wonderf
er and chocolate shops // and churches,
churches , churches // and buildings that turn out not to be churches. 
// and beer and chocolate shops // and
churches , churches, churches // and buildings that turn out not to be
/ and buildings that turn out not to be
churches .  // Wonderful mechanisms in the civic belltower— // a giant m
/ the gulls, and faintly, far away, the
churn // of waves upon the sand.  Eastwards we turn, // along the open
re— // something solid underneath us //
churning the water, // disturbing our roll, // getting higher and clos
Hopper
Chōka // Yellow neon light // spilling through plate-glass windows //
er, // best expressed Roman fashion:  //
CII .  // We // As for us, the bits begin to fall off.  // We are not so
winter // Berkshire, 1962-3 // Suffolk,
circa 1958 // Cambridge, circa 1966 // This year it snows on Boxing Da
-3 // Suffolk, circa 1958 // Cambridge,
circa 1966 // This year it snows on Boxing Day.  // The country road no
Circle line // Board anywhere //
here’s a thought.  Just maybe I can //
circle round the tentacles of zeta // by striking gamma from considera
ports for an old // high-level lavatory
cistern , wonderfully // ornate.  A pump and valves from a washing mach
men to see?  // I cannot now recall.  //
Cities flourish and decay.  In forgotten corners, // artists create an
calamine // lichen, brinjal, radicchio,
citron , calluna // brassica, hay, pelt, dove tale, pigeon // mouse’s b
raised triangles // of city herbage in
city clag // —a handful of trees, bulbs // and other plants.  // On one
eaving two small raised triangles // of
city herbage in city clag // —a handful of trees, bulbs // and other p
/ On holiday by train!  Vast hall // of
city station, noisy, full // of people rushing there and back.  // The
ired it: a scattering // of people in a
city street, shop-window-browsing.  // A group, gathered around and gaz
slipped away.  // What country lanes or
city streets— // and who were my companions, pray?  // Old friends, new
hurches.  // Wonderful mechanisms in the
civic belltower— // a giant musical box.  // There once was a poet in G
There was a war.  // There was a bitter,
civil // war in Jordan.  // There was a gun.  // There was a bullet, str
k.  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  //
k: // the bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  // At night, the glow and flying sparks.  // Grass on the linesi
k // to my memory, patterns of clickety-
clack .  // But that was then.  Now the rail joints are welded, and the
s at the back.  // The bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  //
ong the track: // the bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  // At night, the glow and flying sparks.  // Grass o
he next track.  // The bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  // Country station: we clamber down.  // The whistl
here and back.  // The bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  // First we go to the front to see // the engine, w
rnt and black.  // The bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  // On holiday by train!  Vast hall // of city stati
jumping jack.  // The bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  // Raindrops slanting across the glass.  // We jump
eaming, black.  // The bogeys go: click-
clack click-clack.  // Telephone wires through the pane // loop lazily
k.  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  // Country station: we clamber down.  // The whistle blows, the
k.  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  // First we go to the front to see // the engine, wheels bigger
k.  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  // On holiday by train!  Vast hall // of city station, noisy, f
k.  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  // Raindrops slanting across the glass.  // We jump at a sudden
k.  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-
clack .  // Telephone wires through the pane // loop lazily along and th
ed triangles // of city herbage in city
clag // —a handful of trees, bulbs // and other plants.  // On one // a
ck click-clack.  // Country station: we
clamber down.  // The whistle blows, the train moves on, // the guard’s
oded Janet’s Foss.  // Upstream again to
clamber Gordale Scar // and rest, and breathe some more the cool clear
ross two angled branches, reached // by
clambering the branches by the trunk // or (better) by the real rope-l
ng left // the Cape Cod house’s painted
clapboard side.  // At centre, as if growing from the clapboards, // bu
e.  // At centre, as if growing from the
clapboards , // but grander far, a corniced window bay // in darker woo
h holds her stare?  // Or is it just the
clarity of light, the glowing // grass and trees outside her window, w
days’ time, these two will meet // and
clash — and I’m to be the battle ground.  // The field is ready now, th
l // Way-hay, blow us away // The sails
clatter as we roll // Give me some wind to blow us away // Horizon’s c
a peach?  // Time’s warring chariots can
clatter by— // we have the earth, the water and the sky.  //
some more!  // A spoon to the floor— //
clatter !  // No!  Another more!  // This stuff to the floor— // splatter
with echoed refrain // in the rhythmic
clattering noise of the train.  // Childhood journeys by rail come back
er, rougher softness, // but with sharp
claws and barbs, // fastens itself inside.  // Movement is faster, edgi
F.B.L // london
clay , blackened, arsenic // railings, pointing, down pipe, clunch, set
me June // it turns out she has feet of
clay .  // My control is as strong as can be // and stable—they will mak
o work.  // Judith, artist, // models in
clay or plaster, // casts in plaster or cement or resin, // draws in p
// app, coy sale.  // Aye, cops lap // a
clay pope’s // soapy place.  // So apply, ace: // scope a play // apoca
Hanging garden.  Send a letter.  // Fresh
clay tablet, stylus, scribe.  // Entrust to messenger.  // I love you.  /
mall beaten path // Between two beds of
clean -raked earth // Where tender shoots may venture forth // On weed-
fruit // Present for C—book?  // Coat to
cleaners // Pay newsagent // Bulbs for kitchen lights—CS 60W screw???—
a darker paint, made by a house-painter
cleaning his brush after painting some woodwork.  Judith sees somethin
I have a whim // to build a fine bridge
clear across a great river, where // trees, grass and flowers can stre
e sun // is low ahead of us, the sky is
clear .  // Across the wood, onto the beach.  We hear // the gulls, and
nd rest, and breathe some more the cool
clear air.  // Beyond the scree the open path leads on, // a gentler wa
r boots off, // dip our feet into water
clear and achingly cold, // and dry them on warm rock.  //
addling gently side by side, // through
clear and cool and quiet evening stillness // on evening tide.  // Deci
ke a crust.  The next two months // are
clear and fine and bitter cold.  // Every step, // your foot upon the c
n also needs some zeta factor // and my
clear beta, gamma, delta connection // is screwed up by a zeta factor
/ Catheter // The other side // The all-
clear // Five days after Charlie Hebdo, I learn // that something is g
some wind to blow us away // Horizon’s
clear from end to end // Way-hay, blow us away // No hope of whistling
corniced window bay // in darker wood. 
