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.

W

sagent // Bulbs for kitchen lights—CS 60
W screw???—check first // Cash m/c // Washing // Plan finances—get adv
irds, dippers, warblers, song-birds, //
waders , hunters hovering under the sky.  // People, people round the wo
k towards the sea.  // Along the margins
waders // scutter, scavenge—redshank, // godwit, curlew—long // beaks
round the bladder-wrack, // long-legged
waders scutter, scavenge, seek // their winter sustenance.  Out in the
e outside, scraping the window.  // That
waft of scent?  A malodourous revenant?  // Don’t be silly, that’s just
ide. // grey John Major // surely had a
wager // that he could without worry // take the hottest Currie.  // Go
// of the Compagnie Internationale des
Wagons -Lits // et des Grands Express Européens pass by.  // In the end,
d screaming of course // but maybe also
wailing and gnashing our teeth // into the maelstrom, the fire and bri
-to-east coast-to-coast walk devised by
Wainwright , you get sunburnt on the right side of your face only.  As
e has just switched off you may have to
wait a few minutes before switching back on. // When the ke
entieth century— // for this we have to
wait // another thirteen and a half years.  //
n with our lives: // the repainting can
wait .  // I go to work.  // Judith, artist, // models in clay or plaster
d for; // debate is all—a synthesis can
wait .  // Voices coming from the room next door:  // Thesis and Antithes
/ boats are stranded at their stations,
waiting // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // as the rising wate
n the ground // waiting to be found.  //
Waiting for declension, conjugation, // other morphologic variations,
/ in bags or scattered on the ground //
waiting to be found.  // Waiting for declension, conjugation, // other
awaiting Dr Johnson’s ministrations, //
waiting to discover their relations, // find their denotations, connot
r to follow him.  // There was a week of
waiting while they fought it out.  // There was a lull— // But he was d
eps // Finnegan going (despite it’s his
wake )— // Beethoven’s music is just bloody marvellous, // resonates on
Wake // Fast asleep // dark night // dream deep // faint light // bird
Epicycle //
Wake .  // Feel the water.  Push out below, // tendrils into the dark and
/ dives deep, leaving behind a swirling
wake .  // Nearer, the lapwings forage up the beach.  // At water’s edge
and for far around, // another creature
wakes ; great cogwheels grind.  // They peer, they scan, they scrape, th
/ The winding trails // through forests
waking to the spring // intersect or fork.  Some of these meeting-poin
mile south to the Martello tower, // we
walk along the banked-up track // behind the wall, level with the top,
iver meadows // to Grantchester.  As we
walk back // against the wind it starts to snow.  // A snowdrift forms
follow the west-to-east coast-to-coast
walk devised by Wainwright, you get sunburnt on the right side of your
Random
walk // Looking backwards, I can see // mistily, the shape of things: 
-proud towers of Camelot.  // Few people
walk the brambled way // And fewer still will pause or stay // To gaze
r out the blue flame.  // After lunch, a
walk // through the summer’s brown bracken // that covers the heath.  /
ee the open path leads on, // a gentler
walk , to bare bleak Malham Tarn.  // Then back to skirt the edge of Mal
e.  // One cold winter’s afternoon // we
walk to the edge of town and on // the mile across the river meadows /
down to the floor, to prevent it going
walkabout , // a perambulation whenever it got to the spin // part of i
Fragments of a life // We
walked across England, once.  If you follow the west-to-east coast-to-
great themes as these, // talking they
walked and walking talked— // but never once of cheese.  //
/ A Cheshire cat accosted them, // then
walked his wild way // alone.  In Swale- and Wensleydale // they passe
attention of anyone.  // Haven’t passed
walkers for more than three hours now.  // When are they likely to send
pectacular views over Bassenthwaite.  //
Walking down quickly, not paying attention, I // stumble, fall heavily
solid days in the Uffizi in Florence. 
Walking in the drizzle the long approach road to the Kröller-Müller mu
Walking in winter // Berkshire, 1962-3 // Suffolk, circa 1958 // Cambr
es as these, // talking they walked and
walking talked— // but never once of cheese.  //
hes // more boat or cycle rides // more
walks , more bluebell woods // more curlews, more ragged, slanting line
every wave tries hard // to breach the
wall .  And when it hits just right // the spray rises a mile into the
muddy margins, in the lee // of the sea-
wall , around the bladder-wrack, // long-legged waders scutter, scaveng
iron-gated pointed arch // piercing the
wall , built like the house // of weathered Cotswold stone.  // The box
along the banked-up track // behind the
wall , level with the top, // running the gauntlet of the winter storm.
ter, over the drumming rain, // a sharp
wall of sound.  // Later still, after the storm has passed // lie back
bolt embedded in // the Newlyn harbour
wall .  // One day, a storm will // simply erase them.  // Four years ago
Something there is that doesn’t love a
wall .  // Out flew the web and floated wide; // The mirror crack’d from
, the rain and the air?  // The drystone
wall slanting across the moor, // the heather and the bracken, the mos
// Plug in and switch on at the
wall socket. // Put the ON / OFF switch to its ‘ON’ positio
es, the streetlight, // the sign on the
wall , the sign on the post, // the white-painted sign spreadeagled on
t truth // ‘Oh Mirror that hangs on the
wall // who is the fairest of all?’  // The mirror’s reply // with no h
ill sing to me.  // Mirror mirror on the
wall // who is the fairest of them all?  // (The cruel looking-glass th
ur own.  // In Pompidou relief is on the
wall , // wrestling figures, clinched before a fall; // Lutteurs—they a
he house; enclosed within its arms // a
walled garden, left untended // for maybe thirty years.  A winding pat
muddy track on the tarmac road.  // The
walled paddock and the orchard, // the apple on the tree, the windfall
me wind to blow us away // No wind! we
wallow in the swell // Way-hay, blow us away // The sails clatter as w
scratch, // plumb, strip everything:  //
wallpaper from walls, // distemper from ceilings, // paint from woodwo
nry nails, screw-eyes, picture hooks //
wallplugs , rivets, self-tapping metal screws, // rubber tap washers an
mb, strip everything: // wallpaper from
walls , // distemper from ceilings, // paint from woodwork, // lino fro
// Bedroom 2; Bathroom; Bicycle shed //
walls ; doors; drains // One to ten:  Tiles // Ormeaux on Bastille; Orme
// “Then why hasn’t she painted // the
walls ?”  // Fair question.  //
or day; // the gardens, and the garden
walls // just slipped away.  // What country lanes or city streets— //
vered slopes rise up // to rampart rock
walls , knife-edge against // the deep blue sky.  We take our boots off
tting room of our house in Peckham, the
walls stripped and undecorated, but with marks and signs accumulated o
Kurt Weill // in their cots // William
