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.

T

// with apples, nor with pilaf.  I can'
t speak // for Suliman, but I am well of love.  //
yesterday?  Ah, that one.  // But no.  //
Table by door?  // No.  // Kitchen?  // No.  No.  No.  // Dining table?  //
// it is to turn back and traverse the
table from the bottom to the top // so that the same period games // a
limpse inside.  A woman leans // upon a
table in the window, looks // out into sunlight, over grass, towards /
mists need many more.  // The top of the
table is sparse, but every second period or layer, // like the bard fr
// Kitchen?  // No.  No.  No.  // Dining
table ?  // No.  // Beside easy chair?  // No.  // On television?  // No.  //
sion?  // No.  // Desk?  // No.  // Bedside
table ?  // No.  // Kitchen again?  // No.  No.  No.  No.  // Dammit, used
Yorkshire male, expecting // tea on the
table when he returns from work // in a Sheffield steel mill.  // Daugh
in, from the beginning, by the door.  //
Tables , shelves, cupboards, hooks, drawers.  // Places I wouldn’t have
ng garden.  Send a letter.  // Fresh clay
tablet , stylus, scribe.  // Entrust to messenger.  // I love you.  // Flo
tions.  // Now Brin and Page build index
tabulations // of all the words their spiders’ crawls can find.  // — /
ued.  And labelled the front— // Nails: 
tacks , panel pins, ovals and round; // Screws: small, size 6, size 8,
nd hissing // at our approach.  We turn
tail and flee // as fast as breath allows us, not to feel safe // unti
der clime, // with no arms, one leg, no
tail , but raised high, // and head thrown back, I can dance.  //
arn // that something is growing at the
tail end of my colon: // probably malignant.  // ‘Malignant’ seems too
ns will catch // at your sleeve, at the
tails of your coat, // and sometimes at the bare flesh of // the back
ugh, they seem // to switch a gear, and
take a lurch // at some acute, unmeasured angle.  // Last September, me
/ This train terminates here.  // Please
take all your belongings with you, // and could the last person to ali
And yet you stay // inside my head, and
take away my will // to find a way.  // The final fray // remains in me
connoitre // another part of the bush. 
Take care not to spill // your precious hoard (I mean the ones you wil
ing bright // throw on timber // sparks
take flight // glowing embers // throw on timber // let it burn // glo
growing bright // flames leap // sparks
take flight // growing bright // throw on timber // sparks take flight
was arranged that she should go // And
take her place in service to // The Lady of Shalott.  // Working all da
had to leave the fire for a while // to
take him to the house.  // I always regretted, felt cheated by // that
p.  // Without knowing what it is, // we
take on the purpose of the wind; // we march in formation.  // The wind
-edge against // the deep blue sky.  We
take our boots off, // dip our feet into water clear and achingly cold
-and-chip shop.  // A young rambler, you
take part // in the mass trespass on Kinderscout.  // Meet a dashing yo
wager // that he could without worry //
take the hottest Currie.  // Gordon Brown // replaced his frown // with
Wells in winter // We
take the path beside the wood—the fir // and silver birch along the du
e around, in the digital era // we will
take the turn on the zero, not the one // making the twentieth century
l tales of distant countries tell // or
take you on a voyage through deepest space: // fall, fall into the wri
er’s well-cast spell.  // That book will
take you o’er a stormy fell // with her who to her lover’s side makes
e // time for all the timeless moments,
taken // out of time.  // Afternoon in winter, on the ramparts // looki
with a still?  Local // excise officer
takes to // dropping by unannounced.  // Catch them at it – // there mu
nting their instantiations, // ranking,
taking logs and drawing lines.  // Chomsky looked for deeper motivation
prabble: as // Nigel’s marauding and //
taking two toeholds in // Essex and Kent, // Emily Thornberry’s // pho
n, calluna // brassica, hay, pelt, dove
tale , pigeon // mouse’s back, mole’s or elephant’s breath // peignoir,
Interval // There is a forty-one year
tale to tell // —could I but find the words to make it plain.  // Two b
ery word-filled well.  // That book will
tales of distant countries tell // or take you on a voyage through dee
ese, // talking they walked and walking
talked — // but never once of cheese.  //
e read the flower-borne messages // and
talked to relatives not seen for years.  // It had to be, but it was no
ds, phones speak out.  // So many people
talking : can we doubt // that somewhere herein lies some deep philoso
, // and such great themes as these, //
talking they walked and walking talked— // but never once of cheese.  /
more meetings with old friends // more
talks , more silences // more sleeps, more sleepless nights, more dream
across // the Suffolk countryside, each
tall bare trunk // gnarled and twisted by the wind, supports // a wild
behind the trees beyond the meadow, //
tall grasses glowing in the morning sun // below and to the right.  An
ere bare.  // Behind us, in the wood, //
tall straight pines reach for the sky, // dark trunks against the blue
us harder, // makes us grow broader and
taller , // sweeps spray from our tops, // drives us ever onward.  // Wh
ng plaster // string, cord, matchstick,
tallow , vardo // cromarty, ringwold or savage ground // smoked trout,
trace them in reverse, // each our own
tangled thread, // would we have found some common course, // or bend
ing up your shoelaces // topping up the
tank // tearing up the contract // pulling up the weeds // picking up
Sunburn // Sonnet //
Tanka // Bend the light // just so // above, below, // left and right.
stic and velcro.  // Below, a nozzle and
tap .  // Above, a tube, a valve, a smaller tube.  // Subjective // An in
iquid flows.  // Subjective/objective //
Tap left open.  // Oh bugger!  // What was it, then, from which I just e
s, self-tapping metal screws, // rubber
tap washers and fibre sealing rings.  // The jars hang from their lids,
icture hooks // wallplugs, rivets, self-
tapping metal screws, // rubber tap washers and fibre sealing rings.  /
gas lighting from the thirties; // two
taps ; one loo // in a lean-to out the back.  // On the cornices // a hu
Ormeaux on Rioja; Ormeaux on Lagoon //
taps ; pipes // One to one // You are here //
e five-bar gate, the muddy track on the
tarmac road.  // The walled paddock and the orchard, // the apple on th
// a gentler walk, to bare bleak Malham
Tarn .  // Then back to skirt the edge of Malham Cove, // with fields be
, rivers, narrow channels, torrents, //
tarns , and streams slow-flowing, under the sky.  // Trees and bushes, s
ing reception stews bean bubble, // The
taro rolls up an incense.  // The impregnable fortress makes fish cake.
ct, // forever simultaneously sweet and
tart , // sharp on my mind’s tongue.  Why is it that // this latter-day
/ On magic carpet // the Prince of Crim
Tartary // flies into the night.  // The paraffin stove // casts patter
en disappoints?  // Did I just dream the
taste ?  // But no.  Once in a while // a perfect burst still catches at
ill emerge // a startling deep red, and
taste delicious.) // Another tree, perhaps a beech, but green // (I th
h no result.  // Fragile crab of incense
taste mushroom // Do the black boiler hair belly.  // The day boiler du
// life after death would not be to my
taste ; // rather, look forward to final oblivion— // when the time com
// a perfect burst still catches at my
tastebuds // and drags me back again.  //
/ Camera in bag for Mon // Did I submit
tax form??  // Check L’s dob—70 next b/day?  // Dentist appointment—week
carried for trade?  // Or in payment of
taxes ?  Or was I a trophy of war?  // I cannot now recall.  // On the la
// “It’s been a fiasco, a drain on our
taxes .  The // tendering process was not at all fair.  // The pledges f
e to come through.  // I’ll give it some
taxpayer funding, and get old saint // George of the Chancel to throw
ms into // Yorkshire male, expecting //
tea on the table when he returns from work // in a Sheffield steel mil
d steel mill.  // Daughter moves away to
teach , and then // to marry me.  Son develops // schizophrenia.  // Aft
gument // shutting down the computer //
tearing down the barriers // cutting down the roses // floating down t
our shoelaces // topping up the tank //
tearing up the contract // pulling up the weeds // picking up the piec
dimming now.  // Further north the rain
teems down // enough to overflow // the river Don and flood the plain.