Clear morning sunlight fills // the room we glimpse inside.  A woman l
ter age: // a plastic chest with small,
clear plastic drawers // —unlabelled, but the nuts and bolts and washe
rds?  // Yesterday I was told: it looks
clear .  // So life should now appear // as it did a month gone, // BC (
lake // purple moor // green forest //
clear stream // grey mountain // jagged mountain // choppy sea // swir
now be unmasked.  // It’s becoming quite
clear that the hour // for soft pussy-footing is past.  // It can’t be
eath the // shining // mud.  // Cold and
clear .  The tide runs out, the creek // is draining back again towards
Shore // Nonnet // Sonnet // Cold and
clear .  The tide runs out, the creek // is draining back towards the s
lpha, beta, gamma, delta.  // The way is
clear .  This formulation // both lays the problem out and then reveals
ey sound // through still, warm air, //
clear to my vantage point on higher ground.  // Voices far across the v
ed by generations of kitchen knives.  //
Clearance time.  What can I possibly salvage // from all this?  //
on Boxing Day.  // The country road not
cleared for days // —and then of course it snows again.  // One afterno
a up with mu and lambda.  // I can’t see
clearly :  I’ll need to wander // some way in that direction to determi
te recall.  Nor can I now // picture it
clearly .  So why does it come to my mind?  // A couple of reasons.  One
Clerihews // Five politicians… // … and one poet // Margaret Thatcher
he back.  // The bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  //
e track: // the bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  // At night, the glow and flying sparks.  // Grass on the
rundles at the back.  // The bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  //
low along the track: // the bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  // At night, the glow and flying sparks.  // G
n on the next track.  // The bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  // Country station: we clamber down.  // The
hing there and back.  // The bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  // First we go to the front to see // the eng
es, burnt and black.  // The bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  // On holiday by train!  Vast hall // of city
like a jumping jack.  // The bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  // Raindrops slanting across the glass.  // We
er, steaming, black.  // The bogeys go: 
click -clack click-clack.  // Telephone wires through the pane // loop l
t track.  // The bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  // Country station: we clamber down.  // The whistle blow
nd back.  // The bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  // First we go to the front to see // the engine, wheels
d black.  // The bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  // On holiday by train!  Vast hall // of city station, no
ng jack.  // The bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  // Raindrops slanting across the glass.  // We jump at a s
, black.  // The bogeys go: click-clack
click -clack.  // Telephone wires through the pane // loop lazily along
er.  // Laptop, plug in power socket.  //
Click to send.  // I love you.  //
come back // to my memory, patterns of
clickety -clack.  // But that was then.  Now the rail joints are welded,
ut the sandy/grassy bank that is // the
cliff .  A narrow sandy beach past which // the falling tide reveals th
up, // and strews them downwind.  // The
cliff // is of course ephemeral, built // not only on, but of, // sand
the tide is high enough) // as far the
cliff .  The wind // whips the spume // into irregular clots, picks the
e out sections of bank // leaving sharp
cliffs of compacted mud.  // Evening.  A great dark cloud // fire-edged
ing under the sky.  // Islands, beaches,
clifftops , creeks and inlets, // rocky shorelines tumbling under the s
floor, streams and all.  // A seven-mile
climb // brings us to a hidden jewel lake, // soup-spoon-shaped, still
of water and lunch in my haversack.  //
Climb by the obvious route from the valley, with // Derwent behind me
er tried // tried to accept // tried to
climb // tried to find // tried to forget // tried to hear // tried to
ted trunk is hollow through, and can be
climbed // inside) mark out the sandy/grassy bank that is // the cliff
stures and onto the fell side, still //
climbing the contours and catching my breath again.  // Skirting the ba
er!  Now, in a stranger place, a colder
clime , // with no arms, one leg, no tail, but raised high, // and head
f is on the wall, // wrestling figures,
clinched before a fall; // Lutteurs—they are two, and now are one:  //
ght // gadget pings // go away // sleep
clings // break of day // brighter now // here to stay // morning glow
ew it in again.  // Beards may need some
clipping , shortening // left alone they easily win—but // there was an
ine.  // An electric fan.  The dial of a
clock .  Another dial, // from a stand-on weight scale.  A device // fo
A
cloppy sea // Lose pay cap, // O palace spy.  // Lay pop case // plea a
ance, at // what has come about, but to
close // an open sore, renew our sense of // time, rebuild the day.  //
ngside // almost pole to almost pole //
close as you can.  // Apple, pear: // pole-to-pole // in half then quar
planets overhead // as well as actions
close at hand // (the apple said), // to comprehend the universe // bo
the clouds scud past, // maybe catch //
close enough to make you jump, or far away, // the thud as one more ap
ep lake // high mountain // wide sea //
close forest // by lake and stream // by forest and moor // from sea t
Sherlock Road; Sherlock Court; Sherlock
Close // houses; yards; curbs // One to fifty:  Ground floor // Bedroom
lpture in the Hirschhorn in Washington,
close to a version of Rodin’s Balzac, and called “Post-Balzac”.  It is
the books that line the shelves, // and
close to home as well: they too can be // as dumb as all of us, the go
of the universe; // the restaurant has
closed , // and that was the last syllabub of recorded time.  // From th
ke sure that the lid is properly firmly
closed . // Place the kettle on the cordless base making sur
rs’ webs among the undergrowth.  // Look
closely : precise angular spirals // strung around precise radial anch
turbing our roll, // getting higher and
closer .  // And the noise.  // A few ranks ahead, I see them // rearing
spirals down there now.  // Let’s have a
closer look at this one here, // with a bar across.  Not quite the big
untlet // battening down the hatches //
closing down the argument // shutting down the computer // tearing dow
rlotte’s locks, nancy’s blushes // drop
cloth , slipper satin, worsted // dimity, blazer, babouche // borrowed
rs and cupboards.  // Chair with pile of
clothes .  // Feel something…  // Shit!  The wrong trousers!  // “Was it t
itch // must get on // first scratch //
clothes on // spell broken // sleep gone // in motion // sun on skin /
nd // whips the spume // into irregular
clots , picks them up, // and strews them downwind.  // The cliff // is
ompacted mud.  // Evening.  A great dark
cloud // fire-edged, blots out the setting sun.  // Later, the clouds a
// more days of sun or rain or passing
cloud // more meetings with old friends // more talks, more silences /
rners and the rooftops, // rushing wild
clouds across the sky, // lying abed beneath the cobwebbed rafters, //
lots out the setting sun.  // Later, the
clouds amass: // watch now: if you blink you will miss // the instant
awing in // the day begins to go // the
clouds are low and spitting rain.  // The light is dimming now.  // Furt
he wind and the rain // the sun and the
clouds by day, // the stars and the darkness by night, // the ocean, t
atch // the apple clusters sway, // the
clouds scud past, // maybe catch // close enough to make you jump, or
, // flooring nails, staples, cuphooks,
clouts // masonry nails, screw-eyes, picture hooks // wallplugs, rivet
years.  A copper beech // stands out, a
clump of pears whose fruit // is hard as stone.  (But when stewed over
an ecstasy of fumbling, // building the
clumsy barriers just in time // to keep the carriers of plague at bay.