Walton not yet born.  // But Maurice Ravel has just joined // the Socié
// and Barden Bridge—and now I flick my
wand // some miles of dale and moor to skip across // and find myself
u // In any season, some young man will
wander // along the byways, thoughts tragic or tender— // of love unfi
acles.  // Carry them with me wherever I
wander … but // help!  They are missing, I must have mislaid them when
our heads.  In this bright green // we
wander , hacking out our paths, or creeping through, // maybe chancing
avel in the mind, some gentle // way to
wander into // a better place, a future that // revives, replenishes,
.  // I can’t see clearly:  I’ll need to
wander // some way in that direction to determine // whether some real
round, creaking // under the weight.  //
Wander through the orchard, watch // the apple clusters sway, // the c
nder the sky?  // A whole wide world for
wandering , under the sky.  // Mountains, valleys, moors and dales, mead
some nasty new disease.  // They seem to
want our help, but they can whistle // as well for wind: we care not a
ve given me a plastic plate // More!  I
want some more!  // A spoon to the floor— // clatter!  // No!  Another m
the following nine // options: if you
want the tempest // please press one; for love’s labour’s lost // pre
g a word.  // I’m sure it doesn’t really
want // to kill me.  // Like the asteroid // barrelling onwards, to wip
t // the focus of her gaze: does he not
want // to tell?  // This painting has a private life.  //
he edge of the Lake District— // family
wanting to rest and recuperate.  // Skiddaw is looming, inviting explor
wed overnight // in the oven of the pre-
war Aga, they will emerge // a startling deep red, and taste delicious
g the Derbyshire moors.  // But the next
war comes, and D is now called up.  // First to Hunmanby on the north-e
ell before the start of the first world
war ).  // Fifty yards across the park at the back // a low embankment c
payment of taxes?  Or was I a trophy of
war ?  // I cannot now recall.  // On the lands bordering the Mediterrane
a war.  // There was a bitter, civil //
war in Jordan.  // There was a gun.  // There was a bullet, stray.  // Th
seventeen (dark days of the first world
war ) // in Sheffield, steel town.  // Mother once ran a fish-and-chip s
Black September // There was a
war .  // There was a bitter, civil // war in Jordan.  // There was a gun
go round, and all’s fair in gloves and
war , though the course of true gloves never did run smooth.  No glove
aching out to colonise the heath, // at
war with the bracken.  // No fruit here—the thorns will catch // at you
sky.  // Sea-birds, pond-birds, dippers,
warblers , song-birds, // waders, hunters hovering under the sky.  // Pe
ross the valley sound // through still,
warm air, // clear to my vantage point on higher ground.  // Voices far
ross the valley sound // through still,
warm air.  // Voices, ipods, phones speak out— // add to the road’s cac
t’s Jan, not June.  // Back home soon //
warm and dry.  // A crescent moon.  // It’s Jan, not June.  //
abed beneath the cobwebbed rafters, //
warm and dry.  // On waters of the creek as smooth as satin, // driftin
t // smoulder down // potatoes roast //
warm as toast // flames gone // potatoes roast // embers warm // flame
bers // smoulder down // let it burn //
warm as toast // smoulder down // potatoes roast // warm as toast // f
ernoon for one brief hour // the air is
warm enough to melt // the topmost layer.  The frost returns // to mak
m // flames gone // last glow // embers
warm // fading now // last glow // tiny light // fading now // dark ni
flames gone // potatoes roast // embers
warm // flames gone // last glow // embers warm // fading now // last
r and achingly cold, // and dry them on
warm rock.  //
until at home // the small gas fire has
warmed the room // against the cold outside.  // (But that was forty ye
// grass and trees outside her window,
warming // in the sun?  Or maybe nothing—maybe she // is pensive, drea
re.  Spread out a green canopy // in the
warming sunlight.  Soak up the rays and the air.  // Transform the colou
he earth, // smell the air, // feel the
warmth of the fire, // listen to the lapping of the water, // and gaze
ow, who dares me eat a peach?  // Time’s
warring chariots can clatter by— // we have the earth, the water and t
rise and fall.  Battles are fought, //
wars are lost and won.  Did they rage around me // where I stood for a
t of a sigh // is to show him his face,
warts and all.  //
elf-tapping metal screws, // rubber tap
washers and fibre sealing rings.  // The jars hang from their lids, nai
ars for all sorts of jams and pickles. 
Washers // and nuts and bolts and screws and hooks // were saved from
—unlabelled, but the nuts and bolts and
washers // are visible within.  // Gathered round about, a motley crew
tins: // the larger bolts and nuts and
washers , // flooring nails, staples, cuphooks, clouts // masonry nails
never it got to the spin // part of its
washing cycle.  The other, the noise // that it made as it spun, a rhy
ly // ornate.  A pump and valves from a
washing machine.  // An electric fan.  The dial of a clock.  Another di
Good vibrations // The Bendix
washing machine was already elderly // when my mother, acquiring a new
rds calling // at the bar the waves are
washing over.  // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // The tide beg
60W screw???—check first // Cash m/c //
Washing // Plan finances—get advisor?  G’s contact maybe // Ring M abou
h Shea’s sculpture in the Hirschhorn in
Washington , close to a version of Rodin’s Balzac, and called “Post-Bal
s // that the train is carrying nuclear
waste ; at the time // it is just the timing that disturbs.  The line /
me you’ll learn before a book.  // Don’t
waste your time on wild boar’s head.  // If Aristotle makes you choke /
ch the stars emerge.  // Sharp dots; but
watch and do not blink.  // In time, an instant dash: // a shooting sta
ing sun.  // Later, the clouds amass:  //
watch now: if you blink you will miss // the instant jagged challenge
weight.  // Wander through the orchard,
watch // the apple clusters sway, // the clouds scud past, // maybe ca
sed // lie back on the wet beach // and
watch the stars emerge.  // Sharp dots; but watch and do not blink.  //
r sustenance.  Out in the bay // a seal
watches us, then flips away, // dives deep, leaving behind a swirling
b, of course // has a source // of pure
water : a still.  // Garden shed // with a still?  Local // excise offi
a Fire.  // The others too I love—Earth,
Water , Air—but Fire // is something else again.  // A memory // (ninete
e fire, // listen to the lapping of the
water , // and gaze into space.  // We have the space // and the time //
o conquer the mountaintop.  // Bottle of
water and lunch in my haversack.  // Climb by the obvious route from th
/ time lives in fire, // leaving us the
water and the air.  //
n clatter by— // we have the earth, the
water and the sky.  //
will illuminate. // When the
water boils the kettle will switch off automatically.  The kettle can
the filter. // The amount of
water can be measured by the level mark on the outside of the kettle. 