memory // (nineteen-sixty-one or so—my
teens —already // between the end of the Chatterley ban // and the Beat
but maybe also wailing and gnashing our
teeth // into the maelstrom, the fire and brimstone // that will be th
bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  //
Telephone wires through the pane // loop lazily along and then // gree
No.  // Beside easy chair?  // No.  // On
television ?  // No.  // Desk?  // No.  // Bedside table?  // No.  // Kitchen
al // There is a forty-one year tale to
tell // —could I but find the words to make it plain.  // Two book-ends
Story // —
Tell me.  // —I am conceived by the wind, the wild wind // and borne on
does it all begin?  // From a spring.  //
Tell me, if you will, how it goes.  // It flows.  // To find its end, wh
be blamed // for many things.  Hard to
tell , now, // which failing faculties to place // at its door.  Rage t
at book will tales of distant countries
tell // or take you on a voyage through deepest space: // fall, fall i
cus of her gaze: does he not want // to
tell ?  // This painting has a private life.  //
h counterpoints behind us: // time will
tell .  // Those are not the moments to remember: // they can be consign
owing nine // options: if you want the
tempest // please press one; for love’s labour’s lost // press two; o
nd timed.  // Philosophies are aired, //
temple columns spaced, // lightning rods earthed.  // On the dark side
on a hidden hollow which // will make a
temporary home, until // the next adventure.  // (One time, though, the
g rain.  Throw open // the fire-coloured
temptations , welcome in // the roaming bees.  // Feel the fire.  Spread
rakoram Ra // countries; seas // One to
ten million:  Middle East // Bam Posht; Badiyat ash Sham; Bisharin //
t // rough moor // million-year moor //
ten -million-year mountain // hundred-year forest // hundred-million-ye
so what would he have made // in twenty-
ten , of all the flesh reviewed // in magazines, on billboards high dis
arrelling onwards, to wipe us out in //
ten or a thousand or maybe a million years, // it seems to be acting /
fences; marshes; footbridges // One to
ten thousand:  Cambridge // Petty Cury; Park Parade; Pretoria Road // s
or almost all—are duds.  Nevertheless //
ten thousand different species rise and fall // and rise again.  Great
r forest // hundred-million-year sea //
ten -thousand-year lake // thousand-year stream // narrow stream // ope
shed // walls; doors; drains // One to
ten :  Tiles // Ormeaux on Bastille; Ormeaux on Rioja; Ormeaux on Lagoon
o’? no, hardly thus.  // Some miles are
ten , while others swiftly pass.  //
ht would cross my five- // or eight- or
ten -year-old imagination.  // It stands within a grove of trees, a very
t stop // to disentangle a particularly
tenacious tendril // before you can back out to reconnoitre // another
// along the byways, thoughts tragic or
tender — // of love unfinished or of peaceful earth, // the mill-girl’s
two beds of clean-raked earth // Where
tender shoots may venture forth // On weed-o’er-run Shalott?  // She wh
a fiasco, a drain on our taxes.  The //
tendering process was not at all fair.  // The pledges from business ar
hiver // On the island in the river, //
Tending her cabbage patch forever, // The hermit of Shalott.  //
to disentangle a particularly tenacious
tendril // before you can back out to reconnoitre // another part of t
// under the door, // sending delicate
tendrils far, // invading the inky darkness, keeping // at bay the fri
.  // Feel the water.  Push out below, //
tendrils into the dark and damp.  Now push out above, // buds into the
Ever //
Tennison’s stream, we know, goes on for ever, his // poetry too to pos
ately ram, great curved horns // stands
tense , alert and staring.  A few // feet away, a sheep, cowering // —a
eate the air.  // Someone snoring in the
tent next door, // a motorcycle coursing up the lane.  // Night-time no
.  Just maybe I can // circle round the
tentacles of zeta // by striking gamma from consideration // and makin
ually // the Sheffield ties become more
tenuous , // legs weaken, and isolation palls.  // One more great change
In my end…  // This train
terminates here.  // Please take all your belongings with you, // and c
outh London, 1969.  // A small Victorian
terrace house // stuccoed and flat-fronted.  // No electricity— // gas
windows that // adorn most later London
terraced fronts.  // One of a block of four, it had been once— // but t
// long enough for any line.  // With a
terse verse form, you see, // I can get along just fine.  // But seven
They peer, they scan, they scrape, they
test , they sound; // they write their notes, interpret what they find.
t—check time // Tickets to Glasgow 6th-7
th // Camera in bag for Mon // Did I submit tax form??  // Check L’s do
night—check time // Tickets to Glasgow 6
th -7th // Camera in bag for Mon // Did I submit tax form??  // Check L’
b/day?  // Dentist appointment—week of 10
th // Write poem for Weds //
to shore.  // Of bridges traversing the
Thames here in London, we’ve // just thirty three—surely room for one
ge // by the best actors of the age.  //
Thank you for calling Shakespeareline. // * pronounced ’four hundred’
iticians… // … and one poet // Margaret
Thatcher // observed that her natu- // ral son and heir // was Tony Bl
hips and sealing wax, // and such great
themes as these, // talking they walked and walking talked— // but nev
A short treatise on string
theory // The beginning is the end and // the end is the beginning and
, I think.  // I think that I’m glad // (
therefore I am that).  I’m glad.  // I’m glad that I think // (therefor
I’m glad.  // I’m glad that I think // (
therefore I’m glad that I am).  // That’s what I think.  //
ind to blow us away // Perhaps tomorrow
there’ll be wind // Way-hay, blow us away // And we can some direction
ices coming from the room next door:  //
thesis and antithesis, debate // about it and about, and evermore // v
ices coming from the room next door:  //
Thesis and Antithesis debate.  // His voice is lively, gestures wide— /
mber.  // Time?  // No!  // No time // for
thesis // or antithesis.  // Have to cut straight to synthesis.  // Trie
ms against the wire brush // of David’s
thick black hair, // staying in place until at home // the small gas f
ch pockets (useless for cold hands), //
thick felted wool, a monk-like hood— // and with (the most important t
ron plate glue east // Grow face fa-cai
thick soup.  // XO sauce explodes to grow the fragile bone.  // The peas
It can’t be a student or fellow— // the
thief’s much too cunning for that.  // There’s only one possible answer
ive // An exobladder.  // Strapped to my
thigh // with elastic and velcro.  // Below, a nozzle and tap.  // Above
k trunks against the blue, // shed long
thin needles.  // In the distance, // gnarled broadleaf trees with twis
n zen.  // Gloves are a many-splendoured
thing .  Gloves make the world go round, and all’s fair in gloves and w
e hood— // and with (the most important
thing ) // those wooden toggles, loops of string.  // I must confess to
r has not been started yet, so the only
thing to do about // it is to turn back and traverse the table from th
e to burn the string.  // What a strange
thing , to swallow some string!  // He swallowed the string to catch the
y, the cancer can be blamed // for many
things .  Hard to tell, now, // which failing faculties to place // at
rds, I can see // mistily, the shape of
things : // the steps which, added up, construct // my life.  // Most of
e I’m glad that I am).  // That’s what I
think .  //
hday suit and little else arrayed?  // I
think he’d add a note to his remark— // in truth, how cheesy is the so
the rain to put out the fire.  // You’d
