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.

P

r these falls, // no drink involved.  //
P // The fall is denied.  // Anyway, the cancer can be blamed // for ma
// buy-in from business is not keeping
pace ) // —but Sadiq the Most Evil deposes poor Boris, and // gets the
ale down // One to forty-five million: 
Pacific Ocean // Marianas Trench, Macquarie Ridge, Mendocino Seascarp
u.  // Papered bedsit.  Send a letter.  //
Pad of paper, ballpoint pen.  // Find a stamp, street-corner box.  // I
reek as smooth as satin, // drifting or
paddling gently side by side, // through clear and cool and quiet even
track on the tarmac road.  // The walled
paddock and the orchard, // the apple on the tree, the windfall in the
r surface combinations.  // Now Brin and
Page build index tabulations // of all the words their spiders’ crawls
oken aloud rather than seeing it on the
page they will certainly know it.  //
// away from you, in those last days of
pain , // another summer, home in Camberwell.  // Between the endpoints
e of a rescuer?  // Slowly I realise the
pain is subsiding, the // leg was not broken, and after a while I can
.  Bother.  // Irritation.  Nuisance.  //
Pain ? no, not really.  // Objective // Yellow liquid flows.  // Subjecti
m walls, // distemper from ceilings, //
paint from woodwork, // lino from floors.  // (Under the lino, newspape
dawn, will surely quickly pass.  // I’d
paint it for you if I had the art, // Or maybe I should write it in a
is land, this country I must go— // I’d
paint it for you if I had the art // To you, this is a dream in which
t 2ft square of brush marks in a darker
paint , made by a house-painter cleaning his brush after painting some
And rising left // the Cape Cod house’s
painted clapboard side.  // At centre, as if growing from the clapboard
all, the sign on the post, // the white-
painted sign spreadeagled on the road.  // What do they know, the rain
t she?”  // Yes.  // “Then why hasn’t she
painted // the walls?”  // Fair question.  //
arks in a darker paint, made by a house-
painter cleaning his brush after painting some woodwork.  Judith sees
// she says to her dad // “Judith is a
painter , isn’t she?”  // Yes.  // “Then why hasn’t she painted // the wa
e: does he not want // to tell?  // This
painting has a private life.  //
house-painter cleaning his brush after
painting some woodwork.  Judith sees something in the shapes, and usin
draws in pencil or pen or charcoal, //
paints in oils on hardboard.  // — // 1973.  Six-year-old Emily visits.
ce only.  As Judith had broken in a new
pair of boots, we buried the old pair somewhere on one of the passes h
plugs // and connecting leads.  Another
pair // of brackets, this time for a wooden curtain pole, // two and a
forgotten.  Electrical components.  // A
pair of cast-iron supports for an old // high-level lavatory cistern,
a new pair of boots, we buried the old
pair somewhere on one of the passes high above Borrowdale in what was
A cloppy sea // Lose pay cap, // O
palace spy.  // Lay pop case // plea as copy.  // Ape calypso // place,
, // flat and sharp and natural too:  //
pale sky encounters dark sea.  // On the sand, a scattering of razor sh
/ charges towards me // from beyond the
pale , under my guard, // below the belt and over the line.  // What’s i
tenuous, // legs weaken, and isolation
palls .  // One more great change, one more new beginning: // a differen
ready covering your fingers // and your
palms .  Sometimes you must stop // to disentangle a particularly tenac
k-clack.  // Telephone wires through the
pane // loop lazily along and then // greet each pole like a jumping j
n the splinters of the shattered window
pane .  // There was an overcrowded hospital.  // There were the children
nd labelled the front— // Nails: tacks,
panel pins, ovals and round; // Screws: small, size 6, size 8, large. 
he juice // leave the pith and pips.  //
Papaya , melon: // pole-to-pole // scoop out the mushy core.  // Mango: 
apered bedsit.  Send a letter.  // Pad of
paper , ballpoint pen.  // Find a stamp, street-corner box.  // I love yo
ined parlour.  Send a letter.  // Scented
paper , dip-pen, ink.  // Branch post office, penny stamp.  // I love you
hole hog, the full nine yards: turn the
paper onto its side and write each line // in something approaching or
office, penny stamp.  // I love you.  //
Papered bedsit.  Send a letter.  // Pad of paper, ballpoint pen.  // Find
// Flowing Nile.  Send a letter.  // New
papyrus , brush and ink.  // Command a messenger.  // I love you.  // Drau
thousand:  Cambridge // Petty Cury; Park
Parade ; Pretoria Road // streets; alleys; cycle paths // One to two th
Tartary // flies into the night.  // The
paraffin stove // casts patterns of light on the // high bedroom ceili
Parallel lines // As you stare down the line till you squint // with t
// Draughty hall.  Now send a letter.  //
Parchment , new quill pen, and ink.  // Employ a messenger.  // I love yo
s) // later to enrol, when they come to
Paris // Manuel de Falla and Igor Stravinsky.  // A turn, a period of c
us hole, quite big enough to eat // the
park and all the houses down the street.  // We joined the local protes
t world war).  // Fifty yards across the
park at the back // a low embankment carries the railway track.  // (Do
ten thousand:  Cambridge // Petty Cury;
Park Parade; Pretoria Road // streets; alleys; cycle paths // One to t
messenger.  // I love you.  // Curtained
parlour .  Send a letter.  // Scented paper, dip-pen, ink.  // Branch post
es rattle too and shake // our sense of
part and whole, netsuke-like.  // Bird and fish are two, and now are on
chip shop.  // A young rambler, you take
part // in the mass trespass on Kinderscout.  // Meet a dashing young f
bulation whenever it got to the spin //
part of its washing cycle.  The other, the noise // that it made as it
can back out to reconnoitre // another
part of the bush.  Take care not to spill // your precious hoard (I me
Later we scatter the ashes // in a wild
part of the old South London cemetery.  // Perhaps I should plant // so
We left the room unpainted for the best
part of the 22 years we lived there, and it wasn’t just because we nev
I meet?  // I cannot say.  // And when we
parted , did we say // our last goodbyes, or maybe they // just slipped
times you must stop // to disentangle a
particularly tenacious tendril // before you can back out to reconnoit
ncontained and unconstrained.  // Unused
parts from finished or abandoned projects, // pieces half-constructed
the problem out and then reveals // the
parts of a solution.  // All we need to do is make connection // alpha
en are they likely to send out a search
party ?  // Probably not until well after dark has come.  // Should I sta
ome miles are ten, while others swiftly
pass .  //
Lits // et des Grands Express Européens
pass by.  // In the end, it was the railway // that contrived to send u
// container ships in stately progress
pass // destined for Harwich or for Felixstowe.  //
now.  // How will these transient trials
pass ?  // It’s really hard to know.  // We have no crystal ball, no glas
ich, come the dawn, will surely quickly
pass .  // I’d paint it for you if I had the art, // Or maybe I should w
But now the dawn has come, it does not
pass , // this figment of my own imagination.  // Maybe I should write i
night // just slipped away.  // Through
passages or corridors // light-footed did I make my way?  // Across wha
til light is fading // has the interval
passed by.  // An uncompleted day // is not yet to be fixed— // but eac
nd.  // Later still, after the storm has
passed // lie back on the wet beach // and watch the stars emerge.  //
one.  In Swale- and Wensleydale // they
passed the following day.  // Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, // an