ake our boots off, // dip our feet into
water clear and achingly cold, // and dry them on warm rock.  //
inter storm // brings wild mountains of
water crashing down // to redefine the contours of the shore.  // Aroun
ing solid underneath us // churning the
water , // disturbing our roll, // getting higher and closer.  // And th
Far down below, the earth // is mostly
water .  // From across the waters // blow the evanescent airs // moiste
Periodical // Earth, air, // fire and
water : just the four— // but the chemists need many more.  // The top
// When the kettle has boiled the
water may be poured out through the spout. //
e day // throw half away // more flour,
water , mix well // mollycoddle for one day // put in pouch // ready to
Ode to the yeast wind // flour,
water , mix well // mollycoddle for one day // throw half away // more
e day // throw half away // more flour,
water , mix well // mollycoddle for one day // throw half away // more
e day // throw half away // more flour,
water , mix well // mollycoddle for one day // throw half away // more
e fib // Earth, // air, // fire, // and
water .  // Need just a few more.  // How about adding space, time, love?
Epicycle // Wake.  // Feel the
water .  Push out below, // tendrils into the dark and damp.  Now push ou
ching dark.  // Feel the earth.  Feel the
water return // to the dry ground.  Let the cooling dark // settle arou
inds bring // In the saltmarsh channels
water rises // Hear the marsh-birds calling // to the edges of the sea
e found along my path // are elemental: 
water , sky and earth // and rock and air; no fire and no gold, // no g
arlight from space // reflected in inky
water , // the cool night air // slows down time.  // Now is the time //
Only fill the kettle with the amount of
water you need as this will save electricity. // Always mak
Pots are thrown and fired, // crops are
watered .  // Seasons and years are counted and timed.  // Philosophies a
// is mostly water.  // From across the
waters // blow the evanescent airs // moistening the many-coloured ear
e space // and the time // to cross the
waters , // explore the earth, // and send signal fires // blazing into
bwebbed rafters, // warm and dry.  // On
waters of the creek as smooth as satin, // drifting or paddling gently
ts the sea-winds bring // as the rising
waters reach and lift them // Hear the marsh-birds calling // echoes o
Troubled
waters // The good Lady Lumley is pondering glumly.  “I // need a new
ding // Hear the marsh-birds calling //
water’s edge, the birds are searching, finding.  // Breath the scents t
the lapwings forage up the beach.  // At
water’s edge the oyster-catchers, gulls // compete for surface scraps.
r storm.  // The tide is high, and every
wave tries hard // to breach the wall.  And when it hits just right //
ere are storms and calms, // earthquake-
waves and volcanic dust, // soft breezes and winter gales.  // Was I sh
e marsh-birds calling // at the bar the
waves are washing over.  // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // Th
ore // straight up // the Mediterranean
waves roll on.  // How many years, decades, centuries // have I lain up
and faintly, far away, the churn // of
waves upon the sand.  Eastwards we turn, // along the open beach, in r
d flowers, mosses, // ferns and grasses
waving under the sky.  // Islands, beaches, clifftops, creeks and inlet
day.  // Of shoes and ships and sealing
wax , // and such great themes as these, // talking they walked and wal
p.  Now push out above, // buds into the
waxing light, the spring rain.  Throw open // the fire-coloured temptat
row’s still // another day // to find a
way .  //
oor the glow is peeking, // feeling its
way across the floor.  // From the lamp on the landing it’s spilling, s
corridors // light-footed did I make my
way ?  // Across what carpets, rugs or floors?  // I cannot say.  // The h
accosted them, // then walked his wild
way // alone.  In Swale- and Wensleydale // they passed the following
amelot.  // Few people walk the brambled
way // And fewer still will pause or stay // To gaze down on the ruins
I have the necessary skill // to find a
way .  // And now today // is ending.  I suppose tomorrow’s still // ano
st have to check on my map for the best
way back.  // Reading a map now, I have to use spectacles.  // Carry the
way // that contrived to send us on our
way .  // British Rail announced that it would sink // a hole to build t
st // on its way up and again // on its
way down.  // It’s a level measured // a century ago and // three hundr
Focus in, // each ray // trapped on its
way // from the sun.  // Bright // spot // turn // white // hot // and
// focus in each ray.  // Trapped on its
way from the sun, // bright spot, turn white hot and burn.  //
ow sluice the decks to cool the wood //
Way -hay, blow us away // And pour a bucket on my head // Give me some
st feel the breathless sun beat down //
Way -hay, blow us away // And seek out any shade we can // Give me some
away // Adrift the middle of the sea //
Way -hay, blow us away // And there is nothing here for me // Give me s
// Perhaps tomorrow there’ll be wind //
Way -hay, blow us away // And we can some direction find // Give me som
med // Run all the sails up the mast //
Way -hay, blow us away // But we are bound for nowhere fast // Give me
y // Horizon’s clear from end to end //
Way -hay, blow us away // No hope of whistling up a wind // Give me som
// No wind! we wallow in the swell //
Way -hay, blow us away // The sails clatter as we roll // Give me some
ver-present absence, still // to find a
way .  // I hear you say, // “But life is for the living, do not kill //
e clearly:  I’ll need to wander // some
way in that direction to determine // whether some real delta integrat
er no such message.  Theirs // is a one-
way invitation to the rocks.  // But me, now, I'm just lucky.  //
on // Alpha, beta, gamma, delta.  // The
way is clear.  This formulation // both lays the problem out and then
sh-birds calling // retreating back the
way it came, regains // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // the c
if the chicken // is just the egg’s //
way of making // another egg // then what I should // not be doing //
ng around one of the hot yellow bits //
way out here in the remoter backwaters // of the western spiral arm (w
ght’s array // And gaily singing on his
way // Rode bold Sir Lancelot.  // Years have passed.  The winter’s chi
ead, and take away my will // to find a
way .  // The final fray // remains in memory, for good or ill, // anoth
st have mislaid them when // finding my
way through the scree so much earlier.  // Later, much later, I limp in
hat’s to do?  // Can we not // find some
way to move, to go, // to travel in the mind, some gentle // way to wa
lab in her garden // in Reigate, on her
way to // recognition, fellowships // (Linnean Society 1904, // Girton
/ to travel in the mind, some gentle //
way to wander into // a better place, a future that // revives, replen
vel that the tide rushes past // on its
way up and again // on its way down.  // It’s a level measured // a cen