think he’d expire from swallowing fire.  // He swallowed the fire to bu
Gladknots // I think.  // I’m glad, I
think .  // I think that I’m glad // (therefore I am that).  I’m glad.  /
Gladknots // I
think .  // I’m glad, I think.  // I think that I’m glad // (therefore I
not broken, and after a while I can //
think of resuming my journey unaided—I // just have to check on my map
tree, perhaps a beech, but green // (I
think that I can see the nuts it sheds) // on the grove’s outer edge,
// I think.  // I’m glad, I think.  // I
think that I’m glad // (therefore I am that).  I’m glad.  // I’m glad t
aids singing, each to each.  // I do not
think that they will sing to me.  // Mirror mirror on the wall // who i
Themselves // Stupidity, I
think the gods themselves // will find in all the books that line the
am that).  I’m glad.  // I’m glad that I
think // (therefore I’m glad that I am).  // That’s what I think.  //
step, // your foot upon the crust, you
think // ‘This time, it will hold my weight.’  // But every step it dro
to sleep // tried to speak // tried to
think // tried to understand // tried to write // tried to write a poe
ou are here // In the beginning was the
third .  // (The first two were duds; the bits // are somewhere back the
// for this we have to wait // another
thirteen and a half years.  //
o electricity— // gas lighting from the
thirties ; // two taps; one loo // in a lean-to out the back.  // On the
f man’s best effort at defence // drops
thirty feet into a hole.  // One cold winter’s afternoon // we walk to
arp // the shape of the world // One to
thirty million:  Eurasia // Kuril’skiye Ostrova; Kirgiz Step; Karakora
he Thames here in London, we’ve // just
thirty three—surely room for one more.  // Now it happens my old friend
hall floor had been laid // in nineteen
thirty three, the newsprint said.  // The previous occupant, known as M
lled garden, left untended // for maybe
thirty years.  A winding path // leads from the glazed back door // th
the resolution lies // in their cups. 
Thomas certainly did his level best // to drink himself to death.  But
encomium // came to be known to ’im.  //
Thomas Stearns Eliot // wrote poetry well, but // was no great shakes
toeholds in // Essex and Kent, // Emily
Thornberry’s // photo gives Labour a // cardiovascular // seismic even
ots, // strong curves lined with jagged
thorns , // seeking new ground to conquer.  // Spiders’ webs among the u
with the bracken.  // No fruit here—the
thorns will catch // at your sleeve, at the tails of your coat, // and
Fire // My sign is Aries. 
Though it seems a poor // fit for me, it is at least a Fire.  // The ot
nd the Beatles’ first LP; // strangely,
though , not sex but fire).  // See this: // the large, dilapidated coun
perhaps be comforting // as any fruit,
though Suliman’s pilaf // is real comfort food.  But comfort me not //
ound, and all’s fair in gloves and war,
though the course of true gloves never did run smooth.  No glove lost.
il // the next adventure.  // (One time,
though , the hollow holds // a real live snake, standing up and hissing
just bloody marvellous, // resonates on
though the print becomes faint; // just as each new generation soon fi
ined bed next door.  // Responses muted,
though the sense is raw, // to questions orderly, while exuding care. 
me vague direction.  // Once in a while,
though , they seem // to switch a gear, and take a lurch // at some acu
only roughly match the map.  At others,
though , // we have to guess.  // The woods are full of streams, // swol
vigation was always a difficult art, //
Though with only one ship and one bell.) // we there did espy a fair p
hought his profile needed broadening //
thought he’d flaunt a bushy grin—but // the wind came up and blew it i
an old man called Michael Finnegan— //
thought his profile needed broadening // thought he’d flaunt a bushy g
s one started with an almighty bang // —
thought it was going to be a disaster // but then it began rolling out
control nor understand.  // Yet here’s a
thought .  Just maybe I can // circle round the tentacles of zeta // by
caused Eve to know // more than Jehovah
thought she should— // but keeping us in darkness so // cannot be good
xtieth birthday is nearing— // brings a
thought that is far from cheering: // that while the past // will last
A once in a century storm, // that was
thought to be.  // So perhaps they will // outlive us.  //
e the house itself // as ugly.  No such
thought would cross my five- // or eight- or ten-year-old imagination.
ll set you puzzles which propel // your
thoughts , destroy or reconstruct a case: // jump willing into every wo
ng man will wander // along the byways,
thoughts tragic or tender— // of love unfinished or of peaceful earth,
ces; marshes; footbridges // One to ten
thousand :  Cambridge // Petty Cury; Park Parade; Pretoria Road // stree
lmost all—are duds.  Nevertheless // ten
thousand different species rise and fall // and rise again.  Great popu
and // One to three hundred and sixteen
thousand eight hundred:  Scotland // Dufftown; Deeside; Dumfries // ro
ordered chaos with a raucous song:  // A
thousand geese are flying into night.  //
eets; alleys; cycle paths // One to two
thousand :  Jesus College // The Chimney; Cranmer Room; Café Bar // cour
ne to one million two hundred and fifty
thousand :  Low Countries // Gelderland; Glabbeek; Gramsbergen // conur
onwards, to wipe us out in // ten or a
thousand or maybe a million years, // it seems to be acting // not in
phone boxes; inns // One to twenty five
thousand :  The Broads // Westwick; Woodbastwick; Winterton // fences; m
/ roads; villages // One to sixty three
thousand three hundred and sixty:  Truro and Falmouth // Mevagissey; Mi
rest // hundred-million-year sea // ten-
thousand -year lake // thousand-year stream // narrow stream // open mo
n-year sea // ten-thousand-year lake //
thousand -year stream // narrow stream // open moor // deep lake // hig
earnt and gave and lost, // we let each
thread unroll behind, // laying down the past— // until the day, just
hem in reverse, // each our own tangled
thread , // would we have found some common course, // or bend or hitch
Two
threads // In far-off times, my best-beloved, // when we were young an
ain.  // Beards are great when gales are
threatening // keep drafts out and comfort in—but // there was an old
glimpsed, make my muse suggest // just
three alliterative lines—at best // a semi-stanza—and then to cease? 
// Selec- // tions will do // for five,
three and two.  // But for the two ones I must cheat.  // Rage, // rage
Fibonacci series // Elemental fib…  // … 
three fibs about fibs… // … a swindle… // … a steal… // … and one true
ce, time, love?  // One, // one, // two,
three , // five, eight.  But // “Fibonacci”’s four— // not a Fibonacci
r love’s labour’s lost // press two; or
three for cymbelline; // the merry wives of windsor, four; // five oth
a lull— // But he was dead: // had died
three hours after his arrival, // was buried in an unmarked grave.  //
// Haven’t passed walkers for more than
three hours now.  // When are they likely to send out a search party?  /
level measured // a century ago and //
three hundred and forty miles // to the south-west: // marked by a bol
// conurbations; drained land // One to
three hundred and sixteen thousand eight hundred:  Scotland // Dufftow
villages // One to sixty three thousand
three hundred and sixty:  Truro and Falmouth // Mevagissey; Mingoose; M
// Hills?  Well, dunes // maybe two or
three metres above // mean sea level.  // And where’s that, when it’s a
it was not the memory we needed.  // So
three months later, we met again // on a Suffolk shingle beach.  // In
g— // I hope we don’t lose any more.  //
Three of our cushions are missing.  // I don’t know quite what to say. 