/ Rode bold Sir Lancelot.  // Years have
passed .  The winter’s chill // Lies fast upon the land so ill.  // Seld
act the attention of anyone.  // Haven’t
passed walkers for more than three hours now.  // When are they likely
o return to old // ways—that age // has
passed .  What should // we salvage from it, what burn, // what reconst
ed the old pair somewhere on one of the
passes high above Borrowdale in what was then still Westmorland.  It w
Long ago // The railway line
passes near.  // After the engine’s noisy roar, // coaches follow along
ll miss // the instant jagged challenge
passing between them // or down to earth.  // Seconds later, over the d
t yet to be fixed— // but each interval
passing by // may be notched on a stick.  // Not yet to be fixed // whi
r life-lines must have crossed, // some
passing chance of might-have-been, // a different stitch to cast?  // N
ng bolts // more days of sun or rain or
passing cloud // more meetings with old friends // more talks, more si
e heating up.  // That breath of air?  A
passing presence?  // Don’t be silly, that’s just a draught from the do
but the raging fire // of the sun marks
passing time.  // Far down below, the earth // is mostly water.  // From
o remember: // they can be consigned to
passing time.  // For all the real and everlasting moments, // there wi
and simple.  No rage— // just a sort of
passive acceptance.  // Set against this, a certain toughness, // hidde
, // in this // extended // coda to our
past // good lives, the rainbow spans the sky.  //
t the hour // for soft pussy-footing is
past .  // It can’t be a student or fellow— // the thief’s much too cunn
apple clusters sway, // the clouds scud
past , // maybe catch // close enough to make you jump, or far away, //
e?  // It’s a level that the tide rushes
past // on its way up and again // on its way down.  // It’s a level me
f // the back of your hand as you reach
past to pilfer // the clusters beyond, adding scratches // to the stai
hread unroll behind, // laying down the
past — // until the day, just nine months gone, // when both lines cros
is // the cliff.  A narrow sandy beach
past which // the falling tide reveals the deep black mud // which ooz
is far from cheering: // that while the
past // will last and last, // the future is fast disappearing.  //
nd scrambles ahead of me.  // Out of the
pastures and onto the fell side, still // climbing the contours and ca
nd in the river, // Tending her cabbage
patch forever, // The hermit of Shalott.  //
hree-quarter length, or maybe short, //
patch pockets (useless for cold hands), // thick felted wool, a monk-l
rom Ilkley’s old stone bridge I trace a
path // against the stream, back up the river Wharfe, // to Bolton Abb
.  // The treasures to be found along my
path // are elemental: water, sky and earth // and rock and air; no fi
Wells in winter // We take the
path beside the wood—the fir // and silver birch along the dunes that
melot.  // But what is this small beaten
path // Between two beds of clean-raked earth // Where tender shoots m
// Sorrow, longing, dreams pervade the
path // in any season.  // The author, he whose life the fates would sq
d // for maybe thirty years.  A winding
path // leads from the glazed back door // through box and holly grown
clear air.  // Beyond the scree the open
path leads on, // a gentler walk, to bare bleak Malham Tarn.  // Then b
that protrudes from the // edge of the
path , not yet blunted or bowdlerized.  // Broken?  It must be, if agony
ult scree but then joining an easier //
path with spectacular views over Bassenthwaite.  // Walking down quickl
Pretoria Road // streets; alleys; cycle
paths // One to two thousand:  Jesus College // The Chimney; Cranmer Ro
ght green // we wander, hacking out our
paths , or creeping through, // maybe chancing on a hidden hollow which
e // each new beginning // reiterates a
pattern // as old as the hills // each iteration // shifts the sand, c
ss the criss-cross checks and grids and
patterned lattices of life // through glasses, darkly.  // —A fragment,
s in primeval winds // a billion random
patterns form—until // an accidental spiral sequence finds // that it
neys by rail come back // to my memory,
patterns of clickety-clack.  // But that was then.  Now the rail joints
e night.  // The paraffin stove // casts
patterns of light on the // high bedroom ceiling.  //
hen we were young and all, // the woven
patterns traced and covered // the world with skeins of wool.  // And a
den’s death, // the trout that dart and
pause and flicker under // the bubbling brooks, that chatter and meand
he brambled way // And fewer still will
pause or stay // To gaze down on the ruins gray // That scar remote Sh
.  // Retract.  // Slacken.  // Settle.  //
Pause .  // Repeat twice daily.  // (Not by the sun // —use moontime // i
ad.  // Reach.  // Slacken.  // Settle.  //
Pause .  // Start.  // Tiptoe.  // Retrace.  // Shrink.  // Drop back.  // Bu
alling // to the edges of the sea-grass—
pauses , // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // makes another ling
rough plate-glass windows // across the
pavement .  // A bartender bent to work; // chrome coffee machines.  // A
o join // a bend on a bigger road.  The
pavements // curl around, leaving two small raised triangles // of cit
ea as copy.  // Ape calypso // place, so
pay // a cosy Apple // app, coy sale.  // Aye, cops lap // a clay pope’
A cloppy sea // Lose
pay cap, // O palace spy.  // Lay pop case // plea as copy.  // Ape caly
’ve cancelled his buses, no more will I
pay for—and // now on the bridge I am pulling the plug.”  //
sent for C—book?  // Coat to cleaners //
Pay newsagent // Bulbs for kitchen lights—CS 60W screw???—check first
enthwaite.  // Walking down quickly, not
paying attention, I // stumble, fall heavily forward and land with my
ead.  Was I carried for trade?  // Or in
payment of taxes?  Or was I a trophy of war?  // I cannot now recall.  /
t what they find.  // The possibility of
peace is now long gone.  // In just a few days’ time, these two will me
or tender— // of love unfinished or of
peaceful earth, // the mill-girl’s beauty or the maiden’s death, // th
// Who is this now, who dares me eat a
peach ?  // Time’s warring chariots can clatter by— // we have the earth
ost pole // close as you can.  // Apple,
pear : // pole-to-pole // in half then quarters // cut the core from ea
copper beech // stands out, a clump of
pears whose fruit // is hard as stone.  (But when stewed overnight //
plodes to grow the fragile bone.  // The
peasant family stir-fries four // Butterfish cooked to no sauce.  // Yo
the charts // redrawn).  // The line of
pebble -dunes protects // a calmer green oasis, band of salt-marsh // w
ancient in // the damp basement of the
Peckham house // that we bought some forty years ago.  // One of the le
Peckham 1969—1991 // Of eighteen sixty vintage, the house is flat // i
The sitting room of our house in
Peckham , the walls stripped and undecorated, but with marks and signs
t // I’ll just have to ask ‘Where d’you
pee ?’  //
ing light // Under the door the glow is
peeking , // feeling its way across the floor.  // From the lamp on the
e wakes; great cogwheels grind.  // They
peer , they scan, they scrape, they test, they sound; // they write the
’s back, mole’s or elephant’s breath //
peignoir , charlotte’s locks, nancy’s blushes // drop cloth, slipper sa
chio, citron, calluna // brassica, hay,
pelt , dove tale, pigeon // mouse’s back, mole’s or elephant’s breath /
send a letter.  // Parchment, new quill
pen , and ink.  // Employ a messenger.  // I love you.  // Curtained parlo
nd a letter.  // Pad of paper, ballpoint
pen .  // Find a stamp, street-corner box.  // I love you.  // Wi-fi café.