senic // railings, pointing, down pipe,
clunch , setting plaster // string, cord, matchstick, tallow, vardo //
hand as you reach past to pilfer // the
clusters beyond, adding scratches // to the stains already covering yo
through the orchard, watch // the apple
clusters sway, // the clouds scud past, // maybe catch // close enough
r // serving any useful purpose.  // The
clutter covering the remainder of the bench // is piled uncontained an
r.  // After the engine’s noisy roar, //
coaches follow along the track: // the bogeys go: click-clack click-c
Coast to
coast // dark forest // flashing stream // bright sea // rugged moor /
to Hunmanby on the north-east Yorkshire
coast // for the requisite square-bashing.  And then when he ships out
nd of home // here on the north Norfolk
coast .  // The wonder is that you can still laugh.  //
Coast to coast // dark forest // flashing stream // bright sea // rugg
, once.  If you follow the west-to-east
coast -to-coast walk devised by Wainwright, you get sunburnt on the rig
If you follow the west-to-east coast-to-
coast walk devised by Wainwright, you get sunburnt on the right side o
teration // shifts the sand, carves the
coastline // into something new //
// at your sleeve, at the tails of your
coat , // and sometimes at the bare flesh of // the back of your hand a
// Some fruit // Present for C—book?  //
Coat to cleaners // Pay newsagent // Bulbs for kitchen lights—CS 60W s
els by local train to Ghent: canals and
cobbled streets // and beer and chocolate shops // and churches, churc
ross the sky, // lying abed beneath the
cobwebbed rafters, // warm and dry.  // On waters of the creek as smoot
Don’t be silly, that’s … omigod, it’s a
cockroach !  Help!  Help!  //
for slides or toothpowder, tins // for
cocoa or throat lozenges or metal polish, // jars for all sorts of jam
the right.  And rising left // the Cape
Cod house’s painted clapboard side.  // At centre, as if growing from t
Cape
Cod Morning // Almost accidental, but carefully composed: // the sky b
Here, // now, // in this // extended //
coda to our past // good lives, the rainbow spans the sky.  //
oyages, expeditions // more books, more
coffee cups // more tragedies, comedies, histories // more shapes, mor
// A bartender bent to work; // chrome
coffee machines.  // At the bar three people sit // all six eyes lowere
round, // another creature wakes; great
cogwheels grind.  // They peer, they scan, they scrape, they test, they
ir; no fire and no gold, // no gems nor
coins nor jewels; just the old // and weathered hills, created by some
ep // beneath the // shining // mud.  //
Cold and clear.  The tide runs out, the creek // is draining back agai
Shore // Nonnet // Sonnet //
Cold and clear.  The tide runs out, the creek // is draining back towa
our feet into water clear and achingly
cold , // and dry them on warm rock.  //
ing “Now that I’m old, // I do feel the
cold — // and my breathing is rather uncertain.”  //
ng I came down, // expecting to find it
cold , but every day // the embers beneath the ash were darkly glowing,
months // are clear and fine and bitter
cold .  // Every step, // your foot upon the crust, you think // ‘This t
be short, // patch pockets (useless for
cold hands), // thick felted wool, a monk-like hood— // and with (the
up high, // with crescent moon // from
cold immune.  // Let snow lie, // it’s Jan, not June.  // A blue lagoon,
fire has warmed the room // against the
cold outside.  // (But that was forty years ago // —these days his hair
wn the line till you squint // with the
cold seeping into each joint, // it must be insane // to expect that a
/ drops thirty feet into a hole.  // One
cold winter’s afternoon // we walk to the edge of town and on // the m
No matter!  Now, in a stranger place, a
colder clime, // with no arms, one leg, no tail, but raised high, // a
Beethoven string quartet.  // Afterwards
Colin and I go down to the basement // —the real crematorium— // and s
ickering light.  // Nearly-five-year-old
Colin // needed a lavatory, and I had to leave the fire for a while //
been sounded.  // The last post has been
collected .  // The last word has been had.  // Nothing remains // but th
Bartók and Frank Bridge // are still at
college // Sergei Prokofiev and Carl Orf // still at school // Aaron C
cle paths // One to two thousand:  Jesus
College // The Chimney; Cranmer Room; Café Bar // courts; staircases;
ips // (Linnean Society 1904, // Girton
College 1913).  // The Reigate lab, of course // has a source // of pur
actinoids // ‡ by means of reactors or
colliders or other toys //
ething is growing at the tail end of my
colon : // probably malignant.  // ‘Malignant’ seems too strong a word. 