/ chrome coffee machines.  // At the bar
three people sit // all six eyes lowered // in silent contemplation.  /
ets // Shapeless, navy blue or fawn, //
three -quarter length, or maybe short, // patch pockets (useless for co
His senseless trenches death at twenty
three // reminds us of so much we’ll never see.  // Life and death are
// How many miles to Barnard Castle?  //
Three score, out/return // Can I go there, with my eyesight?  // Yes, w
Many art galleries in many places. 
Three solid days in the Uffizi in Florence.  Walking in the drizzle th
es here in London, we’ve // just thirty
three —surely room for one more.  // Now it happens my old friend is cro
oor had been laid // in nineteen thirty
three , the newsprint said.  // The previous occupant, known as Mister G
ly ritual.  // After the floods of fifty-
three // they raised the ramparts: giant concrete blocks // on piles
ries // roads; villages // One to sixty
three thousand three hundred and sixty:  Truro and Falmouth // Mevagiss
I feel the heat upon my face.  // Twenty
three years later, when my mother died // we had the proper formal fun
es or toothpowder, tins // for cocoa or
throat lozenges or metal polish, // jars for all sorts of jams and pic
Dark shapes are calling each to each: a
throng // moves north against the fading evening light.  // Slanting li
mix well // mollycoddle for one day //
throw half away // more flour, water, mix well // mollycoddle for one
mix well // mollycoddle for one day //
throw half away // more flour, water, mix well // mollycoddle for one
mix well // mollycoddle for one day //
throw half away // more flour, water, mix well // mollycoddle for one
t old saint // George of the Chancel to
throw in some too.”  // So the project proceeds with a little more prim
sparks take flight // glowing embers //
throw on timber // let it burn // glowing embers // smoulder down // l
sparks take flight // growing bright //
throw on timber // sparks take flight // glowing embers // throw on ti
into the waxing light, the spring rain. 
Throw open // the fire-coloured temptations, welcome in // the roaming
reds and golds replace the greens.  Now
throw the canopy too // to the winds, let it whirl away // into the en
e crisis // pinning down the problem //
throwing down the gauntlet // battening down the hatches // closing do
our courage // putting up resistance //
throwing up earthworks // zipping up your jacket // tying up your shoe
when the imagination fires.  // Pots are
thrown and fired, // crops are watered.  // Seasons and years are count
, no tail, but raised high, // and head
thrown back, I can dance.  //
h to make you jump, or far away, // the
thud as one more apple hits the muddy grass.  // Winds bowling through
ings.  // Whipped wide awake by what the
thunder said // flashes silhouette the trees against the blind.  // A s
wind.  // Whipped wide awake by what the
thunder said, // flashes silhouette the trees against the blind.  // Ni
abed, // whipped wide awake by what the
thunder said.  // Rain rattles on the rooftiles overhead // and beats a
all hour // December sounds // What the
thunder said // Under canvas // In hospital // Voices far across the v
wind: we care not a tittle.  // Many die—
thus limiting their needs.  // This time, the bug’s not spread by rats
h.) // ‘Every mile is two’? no, hardly
thus .  // Some miles are ten, while others swiftly pass.  //
Ring Tony D about works in basement //
Tickets for Once Sat night—check time // Tickets to Glasgow 6th-7th //
ickets for Once Sat night—check time //
Tickets to Glasgow 6th-7th // Camera in bag for Mon // Did I submit ta
e good for finger-fiddling // stroking,
tickling , searching in—but // there was an old man called Michael Finn
al anchor lines.  // Across the channel,
tidal creeks // meandering through the marsh // carve out sections of
h the scents the sea-winds bring // The
tide begins its steady, slow accretion // Hear the marsh-birds calling
d quiet evening stillness // on evening
tide .  // Decisions and revisions and reversions, // reversings and rev
Tide // each new beginning // reiterates a pattern // as old as the hi
he gauntlet of the winter storm.  // The
tide is high, and every wave tries hard // to breach the wall.  And wh
sand and shingle, perhaps // (when the
tide is high enough) // as far the cliff.  The wind // whips the spume
Tidesong // The
tide is out, the creek a gentle trickle // Hear the marsh-birds callin
w sandy beach past which // the falling
tide reveals the deep black mud // which oozes softly up between our t
shining // mud.  // Cold and clear.  The
tide runs out, the creek // is draining back again towards the sea.  //
onnet // Sonnet // Cold and clear.  The
tide runs out, the creek // is draining back towards the sea.  // Along
it’s at home?  // It’s a level that the
tide rushes past // on its way up and again // on its way down.  // It’
?  // The glistening mud left by the ebb-
tide .  // The moored boat listing on the mudflat.  // The salt-marsh, th
he shore.  // Around the river mouth the
tides run strong.  // Channels and banks of shingle shift and melt, //
Tidesong // The tide is out, the creek a gentle trickle // Hear the ma
outlived?  Eventually // the Sheffield
ties become more tenuous, // legs weaken, and isolation palls.  // One
// walls; doors; drains // One to ten: 
Tiles // Ormeaux on Bastille; Ormeaux on Rioja; Ormeaux on Lagoon // t
and penny.  // Brandy, a candle: // heat
till it catches fire, // pour out the blue flame.  // After lunch, a wa
ule: we should not // begin unwrapping
till it’s // light enough to see.  // Below the bulges, // not yet deci
lel lines // As you stare down the line
till you squint // with the cold seeping into each joint, // it must b
ke flight // glowing embers // throw on
timber // let it burn // glowing embers // smoulder down // let it bur
ke flight // growing bright // throw on
timber // sparks take flight // glowing embers // throw on timber // l
ened.  This is now, here, // real human
time .  //
d everlasting moments, // there will be
time .  //
s; she is 4 or 5 months pregnant at the
time .  A tiny middle-aged New York woman, sitting on a bench seat, obs
l the timeless moments, taken // out of
time .  // Afternoon in winter, on the ramparts // looking seaward, sun
alls back under my feet.  // No time, no
time .  // Already I am toppling over him // crashing, splitting, breaki
dots; but watch and do not blink.  // In
time , an instant dash: // a shooting star.  // To the sharp senses, nat
ned // long long ago, that icon of // a
time and maybe social group // —and then, when that one died, one more
/ Far away and long ago, // once upon a
time and place, // the world just so, // a pretty maiden, heart aglow
t on cue, Queen Victoria dies.  // (Next
time around, in the digital era // we will take the turn on the zero,
forward to final oblivion— // when the
time comes, I might add, not just yet.  //
t its own // finite but unbounded space-
time continuum // —cool!  // There are some lovely spirals down there n
raging fire // of the sun marks passing
time .  // Far down below, the earth // is mostly water.  // From across
own month of May // she says “Now’s the
time —fix the day.  // You dance to my tune, // I’ll lead.”  But come Ju
ads.  Another pair // of brackets, this
time for a wooden curtain pole, // two and a half inches in diameter (
er: // they can be consigned to passing
time .  // For all the real and everlasting moments, // there will be ti
ere will be time, there will be time //
time for all the timeless moments, taken // out of time.  // Afternoon
This poem eludes me // No