r.  Send a letter.  // Scented paper, dip-
pen , ink.  // Branch post office, penny stamp.  // I love you.  // Papere
cement or resin, // draws in pencil or
pen or charcoal, // paints in oils on hardboard.  // — // 1973.  Six-ye
plaster or cement or resin, // draws in
pencil or pen or charcoal, // paints in oils on hardboard.  // — // 197
// not yet decipherable, // orange and
penny .  // Brandy, a candle: // heat till it catches fire, // pour out
r, dip-pen, ink.  // Branch post office,
penny stamp.  // I love you.  // Papered bedsit.  Send a letter.  // Pad o
sun?  Or maybe nothing—maybe she // is
pensive , dreaming, lost in reverie.  // And the artist who is showing u
ded domesticity. // (not the Pirates of
Penzance – apologies to WSG) //
he skylark’s trill; // No longer do the
people fill // The wharfs and ways of Camelot.  // Only one remains to
flames.  // (I completely understand why
people have // funeral pyres.) Later we scatter the ashes // in a wil
ss so many alien lands and seas // some
people have some nasty new disease.  // They seem to want our help, but
ge that inspired it: a scattering // of
people in a city street, shop-window-browsing.  // A group, gathered ar
ns.  And it becomes a scene, a group of
people in evening dress, top hats and the like, appropriate to some ea
d’s cacophony.  // Through air and ether
people mutter, shout, // voices, ipods, phones speak out.  // So many p
ers, hunters hovering under the sky.  //
People , people round the world—and I, // roaming, rambling, drifting u
ters hovering under the sky.  // People,
people round the world—and I, // roaming, rambling, drifting under the
l // of city station, noisy, full // of
people rushing there and back.  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-cl
me coffee machines.  // At the bar three
people sit // all six eyes lowered // in silent contemplation.  // The
and snot and sweat and spittle.  // Oh,
people spread!  Quick, guys, an ecstasy of fumbling, // building the c
es, ipods, phones speak out.  // So many
people talking: can we doubt // that somewhere herein lies some deep
he once-proud towers of Camelot.  // Few
people walk the brambled way // And fewer still will pause or stay //
or, to prevent it going walkabout, // a
perambulation whenever it got to the spin // part of its washing cycle
taste?  // But no.  Once in a while // a
perfect burst still catches at my tastebuds // and drags me back again
rries // of my childhood remain forever
perfect , // forever simultaneously sweet and tart, // sharp on my mind
otted time: // that we could reach this
perfect knot // and find ourselves at home.  //
with twisted limbs // shed leaves with
perfect sculpted edges.  // A bramble sends great arcing shoots, // str
iece of four by two turned it into // a
perfect workbench—the cuts and holes and scars // from saws and hammer
d death are two, and now are one: // no
perfectability except our own.  //
d drill are two, and now are one: // no
perfectability except our own.  // But Henri’s pieces rattle too and sh
d child are two, and now are one: // no
perfectability except our own.  // His senseless trenches death at twen
rs—they are two, and now are one: // no
perfectability except our own.  // In hard cast bronze all hardness now
nd fish are two, and now are one: // no
perfectability except our own.  // In Pompidou relief is on the wall, /
and taste delicious.) // Another tree,
perhaps a beech, but green // (I think that I can see the nuts it shed
s, for I am well of love.  // Apples may
perhaps be comforting // as any fruit, though Suliman’s pilaf // is re
rt of the old South London cemetery.  //
Perhaps I should plant // some box or holly.  //
ery few // of which I can discern, even
perhaps // identify across the years.  A copper beech // stands out, a
ssing.  // How can we counter-attack?  //
Perhaps if we asked him politely // he’d remorsefully put them all bac
to float or sink a battle-ship.  // But
perhaps instead I will go the whole hog, the full nine yards: turn the
storm, // that was thought to be.  // So
perhaps they will // outlive us.  //
// Give me some wind to blow us away //
Perhaps tomorrow there’ll be wind // Way-hay, blow us away // And we c
eshore, // the banked sand and shingle,
perhaps // (when the tide is high enough) // as far the cliff.  The wi
e bottom to the top // so that the same
period games // allow the lines to peter out // and stop. // † as we s
Falla and Igor Stravinsky.  // A turn, a
period of change?  // Well, yes.  In all the arts // currents criss-cro
f the table is sparse, but every second
period or layer, // like the bard from Japan whose verses never would
Periodical // Earth, air, // fire and water: just the four— // but th
.  // As we* reach the sixth and seventh
periods , short of horizontal space, // we must** resort to footnotes j
y.  But not for long // —impermanence’s
permanence the rule.  // Change will last forever.  // At intervals alon
fish, a fox afar— // night-time noises
permeate the air.  // Someone snoring in the tent next door, // a motor
against the blind.  // Night-time noises
permeate the air // with voices human, animal, machine.  // An owl, a l
rsing up the lane.  // Night-time noises
permeate the air // with voices human, animal, machine.  // Voices from
ongings with you, // and could the last
person to alight please switch off the lights.  // This departure has a
nt— // frescos are fragile, but Piero’s
perspective will // live on long after his colours have gone; // learn
// 1 back: frustration // 3 sideways: 
perspiration // Alpha, beta, gamma, delta.  // The way is clear.  This
f Rosamunde.  // Sorrow, longing, dreams
pervade the path // in any season.  // The author, he whose life the fa
-stanza—and then to cease?  It seems //
perverse —the more because the fellow // was not wearing glasses.  //
same period games // allow the lines to
peter out // and stop. // † as we step through the double-starred list
es // One to ten thousand:  Cambridge //
Petty Cury; Park Parade; Pretoria Road // streets; alleys; cycle paths
ons and years are counted and timed.  //
Philosophies are aired, // temple columns spaced, // lightning rods ea
// that somewhere herein lies some deep
philosophy ?  // Voices, ipods, phones speak out— // add to the road’s c
Mingoose; Mabe Burnthouse // footpaths;
phone boxes; inns // One to twenty five thousand:  The Broads // Westwi
ough still, warm air.  // Voices, ipods,