are long and barbed, // reaching out to
colonise the heath, // at war with the bracken.  // No fruit here—the t
evanescent airs // moistening the many-
coloured earths.  // In forests and in open spaces // there are times /
.  // Transform the coloured flower into
coloured flesh // and hide a secret inside.  // Feel the air.  Turn in t
the rays and the air.  // Transform the
coloured flower into coloured flesh // and hide a secret inside.  // Fe
the spring rain.  Throw open // the fire-
coloured temptations, welcome in // the roaming bees.  // Feel the fire
Colourless green ideas found sleeping furiously // The garlic slices t
spective will // live on long after his
colours have gone; // learning his lesson, the great Michelangelo // m
omedies, histories // more shapes, more
colours , more darknesses // more storms, gales, lightning bolts // mor
ny, archive // plummett // Note:  Fifty
colours of Farrow & Ball //
autumn hues, or shades of grey— // the
colours that I saw last night // just slipped away.  // Through passage
is about // a century and a half before
Columbus .  // He is a leader of Flemish weavers, pointing the rest // t
nd purposeful.  // We form into rows and
columns across the deep.  // Without knowing what it is, // we take on
d.  // Philosophies are aired, // temple
columns spaced, // lightning rods earthed.  // On the dark side of the
e did espy a fair pretty maid // with a
comb and a glass in her hand.  // See the pretty girl in that mirror th
motivation // underneath their surface
combinations .  // Now Brin and Page build index tabulations // of all t
e // at fate, at chance, at // what has
come about, but to close // an open sore, renew our sense of // time,
than his proper name of Gouriet) // had
come as a child sixty-odd years before // (well before the start of th
/ South wind today.  So the breakers //
come at an angle, sweep // along the beach.  Each // finds its own rea
he train.  // Childhood journeys by rail
come back // to my memory, patterns of clickety-clack.  // But that was
it in a verse.  // But now the dawn has
come , it does not pass, // this figment of my own imagination.  // Mayb
u dance to my tune, // I’ll lead.”  But
come June // it turns out she has feet of clay.  // My control is as st
Probably not until well after dark has
come .  // Should I start crawling the miles remaining, or // should I s
s a dream in which I’m caught // Which,
come the dawn, will surely quickly pass.  // I’d paint it for you if I
l // jump to join in, but needs time to
come through.  // I’ll give it some taxpayer funding, and get old saint
// picture it clearly.  So why does it
come to my mind?  // A couple of reasons.  One, that it had to be bolte
Hooligans) // later to enrol, when they
come to Paris // Manuel de Falla and Igor Stravinsky.  // A turn, a per
ks, more coffee cups // more tragedies,
comedies , histories // more shapes, more colours, more darknesses // m
glass that will never show a lass // As
comely or as kindly or as young as what she was!) // I am not cruel, o
e Derbyshire moors.  // But the next war
comes , and D is now called up.  // First to Hunmanby on the north-east
ard to final oblivion— // when the time
comes , I might add, not just yet.  //
ruit, though Suliman’s pilaf // is real
comfort food.  But comfort me not // with apples, nor with pilaf.  I c
are threatening // keep drafts out and
comfort in—but // there was an old man called Michael Finnegan.  // The
n’s pilaf // is real comfort food.  But
comfort me not // with apples, nor with pilaf.  I can't speak // for S
ilaf.  // But stay me not with them, nor
comfort me // with apples, for I am well of love.  // The usual transla
well of love.  // Apples may perhaps be
comforting // as any fruit, though Suliman’s pilaf // is real comfort
ng beyond a bad joke.  // Destroying our
comfort’s as rotten // as stealing a library book.  // Five of our cush
ut it and about, and evermore // voices
coming from the room next door.  // For and against, and more, against
add to the road’s cacophony.  // Voices
coming from the room next door: // thesis and antithesis, debate // ab
is all—a synthesis can wait.  // Voices
coming from the room next door:  // Thesis and Antithesis debate.  // Hi
tter.  // New papyrus, brush and ink.  //
Command a messenger.  // I love you.  // Draughty hall.  Now send a lette
m sublime.  // Must just ignore the shop-
committed crime, // the muzakal banality which stings.  // Even I, athe
led thread, // would we have found some
common course, // or bend or hitch or bead?  // Some earlier occasion w
ions of bank // leaving sharp cliffs of
compacted mud.  // Evening.  A great dark cloud // fire-edged, blots ou
d in the blue and gold livery // of the
Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits // et des Grands Express Euro
nes or city streets— // and who were my
companions , pray?  // Old friends, new friends did I meet?  // I cannot
w strife: // the different dittoes must
compete for life.  // Another billion random changes: all // —or almost
er’s edge the oyster-catchers, gulls //
compete for surface scraps.  The beach is good // for all.  The redsha
le around and about, under and over.  //
Complete another ring.  // Sleep.  //
lost.  The one behind // will finish me
completely // and for ever.  //
mp into harbour.  My // family playing,
completely oblivious.  //
see her consigned to the flames.  // (I
completely understand why people have // funeral pyres.) Later we sca
pose // now half-forgotten.  Electrical
components .  // A pair of cast-iron supports for an old // high-level l
ing // Almost accidental, but carefully
composed : // the sky behind the trees beyond the meadow, // tall grass
lose at hand // (the apple said), // to
comprehend the universe // both in the large and in the small, // to l
down the argument // shutting down the
computer // tearing down the barriers // cutting down the roses // flo
Story // —Tell me.  // —I am
conceived by the wind, the wild wind // and borne on the blue ocean.  /
ree // they raised the ramparts: giant
concrete blocks // on piles all along the shingle beach.  // The mile s
den toggles, loops of string.  // I must
confess to having owned // long long ago, that icon of // a time and m
that they choose to use // to inform or
confuse , // elate or validate or grieve— // these words live.  //
to be found.  // Waiting for declension,
conjugation , // other morphologic variations, // awaiting Dr Johnson’s
is book, the here and now dispel // and
conjure me to quite a different place.  // Jump willing into every word
iddens of my mind.  // And in my mind it
conjures up a vision // of the image that inspired it: a scattering //
switches, lights, buzzers, plugs // and
connecting leads.  Another pair // of brackets, this time for a wooden
solution.  // All we need to do is make
connection // alpha to beta using this equation, // then follow that s
ctor // and my clear beta, gamma, delta
connection // is screwed up by a zeta factor // in ways that I can nei
r relations, // find their denotations,
connotations .  // Roget charted their associations.  // Zipf was countin
jagged thorns, // seeking new ground to
conquer .  // Spiders’ webs among the undergrowth.  // Look closely: pre
to go answerless.  // Lone expedition to
conquer the mountaintop.  // Bottle of water and lunch in my haversack.