time // for flow // or rhyme, // no.  // Words go // from mind // like
Fibonacci number.  // Time?  // No!  // No
time // for thesis // or antithesis.  // Have to cut straight to synthe
that was the last syllabub of recorded
time .  // From the bottom of the barrel // the sound of scraping has ce
ildings, human artifacts.  // Geological
time // is foreshortened.  This is now, here, // real human time.  //
train is carrying nuclear waste; at the
time // it is just the timing that disturbs.  The line // mostly carri
foot upon the crust, you think // ‘This
time , it will hold my weight.’  // But every step it drops you down //
years, // another crematorium.  // This
time Judith has chosen the music, // a Beethoven string quartet.  // Af
the air.  // Our space is the earth, //
time lives in fire, // leaving us the water and the air.  //
a few more.  // How about adding space,
time , love?  // One, // one, // two, three, // five, eight.  But // “Fi
”’s four— // not a Fibonacci number.  //
Time ?  // No!  // No time // for thesis // or antithesis.  // Have to cut
nes, // falls back under my feet.  // No
time , no time.  // Already I am toppling over him // crashing, splittin
l, a leaping fish, a fox afar— // night-
time noises permeate the air.  // Someone snoring in the tent next door
e the trees against the blind.  // Night-
time noises permeate the air // with voices human, animal, machine.  //
torcycle coursing up the lane.  // Night-
time noises permeate the air // with voices human, animal, machine.  //
er, // the cool night air // slows down
time .  // Now is the time // to lie on the earth, // smell the air, //
earn before a book.  // Don’t waste your
time on wild boar’s head.  // If Aristotle makes you choke // eat me in
what the season of the year.  // At any
time or season of the year // we listen to Schubert’s Trout Quintet.  /
// an open sore, renew our sense of //
time , rebuild the day.  //
d we did not meet // before the alotted
time : // that we could reach this perfect knot // and find ourselves a
die—thus limiting their needs.  // This
time , the bug’s not spread by rats and fleas // but by their piss and
r and together, // Indeed there will be
time , there will be time // time for all the timeless moments, taken /
s now long gone.  // In just a few days’
time , these two will meet // and clash — and I’m to be the battle grou
e, until // the next adventure.  // (One
time , though, the hollow holds // a real live snake, standing up and h
ent // Tickets for Once Sat night—check
time // Tickets to Glasgow 6th-7th // Camera in bag for Mon // Did I s
ndeed there will be time, there will be
time // time for all the timeless moments, taken // out of time.  // Af
ance will // jump to join in, but needs
time to come through.  // I’ll give it some taxpayer funding, and get o
space.  // We have the space // and the
time // to cross the waters, // explore the earth, // and send signal
// building the clumsy barriers just in
time // to keep the carriers of plague at bay.  // Yet someone here is
t air // slows down time.  // Now is the
time // to lie on the earth, // smell the air, // feel the warmth of t
now // here to stay // morning glow //
time to rise // feeling slow // rub eyes // yawn and stretch // blue s
rations of kitchen knives.  // Clearance
time .  What can I possibly salvage // from all this?  //
leave such counterpoints behind us:  //
time will tell.  // Those are not the moments to remember: // they can
d.  // Seasons and years are counted and
timed .  // Philosophies are aired, // temple columns spaced, // lightni
there will be time // time for all the
timeless moments, taken // out of time.  // Afternoon in winter, on the
Two threads // In far-off
times , my best-beloved, // when we were young and all, // the woven pa
forests and in open spaces // there are
times // when the imagination fires.  // Pots are thrown and fired, //
this now, who dares me eat a peach?  //
Time’s warring chariots can clatter by— // we have the earth, the wate
ar waste; at the time // it is just the
timing that disturbs.  The line // mostly carries suburban trains; mor
danger // a wolf crouches // his senses
tingling , too.  // Around them, the flowers bloom and wither // and blo
d to // the shelf above.  The boxes and
tins are stacked // in increasing disorder along the back // of the be
// were made for slides or toothpowder,
tins // for cocoa or throat lozenges or metal polish, // jars for all
rew // of categories in boxes, jars and
tins : // the larger bolts and nuts and washers, // flooring nails, sta
Carapace //
Tiny hardness on tiny softness.  // Softness crawls over sand and rock
bers warm // fading now // last glow //
tiny light // fading now // dark night //
onfire // Dark night // strike match //
tiny light // twigs catch // strike match // flame unfurls // twigs ca
4 or 5 months pregnant at the time.  A
tiny middle-aged New York woman, sitting on a bench seat, observes the
s just a draught from the door.  // That
tiny movement in the corner?  The hem of an emerging apparition?  // Do
Carapace // Tiny hardness on
tiny softness.  // Softness crawls over sand and rock // in filtered bl
p an eight-syllable] beat.  // Selec- //
tions will do // for five, three and two.  // But for the two ones I mu
Twice daily // Start.  //
Tiptoe .  // Probe.  // Grow.  // Push forward.  // Build speed.  // Build p
cken.  // Settle.  // Pause.  // Start.  //
Tiptoe .  // Retrace.  // Shrink.  // Drop back.  // Build speed.  // Build
stle // as well for wind: we care not a
tittle .  // Many die—thus limiting their needs.  // This time, the bug’s
ulder down // potatoes roast // warm as
toast // flames gone // potatoes roast // embers warm // flames gone /
smoulder down // let it burn // warm as
toast // smoulder down // potatoes roast // warm as toast // flames go
sary skill // to find a way.  // And now
today // is ending.  I suppose tomorrow’s still // another day // to f
Covehithe, Suffolk // South wind
today .  So the breakers // come at an angle, sweep // along the beach.
// Nigel’s marauding and // taking two
toeholds in // Essex and Kent, // Emily Thornberry’s // photo gives La
ud // which oozes softly up between our
toes .  Across the river // lies the lagoon, a field flooded and then l
or shells // that would be sharp if our
toes were bare.  // Behind us, in the wood, // tall straight pines reac
Recorded syllables //
Together and together and together, // Indeed there will be time, ther
Recorded syllables // Together and
together and together, // Indeed there will be time, there will be tim
syllables // Together and together and
together , // Indeed there will be time, there will be time // time for
e most important thing) // those wooden
toggles , loops of string.  // I must confess to having owned // long lo
a hedge, backwards?  // Yesterday I was
told : it looks clear.  // So life should now appear // as it did a mon
Tomorrow // The day after tomorrow // tomorrow // will be yesterday.  /
me some wind to blow us away // Perhaps
tomorrow there’ll be wind // Way-hay, blow us away // And we can some
Tomorrow // The day after
tomorrow // tomorrow // will be yesterday.  //
Tomorrow // The day after tomorrow //
tomorrow // will be yesterday.  //
I mean the ones you will deliver // for
tomorrow’s blackberry-and-apple pie // —the ones you ate straight off
And now today // is ending.  I suppose
tomorrow’s still // another day // to find a way.  //
full round-Britain trip.  // I’ll need a
ton of words to fill each line from side to side, // verbosely quite e
y sweet and tart, // sharp on my mind’s
tongue .  Why is it that // this latter-day fruit so often disappoints?