t’s Jan, not June.  // A red balloon, //
way up high, // with crescent moon // from cold immune.  // Let snow li
ource of trade:  // England.  // Back the
way we came.  // All verse is born free.  //
ay?  // Days for seeing you in different
ways .  // Days enough for giving and receiving.  // Did I give enough?  /
er do the people fill // The wharfs and
ways of Camelot.  // Only one remains to shiver // On the island in the
dark night?  // Not to return to old //
ways —that age // has passed.  What should // we salvage from it, what
// is screwed up by a zeta factor // in
ways that I can neither // control nor understand.  // Yet here’s a tho
hath this garden laid // —Nurturing the
wayward seed, // Planting out this cabbage-bed— // She was once a lady
field ties become more tenuous, // legs
weaken , and isolation palls.  // One more great change, one more new be
.  No glove lost.  // We have nothing to
wear but wear itself.  Without wear or favour, fools rush in, where an
ve lost.  // We have nothing to wear but
wear itself.  Without wear or favour, fools rush in, where angels wear
Donkeys don’t
wear jackets // Shapeless, navy blue or fawn, // three-quarter length,
h in, where angels wear to tread.  I’ll
wear not what men say.  //
thing to wear but wear itself.  Without
wear or favour, fools rush in, where angels wear to tread.  I’ll wear
or favour, fools rush in, where angels
wear to tread.  I’ll wear not what men say.  //
—the more because the fellow // was not
wearing glasses.  //
ng the wall, built like the house // of
weathered Cotswold stone.  // The box and holly // were magnificent, bu
r coins nor jewels; just the old // and
weathered hills, created by some force // beyond imagination; and of c
Columbus.  // He is a leader of Flemish
weavers , pointing the rest // towards their major source of trade:  //
at doesn’t love a wall.  // Out flew the
web and floated wide; // The mirror crack’d from side to side.  // I lo
king new ground to conquer.  // Spiders’
webs among the undergrowth.  // Look closely: precise angular spirals
es a leaf mustard.  // The small bowl of
wedding reception stews bean bubble, // The taro rolls up an incense. 
ointment—week of 10th // Write poem for
Weds //
e tender shoots may venture forth // On
weed -o’er-run Shalott?  // She who hath this garden laid // —Nurturing
hat scar remote Shalott.  // In the duck-
weed -smothered edges // Skinny rats sniff out the ledges, // While bet
aring up the contract // pulling up the
weeds // picking up the pieces // wrapping up the meeting // shutting
and unkempt.  Buzzards fly // Above the
weedy hedgerows, by // The once-proud towers of Camelot.  // Few people
b—70 next b/day?  // Dentist appointment—
week of 10th // Write poem for Weds //
e for her to follow him.  // There was a
week of waiting while they fought it out.  // There was a lull— // But
demolition, move to Camberwell.  // (Two
weeks later, British Rail’s plans // were scrapped and redesigned.  Th
lock.  Another dial, // from a stand-on
weight scale.  A device // for demonstrating electricity to children: 
/ for the ground, creaking // under the
weight .  // Wander through the orchard, watch // the apple clusters swa
ou think // ‘This time, it will hold my
weight .’  // But every step it drops you down // into soft snow, up to
ill at school // Aaron Copland and Kurt
Weill // in their cots // William Walton not yet born.  // But Maurice
open // the fire-coloured temptations,
welcome in // the roaming bees.  // Feel the fire.  Spread out a green c
But the fire bore us no grudge, // and
welcomed us back into its glow.  // Another twenty one years, // anothe
that was then.  Now the rail joints are
welded , and the dominant sound // is continuous and high-pitched.  The
Wells in winter // We take the path beside the wood—the fir // and sil
d his wild way // alone.  In Swale- and
Wensleydale // they passed the following day.  // Of shoes and ships an
ping horse— // But Aix was as far as he
went .  // In Friday Market square // Jacob van Artevelde makes an expan
// a slight encouragement.  As the day
went on, // we generated quantities of fuel // and built a roaring bla
fle // (with double cream) // Dr Foster
went to Gloucester // for a summer spin— // and liked a lass from Lanc
// northwest by west, westnorthwest, //
west by north, west.  // North by northwest?  That was just // Hitchcoc
hundred and forty miles // to the south-
west : // marked by a bolt embedded in // the Newlyn harbour wall.  // O
west, westnorthwest, // west by north,
west .  // North by northwest?  That was just // Hitchcock’s joke.  //
North, west // North.  Go
west .  // North by west, northnorthwest, // northwest by north, northwe
North,
west // North.  Go west.  // North by west, northnorthwest, // northwes
h, west // North.  Go west.  // North by
west , northnorthwest, // northwest by north, northwest, // northwest b
cross England, once.  If you follow the
west -to-east coast-to-coast walk devised by Wainwright, you get sunbur
st by north, northwest, // northwest by
west , westnorthwest, // west by north, west.  // North by northwest?  T
Wind, fall //
West wind // East wind // Autumn wind is bowling on, // trees bending,
sture // towards the setting sun.  // Go
west , young man?  No, this is about // a century and a half before Col
ere in the remoter backwaters // of the
western spiral arm (which will never be fashionable).  // See the slime
above Borrowdale in what was then still
Westmorland .  It wasn’t very environmentally friendly of us, but it fe
north, northwest, // northwest by west,
westnorthwest , // west by north, west.  // North by northwest?  That wa
to twenty five thousand:  The Broads //
Westwick ; Woodbastwick; Winterton // fences; marshes; footbridges // O
the storm has passed // lie back on the
wet beach // and watch the stars emerge.  // Sharp dots; but watch and
gwold or savage ground // smoked trout,
wevet , bone, calamine // lichen, brinjal, radicchio, citron, calluna /
/ against the stream, back up the river
Wharfe , // to Bolton Abbey, and the Strid beyond, // and Barden Bridge
// No longer do the people fill // The
wharfs and ways of Camelot.  // Only one remains to shiver // On the is
e go to the front to see // the engine,
wheels bigger than me— // a great big monster, steaming, black.  // The
it going walkabout, // a perambulation
whenever it got to the spin // part of its washing cycle.  The other,
o use spectacles.  // Carry them with me
wherever I wander… but // help!  They are missing, I must have mislaid
ill, // another day.  // I cannot say //
whether I have the necessary skill // to find a way.  // And now today
ouses, and their rooms and halls // and
whether it was night or day; // the gardens, and the garden walls // j
bay the frights night has in store.  //
Whether I’m lying awake or sleeping // or floating half in half out, I
e way in that direction to determine //
whether some real delta integration // is possible at all.  I have to
ny’s evidence.  // Lying there wondering
whether there’s any chance // I could attract the attention of anyone.
the lines are drawn.  // Whichever wins,
whichever meets defeat, // the relict of the fight will be my wound.  /
d is ready now, the lines are drawn.  //
Whichever wins, whichever meets defeat, // the relict of the fight wil
on to // burnish my halo.  Ah, I have a
whim // to build a fine bridge clear across a great river, where // tr
ts against the window with the wind.  //
Whipped wide awake by what the thunder said, // flashes silhouette the
n’s Ceremony or the ones from Kings.  //
Whipped wide awake by what the thunder said // flashes silhouette the
// A storm is raging as I lie abed, //
whipped wide awake by what the thunder said.  // Rain rattles on the ro
ough) // as far the cliff.  The wind //
whips the spume // into irregular clots, picks them up, // and strews
the canopy too // to the winds, let it
whirl away // into the encroaching dark.  // Feel the earth.  Feel the w
man called Michael Finnegan.  // He grew
whiskers on his chin—but // the wind came up and blew them in again.  /
hey seem to want our help, but they can
whistle // as well for wind: we care not a tittle.  // Many die—thus li
untry station: we clamber down.  // The
whistle blows, the train moves on, // the guard’s van trundles at the
the roses // floating down the river //
whistling down the wind // not as in // screwing up your courage // pu
// Way-hay, blow us away // No hope of
whistling up a wind // Give me some wind to blow us away // Adrift the
ty years ago // —these days his hair is
white all through.) // ‘Every mile is two’? no, hardly thus.  // Some
way from the sun, // bright spot, turn
white hot and burn.  //
m the sun.  // Bright // spot // turn //
white // hot // and burn.  // Bend the light just so // above, below, l
ot say.  // Rainbow-bright, or black and
white , // or autumn hues, or shades of grey— // the colours that I saw
the wall, the sign on the post, // the
white -painted sign spreadeagled on the road.  // What do they know, the
iked a lass from Lancashire; // so milk-
white was her skin.  // In Cheddar Gorge the chaffinches // were twitte
/ On the cornices // a hundred years of
whitewash .  // We wire from scratch, // plumb, strip everything: // wal
p.  // But perhaps instead I will go the
whole hog, the full nine yards: turn the paper onto its side and write
too and shake // our sense of part and
whole , netsuke-like.  // Bird and fish are two, and now are one: // no
out there, shining, under the sky?  // A
whole wide world for wandering, under the sky.  // Mountains, valleys,
begins a mile down the road // and into
whose dense interior // we sometimes venture.  // Beyond the fir-trees
r beech // stands out, a clump of pears
whose fruit // is hard as stone.  (But when stewed overnight // in the
ath // in any season.  // The author, he
whose life the fates would squander— // such richness in his music did
k will hold against your ear a shell //
whose music makes your languid pulses race: // fall, fall into the wri
sterity speaks; // Joyce has his Liffey
whose recirculation keeps // Finnegan going (despite it’s his wake)— /
d or layer, // like the bard from Japan
whose verses never would scan, adds an extra list.  // As we* reach the
p, street-corner box.  // I love you.  //
Wi -fi café.  Send a letter.  // Laptop, plug in power socket.  // Click t
h like a garage— // he opens it ever so
wide // and you can see all the junk inside. // grey John Major // sur
eet!  I must admit that seems exceeding
wide , // as if to start out on a voyage, a full round-Britain trip.  //
st the window with the wind.  // Whipped
wide awake by what the thunder said, // flashes silhouette the trees a
mony or the ones from Kings.  // Whipped
wide awake by what the thunder said // flashes silhouette the trees ag
orm is raging as I lie abed, // whipped
wide awake by what the thunder said.  // Rain rattles on the rooftiles
n moor // deep lake // high mountain //
wide sea // close forest // by lake and stream // by forest and moor /
a wall.  // Out flew the web and floated
wide ; // The mirror crack’d from side to side.  // I look into the mirr
guide; // his voice is lively, gestures
wide .  // The sun and wind upon the trees outside…  // I try to listen,
trays.  // His voice is lively, gestures
wide .  // There is much sense in what he says.  // No voices in the almo
ebate.  // His voice is lively, gestures
wide — // there is much sense in what he says, // through these ideas h
ere, shining, under the sky?  // A whole
wide world for wandering, under the sky.  // Mountains, valleys, moors
ore a book.  // Don’t waste your time on
wild boar’s head.  // If Aristotle makes you choke // eat me instead.  /
he corners and the rooftops, // rushing
wild clouds across the sky, // lying abed beneath the cobwebbed rafter
lat calm air.  A winter storm // brings
wild mountains of water crashing down // to redefine the contours of t
s.) Later we scatter the ashes // in a
wild part of the old South London cemetery.  // Perhaps I should plant
tumn, on the wild Suffolk heath, // the
wild Suffolk blackberries // of my childhood remain forever perfect, /
ists // or wild winds of autumn, on the
wild Suffolk heath, // the wild Suffolk blackberries // of my childhoo
and twisted by the wind, supports // a
wild , tufted crown—quite unlike // the planted forest, serried ranks o
e cat accosted them, // then walked his
wild way // alone.  In Swale- and Wensleydale // they passed the follo
me.  // —I am conceived by the wind, the
wild wind // and borne on the blue ocean.  // In the beginning I am sma
of summer, and in the first mists // or
wild winds of autumn, on the wild Suffolk heath, // the wild Suffolk b
floor— // to leave behind, for now, the
wilder moor.  // The treasures to be found along my path // are element
land and Kurt Weill // in their cots //
William Walton not yet born.  // But Maurice Ravel has just joined // t
Jump
willing in // Jump willing into every word-filled well; // a book shou
Jump willing in // Jump
willing into every word-filled well; // a book should suck you into it
me to quite a different place.  // Jump
willing into every word-filled well, // fall, fall into the writer’s w
o her lover’s side makes haste: // jump
willing into every word-filled well.  // That book will hold against yo
destroy or reconstruct a case: // jump
willing into every word-filled well.  // That book will tales of distan
g, shortening // left alone they easily
win —but // there was an old man called Michael Finnegan— // crowds sto
/ —I am conceived by the wind, the wild
wind // and borne on the blue ocean.  // In the beginning I am small an
fierce and so fast?  // I know only the
wind and the rain // the sun and the clouds by day, // the stars and t
Wind, fall // West wind // East
wind // Autumn wind is bowling on, // trees bending, dark green leaves
old man called Michael Finnegan.  // The
wind came up and blew him in again.  //
ght he’d flaunt a bushy grin—but // the
wind came up and blew it in again.  // Beards may need some clipping, s
He grew whiskers on his chin—but // the