acles of zeta // by striking gamma from
consideration // and making an approximate relation // by tying beta u
the moments to remember: // they can be
consigned to passing time.  // For all the real and everlasting moments
/ —the real crematorium— // and see her
consigned to the flames.  // (I completely understand why people have /
rt // Turns out† that the seventh layer
consists mostly of ones that do not exist // but need‡ to be synthesis
f things: // the steps which, added up,
construct // my life.  // Most of the steps are small, // following, if
d or abandoned projects, // pieces half-
constructed or half-deconstructed, // for some architectural or mechan
shing // Plan finances—get advisor?  G’s
contact maybe // Ring M about Xmas // Ring Tony D about works in basem
At intervals along the south horizon //
container ships in stately progress pass // destined for Harwich or fo
// Some of the contents and all of the
containers // once had other uses.  The plastic boxes // were made for
it sheds) // on the grove’s outer edge,
contains our own // tree-house, a canted deck of ancient planks, // na
it // all six eyes lowered // in silent
contemplation .  // The rest of the world is dark.  //
h, as far as the window.  // Some of the
contents and all of the containers // once had other uses.  The plasti
s may be the end // The dance // On the
continent // In her very own month of May // she says “Now’s the time—
e surgeons trying to cut us off // from
continental flow // seem more like butchers working rough.  // The ligh
re welded, and the dominant sound // is
continuous and high-pitched.  The borders we cross are eastward: // un
own // finite but unbounded space-time
continuum // —cool!  // There are some lovely spirals down there now.  /
to the fell side, still // climbing the
contours and catching my breath again.  // Skirting the back of the Lit
water crashing down // to redefine the
contours of the shore.  // Around the river mouth the tides run strong.
/ topping up the tank // tearing up the
contract // pulling up the weeds // picking up the pieces // wrapping
In the end, it was the railway // that
contrived to send us on our way.  // British Rail announced that it wou
t turns out she has feet of clay.  // My
control is as strong as can be // and stable—they will make for me.  //
factor // in ways that I can neither //
control nor understand.  // Yet here’s a thought.  Just maybe I can //
// Gelderland; Glabbeek; Gramsbergen //
conurbations ; drained land // One to three hundred and sixteen thousan
nt family stir-fries four // Butterfish
cooked to no sauce.  // Young flourishing bowl bowl shrimp // Do a boil
ntly side by side, // through clear and
cool and quiet evening stillness // on evening tide.  // Decisions and
// and rest, and breathe some more the
cool clear air.  // Beyond the scree the open path leads on, // a gentl
pace // reflected in inky water, // the
cool night air // slows down time.  // Now is the time // to lie on the
blow us away // Now sluice the decks to
cool the wood // Way-hay, blow us away // And pour a bucket on my head
but unbounded space-time continuum // —
cool !  // There are some lovely spirals down there now.  // Let’s have a
er return // to the dry ground.  Let the
cooling dark // settle around and about, under and over.  // Complete a
nd Carl Orf // still at school // Aaron
Copland and Kurt Weill // in their cots // William Walton not yet born
erhaps // identify across the years.  A
copper beech // stands out, a clump of pears whose fruit // is hard as
a cosy Apple // app, coy sale.  // Aye,
cops lap // a clay pope’s // soapy place.  // So apply, ace: // scope a
lossom and fade, movements // are born,
copulate and die.  // But for the real turn, the cataclysm // which wil
palace spy.  // Lay pop case // plea as
copy .  // Ape calypso // place, so pay // a cosy Apple // app, coy sale
ipe, clunch, setting plaster // string,
cord , matchstick, tallow, vardo // cromarty, ringwold or savage ground
. // Place the kettle on the
cordless base making sure it is positioned correctly. // Pl
Using your Kettle // Place the
cordless base on a level firm surface. // Where ever possib
ole // in half then quarters // cut the
core from each.  // But no, for once // cut an apple // equatorially //
// pole-to-pole // scoop out the mushy
core .  // Mango: // find the flat sides of the stone // slice alongside
Cores // Cut a kiwi // equatorially: // no pips, no stone.  // Avocado:
dgerow, the field, the rapeseed and the
corn .  // The five-bar gate, the muddy track on the tarmac road.  // The
ballpoint pen.  // Find a stamp, street-
corner box.  // I love you.  // Wi-fi café.  Send a letter.  // Laptop, pl
the door.  // That tiny movement in the
corner ?  The hem of an emerging apparition?  // Don’t be silly, that’s
ful— // The eye of the little god, four
cornered .  // Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.  // Out flew
Hills aglow.  // Winds moaning round the
corners and the rooftops, // rushing wild clouds across the sky, // ly
ities flourish and decay.  In forgotten
corners , // artists create and sometimes destroy.  Did I really // spr
m the clapboards, // but grander far, a
corniced window bay // in darker wood.  Clear morning sunlight fills /
// in a lean-to out the back.  // On the
cornices // a hundred years of whitewash.  // We wire from scratch, //
dless base making sure it is positioned
correctly . // Plug in and switch on at the wall socket.