ded smile // that was off by a mile.  //
Tony Blair // floated on air // when Maggie’s encomium // came to be k
at her natu- // ral son and heir // was
Tony Blair.  // Nigel Farrage // has a mouth like a garage— // he opens
tact maybe // Ring M about Xmas // Ring
Tony D about works in basement // Tickets for Once Sat night—check tim
e lollipop and the squeezed out tube of
toothpaste // that the saxophonist left behind.  // This is the heat-de
lastic boxes // were made for slides or
toothpowder , tins // for cocoa or throat lozenges or metal polish, //
// Triolets // On Rushup Edge // On the
top deck of a 68 // Dialectic // In the lecture room // Small hour //
ne, a group of people in evening dress,
top hats and the like, appropriate to some earlier era of the house’s
but the chemists need many more.  // The
top of the table is sparse, but every second period or layer, // like
rack // behind the wall, level with the
top , // running the gauntlet of the winter storm.  // The tide is high,
averse the table from the bottom to the
top // so that the same period games // allow the lines to peter out /
/ the air is warm enough to melt // the
topmost layer.  The frost returns // to make a crust.  The next two mo
ur jacket // tying up your shoelaces //
topping up the tank // tearing up the contract // pulling up the weeds
t.  // No time, no time.  // Already I am
toppling over him // crashing, splitting, breaking.  // I am lost.  The
er and taller, // sweeps spray from our
tops , // drives us ever onward.  // Where are we going, so fierce and s
s you down // into soft snow, up to the
tops // of your gumboots.  The mile or two // to the village shop to s
hang on by my fingernails // while the
tornado raged around me?  // Or was it just a hedge, backwards?  // Yest
d?  // Did I leap a chasm, ford a raging
torrent , // get rolled over by an avalanche, // fall through a wormhol
ky.  // Oceans, rivers, narrow channels,
torrents , // tarns, and streams slow-flowing, under the sky.  // Trees
a rhythmic staccato juddering // with a
touch of syncopation.  //
the generations.  Each // sentient being
touches and reshapes // the world around her, far as she can reach.  //
eptance.  // Set against this, a certain
toughness , // hidden, but evident in the number, // best expressed Rom
transfixed as a horned goat // charges
towards me // from beyond the pale, under my guard, // below the belt
cross a mountain range?  // Did I march
towards my fate, // or did I merely hang on by my fingernails // while
looks // out into sunlight, over grass,
towards // some distant point outside the picture frame.  // What does
// their lighter backs, a few edging //
towards the brown.  // Autumn fruit is growing fat, // trees bending, b
racken spreads across a gentle slope //
towards the river.  A line of ancient oaks // (one blasted trunk is ho
/ to defend against the next attack.  //
Towards the river is a group of firs // —the kind you sometimes see in
runs out, the creek // is draining back
towards the sea.  // Along the margins waders // scutter, scavenge—reds
ut, the creek // is draining back again
towards the sea.  // Along the muddy margins, in the lee // of the sea-
Artevelde makes an expansive gesture //
towards the setting sun.  // Go west, young man?  No, this is about //
mbers, lighter now, // are droning back
towards their bases, // and fighters too.  The siren call // is in rev
f Flemish weavers, pointing the rest //
towards their major source of trade:  // England.  // Back the way we ca
each.  // The mile south to the Martello
tower , // we walk along the banked-up track // behind the wall, level
was once a lady’s maid // In gracious,
towered Camelot.  // Then, as winds of fortune blow, // It was arranged
e weedy hedgerows, by // The once-proud
towers of Camelot.  // Few people walk the brambled way // And fewer st
r’s afternoon // we walk to the edge of
town and on // the mile across the river meadows // to Grantchester. 
first world war) // in Sheffield, steel
town .  // Mother once ran a fish-and-chip shop.  // A young rambler, you
the marsh-birds calling // to face the
town , runs headlong for the bar, // Breath the scents the sea-winds br
// red was the evening sky.  // By Derby
town they settled down // on purple sage to lie.  // A Cheshire cat acc
// against the current pushing strongly
townward .  // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // In the saltmarsh
means of reactors or colliders or other
toys //
ney // From Ilkley’s old stone bridge I
trace a path // against the stream, back up the river Wharfe, // to Bo
ere, beneath the bridge.  // If we could
trace them in reverse, // each our own tangled thread, // would we hav
re young and all, // the woven patterns
traced and covered // the world with skeins of wool.  // And as we live
o tower, // we walk along the banked-up
track // behind the wall, level with the top, // running the gauntlet
// a low embankment carries the railway
track .  // (Down the slope to the end of the street and right, // the l
e corn.  // The five-bar gate, the muddy
track on the tarmac road.  // The walled paddock and the orchard, // th
noisy roar, // coaches follow along the
track : // the bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // At night, the gl
und-blast— // another train on the next
track .  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // Country station:
e rest // towards their major source of
trade :  // England.  // Back the way we came.  // All verse is born free.
and forth overhead.  Was I carried for
trade ?  // Or in payment of taxes?  Or was I a trophy of war?  // I cann
ons and generations // of fishermen and
trading sailors // ply back and forth overhead.  Was I carried for tra
// more books, more coffee cups // more
tragedies , comedies, histories // more shapes, more colours, more dark
ll wander // along the byways, thoughts
tragic or tender— // of love unfinished or of peaceful earth, // the m
Emerald Lake // The winding
trails // through forests waking to the spring // intersect or fork. 
in the rhythmic clattering noise of the
train .  // Childhood journeys by rail come back // to my memory, patter
er, the local rumour states // that the
train is carrying nuclear waste; at the time // it is just the timing
clamber down.  // The whistle blows, the
train moves on, // the guard’s van trundles at the back.  // The bogeys
ump at a sudden sound-blast— // another
train on the next track.  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  /
) Sometimes at night, // a heavy goods
train rattles the windows and plates // on the shelves.  Later, the lo
In my end…  // This
train terminates here.  // Please take all your belongings with you, //
little dull.  // From Brussels by local
train to Ghent: canals and cobbled streets // and beer and chocolate s
ick-clack click-clack.  // On holiday by
train !  Vast hall // of city station, noisy, full // of people rushing
/ it must be insane // to expect that a
train // will emerge from the vanishing point.  //
s.  The line // mostly carries suburban
trains ; more rarely, // carriages decked in the blue and gold livery /
of the fight will be my wound.  // I am
transfixed as a horned goat // charges towards me // from beyond the p
light.  Soak up the rays and the air.  //
Transform the coloured flower into coloured flesh // and hide a secret
er side of Sheffield.  // Polish husband
transforms into // Yorkshire male, expecting // tea on the table when
e light is going now.  // How will these
transient trials pass?  // It’s really hard to know.  // We have no crys
es, for I am well of love.  // The usual
translation is not raisins // but flagons.  Flagons might indeed // di
allow a net.  // He swallowed the net to
trap the hat.  // Restart for that.  //
and right.  // Focus in, // each ray //
trapped on its way // from the sun.  // Bright // spot // turn // white
eft and right, // focus in each ray.  //
Trapped on its way from the sun, // bright spot, turn white hot and bu
// find some way to move, to go, // to
travel in the mind, some gentle // way to wander into // a better plac
ragged, slanting lines of geese // more
travels , journeys, voyages, expeditions // more books, more coffee cup