wind came up and blew them in again.  // Beards are good for finger-fid
d out all their kith and kin—but // the
wind came up and blew them in again.  // Beards are great when gales ar
Wind, fall // West
wind // East wind // Autumn wind is bowling on, // trees bending, dark
Wind , fall // West wind // East wind // Autumn wind is bowling on, //
wind; // we march in formation.  // The
wind feeds us, makes us strong.  // Occasionally, I catch glimpses // o
Ode to the yeast
wind // flour, water, mix well // mollycoddle for one day // throw hal
ow us away // No hope of whistling up a
wind // Give me some wind to blow us away // Adrift the middle of the
on the backs of the older ones.  // The
wind grows steady and purposeful.  // We form into rows and columns acr
of the one immediately in front.  // The
wind is angry, howling and shrieking.  // It pushes us harder, // makes
all // West wind // East wind // Autumn
wind is bowling on, // trees bending, dark green leaves showing // the
inning I am small and playful, like the
wind .  // It changes direction from minute to minute; // gives me sibli
hester.  As we walk back // against the
wind it starts to snow.  // A snowdrift forms against the wire brush //
ng down the river // whistling down the
wind // not as in // screwing up your courage // putting up resistance
are trunk // gnarled and twisted by the
wind , supports // a wild, tufted crown—quite unlike // the planted for
// —Tell me.  // —I am conceived by the
wind , the wild wind // and borne on the blue ocean.  // In the beginnin
can some direction find // Give me some
wind to blow us away //
of whistling up a wind // Give me some
wind to blow us away // Adrift the middle of the sea // Way-hay, blow
ails clatter as we roll // Give me some
wind to blow us away // Horizon’s clear from end to end // Way-hay, bl
is nothing here for me // Give me some
wind to blow us away // Just feel the breathless sun beat down // Way-
bound for nowhere fast // Give me some
wind to blow us away // No wind! we wallow in the swell // Way-hay, b
ek out any shade we can // Give me some
wind to blow us away // Now sluice the decks to cool the wood // Way-h
our a bucket on my head // Give me some
wind to blow us away // Perhaps tomorrow there’ll be wind // Way-hay,
Covehithe, Suffolk // South
wind today.  So the breakers // come at an angle, sweep // along the b
s lively, gestures wide.  // The sun and
wind upon the trees outside…  // I try to listen, but my musing strays.
us away // Perhaps tomorrow there’ll be
wind // Way-hay, blow us away // And we can some direction find // Giv
lp, but they can whistle // as well for
wind : we care not a tittle.  // Many die—thus limiting their needs.  //
it is, // we take on the purpose of the
wind ; // we march in formation.  // The wind feeds us, makes us strong.
Give me some wind to blow us away // No
wind ! we wallow in the swell // Way-hay, blow us away // The sails cl
/ and beats against the window with the
wind .  // Whipped wide awake by what the thunder said, // flashes silho
high enough) // as far the cliff.  The
wind // whips the spume // into irregular clots, picks them up, // and
orchard, // the apple on the tree, the
windfall in the grass.  // What do they know, the rain and the air?  //
untended // for maybe thirty years.  A
winding path // leads from the glazed back door // through box and hol
Emerald Lake // The
winding trails // through forests waking to the spring // intersect or
pboards, // but grander far, a corniced
window bay // in darker wood.  Clear morning sunlight fills // the roo
ing // of people in a city street, shop-
window -browsing.  // A group, gathered around and gazing into // one wi
gathered around and gazing into // one
window ; but one young man half-turned // across the rest, looking with
.  A woman leans // upon a table in the
window , looks // out into sunlight, over grass, towards // some distan
thing in the splinters of the shattered
window pane.  // There was an overcrowded hospital.  // There were the c
the back // of the bench, as far as the
window .  // Some of the contents and all of the containers // once had
ranch of the tree outside, scraping the
window .  // That waft of scent?  A malodourous revenant?  // Don’t be si
glowing // grass and trees outside her
window , warming // in the sun?  Or maybe nothing—maybe she // is pensi
tiles overhead // and beats against the
window with the wind.  // Whipped wide awake by what the thunder said,
n light // spilling through plate-glass
windows // across the pavement.  // A bartender bent to work; // chrome
ght, // a heavy goods train rattles the
windows and plates // on the shelves.  Later, the local rumour states
lat // in face, no sign of the deep bay
windows that // adorn most later London terraced fronts.  // One of a b
G) // From random junctures in primeval
winds // a billion random patterns form—until // an accidental spiral
one more apple hits the muddy grass.  //
Winds bowling through trees // fruit-laden boughs bent to earth // app
, finding.  // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring //
s, waiting // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // as the rising waters reach and lift them // Hear the ma
r the bar, // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // becomes a trickle.  On the soft, receding // Hear the m
townward.  // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // In the saltmarsh channels water rises // Hear the marsh
ss—pauses, // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // makes another lingering turn, begins // Hear the marsh-
occupation // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // of the mudflats and the sandbanks.  Listing // Hear the
rock them // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // straining at their lines.  The bows face seaward // Hea
e, regains // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // the channel, turns the boats around once more // Hear t
hing over.  // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // The tide begins its steady, slow accretion // Hear the
especkled.  // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // The trickle slackens, changes in the harbour; // Hear t
side.  // Feel the air.  Turn in the four
winds .  Broadcast the secret // to earth, as far away as it will go.  Le
ens.  Now throw the canopy too // to the
winds , let it whirl away // into the encroaching dark.  // Feel the ear
ost horizontal; // East Hills aglow.  //
Winds moaning round the corners and the rooftops, // rushing wild clou
mmer, and in the first mists // or wild
winds of autumn, on the wild Suffolk heath, // the wild Suffolk blackb
gracious, towered Camelot.  // Then, as
winds of fortune blow, // It was arranged that she should go // And ta
e for cymbelline; // the merry wives of
windsor , four; // five othello; six for king lear; // seven hamlet; ei
ow her face, // the world just so.  // A
wingéd dragon, flying low, // will seek a human sacrifice, // far away
now, the lines are drawn.  // Whichever