ers!  // “Was it there?  // It was in the
corresponding pocket of the trousers which he had worn on the day but
st slipped away.  // Through passages or
corridors // light-footed did I make my way?  // Across what carpets, r
y.  // Ape calypso // place, so pay // a
cosy Apple // app, coy sale.  // Aye, cops lap // a clay pope’s // soap
aron Copland and Kurt Weill // in their
cots // William Walton not yet born.  // But Maurice Ravel has just joi
l, built like the house // of weathered
Cotswold stone.  // The box and holly // were magnificent, but could no
On Skiddaw // Holiday
cottage , the edge of the Lake District— // family wanting to rest and
ee— // is worth another try.  A son.  //
Council house the other side of Sheffield.  // Polish husband transform
Don’t
count your chickens // … but if the chicken // is just the egg’s // wa
s are watered.  // Seasons and years are
counted and timed.  // Philosophies are aired, // temple columns spaced
our cushions are missing.  // How can we
counter -attack?  // Perhaps if we asked him politely // he’d remorseful
nds itself // rich rediscovering Bach’s
counterpoint — // frescos are fragile, but Piero’s perspective will //
ese as well.  // But we shall leave such
counterpoints behind us: // time will tell.  // Those are not the momen
Ninety-six and
counting // How little I really know of your life!  // From the moment
hen what I should // not be doing // is
counting // my eggs.  //
charted their associations.  // Zipf was
counting their instantiations, // ranking, taking logs and drawing lin
on two hundred and fifty thousand:  Low
Countries // Gelderland; Glabbeek; Gramsbergen // conurbations; draine
e Ostrova; Kirgiz Step; Karakoram Ra //
countries ; seas // One to ten million:  Middle East // Bam Posht; Badi
ell.  // That book will tales of distant
countries tell // or take you on a voyage through deepest space: // fa
// See this: // the large, dilapidated
country house // that is my mother’s next big venture after // produci
caught.  // But through this land, this
country I must go— // I’d paint it for you if I had the art // To you,
den walls // just slipped away.  // What
country lanes or city streets— // and who were my companions, pray?  //
his year it snows on Boxing Day.  // The
country road not cleared for days // —and then of course it snows agai
bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  //
Country station: we clamber down.  // The whistle blows, the train mov
urvive; // It’s through this land, this
country that I go.  // It’s likely different from the one you know:  //
imes see in lines across // the Suffolk
countryside , each tall bare trunk // gnarled and twisted by the wind,
.  So why does it come to my mind?  // A
couple of reasons.  One, that it had to be bolted // down to the floor
e wind // not as in // screwing up your
courage // putting up resistance // throwing up earthworks // zipping
ill drag us // kicking and screaming of
course // but maybe also wailing and gnashing our teeth // into the ma
night at least.  // Odysseus' sirens, of
course // can offer no such message.  Theirs // is a one-way invitatio
ws them downwind.  // The cliff // is of
course ephemeral, built // not only on, but of, // sand.  All along th
ome force // beyond imagination; and of
course // extracted from my fickle memory— // elusive and illusive tre
n College 1913).  // The Reigate lab, of
course // has a source // of pure water: a still.  // Garden shed // w
ad not cleared for days // —and then of
course it snows again.  // One afternoon for one brief hour // the air
ll’s fair in gloves and war, though the
course of true gloves never did run smooth.  No glove lost.  // We have
ead, // would we have found some common
course , // or bend or hitch or bead?  // Some earlier occasion when //
e a fine plan.  // We also need money—of
course private finance will // jump to join in, but needs time to come
ne, // BC (Before Capricorn).  // But of
course that is not so.  // Seen from here, the future is changed // utt
oks vaguely oriental.  // Since then, of
course , the bracken // has been ploughed, the edges fenced, the house
rout Quintet // the slow movement is of
course the second.  // Of course we should move slowly for some seconds
movement is of course the second.  // Of
course we should move slowly for some seconds.  // No, more than that. 
The apple said // Of
course we’d like to understand // the stars and planets overhead // as
ng through rocks with rainbow spray, //
coursing the straits and the hollows, // meandering across meadows, //
in the tent next door, // a motorcycle
coursing up the lane.  // Night-time noises permeate the air // with vo
:  Block plan // Sherlock Road; Sherlock
Court ; Sherlock Close // houses; yards; curbs // One to fifty:  Ground
The Chimney; Cranmer Room; Café Bar //
courts ; staircases; playing fields // One to five hundred:  Block plan
/ Then back to skirt the edge of Malham
Cove , // with fields below and limestone crags above; // descend the s
Covehithe , Suffolk // South wind today.  So the breakers // come at an
Beyond the fir-trees lies // a bracken-
covered heath.  The summer fronds // rise far above our heads.  In thi
lake, // soup-spoon-shaped, still half-
covered // in slowly melting ice.  On the far side // the steep snow-c
ice.  On the far side // the steep snow-
covered slopes rise up // to rampart rock walls, knife-edge against //
d all, // the woven patterns traced and
covered // the world with skeins of wool.  // And as we lived and loved
ving any useful purpose.  // The clutter
covering the remainder of the bench // is piled uncontained and uncons
ding scratches // to the stains already
covering your fingers // and your palms.  Sometimes you must stop // t
ough the summer’s brown bracken // that
covers the heath.  // On magic carpet // the Prince of Crim Tartary //
staring.  A few // feet away, a sheep,
cowering // —and a lamb, sensing danger // suckling.  // On the other /
/ place, so pay // a cosy Apple // app,
coy sale.  // Aye, cops lap // a clay pope’s // soapy place.  // So appl
ttle croaker with no result.  // Fragile
crab of incense taste mushroom // Do the black boiler hair belly.  // T
de.  // I look into the mirror, but it’s
cracked // And won’t be fixed and always did refract // The one before
the web and floated wide; // The mirror
crack’d from side to side.  // I look into the mirror, but it’s cracked
just a sideshow: all the while // the
crafty sea is also digging down // beneath the piles.  Then one stormy
ove, // with fields below and limestone
crags above; // descend the steps to reach the valley floor— // to lea
ere will be more.  // More hills, dales,
crags , beaches // more boat or cycle rides // more walks, more bluebel
thousand:  Jesus College // The Chimney;
Cranmer Room; Café Bar // courts; staircases; playing fields // One to
o the air // (or so it seems to me), to
crash back down— // you must be nimble.  // Later we discover // that t
storm // brings wild mountains of water
crashing down // to redefine the contours of the shore.  // Around the
g up, up, turning over // and hear them
crashing down.  // What is this cataclysm?  // Now the one just ahead //
e.  // Already I am toppling over him //
crashing , splitting, breaking.  // I am lost.  The one behind // will f
ly, just around the final bend) // this
craven kraken creeps, and slumbers not: // a stealth invasion’s gettin
after dark has come.  // Should I start
crawling the miles remaining, or // should I stay put in the hope of a
ions // of all the words their spiders’
crawls can find.  // — // A writer read, a speaker heard, // at every w
hardness on tiny softness.  // Softness
crawls over sand and rock // in filtered blue light, // carrying hardn
ing, boughs reaching // for the ground,
creaking // under the weight.  // Wander through the orchard, watch //
A trifle // (with double
cream ) // Dr Foster went to Gloucester // for a summer spin— // and li
ecay.  In forgotten corners, // artists
create and sometimes destroy.  Did I really // spring from the hands o
s; just the old // and weathered hills,
created by some force // beyond imagination; and of course // extracte
/ of celebration—every line // the Bard
created for the stage // by the best actors of the age.  // Thank you f
surface and for far around, // another
creature wakes; great cogwheels grind.  // They peer, they scan, they s
Tidesong // The tide is out, the
creek a gentle trickle // Hear the marsh-birds calling // the drying s
ed // the dunes on the beach across the
creek // and had a go at East Hills.  // A once in a century storm, //
s, // warm and dry.  // On waters of the
creek as smooth as satin, // drifting or paddling gently side by side,
Cold and clear.  The tide runs out, the
creek // is draining back again towards the sea.  // Along the muddy ma
Cold and clear.  The tide runs out, the
creek // is draining back towards the sea.  // Along the margins waders
he sky.  // Islands, beaches, clifftops,
creeks and inlets, // rocky shorelines tumbling under the sky.  // Sea-
hor lines.  // Across the channel, tidal
creeks // meandering through the marsh // carve out sections of bank /
// move apart // flames leap // flames
creep // growing bright // flames leap // sparks take flight // growin
s // move apart // eyes smart // flames
creep // move apart // flames leap // flames creep // growing bright /
// we wander, hacking out our paths, or
creeping through, // maybe chancing on a hidden hollow which // will m
d the final bend) // this craven kraken
creeps , and slumbers not: // a stealth invasion’s getting off the grou
I go down to the basement // —the real
crematorium — // and see her consigned to the flames.  // (I completely
iece.) // Standing around the Cambridge
crematorium , // dressed for the occasion, // we read the flower-borne
// Another twenty one years, // another
crematorium .  // This time Judith has chosen the music, // a Beethoven
The moon in June // A
crescent moon, // a winter sky.  // It’s Jan, not June.  // A red balloo
A red balloon, // way up high, // with
crescent moon // from cold immune.  // Let snow lie, // it’s Jan, not J
// Back home soon // warm and dry.  // A
crescent moon.  // It’s Jan, not June.  //
ue lagoon, // the deep blue sky.  // The
crescent moon // some cryptic rune.  // The senses fly.  // It’s Jan, no
thin.  // Gathered round about, a motley
crew // of categories in boxes, jars and tins: // the larger bolts and
th.  // On magic carpet // the Prince of
Crim Tartary // flies into the night.  // The paraffin stove // casts p
// Must just ignore the shop-committed
crime , // the muzakal banality which stings.  // Even I, atheist, find
/ down, not up—as in // facing down the
crisis // pinning down the problem // throwing down the gauntlet // ba
kind’s of seafood in monolith // Do the
crispy bean curd of boiler, // Blow up a little croaker with no result
he saw; but I saw him see // across the
criss -cross checks and grids and patterned lattices of life // through
inute; // gives me siblings to chase or
criss -cross // over and under // as we skip on the backs of the older
Well, yes.  In all the arts // currents
criss -cross, revolutions // blossom and fade, movements // are born, c
orms // or long since stripped of bark,
criss -cross // the forest floor, streams and all.  // A seven-mile clim
ean curd of boiler, // Blow up a little
croaker with no result.  // Fragile crab of incense taste mushroom // D
ing, cord, matchstick, tallow, vardo //
cromarty , ringwold or savage ground // smoked trout, wevet, bone, cala
e bracken, the moss, the lichen, // the
cropped grass, the sheep- and rabbit-droppings, // the bare rocks and
fires.  // Pots are thrown and fired, //
crops are watered.  // Seasons and years are counted and timed.  // Phil
alanche, // fall through a wormhole, or
cross a mountain range?  // Did I march towards my fate, // or did I me
nuous and high-pitched.  The borders we
cross are eastward: // under the channel and then from France to Belgi
; but I saw him see // across the criss-
cross checks and grids and patterned lattices of life // through glass
self // as ugly.  No such thought would
cross my five- // or eight- or ten-year-old imagination.  // It stands
// gives me siblings to chase or criss-
cross // over and under // as we skip on the backs of the older ones. 
yes.  In all the arts // currents criss-
cross , revolutions // blossom and fade, movements // are born, copulat
/ or long since stripped of bark, criss-
cross // the forest floor, streams and all.  // A seven-mile climb // b
We have the space // and the time // to
cross the waters, // explore the earth, // and send signal fires // bl
st nine months gone, // when both lines
crossed an edge, // and two seemed to twist into one, // right there,
casion when // our life-lines must have
crossed , // some passing chance of might-have-been, // a different sti
other // the source of danger // a wolf
crouches // his senses tingling, too.  // Around them, the flowers bloo
an old man called Michael Finnegan— //
crowds stopped by his strange shenanigan // called out all their kith
by the wind, supports // a wild, tufted
crown —quite unlike // the planted forest, serried ranks of Christmas p
ore.  // Now it happens my old friend is
crowned mayor of London, he // goes by the rubrik of Boris the Mad.  //
who is the fairest of them all?  // (The
cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass // As comely or as kin
as young as what she was!) // I am not
cruel , only truthful— // The eye of the little god, four cornered.  //
layer.  The frost returns // to make a
crust .  The next two months // are clear and fine and bitter cold.  //
d.  // Every step, // your foot upon the
crust , you think // ‘This time, it will hold my weight.’  // But every
blue sky.  // The crescent moon // some
cryptic rune.  // The senses fly.  // It’s Jan, not June.  // Back home s
It’s really hard to know.  // We have no
crystal ball, no glass.  // The light has all gone, now.  //
y newsagent // Bulbs for kitchen lights—
CS 60W screw???—check first // Cash m/c // Washing // Plan finances—ge
d One // The century turns.  // Right on
cue , Queen Victoria dies.  // (Next time around, in the digital era //
The fall drew blood.  // No such obvious
culprit here, // except for age, pure and simple.  No rage— // just a
Six of our cushions are missing.  // The
culprit must now be unmasked.  // It’s becoming quite clear that the ho
dent or fellow— // the thief’s much too
cunning for that.  // There’s only one possible answer: // this cat-bur
own.  // Bedroom again, more drawers and
cupboards .  // Chair with pile of clothes.  // Feel something…  // Shit! 
nning, by the door.  // Tables, shelves,
cupboards , hooks, drawers.  // Places I wouldn’t have put them.  // Move
nd washers, // flooring nails, staples,
cuphooks , clouts // masonry nails, screw-eyes, picture hooks // wallpl
expeditions // more books, more coffee
cups // more tragedies, comedies, histories // more shapes, more colou
r some, the resolution lies // in their
cups .  Thomas certainly did his level best // to drink himself to deat
Court; Sherlock Close // houses; yards;
curbs // One to fifty:  Ground floor // Bedroom 2; Bathroom; Bicycle sh
afood in monolith // Do the crispy bean
curd of boiler, // Blow up a little croaker with no result.  // Fragile
end on a bigger road.  The pavements //
curl around, leaving two small raised triangles // of city herbage in
scutter, scavenge—redshank, // godwit,
curlew —long // beaks probing deep // beneath the // shining // mud.  //
more walks, more bluebell woods // more
curlews , more ragged, slanting lines of geese // more travels, journey
od // for all.  The redshanks, godwits,
curlews search // for hidden treasure, long beaks buried full // to pr
/ flame unfurls // twigs catch // smoke
curls // flame unfurls // smoke grows // smoke curls // smoke billows
/ flame unfurls // smoke grows // smoke
curls // smoke billows // smoke grows // eyes smart // smoke billows /
the marsh-birds calling // against the
current pushing strongly townward.  // Breath the scents the sea-winds
ange?  // Well, yes.  In all the arts //
currents criss-cross, revolutions // blossom and fade, movements // ar
could without worry // take the hottest
Currie .  // Gordon Brown // replaced his frown // with a one-sided smil
// of brackets, this time for a wooden
curtain pole, // two and a half inches in diameter (the pole // itself
the same once more, // voices from the
curtained bed next door.  // Responses muted, though the sense is raw,
while exuding care.  // Voices from the
curtained bed next door: // someone else’s fragile life is there.  //
an, animal, machine.  // Voices from the
curtained bed next door: // someone else’s fragile life is there.  // E
/ Employ a messenger.  // I love you.  //
Curtained parlour.  Send a letter.  // Scented paper, dip-pen, ink.  // B
ants.  // On one // a stately ram, great
curved horns // stands tense, alert and staring.  A few // feet away,
le sends great arcing shoots, // strong
curves lined with jagged thorns, // seeking new ground to conquer.  //
suburban junction.  // Narrow side road
curves to join // a bend on a bigger road.  The pavements // curl arou
One to ten thousand:  Cambridge // Petty
Cury ; Park Parade; Pretoria Road // streets; alleys; cycle paths // On
asn’t just fallen behind.  // Two of our
cushions are missing // from the sofa just outside the door.  // It rea
stealing a library book.  // Five of our
cushions are missing.  // How can we counter-attack?  // Perhaps if we a
we don’t lose any more.  // Three of our
cushions are missing.  // I don’t know quite what to say.  // It seems t
eaking our cushions away // Four of our
cushions are missing.  // It’s getting beyond a bad joke.  // Destroying
efully put them all back.  // Six of our
cushions are missing.  // The culprit must now be unmasked.  // It’s bec
st be some rotter // who’s sneaking our
cushions away // Four of our cushions are missing.  // It’s getting bey
One of our cushions // One of our
cushions is missing— // I’m sure that there’s one I can’t find.  // How
One of our
cushions // One of our cushions is missing— // I’m sure that there’s o
Cores //
Cut a kiwi // equatorially: // no pips, no stone.  // Avocado: // pole-
core from each.  // But no, for once //
cut an apple // equatorially // see its secret: // the apple is a five
tions, with plywood strips // carefully
cut and glued.  And labelled the front— // Nails: tacks, panel pins, o
ck up a Brancusi stone head, or a small
cut brass piece by Gaudier-Brzeska, and put it into our hands).  She i
for thesis // or antithesis.  // Have to
cut straight to synthesis.  // Tried // hard // to write // a fib on //
ole-to-pole // in half then quarters //
cut the core from each.  // But no, for once // cut an apple // equator
failing now.  // The surgeons trying to
cut us off // from continental flow // seem more like butchers working
is she sees?  The frame // he chose has
cut us off from looking at // the focus of her gaze: does he not want
rned it into // a perfect workbench—the
cuts and holes and scars // from saws and hammers and screwed-on wood-
omputer // tearing down the barriers //
cutting down the roses // floating down the river // whistling down th
rade; Pretoria Road // streets; alleys;
cycle paths // One to two thousand:  Jesus College // The Chimney; Cran
, dales, crags, beaches // more boat or
cycle rides // more walks, more bluebell woods // more curlews, more r
got to the spin // part of its washing
cycle .  The other, the noise // that it made as it spun, a rhythmic st
abour’s lost // press two; or three for
cymbelline ; // the merry wives of windsor, four; // five othello; six