g to do about // it is to turn back and
traverse the table from the bottom to the top // so that the same peri
ch is // known as the Allerdale Ramble,
traversing a // difficult scree but then joining an easier // path wit
n stretch shore to shore.  // Of bridges
traversing the Thames here in London, we’ve // just thirty three—surel
ur, fools rush in, where angels wear to
tread .  I’ll wear not what men say.  //
, godwits, curlews search // for hidden
treasure , long beaks buried full // to probe deep down beneath the shi
fickle memory— // elusive and illusive
treasure , she.  //
isited other places, I have found other
treasures , and regret not having had the chance to show some of them t
like lambs.  It is a memory that Judith
treasures for the rest of her life. //
ehind, for now, the wilder moor.  // The
treasures to be found along my path // are elemental: water, sky and e
A short
treatise on string theory // The beginning is the end and // the end i
.  Rage too against // the cessation of
treatment — // but that is a symptom, not a cause.  // A // The fall dre
grove’s outer edge, contains our own //
tree -house, a canted deck of ancient planks, // nailed across two angl
t be silly, that’s just a branch of the
tree outside, scraping the window.  // That waft of scent?  A malodouro
p red, and taste delicious.) // Another
tree , perhaps a beech, but green // (I think that I can see the nuts i
ck and the orchard, // the apple on the
tree , the windfall in the grass.  // What do they know, the rain and th
ination.  // It stands within a grove of
trees , a very few // of which I can discern, even perhaps // identify
thunder said // flashes silhouette the
trees against the blind.  // A storm is raging as I lie abed, // whippe
thunder said, // flashes silhouette the
trees against the blind.  // Night-time noises permeate the air // with
streams slow-flowing, under the sky.  //
Trees and bushes, shrubs and flowers, mosses, // ferns and grasses wav
own.  // Autumn fruit is growing fat, //
trees bending, boughs reaching // for the ground, creaking // under th
t wind // Autumn wind is bowling on, //
trees bending, dark green leaves showing // their lighter backs, a few
refully composed: // the sky behind the
trees beyond the meadow, // tall grasses glowing in the morning sun //
y herbage in city clag // —a handful of
trees , bulbs // and other plants.  // On one // a stately ram, great cu
ides a bridge.  The trunks // of fallen
trees , fresh from the winter’s storms // or long since stripped of bar
e muddy grass.  // Winds bowling through
trees // fruit-laden boughs bent to earth // apples in the grass //
ge clear across a great river, where //
trees , grass and flowers can stretch shore to shore.  // Of bridges tra
we sometimes venture.  // Beyond the fir-
trees lies // a bracken-covered heath.  The summer fronds // rise far
rity of light, the glowing // grass and
trees outside her window, warming // in the sun?  Or maybe nothing—may
ures wide.  // The sun and wind upon the
trees outside…  // I try to listen, but my musing strays.  // His voice
e house // demolished and rebuilt.  The
trees remain.  //
along the foreshore, // the remains of
trees // that once grew on the hill above, // and bits of buildings, h
/ In the distance, // gnarled broadleaf
trees with twisted limbs // shed leaves with perfect sculpted edges.  /
ive million:  Pacific Ocean // Marianas
Trench , Macquarie Ridge, Mendocino Seascarp // the shape of the world
bility except our own.  // His senseless
trenches death at twenty three // reminds us of so much we’ll never se
g rambler, you take part // in the mass
trespass on Kinderscout.  // Meet a dashing young fellow rambler.  // Ma
going now.  // How will these transient
trials pass?  // It’s really hard to know.  // We have no crystal ball,
/ curl around, leaving two small raised
triangles // of city herbage in city clag // —a handful of trees, bulb
ue love will germinate and grow, // all
tribulations to displace, // far away and long ago, // the world just
// The tide is out, the creek a gentle
trickle // Hear the marsh-birds calling // the drying sand with muddy
scents the sea-winds bring // becomes a
trickle .  On the soft, receding // Hear the marsh-birds calling // wat
h the scents the sea-winds bring // The
trickle slackens, changes in the harbour; // Hear the marsh-birds call
/ Have to cut straight to synthesis.  //
Tried // hard // to write // a fib on // achievement, but got // only
Ever tried //
tried to accept // tried to climb // tried to find // tried to forget
Ever tried // tried to accept //
tried to climb // tried to find // tried to forget // tried to hear //
// tried to accept // tried to climb //
tried to find // tried to forget // tried to hear // tried to ignore /
t // tried to climb // tried to find //
tried to forget // tried to hear // tried to ignore // tried to learn
// tried to find // tried to forget //
tried to hear // tried to ignore // tried to learn // tried to live //
// tried to forget // tried to hear //
tried to ignore // tried to learn // tried to live // tried to love //
// tried to hear // tried to ignore //
tried to learn // tried to live // tried to love // tried to make // t
// tried to ignore // tried to learn //
tried to live // tried to love // tried to make // tried to mend // tr
e // tried to learn // tried to live //
tried to love // tried to make // tried to mend // tried to reach // t
rn // tried to live // tried to love //
tried to make // tried to mend // tried to reach // tried to recall //
ve // tried to love // tried to make //
tried to mend // tried to reach // tried to recall // tried to see //
ve // tried to make // tried to mend //
tried to reach // tried to recall // tried to see // tried to sleep //
e // tried to mend // tried to reach //
tried to recall // tried to see // tried to sleep // tried to speak //
// tried to reach // tried to recall //
tried to see // tried to sleep // tried to speak // tried to think //
h // tried to recall // tried to see //
tried to sleep // tried to speak // tried to think // tried to underst
ll // tried to see // tried to sleep //
tried to speak // tried to think // tried to understand // tried to wr
// tried to sleep // tried to speak //
tried to think // tried to understand // tried to write // tried to wr
// tried to speak // tried to think //
tried to understand // tried to write // tried to write a poem //
ried to understand // tried to write //
tried to write a poem //
ried to think // tried to understand //
tried to write // tried to write a poem //
Ever
tried // tried to accept // tried to climb // tried to find // tried t
rm.  // The tide is high, and every wave
tries hard // to breach the wall.  And when it hits just right // the
A
trifle // (with double cream) // Dr Foster went to Gloucester // for a
and so ill.  // Seldom now the skylark’s
trill ; // No longer do the people fill // The wharfs and ways of Camel
“I // need a new project to keep me in
trim — // now the Gurkhas are happy—some shiny erection to // burnish m
Sounds //
Triolets // On Rushup Edge // On the top deck of a 68 // Dialectic //
t out on a voyage, a full round-Britain
trip .  // I’ll need a ton of words to fill each line from side to side,
// Or in payment of taxes?  Or was I a
trophy of war?  // I cannot now recall.  // On the lands bordering the M
Troubled waters // The good Lady Lumley is pondering glumly.  “I // ne
// Feel something…  // Shit!  The wrong
trousers !  // “Was it there?  // It was in the corresponding pocket of t
was in the corresponding pocket of the
trousers which he had worn on the day but one preceding.”  // —James Jo
of the year // we listen to Schubert’s
Trout Quintet.  // Listening to Schubert’s Trout Quintet // the slow mo
out Quintet.  // Listening to Schubert’s
Trout Quintet // the slow movement is of course the second.  // Of cour
’s beauty or the maiden’s death, // the
trout that dart and pause and flicker under // the bubbling brooks, th
ty, ringwold or savage ground // smoked
trout , wevet, bone, calamine // lichen, brinjal, radicchio, citron, ca
… a swindle… // … a steal… // … and one
true fib // Earth, // air, // fire, // and water.  // Need just a few m