wins , whichever meets defeat, // the relict of the fight will be my wo
Walking in
winter // Berkshire, 1962-3 // Suffolk, circa 1958 // Cambridge, circa
and volcanic dust, // soft breezes and
winter gales.  // Was I shipwrecked?  Or cast overboard to avert shipwr
, taken // out of time.  // Afternoon in
winter , on the ramparts // looking seaward, sun behind us, low, // yel
e moon in June // A crescent moon, // a
winter sky.  // It’s Jan, not June.  // A red balloon, // way up high, /
d to and fro, // in a flat calm air.  A
winter storm // brings wild mountains of water crashing down // to red
the top, // running the gauntlet of the
winter storm.  // The tide is high, and every wave tries hard // to bre
waders scutter, scavenge, seek // their
winter sustenance.  Out in the bay // a seal watches us, then flips aw
Wells in
winter // We take the path beside the wood—the fir // and silver birch
:  The Broads // Westwick; Woodbastwick;
Winterton // fences; marshes; footbridges // One to ten thousand:  Camb
ps thirty feet into a hole.  // One cold
winter’s afternoon // we walk to the edge of town and on // the mile a
ir Lancelot.  // Years have passed.  The
winter’s chill // Lies fast upon the land so ill.  // Seldom now the sk
unks // of fallen trees, fresh from the
winter’s storms // or long since stripped of bark, criss-cross // the
the asteroid // barrelling onwards, to
wipe us out in // ten or a thousand or maybe a million years, // it se
snow.  // A snowdrift forms against the
wire brush // of David’s thick black hair, // staying in place until a
// a hundred years of whitewash.  // We
wire from scratch, // plumb, strip everything: // wallpaper from walls
click-clack click-clack.  // Telephone
wires through the pane // loop lazily along and then // greet each pol
.  // Around them, the flowers bloom and
wither // and bloom again.  They’ve been there // for a decade now.  //
dren, // and a world to explore.  // But
within a few years, both son and daughter // are dead too.  Back to Sh
ten-year-old imagination.  // It stands
within a grove of trees, a very few // of which I can discern, even pe
ts and bolts and washers // are visible
within .  // Gathered round about, a motley crew // of categories in box
of us.  // L-shaped the house; enclosed
within its arms // a walled garden, left untended // for maybe thirty
lmost-silence that I hear.  // The words
within my head, what do they care?  // They rattle round, and link, and
to rows and columns across the deep.  //
Without knowing what it is, // we take on the purpose of the wind; //
an poet, // Mr Ogden Nash, and carry on
without much attention to metre, until I can mark its end with such a
Square mile // Farringdon
Without (north side) //
es the situation, and promptly, busily,
without rising from her seat, makes everyone shuffle up in order to al
have nothing to wear but wear itself. 
Without wear or favour, fools rush in, where angels wear to tread.  I’
// surely had a wager // that he could
without worry // take the hottest Currie.  // Gordon Brown // replaced
Vagrant monosyllables // Let he who is
without zen… but there is a multitude of zens.  The zens of the father
; or three for cymbelline; // the merry
wives of windsor, four; // five othello; six for king lear; // seven h
the other // the source of danger // a
wolf crouches // his senses tingling, too.  // Around them, the flowers
fills // the room we glimpse inside.  A
woman leans // upon a table in the window, looks // out into sunlight,
the time.  A tiny middle-aged New York
woman , sitting on a bench seat, observes the situation, and promptly,
er loom, // Her mistress never left the
womb // That was the fastness of her room.  // Only through the mirror’
attles are fought, // wars are lost and
won .  Did they rage around me // where I stood for all men to see?  //
ashionable).  // See the slime on it?  //
Wonder if I can get it to do // anything remotely interesting?  //
here on the north Norfolk coast.  // The
wonder is that you can still laugh.  //
gs that turn out not to be churches.  //
Wonderful mechanisms in the civic belltower— // a giant musical box.  /
approaching or aping the style of that
wonderfully eccentric twentieth-century American poet, // Mr Ogden Nas
an old // high-level lavatory cistern,
wonderfully // ornate.  A pump and valves from a washing machine.  // A
be, if agony’s evidence.  // Lying there
wondering whether there’s any chance // I could attract the attention
// from saws and hammers and screwed-on
wood - // and metal-working vices added to those // caused by generatio
far, a corniced window bay // in darker
wood .  Clear morning sunlight fills // the room we glimpse inside.  A
of us, the sky is clear.  // Across the
wood , onto the beach.  We hear // the gulls, and faintly, far away, th
ur toes were bare.  // Behind us, in the
wood , // tall straight pines reach for the sky, // dark trunks against
n winter // We take the path beside the
wood —the fir // and silver birch along the dunes that run // between t
way // Now sluice the decks to cool the
wood // Way-hay, blow us away // And pour a bucket on my head // Give
five thousand:  The Broads // Westwick;
Woodbastwick ; Winterton // fences; marshes; footbridges // One to ten
or to skip across // and find myself in
wooded Janet’s Foss.  // Upstream again to clamber Gordale Scar // and
nstrating electricity to children: // a
wooden board on which are mounted // battery box, switches, lights, bu
er pair // of brackets, this time for a
wooden curtain pole, // two and a half inches in diameter (the pole //
bench in the garage sits // a miniature
wooden eight-drawered chest // given to me (budding carpenter) as a ch
ith (the most important thing) // those
wooden toggles, loops of string.  // I must confess to having owned //
rs, though, // we have to guess.  // The
woods are full of streams, // swollen with spring melt.  But an old pi
ycle rides // more walks, more bluebell
woods // more curlews, more ragged, slanting lines of geese // more tr
cleaning his brush after painting some
woodwork .  Judith sees something in the shapes, and using a charcoal s
distemper from ceilings, // paint from
woodwork , // lino from floors.  // (Under the lino, newspaper // dated
seless for cold hands), // thick felted
wool , a monk-like hood— // and with (the most important thing) // thos
and covered // the world with skeins of
wool .  // And as we lived and loved and gained // and learnt and gave a
iter read, a speaker heard, // at every
word a choice has made.  // Those that they choose to use // to inform
p willing in // Jump willing into every
word -filled well; // a book should suck you into its embrace.  // Fall,
erent place.  // Jump willing into every
word -filled well, // fall, fall into the writer’s well-cast spell.  //
makes haste: // jump willing into every
word -filled well.  // That book will hold against your ear a shell // w
ruct a case: // jump willing into every
word -filled well.  // That book will tales of distant countries tell //
st post has been collected.  // The last
word has been had.  // Nothing remains // but the fuzzy end of the loll
nant.  // ‘Malignant’ seems too strong a
word .  // I’m sure it doesn’t really want // to kill me.  // Like the as
The
word // No, the singularity is quite absurd.  // In the beginning there
time // for flow // or rhyme, // no.  //
Words go // from mind // like snow.  // A line // to show // can’t find
/ elate or validate or grieve— // these
words live.  //
ft subliminal sibilance of night, // no
words , no human language in my ear, // no voices in the almost-silence
rd.  // In the beginning there were many
words : // sitting, lying all around // in bags or scattered on the gro
e build index tabulations // of all the
words their spiders’ crawls can find.  // — // A writer read, a speaker
und-Britain trip.  // I’ll need a ton of
words to fill each line from side to side, // verbosely quite enough t
r tale to tell // —could I but find the
words to make it plain.  // Two book-ends bracket our shared domain:  //
the almost-silence that I hear.  // The
words within my head, what do they care?  // They rattle round, and lin
ss the pavement.  // A bartender bent to
work ; // chrome coffee machines.  // At the bar three people sit // all
/ tea on the table when he returns from
work // in a Sheffield steel mill.  // Daughter moves away to teach, an
// the repainting can wait.  // I go to
work .  // Judith, artist, // models in clay or plaster, // casts in pla
on, the great Michelangelo // makes his
work lasting by carving in stone— // me, I’m not looking for such immo
four by two turned it into // a perfect
workbench —the cuts and holes and scars // from saws and hammers and sc
n service to // The Lady of Shalott.  //
Working all day at her loom, // Her mistress never left the womb // Th
inental flow // seem more like butchers
working rough.  // The light is going now.  // How will these transient
mmers and screwed-on wood- // and metal-
working vices added to those // caused by generations of kitchen knive
Ring M about Xmas // Ring Tony D about
works in basement // Tickets for Once Sat night—check time // Tickets
er the sky.  // People, people round the
world —and I, // roaming, rambling, drifting under the sky.  //
tient being touches and reshapes // the
world around her, far as she can reach.  // Who is this now, who dares
shining, under the sky?  // A whole wide
world for wandering, under the sky.  // Mountains, valleys, moors and d
any-splendoured thing.  Gloves make the
world go round, and all’s fair in gloves and war, though the course of
ilent contemplation.  // The rest of the
world is dark.  //
place, // far away and long ago, // the
world just so.  //
, // once upon a time and place, // the
world just so, // a pretty maiden, heart aglow // will sit and spin, s
/ exactly when to show her face, // the
world just so.  // A wingéd dragon, flying low, // will seek a human sa
The
world just so // Far away and long ago, // once upon a time and place,
dangers great will bravely face, // the
world just so.  // True love will germinate and grow, // all tribulatio
// Last September, meeting you.  // The
world looks different now.  //
Mendocino Seascarp // the shape of the
world // One to thirty million:  Eurasia // Kuril’skiye Ostrova; Kirgi
to London, two grandchildren, // and a
world to explore.  // But within a few years, both son and daughter //
// (well before the start of the first
world war).  // Fifty yards across the park at the back // a low embank
eteen-seventeen (dark days of the first
world war) // in Sheffield, steel town.  // Mother once ran a fish-and-
can make itself again, and fill // the
world with dittoed offspring.  Yet it will // occasionally not breed tr
oven patterns traced and covered // the
world with skeins of wool.  // And as we lived and loved and gained //
over by an avalanche, // fall through a
wormhole , or cross a mountain range?  // Did I march towards my fate, /
ing pocket of the trousers which he had
worn on the day but one preceding.”  // —James Joyce, Ulysses.  //
ast we felt we had to call // a halt to
worry , and agreed to sell // for demolition, move to Camberwell.  // (T
ly had a wager // that he could without
worry // take the hottest Currie.  // Gordon Brown // replaced his frow
e small, // to learn (for better or for
worse ) // what moves us all.  // From me you’ll learn before a book.  //
s blushes // drop cloth, slipper satin,
worsted // dimity, blazer, babouche // borrowed light, dimpse, mizzle,
// Polish serviceman and refugee— // is
worth another try.  A son.  // Council house the other side of Sheffiel
says, // through these ideas he makes a
worthy guide; // his voice is lively, gestures wide.  // The sun and wi
// Alone in the dark of the night // I
would’ve turned on the light...  // But now no more— // your gentle sno
, // the relict of the fight will be my
wound .  // I am transfixed as a horned goat // charges towards me // fr
, // when we were young and all, // the
woven patterns traced and covered // the world with skeins of wool.  //
// of the sea-wall, around the bladder-
wrack , // long-legged waders scutter, scavenge, seek // their winter s
p the weeds // picking up the pieces //
wrapping up the meeting // shutting up shop //
/ In Pompidou relief is on the wall, //
wrestling figures, clinched before a fall; // Lutteurs—they are two, a
ht to synthesis.  // Tried // hard // to
write // a fib on // achievement, but got // only a fib on a cheap pun
nderstand // tried to write // tried to
write a poem //
yards: turn the paper onto its side and
write each line // in something approaching or aping the style of that
if I had the art, // Or maybe I should
write it in a verse.  // But now the dawn has come, it does not pass, /
f my own imagination.  // Maybe I should
write it in a verse // with Frida as my muse and inspiration // This f
// Dentist appointment—week of 10th //
Write poem for Weds //
scrape, they test, they sound; // they
write their notes, interpret what they find.  // The possibility of pea
hink // tried to understand // tried to
write // tried to write a poem //
eir spiders’ crawls can find.  // — // A
writer read, a speaker heard, // at every word a choice has made.  // T
ord-filled well, // fall, fall into the
writer’s well-cast spell.  //
h deepest space: // fall, fall into the
writer’s well-cast spell.  // And now, this book, the here and now disp
uid pulses race: // fall, fall into the
writer’s well-cast spell.  // That book will set you puzzles which prop
nto its embrace.  // Fall, fall into the
writer’s well-cast spell.  // That book will take you o’er a stormy fel
bullet, stray.  // There was a young man
writhing in the splinters of the shattered window pane.  // There was a
othes.  // Feel something…  // Shit!  The
wrong trousers!  // “Was it there?  // It was in the corresponding pocke
nown to ’im.  // Thomas Stearns Eliot //
wrote poetry well, but // was no great shakes // in the marriage stake
the Pirates of Penzance – apologies to
WSG ) //