phones speak out— // add to the road’s cacophony.  // Through air and e
some deep philosophy?  // Voices, ipods,
phones speak out— // add to the road’s cacophony.  // Voices coming fro
people mutter, shout, // voices, ipods,
phones speak out.  // So many people talking: can we doubt // that som
ssex and Kent, // Emily Thornberry’s //
photo gives Labour a // cardiovascular // seismic event.  //
e music for the ceremony // —a Schubert
piano piece.) // Standing around the Cambridge crematorium, // dressed
was still managed by Jim Ede (he would
pick up a Brancusi stone head, or a small cut brass piece by Gaudier-B
the contract // pulling up the weeds //
picking up the pieces // wrapping up the meeting // shutting up shop /
lish, // jars for all sorts of jams and
pickles .  Washers // and nuts and bolts and screws and hooks // were s
hips the spume // into irregular clots,
picks them up, // and strews them downwind.  // The cliff // is of cour
wards // some distant point outside the
picture frame.  // What does she see?  Is there something there?  // Som
s, clouts // masonry nails, screw-eyes,
picture hooks // wallplugs, rivets, self-tapping metal screws, // rubb
I can’t quite recall.  Nor can I now //
picture it clearly.  So why does it come to my mind?  // A couple of re
// for tomorrow’s blackberry-and-apple
pie // —the ones you ate straight off the bush are saved forever).  //
ancusi stone head, or a small cut brass
piece by Gaudier-Brzeska, and put it into our hands).  She introduced
legs had rotted half away.  // But a new
piece of four by two turned it into // a perfect workbench—the cuts an
he bit in the middle is // as long as a
piece of string.  //
c for the ceremony // —a Schubert piano
piece .) // Standing around the Cambridge crematorium, // dressed for t
from finished or abandoned projects, //
pieces half-constructed or half-deconstructed, // for some architectur
tability except our own.  // But Henri’s
pieces rattle too and shake // our sense of part and whole, netsuke-li
pulling up the weeds // picking up the
pieces // wrapping up the meeting // shutting up shop //
lpting the vortex // Jacob’s Rock Drill
pierces through the brain // and splits apart Edwardian disdain.  // Ma
ity // to an iron-gated pointed arch //
piercing the wall, built like the house // of weathered Cotswold stone
unterpoint— // frescos are fragile, but
Piero’s perspective will // live on long after his colours have gone;
luna // brassica, hay, pelt, dove tale,
pigeon // mouse’s back, mole’s or elephant’s breath // peignoir, charl
ed // distract me, or Suliman, from his
pilaf .  // But stay me not with raisins nor // with flagons, for I am w
ke, // or more appropriately, Suliman’s
pilaf .  // But stay me not with them, nor comfort me // with apples, fo
comfort me not // with apples, nor with
pilaf .  I can't speak // for Suliman, but I am well of love.  //
rting // as any fruit, though Suliman’s
pilaf // is real comfort food.  But comfort me not // with apples, nor
re drawers and cupboards.  // Chair with
pile of clothes.  // Feel something…  // Shit!  The wrong trousers!  // “
vering the remainder of the bench // is
piled uncontained and unconstrained.  // Unused parts from finished or
ramparts: giant concrete blocks // on
piles all along the shingle beach.  // The mile south to the Martello t
sea is also digging down // beneath the
piles .  Then one stormy night // it pulls the final prop.  A hundred y
back of your hand as you reach past to
pilfer // the clusters beyond, adding scratches // to the stains alrea
/ swollen with spring melt.  But an old
pine forest // always provides a bridge.  The trunks // of fallen tree
nted forest, serried ranks of Christmas
pine // which begins a mile down the road // and into whose dense inte
ehind us, in the wood, // tall straight
pines reach for the sky, // dark trunks against the blue, // shed long
bird sings // growing bright // gadget
pings // go away // sleep clings // break of day // brighter now // he
, // one final push up the ridge to the
pinnacle .  // Now to descend, an alternative route which is // known as
t up—as in // facing down the crisis //
pinning down the problem // throwing down the gauntlet // battening do
elled the front— // Nails: tacks, panel
pins , ovals and round; // Screws: small, size 6, size 8, large.  // Bes
ed, arsenic // railings, pointing, down
pipe , clunch, setting plaster // string, cord, matchstick, tallow, var
’t be silly, that’s just the plumbing—a
pipe heating up.  // That breath of air?  A passing presence?  // Don’t
ux on Rioja; Ormeaux on Lagoon // taps;
pipes // One to one // You are here //
es // Cut a kiwi // equatorially: // no
pips , no stone.  // Avocado: // pole-to-pole // all around the stone //
squeeze the juice // leave the pith and
pips .  // Papaya, melon: // pole-to-pole // scoop out the mushy core.  /
/ Of unbounded domesticity. // (not the
Pirates of Penzance – apologies to WSG) //
pread by rats and fleas // but by their
piss and snot and sweat and spittle.  // Oh, people spread!  Quick, guy
ominant sound // is continuous and high-
pitched .  The borders we cross are eastward: // under the channel and
ially // squeeze the juice // leave the
pith and pips.  // Papaya, melon: // pole-to-pole // scoop out the mush
call.  // No matter!  Now, in a stranger
place , a colder clime, // with no arms, one leg, no tail, but raised h
entle // way to wander into // a better
place , a future that // revives, replenishes, makes good // the damage
ell, now, // which failing faculties to
place // at its door.  Rage too against // the cessation of treatment—
not so far behind.  // Old age ain’t no
place for sissies.  // —Bette Davis //
e // Raisins are all very well in their
place // —in muesli, say, or maybe Christmas cake, // or more appropri
nged that she should go // And take her
place in service to // The Lady of Shalott.  // Working all day at her
// and conjure me to quite a different
place .  // Jump willing into every word-filled well, // fall, fall into
Aye, cops lap // a clay pope’s // soapy
place .  // So apply, ace: // scope a play // apocalypse.  //
case // plea as copy.  // Ape calypso //
place , so pay // a cosy Apple // app, coy sale.  // Aye, cops lap // a
Soft digits hold softly, lift softly //
place softly against another softness // and soft voice says // I can
flated bulb to hold // the other two in
place .  // Subjective // Discomfort.  Bother.  // Irritation.  Nuisance.
Using your Kettle //
Place the cordless base on a level firm surface. // Where e
s properly firmly closed. //
Place the kettle on the cordless base making sure it is positioned cor
y and long ago, // once upon a time and
place , // the world just so, // a pretty maiden, heart aglow // will s
David’s thick black hair, // staying in
place until at home // the small gas fire has warmed the room // again
anything they might be in.  // Turn the
place upside down.  // Bedroom again, more drawers and cupboards.  // Ch
sandy beach // to reach by boat.  That
place we call Japan: // against the sky, a line of those same firs //
Plague // In some far-off
place we know but little // across so many alien lands and seas // som
many artists.  As I have visited other
places , I have found other treasures, and regret not having had the ch
shelves, cupboards, hooks, drawers.  //
Places I wouldn’t have put them.  // Move anything they might be behind
n // Hear the marsh-birds calling // in
places it has lost, reoccupation // Breath the scents the sea-winds br
// Many art galleries in many
places .  Three solid days in the Uffizi in Florence.  Walking in the d
just in time // to keep the carriers of
plague at bay.  // Yet someone here is staggering and stumbling— // how
Plague // In some far-off place we know but little // across so many a
overflow // the river Don and flood the
plain .  // The light is fading now.  // Politicians on the stump // make
—could I but find the words to make it
plain .  // Two book-ends bracket our shared domain: // the start, the l
?—check first // Cash m/c // Washing //
Plan finances—get advisor?  G’s contact maybe // Ring M about Xmas // R
ng fields // One to five hundred:  Block
plan // Sherlock Road; Sherlock Court; Sherlock Close // houses; yards
// Heatherwick’s sure to produce a fine
plan .  // We also need money—of course private finance will // jump to
e’d like to understand // the stars and
planets overhead // as well as actions close at hand // (the apple sai
// tree-house, a canted deck of ancient
planks , // nailed across two angled branches, reached // by clambering
ll.  // (Two weeks later, British Rail’s
plans // were scrapped and redesigned.  The house still stands.) //
th London cemetery.  // Perhaps I should
plant // some box or holly.  //
lit the fire // on the dark stones, and
planted fireworks // in the dark edges beyond the flickering light.  //
wild, tufted crown—quite unlike // the
planted forest, serried ranks of Christmas pine // which begins a mile
laid // —Nurturing the wayward seed, //
Planting out this cabbage-bed— // She was once a lady’s maid // In gra
—a handful of trees, bulbs // and other
plants .  // On one // a stately ram, great curved horns // stands tense
sex is—to mix the genes around.  // The
plants , the fish, the dinosaurs, the apes // advance across the genera
// Judith, artist, // models in clay or
plaster , // casts in plaster or cement or resin, // draws in pencil or
models in clay or plaster, // casts in
plaster or cement or resin, // draws in pencil or pen or charcoal, //
s, pointing, down pipe, clunch, setting
plaster // string, cord, matchstick, tallow, vardo // cromarty, ringwo
containers // once had other uses.  The
plastic boxes // were made for slides or toothpowder, tins // for coco
stands another of much later age: // a
plastic chest with small, clear plastic drawers // —unlabelled, but th
e: // a plastic chest with small, clear
plastic drawers // —unlabelled, but the nuts and bolts and washers //
They should have given me a
plastic plate // More!  I want some more!  // A spoon to the floor— //
/ Yellow neon light // spilling through
plate -glass windows // across the pavement.  // A bartender bent to wor
f granule.  // The first boilers of iron
plate glue east // Grow face fa-cai thick soup.  // XO sauce explodes t
They should have given me a plastic
plate // More!  I want some more!  // A spoon to the floor— // clatter!
ter!  // I said more!  More!  More!  // A
plate to the floor— // shatter!  //
avy goods train rattles the windows and
plates // on the shelves.  Later, the local rumour states // that the
apy place.  // So apply, ace: // scope a
play // apocalypse.  //
oice.  You’ll find // that every single
play is here // a new production for this year // of celebration—every
ean.  // In the beginning I am small and
playful , like the wind.  // It changes direction from minute to minute;
ter, I limp into harbour.  My // family
playing , completely oblivious.  //
r Room; Café Bar // courts; staircases;
playing fields // One to five hundred:  Block plan // Sherlock Road; Sh
ap, // O palace spy.  // Lay pop case //
plea as copy.  // Ape calypso // place, so pay // a cosy Apple // app,
Septilla CD* //
Please choose from the following nine // options: if you want the tem
// options: if you want the tempest //
please press one; for love’s labour’s lost // press two; or three for
// and could the last person to alight
please switch off the lights.  // This departure has arrived.  // The lo
end…  // This train terminates here.  //
Please take all your belongings with you, // and could the last person
ing process was not at all fair.  // The
pledges from business are far from what’s needed.  The // real public
hen, of course, the bracken // has been
ploughed , the edges fenced, the house // demolished and rebuilt.  The
d // now on the bridge I am pulling the
plug .”  //
is positioned correctly. //
Plug in and switch on at the wall socket. // Put the ON / O
/ Wi-fi café.  Send a letter.  // Laptop,
plug in power socket.  // Click to send.  // I love you.  //
battery box, switches, lights, buzzers,
plugs // and connecting leads.  Another pair // of brackets, this time
whitewash.  // We wire from scratch, //
plumb , strip everything: // wallpaper from walls, // distemper from ce
oom?  // Don’t be silly, that’s just the
plumbing —a pipe heating up.  // That breath of air?  A passing presence
light // ammonite, mahogany, archive //
plummett // Note:  Fifty colours of Farrow & Ball //
// of fishermen and trading sailors //
ply back and forth overhead.  Was I carried for trade?  // Or in paymen
wer // into four or more sections, with
plywood strips // carefully cut and glued.  And labelled the front— //
nt // Pocket.  // No.  No?  No.  // Other
pocket ?  // No.  // Jacket, maybe?  // No.  // But which jacket yesterday?
Another senior moment //
Pocket .  // No.  No?  No.  // Other pocket?  // No.  // Jacket, maybe?  //
t there?  // It was in the corresponding
pocket of the trousers which he had worn on the day but one preceding.
uarter length, or maybe short, // patch
pockets (useless for cold hands), // thick felted wool, a monk-like ho
d // tried to write // tried to write a
poem //
This
poem eludes me // No time // for flow // or rhyme, // no.  // Words go
A
poem for free // The night mail rattles north to the border // (bringi
ntist appointment—week of 10th // Write
poem for Weds //
giant musical box.  // There once was a
poet in Ghent // Who set out with the best of intent // In rollicking
ihews // Five politicians… // … and one
poet // Margaret Thatcher // observed that her natu- // ral son and he
ly eccentric twentieth-century American
poet , // Mr Ogden Nash, and carry on without much attention to metre,
ream, we know, goes on for ever, his //
poetry too to posterity speaks; // Joyce has his Liffey whose recircul
o ’im.  // Thomas Stearns Eliot // wrote
poetry well, but // was no great shakes // in the marriage stakes.  //
ill both inspire and destroy // so many
poets and other artists // which will drag us // kicking and screaming
train // will emerge from the vanishing
point .  //
still, warm air, // clear to my vantage
point on higher ground.  // Voices far across the valley sound.  // The
ht, over grass, towards // some distant
point outside the picture frame.  // What does she see?  Is there somet
wn to full maturity // to an iron-gated
pointed arch // piercing the wall, built like the house // of weathere
see its secret: // the apple is a five-
pointed fruit.  //
n clay, blackened, arsenic // railings,
pointing , down pipe, clunch, setting plaster // string, cord, matchsti
.  // He is a leader of Flemish weavers,
pointing the rest // towards their major source of trade:  // England. 
tersect or fork.  Some of these meeting-
points // are signposted with names and distances // that only roughly
Capricorn suite // In other news //
Polarity // Battle lines // The goat // Catheter // The other side //
pips, no stone.  // Avocado: // pole-to-
pole // all around the stone // twist to separate.  // Orange, lemon, l
lice alongside // almost pole to almost
pole // close as you can.  // Apple, pear: // pole-to-pole // in half t
as you can.  // Apple, pear: // pole-to-
pole // in half then quarters // cut the core from each.  // But no, fo
two and a half inches in diameter (the
pole // itself and four-inch rings surely to be found // elsewhere in
oop lazily along and then // greet each
pole like a jumping jack.  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-clack. 
and pips.  // Papaya, melon: // pole-to-
pole // scoop out the mushy core.  // Mango: // find the flat sides of
the stone // slice alongside // almost
pole to almost pole // close as you can.  // Apple, pear: // pole-to-po
y: // no pips, no stone.  // Avocado:  //
pole -to-pole // all around the stone // twist to separate.  // Orange,
// close as you can.  // Apple, pear:  //
pole -to-pole // in half then quarters // cut the core from each.  // Bu
the pith and pips.  // Papaya, melon:  //
pole -to-pole // scoop out the mushy core.  // Mango: // find the flat s
rackets, this time for a wooden curtain
pole , // two and a half inches in diameter (the pole // itself and fou
l house the other side of Sheffield.  //
Polish husband transforms into // Yorkshire male, expecting // tea on
/ for cocoa or throat lozenges or metal
polish , // jars for all sorts of jams and pickles.  Washers // and nut
illed.  // Later, one of the lodgers— //
Polish serviceman and refugee— // is worth another try.  A son.  // Cou
nter-attack?  // Perhaps if we asked him
politely // he’d remorsefully put them all back.  // Six of our cushion
Clerihews // Five
politicians … // … and one poet // Margaret Thatcher // observed that h
e plain.  // The light is fading now.  //
Politicians on the stump // make promises-to-go // inspired by our loc
Rationale // That scratching?  A
poltergeist behind the skirting?  // Don’t be silly, that’s just a bran
no perfectability except our own.  // In
Pompidou relief is on the wall, // wrestling figures, clinched before
s tumbling under the sky.  // Sea-birds,
pond -birds, dippers, warblers, song-birds, // waders, hunters hovering
, // a swan-song, left behind for us to
ponder , // in any season.  //
ubled waters // The good Lady Lumley is
pondering glumly.  “I // need a new project to keep me in trim— // now
ce) // —but Sadiq the Most Evil deposes
poor Boris, and // gets the Red Margaret to look at the case.  // “It’s
// My sign is Aries.  Though it seems a
poor // fit for me, it is at least a Fire.  // The others too I love—Ea
/ Lose pay cap, // O palace spy.  // Lay
pop case // plea as copy.  // Ape calypso // place, so pay // a cosy Ap
p, coy sale.  // Aye, cops lap // a clay
pope’s // soapy place.  // So apply, ace: // scope a play // apocalypse
rise and fall // and rise again.  Great
populations press // against their boundaries.  The vital stress // exp
illboards high displayed, // each model
posed in languid attitude, // in birthday suit and little else arrayed
One to ten million:  Middle East // Bam
Posht ; Badiyat ash Sham; Bisharin // railways; borders; deserts // One
Put the ON / OFF switch to its ‘ON’
position and the switch will illuminate. // When the water
ally by putting the switch to the ‘OFF’
position . // To re-boil the kettle, switch it on again.  If
on the cordless base making sure it is
positioned correctly. // Plug in and switch on at the wall
notes, interpret what they find.  // The
possibility of peace is now long gone.  // In just a few days’ time, th
o cunning for that.  // There’s only one
possible answer: // this cat-burglar’s Buster the cat.  //
ether some real delta integration // is
possible at all.  I have to try.  //
firm surface. // Where ever
possible fill the kettle through the spout as this will help to reduce
knives.  // Clearance time.  What can I
possibly salvage // from all this?  //
version of Rodin’s Balzac, and called “
Post -Balzac”.  It is a full-length bronze cape, upright and rounded as
last post has been sounded.  // The last
post has been collected.  // The last word has been had.  // Nothing rem
his is the end of the line.  // The last
post has been sounded.  // The last post has been collected.  // The las
Scented paper, dip-pen, ink.  // Branch
post office, penny stamp.  // I love you.  // Papered bedsit.  Send a let
/ the sign on the wall, the sign on the
post , // the white-painted sign spreadeagled on the road.  // What do t
Post truth // ‘Oh Mirror that hangs on the wall // who is the fairest
border // (bringing the cheque and the
postal order).  // Rhythmic verses with echoed refrain // in the rhythm
goes on for ever, his // poetry too to
posterity speaks; // Joyce has his Liffey whose recirculation keeps //
oast // warm as toast // flames gone //
potatoes roast // embers warm // flames gone // last glow // embers wa
rn // warm as toast // smoulder down //
potatoes roast // warm as toast // flames gone // potatoes roast // em
times // when the imagination fires.  //
Pots are thrown and fired, // crops are watered.  // Seasons and years
ll // mollycoddle for one day // put in
pouch // ready to go // // // Recipe for starting a sourdough starte
rdough starters, carefully protected in
pouches around their necks or attached to their belts.  //
he wood // Way-hay, blow us away // And
pour a bucket on my head // Give me some wind to blow us away // Perha
andle: // heat till it catches fire, //
pour out the blue flame.  // After lunch, a walk // through the summer’
the kettle has boiled the water may be
poured out through the spout. //
Push forward.  // Build speed.  // Build
power .  // Forge ahead.  // Spread.  // Reach.  // Slacken.  // Settle.  //
// Drop back.  // Build speed.  // Build
power .  // Pull in.  // Merge.  // Retract.  // Slacken.  // Settle.  // Pau
café.  Send a letter.  // Laptop, plug in
power socket.  // Click to send.  // I love you.  //
/ dated 1933 // the year Hitler came to
power ).  // Then we get on with our lives: // the repainting can wait. 
Unnatural disasters // Pribble and
prabble : as // Nigel’s marauding and // taking two toeholds in // Esse
y // spring from the hands of the great
Praxiteles ?  // I cannot now recall.  // No matter!  Now, in a stranger
streets— // and who were my companions,
pray ?  // Old friends, new friends did I meet?  // I cannot say.  // And
stewed overnight // in the oven of the
pre -war Aga, they will emerge // a startling deep red, and taste delic
rs which he had worn on the day but one
preceding .”  // —James Joyce, Ulysses.  //
e bush.  Take care not to spill // your
precious hoard (I mean the ones you will deliver // for tomorrow’s bla
// Skirting the back of the Little Man
precipice , // one final push up the ridge to the pinnacle.  // Now to d
mong the undergrowth.  // Look closely: 
precise angular spirals // strung around precise radial anchor lines. 
recise angular spirals // strung around
precise radial anchor lines.  // Across the channel, tidal creeks // me
Do a boiler burn the duck head.  // The
prefecture of river drives meal chicken, // Olive dish dried meat flos
here are no seats; she is 4 or 5 months
pregnant at the time.  A tiny middle-aged New York woman, sitting on a
g up.  // That breath of air?  A passing
presence ?  // Don’t be silly, that’s just a draught from the door.  // T
day // Another day // to feel your ever-
present absence, still // to find a way.  // I hear you say, // “But li
chops // Veg—broccoli?  // Some fruit //
Present for C—book?  // Coat to cleaners // Pay newsagent // Bulbs for
replenishes, makes good // the damaged
present , this dark night?  // Not to return to old // ways—that age //
ll // and rise again.  Great populations
press // against their boundaries.  The vital stress // expresses chang
ons: if you want the tempest // please
press one; for love’s labour’s lost // press two; or three for cymbel
press one; for love’s labour’s lost //
press two; or three for cymbelline; // the merry wives of windsor, fou
:  Cambridge // Petty Cury; Park Parade;
Pretoria Road // streets; alleys; cycle paths // One to two thousand: 
omb and a glass in her hand.  // See the
pretty girl in that mirror there— // Who can that attactive girl be?  /
one bell.) // we there did espy a fair
pretty maid // with a comb and a glass in her hand.  // See the pretty
e and place, // the world just so, // a
pretty maiden, heart aglow // will sit and spin, so full of grace, //
d to be bolted // down to the floor, to
prevent it going walkabout, // a perambulation whenever it got to the
hirty three, the newsprint said.  // The
previous occupant, known as Mister Gray, // (easier than his proper na
alt-marsh // where barn-owls hunt their
prey .  But not for long // —impermanence’s permanence the rule.  // Cha
Unnatural disasters //
Pribble and prabble: as // Nigel’s marauding and // taking two toehold
ning—for G) // From random junctures in
primeval winds // a billion random patterns form—until // an accidenta
the project proceeds with a little more
priming (the // buy-in from business is not keeping pace) // —but Sadi
rs the heath.  // On magic carpet // the
Prince of Crim Tartary // flies into the night.  // The paraffin stove
// far away and long ago.  // A handsome
prince will boldly go // and dangers great will bravely face, // the w
marvellous, // resonates on though the
print becomes faint; // just as each new generation soon finds itself
ube.  // Subjective // An invasion of my
privacy .  // An assault on my dignity.  // An abrogation of my autonomy.
e plan.  // We also need money—of course
private finance will // jump to join in, but needs time to come throug
want // to tell?  // This painting has a
private life.  //
case we were driving too fast.  // I was
probably driving too fast // to see the flowers in the hedgerows.  // W
growing at the tail end of my colon:  //
probably malignant.  // ‘Malignant’ seems too strong a word.  // I’m sur
y likely to send out a search party?  //
Probably not until well after dark has come.  // Should I start crawlin
treasure, long beaks buried full // to
probe deep down beneath the shining mud.  //
Twice daily // Start.  // Tiptoe.  //
Probe .  // Grow.  // Push forward.  // Build speed.  // Build power.  // Fo
dshank, // godwit, curlew—long // beaks
probing deep // beneath the // shining // mud.  // Cold and clear.  The
ear.  This formulation // both lays the
problem out and then reveals // the parts of a solution.  // All we nee
ing down the crisis // pinning down the
problem // throwing down the gauntlet // battening down the hatches //
o throw in some too.”  // So the project
proceeds with a little more priming (the // buy-in from business is no
a drain on our taxes.  The // tendering
process was not at all fair.  // The pledges from business are far from
ted my ego—the // Heatherwick’s sure to
produce a fine plan.  // We also need money—of course private finance w
wed and dug and then set fire to // the
produce of our labours.  // A box or holly root, smouldering slowly, //
s my mother’s next big venture after //
producing six of us.  // L-shaped the house; enclosed within its arms /
that every single play is here // a new
production for this year // of celebration—every line // the Bard crea
called Michael Finnegan— // thought his
profile needed broadening // thought he’d flaunt a bushy grin—but // t
h horizon // container ships in stately
progress pass // destined for Harwich or for Felixstowe.  //
ere.”  // Sadiq says “The Boris’s vanity
project has // gone off the rails.  I’m not such a mug.  // I’ve cancel
hancel to throw in some too.”  // So the
project proceeds with a little more priming (the // buy-in from busine
is pondering glumly.  “I // need a new
project to keep me in trim— // now the Gurkhas are happy—some shiny er
Unused parts from finished or abandoned
projects , // pieces half-constructed or half-deconstructed, // for som
ng with // all the other long-abandoned
projects .) // This one started with an almighty bang // —thought it wa
ridge // are still at college // Sergei
Prokofiev and Carl Orf // still at school // Aaron Copland and Kurt We
ow.  // Politicians on the stump // make
promises -to-go // inspired by our local Trump.  // The light is failing
bench seat, observes the situation, and
promptly , busily, without rising from her seat, makes everyone shuffle
k you for calling Shakespeareline.  // *
pronounced ’four hundred’ //
one stormy night // it pulls the final
prop .  A hundred yards // of man’s best effort at defence // drops thi
// That book will set you puzzles which
propel // your thoughts, destroy or reconstruct a case: // jump willin
ater, when my mother died // we had the
proper formal funeral.  // (She had chosen the music for the ceremony /
own as Mister Gray, // (easier than his
proper name of Gouriet) // had come as a child sixty-odd years before
hesised.  Some of them do not even have
proper names.  // The eighth layer has not been started yet, so the onl
the Klondike in 1896, in order to make
proper San Francisco bread, prospectors would carry with them their so
Always make sure that the lid is
properly firmly closed. // Place the kettle on the cordless
der to make proper San Francisco bread,
prospectors would carry with them their sourdough starters, carefully
hem their sourdough starters, carefully
protected in pouches around their necks or attached to their belts.  //
/ redrawn).  // The line of pebble-dunes
protects // a calmer green oasis, band of salt-marsh // where barn-owl
down the street.  // We joined the local
protest , but to small // effect.  At last we felt we had to call // a
my // shin on a knife-edge of rock that
protrudes from the // edge of the path, not yet blunted or bowdlerized
ove the weedy hedgerows, by // The once-
proud towers of Camelot.  // Few people walk the brambled way // And fe
// utterly.  And I have the scars // to
prove it.  // Blitz.  The heavy bombers, lighter now, // are droning ba
melt.  But an old pine forest // always
provides a bridge.  The trunks // of fallen trees, fresh from the wint
re far from what’s needed.  The // real
public benefit’s not even there.”  // Sadiq says “The Boris’s vanity pr
ack.  // Build speed.  // Build power.  //
Pull in.  // Merge.  // Retract.  // Slacken.  // Settle.  // Pause.  // Rep
I just emerged?  // Did I jump, or was I
pulled or pushed?  // Did I leap a chasm, ford a raging torrent, // get
I pay for—and // now on the bridge I am
pulling the plug.”  //
the tank // tearing up the contract //
pulling up the weeds // picking up the pieces // wrapping up the meeti
the piles.  Then one stormy night // it
pulls the final prop.  A hundred yards // of man’s best effort at defe
shell // whose music makes your languid
pulses race: // fall, fall into the writer’s well-cast spell.  // That
tory cistern, wonderfully // ornate.  A
pump and valves from a washing machine.  // An electric fan.  The dial
ement, but got // only a fib on a cheap
pun // [One iamb, two anapest] feet // [make up an eight-syllable] bea
bvious culprit here, // except for age,
pure and simple.  No rage— // just a sort of passive acceptance.  // Se
te lab, of course // has a source // of
pure water: a still.  // Garden shed // with a still?  Local // excise
nging sea // blue sea // silver lake //
purple moor // green forest // clear stream // grey mountain // jagged
/ By Derby town they settled down // on
purple sage to lie.  // A Cheshire cat accosted them, // then walked hi
// for some architectural or mechanical
purpose // now half-forgotten.  Electrical components.  // A pair of ca
t knowing what it is, // we take on the
purpose of the wind; // we march in formation.  // The wind feeds us, m
shelves no longer // serving any useful
purpose .  // The clutter covering the remainder of the bench // is pile
lder ones.  // The wind grows steady and
purposeful .  // We form into rows and columns across the deep.  // Witho
Start.  // Tiptoe.  // Probe.  // Grow.  //
Push forward.  // Build speed.  // Build power.  // Forge ahead.  // Sprea
// tendrils into the dark and damp.  Now
push out above, // buds into the waxing light, the spring rain.  Throw
Epicycle // Wake.  // Feel the water. 
Push out below, // tendrils into the dark and damp.  Now push out above
the Little Man precipice, // one final
push up the ridge to the pinnacle.  // Now to descend, an alternative r
rged?  // Did I jump, or was I pulled or
pushed ?  // Did I leap a chasm, ford a raging torrent, // get rolled ov
is angry, howling and shrieking.  // It
pushes us harder, // makes us grow broader and taller, // sweeps spray
Pushing 60 // My sixtieth birthday is nearing— // brings a thought tha
sh-birds calling // against the current
pushing strongly townward.  // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring //
ground-swell gently break and sift, //
pushing the shingle back and forth and to and fro, // in a flat calm a
g quite clear that the hour // for soft
pussy -footing is past.  // It can’t be a student or fellow— // the thie
mix well // mollycoddle for one day //
put in pouch // ready to go // // // Recipe for starting a sourdough
he miles remaining, or // should I stay
put in the hope of a rescuer?  // Slowly I realise the pain is subsidin
cut brass piece by Gaudier-Brzeska, and
put it into our hands).  She introduced me to so many artists.  As I h
w the rain!  // He swallowed the rain to
put out the fire.  // You’d think he’d expire from swallowing fire.  //
ch on at the wall socket. //
Put the ON / OFF switch to its ‘ON’ position and the switch will illum
asked him politely // he’d remorsefully
put them all back.  // Six of our cushions are missing.  // The culprit
oks, drawers.  // Places I wouldn’t have
put them.  // Move anything they might be behind or under.  // Look insi
ut now no more— // your gentle snore //
puts all the ghosts to flight.  //
kettle can be switched off manually by
putting the switch to the ‘OFF’ position. // To re-boil the
ot as in // screwing up your courage //
putting up resistance // throwing up earthworks // zipping up your jac
l-cast spell.  // That book will set you
puzzles which propel // your thoughts, destroy or reconstruct a case: 
y understand why people have // funeral
pyres .) Later we scatter the ashes // in a wild part of the old South