in gloves and war, though the course of
true gloves never did run smooth.  No glove lost.  // We have nothing t
bravely face, // the world just so.  //
True love will germinate and grow, // all tribulations to displace, //
.  Yet it will // occasionally not breed
true .  Now strife: // the different dittoes must compete for life.  // A
promises-to-go // inspired by our local
Trump .  // The light is failing now.  // The surgeons trying to cut us o
ess grows too, // spirals round itself,
trumpet -like.  // Can this go on forever?  // Softness grows still, fade
the train moves on, // the guard’s van
trundles at the back.  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  //
the Suffolk countryside, each tall bare
trunk // gnarled and twisted by the wind, supports // a wild, tufted c
A line of ancient oaks // (one blasted
trunk is hollow through, and can be climbed // inside) mark out the sa
ed // by clambering the branches by the
trunk // or (better) by the real rope-ladder, which // we can then hau
raight pines reach for the sky, // dark
trunks against the blue, // shed long thin needles.  // In the distance
orest // always provides a bridge.  The
trunks // of fallen trees, fresh from the winter’s storms // or long s
three thousand three hundred and sixty: 
Truro and Falmouth // Mevagissey; Mingoose; Mabe Burnthouse // footpat
all: the journey is seamless // and, in
truth , a little dull.  // From Brussels by local train to Ghent: canals
nk he’d add a note to his remark— // in
truth , how cheesy is the sometime chalk.  //
Post
truth // ‘Oh Mirror that hangs on the wall // who is the fairest of al
what she was!) // I am not cruel, only
truthful — // The eye of the little god, four cornered.  // Something th
ation // is possible at all.  I have to
try .  //
iceman and refugee— // is worth another
try .  A son.  // Council house the other side of Sheffield.  // Polish h
n and wind upon the trees outside…  // I
try to listen, but my musing strays.  // His voice is lively, gestures
e light is failing now.  // The surgeons
trying to cut us off // from continental flow // seem more like butche
// Below, a nozzle and tap.  // Above, a
tube , a valve, a smaller tube.  // Subjective // An invasion of my priv
In my groin and in my mind’s eye:  // A
tube inside a tube inside a tube // —only the last lives there.  // An
nd in my mind’s eye:  // A tube inside a
tube inside a tube // —only the last lives there.  // An inflated bulb
nd of the lollipop and the squeezed out
tube of toothpaste // that the saxophonist left behind.  // This is the
s eye:  // A tube inside a tube inside a
tube // —only the last lives there.  // An inflated bulb to hold // the
p.  // Above, a tube, a valve, a smaller
tube .  // Subjective // An invasion of my privacy.  // An assault on my
wisted by the wind, supports // a wild,
tufted crown—quite unlike // the planted forest, serried ranks of Chri
e // resting lake // rustling forest //
tumbling mountain // running stream // rambling moor // changing sea /
, where must it flee?  // To the sea.  //
Tumbling through rocks with rainbow spray, // coursing the straits and
creeks and inlets, // rocky shorelines
tumbling under the sky.  // Sea-birds, pond-birds, dippers, warblers, s
he time—fix the day.  // You dance to my
tune , // I’ll lead.”  But come June // it turns out she has feet of cl
uld sink // a hole to build the Channel
Tunnel link.  // A monstrous hole, quite big enough to eat // the park
nuel de Falla and Igor Stravinsky.  // A
turn , a period of change?  // Well, yes.  In all the arts // currents c
/ of waves upon the sand.  Eastwards we
turn , // along the open beach, in rich sea air.  // Look up, look up, m
the only thing to do about // it is to
turn back and traverse the table from the bottom to the top // so that
-winds bring // makes another lingering
turn , begins // Hear the marsh-birds calling // retreating back the wa
hide a secret inside.  // Feel the air. 
Turn in the four winds.  Broadcast the secret // to earth, as far away
in the digital era // we will take the
turn on the zero, not the one // making the twentieth century only //
hurches, churches // and buildings that
turn out not to be churches.  // Wonderful mechanisms in the civic bell
up and hissing // at our approach.  We
turn tail and flee // as fast as breath allows us, not to feel safe //
, copulate and die.  // But for the real
turn , the cataclysm // which will both inspire and destroy // so many
go the whole hog, the full nine yards: 
turn the paper onto its side and write each line // in something appro
ok inside anything they might be in.  //
Turn the place upside down.  // Bedroom again, more drawers and cupboar
n its way from the sun, // bright spot,
turn white hot and burn.  //
y // from the sun.  // Bright // spot //
turn // white // hot // and burn.  // Bend the light just so // above,
o // one window; but one young man half-
turned // across the rest, looking with unfocussed eyes // into the di
away.  // But a new piece of four by two
turned it into // a perfect workbench—the cuts and holes and scars //
in the dark of the night // I would’ve
turned on the light...  // But now no more— // your gentle snore // put
ks ahead, I see them // rearing up, up,
turning over // and hear them crashing down.  // What is this cataclysm
ne, // I’ll lead.”  But come June // it
turns out she has feet of clay.  // My control is as strong as can be /
rgin is too narrow for a full report //
Turns out† that the seventh layer consists mostly of ones that do not
Nineteen Hundred and One // The century
turns .  // Right on cue, Queen Victoria dies.  // (Next time around, in
nts the sea-winds bring // the channel,
turns the boats around once more // Hear the marsh-birds calling // to
he chaffinches // were twittering.  The
twain // with anglo-saxon attitudes // then to Caerphilly came.  // The
the style of that wonderfully eccentric
twentieth -century American poet, // Mr Ogden Nash, and carry on withou
fire and brimstone // that will be the
twentieth century— // for this we have to wait // another thirteen and
on the zero, not the one // making the
twentieth century only // ninety-nine years long.) // Béla Bartók and
footpaths; phone boxes; inns // One to
twenty five thousand:  The Broads // Westwick; Woodbastwick; Winterton
ways regretted, felt cheated by // that
twenty -minute hiatus.  // But the fire bore us no grudge, // and welcom
comed us back into its glow.  // Another
twenty one years, // another crematorium.  // This time Judith has chos
heese; so what would he have made // in
twenty -ten, of all the flesh reviewed // in magazines, on billboards h
own.  // His senseless trenches death at
twenty three // reminds us of so much we’ll never see.  // Life and dea
ow, // I feel the heat upon my face.  //
Twenty three years later, when my mother died // we had the proper for
d, the geese are flying out // on their
twice -a-day migration between feeding grounds // in lop-sided vees and
Slacken.  // Settle.  // Pause.  // Repeat
twice daily.  // (Not by the sun // —use moontime // instead).  //
Twice daily // Start.  // Tiptoe.  // Probe.  // Grow.  // Push forward.  /
tch // strike match // flame unfurls //
twigs catch // smoke curls // flame unfurls // smoke grows // smoke cu
night // strike match // tiny light //
twigs catch // strike match // flame unfurls // twigs catch // smoke c
s crossed an edge, // and two seemed to
twist into one, // right there, beneath the bridge.  // If we could tra
pole-to-pole // all around the stone //
twist to separate.  // Orange, lemon, lime: // equatorially // squeeze
de, each tall bare trunk // gnarled and
twisted by the wind, supports // a wild, tufted crown—quite unlike //
stance, // gnarled broadleaf trees with
twisted limbs // shed leaves with perfect sculpted edges.  // A bramble
n Cheddar Gorge the chaffinches // were
twittering .  The twain // with anglo-saxon attitudes // then to Caerph
nd making an approximate relation // by
tying beta up with mu and lambda.  // I can’t see clearly:  I’ll need t
earthworks // zipping up your jacket //
tying up your shoelaces // topping up the tank // tearing up the contr
Type right // The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog //