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.

B

tax form??  // // Check L’s dob—70 next
b /day?  // // Dentist appointment—week of 10th // // Write poem for W
F.
B .L // // london clay, blackened, arsenic // // railings, pointing,
r satin, worsted // // dimity, blazer,
babouche // // borrowed light, dimpse, mizzle, skylight // // ammoni
Babylon by candlelight // // How many miles to Barnard Castle?  // //
finds itself // // rich rediscovering
Bach’s counterpoint— // // frescos are fragile, but Piero’s perspecti
een leaves showing // // their lighter
backs , a few edging // // towards the brown.  // // Autumn fruit is g
over and under // // as we skip on the
backs of the older ones.  // // The wind grows steady and purposeful. 
Random walk // // Looking
backwards , I can see // // mistily, the shape of things: // // the s
ound me?  // // Or was it just a hedge,
backwards ?  // // Yesterday I was told: it looks clear.  // // So lif
bits // // way out here in the remoter
backwaters // // of the western spiral arm (which will never be fashi
// No balance here.  The bad // // is
bad in absolute, while the good // // is good only in relation to the
’t spread.  // // No balance here.  The
bad // // is bad in absolute, while the good // // is good only in r
e missing.  // // It’s getting beyond a
bad joke.  // // Destroying our comfort’s as rotten // // as stealing
d.  // // Polarity // // // First the
bad news, then the good: // // it's cancer; but it hasn’t spread.  //
t in its own best interests.  // // Too
bad .  // // Polarity // // // First the bad news, then the good:  //
// // is good only in relation to the
bad .  // // The chances are said // // to be good.  That’s good // /
y and long ago.  // // A fairy, good or
bad , will know // // exactly when to show her face, // // the world
million:  Middle East // // Bam Posht;
Badiyat ash Sham; Bisharin // // railways; borders; deserts // // On
// But when my support // // is caught
badly short // // I’ll just have to ask ‘Where d’you pee?’  // //
ets to Glasgow 6th-7th // // Camera in
bag for Mon // // Did I submit tax form??  // // Check L’s dob—70 nex
// sitting, lying all around // // in
bags or scattered on the ground // // waiting to be found.  // // Wai
cancer; but it hasn’t spread.  // // No
balance here.  The bad // // is bad in absolute, while the good // /
// // Note:  Fifty colours of Farrow &
Ball // //
hard to know.  // // We have no crystal
ball , no glass.  // // The light has all gone, now.  // //
the inside?  // // See that blue-green
ball of stuff? // // —spinning around one of the hot yellow bits //
// // It’s Jan, not June.  // // A red
balloon , // // way up high, // // with crescent moon // // from col
it.  Send a letter.  // // Pad of paper,
ballpoint pen.  // // Find a stamp, street-corner box.  // // I love y
shington, close to a version of Rodin’s
Balzac , and called “Post-Balzac”.  It is a full-length bronze cape, up
ion of Rodin’s Balzac, and called “Post-
Balzac ”.  It is a full-length bronze cape, upright and rounded as if o
One to ten million:  Middle East // //
Bam Posht; Badiyat ash Sham; Bisharin // // railways; borders; desert
/ // between the end of the Chatterley
ban // // and the Beatles’ first LP; // // strangely, though, not se
hop-committed crime, // // the muzakal
banality which stings.  // // Even I, atheist, find some of them subli
s protects // // a calmer green oasis,
band of salt-marsh // // where barn-owls hunt their prey.  But not fo
mboyant adventure—to // // jump on the
bandwagon he’ll be glad.”  // // The Boris is happy.  “We need a desig
/ // This one started with an almighty
bang // // —thought it was going to be a disaster // // but then it
slopes up from the creek.  On the other
bank // // a mud cliff, undercut and crumbling in places, // // cres
oss // // a flood plain, excavates one
bank // // as it lays down the other, // // switching favours at eac
turn.  // // (Stay close to the carved
bank // // for the deeper channel.) // // In the tidal creeks that s
the marsh // // carve out sections of
bank // // leaving sharp cliffs of compacted mud.  // // Evening.  A
tcher // // busily foraging across the
bank // // lets me get much closer // // before giving me an earful.
my left, the foraging ground: a smooth
bank of mud // // slopes up from the creek.  On the other bank // //
// to the encroaching mud.  On the far
bank // // of the next bend, another sandy beach // // to reach by b
/ // inside) mark out the sandy/grassy
bank that is // // the cliff.  A narrow sandy beach past which // //
own reach up the foreshore, // // the
banked sand and shingle, perhaps // // (when the tide is high enough)
artello tower, // // we walk along the
banked -up track // // behind the wall, level with the top, // // run
ng sparks.  // // Grass on the lineside
banks is marked // // with smears of fires, burnt and black.  // // T
e tides run strong.  // // Channels and
banks of shingle shift and melt, // // form and reform each ebb and f
g glacier.  // // On the next bend, the
banks // // will exchange character.  // // A flowing river, meanderi
er look at this one here, // // with a
bar across.  Not quite the biggest // // of its group, but very beaut
to face the town, runs headlong for the
bar , // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // becomes a tri
// // The Chimney; Cranmer Room; Café
Bar // // courts; staircases; playing fields // // One to five hundr
rapeseed and the corn.  // // The five-
bar gate, the muddy track on the tarmac road.  // // The walled paddoc
r the marsh-birds calling // // at the
bar the waves are washing over.  // // Breath the scents the sea-winds
/ chrome coffee machines.  // // At the
bar three people sit // // all six eyes lowered // // in silent cont
// // The latest growths are long and
barbed , // // reaching out to colonise the heath, // // at war with
ftness, // // but with sharp claws and
barbs , // // fastens itself inside.  // // Movement is faster, edgier
// of celebration—every line // // the
Bard created for the stage // // by the best actors of the age.  // /
second period or layer, // // like the
bard from Japan whose verses never would scan, adds an extra list.  //
Abbey, and the Strid beyond, // // and
Barden Bridge—and now I flick my wand // // some miles of dale and mo
// that would be sharp if our toes were
bare .  // // Behind us, in the wood, // // tall straight pines reach
ath leads on, // // a gentler walk, to
bare bleak Malham Tarn.  // // Then back to skirt the edge of Malham C
your coat, // // and sometimes at the
bare flesh of // // the back of your hand as you reach past to pilfer
sheep- and rabbit-droppings, // // the
bare rocks and the ridge, knife-edge against the sky.  // // What do t
// the Suffolk countryside, each tall
bare trunk // // gnarled and twisted by the wind, supports // // a w
storms // // or long since stripped of
bark , criss-cross // // the forest floor, streams and all.  // // A s
oasis, band of salt-marsh // // where
barn -owls hunt their prey.  But not for long // // —impermanence’s pe
by candlelight // // How many miles to
Barnard Castle?  // // Three score, out/return // // Can I go there,
ded time.  // // From the bottom of the
barrel // // the sound of scraping has ceased.  // // This drain germ
ill me.  // // Like the asteroid // //
barrelling onwards, to wipe us out in // // ten or a thousand or mayb
wn the computer // // tearing down the
barriers // // cutting down the roses // // floating down the river
of fumbling, // // building the clumsy
barriers just in time // // to keep the carriers of plague at bay.  //
ws // // across the pavement.  // // A
bartender bent to work; // // chrome coffee machines.  // // At the b
// ninety-nine years long.) // // Béla
Bartók and Frank Bridge // // are still at college // // Sergei Prok
Place the kettle on the cordless
base making sure it is positioned correctly. // // Plug in
Kettle // // Place the cordless
base on a level firm surface. // // Where ever possible fi
ser, already ancient in // // the damp
basement of the Peckham house // // that we bought some forty years a
/ Afterwards Colin and I go down to the
basement // // —the real crematorium— // // and see her consigned to
Xmas // // Ring Tony D about works in
basement // // Tickets for Once Sat night—check time // // Tickets t
, // // are droning back towards their
bases , // // and fighters too.  The siren call // // is in reverse,
e coast // // for the requisite square-
bashing .  And then when he ships out, // // back to mother, in a two-
// // path with spectacular views over
Bassenthwaite .  // // Walking down quickly, not paying attention, I //
// One to ten:  Tiles // // Ormeaux on
Bastille ; Ormeaux on Rioja; Ormeaux on Lagoon // // taps; pipes // /
o fifty:  Ground floor // // Bedroom 2;
Bathroom ; Bicycle shed // // walls; doors; drains // // One to ten: 
/ // throwing down the gauntlet // //
battening down the hatches // // closing down the argument // // shu
ooden board on which are mounted // //
battery box, switches, lights, buzzers, plugs // // and connecting le
et // // and clash — and I’m to be the
battle ground.  // // The field is ready now, the lines are drawn.  //
s good // // enough, I suppose.  // //
Battle lines // // // // // // // // Somewhere deep down in my
rbosely quite enough to float or sink a
battle -ship.  // // But perhaps instead I will go the whole hog, the f
rranean, // // empires rise and fall. 
Battles are fought, // // wars are lost and won.  Did they rage aroun
// their winter sustenance.  Out in the
bay // // a seal watches us, then flips away, // // dives deep, leav
// but grander far, a corniced window
bay // // in darker wood.  Clear morning sunlight fills // // the ro
ng the inky darkness, keeping // // at
bay the frights night has in store.  // // Whether I’m lying awake or
lat // // in face, no sign of the deep
bay windows that // // adorn most later London terraced fronts.  // /
/ // to keep the carriers of plague at
bay .  // // Yet someone here is staggering and stumbling— // // how i
ns; Shippegan Island; Cape Sable // //
bays ; harbours // // One to one million two hundred and fifty thousan
r // // as it did a month gone, // //
BC (Before Capricorn).  // // But of course that is not so.  // // See
torm demolished // // the dunes on the
beach across the creek // // and had a go at East Hills.  // // A onc
m has passed // // lie back on the wet
beach // // and watch the stars emerge.  // // Sharp dots; but watch
// Nearer, the lapwings forage up the
beach .  // // At water’s edge the oyster-catchers, gulls // // compet
ome at an angle, sweep // // along the
beach .  Each // // finds its own reach up the foreshore, // // the b
e met again // // on a Suffolk shingle
beach .  // // In November the days were short, // // and dark night f
astwards we turn, // // along the open
beach , in rich sea air.  // // Look up, look up, my love—the sky is ca
// // compete for surface scraps.  The
beach is good // // for all.  The redshanks, godwits, curlews search
at is // // the cliff.  A narrow sandy
beach past which // // the falling tide reveals the deep black mud //
s // // on piles all along the shingle
beach .  // // The mile south to the Martello tower, // // we walk alo
// // of the next bend, another sandy
beach // // to reach by boat.  That place we call Japan: // // again
clear.  // // Across the wood, onto the
beach .  We hear // // the gulls, and faintly, far away, the churn //
s waving under the sky.  // // Islands,
beaches , clifftops, creeks and inlets, // // rocky shorelines tumblin
more.  // // More hills, dales, crags,
beaches // // more boat or cycle rides // // more walks, more bluebe
mmon course, // // or bend or hitch or
bead ?  // // Some earlier occasion when // // our life-lines must hav
search // // for hidden treasure, long
beaks buried full // // to probe deep down beneath the shining mud.  /
hank, // // godwit, curlew—long // //
beaks probing deep // // beneath the // // shining // // mud.  // /
sun behind us, low, // // yellow light-
beams almost horizontal; // // East Hills aglow.  // // Winds moaning
e small bowl of wedding reception stews
bean bubble, // // The taro rolls up an incense.  // // The impregnab
eafood in monolith // // Do the crispy
bean curd of boiler, // // Blow up a little croaker with no result.  /
ake train // // it’s plain // // grow
beard // // brave again // // forsake train // //
came up and blew them in again.  // //
Beards are good for finger-fiddling // // stroking, tickling, searchi
came up and blew them in again.  // //
Beards are great when gales are threatening // // keep drafts out and
nd came up and blew it in again.  // //
Beards may need some clipping, shortening // // left alone they easil
way // // Just feel the breathless sun
beat down // // Way-hay, blow us away // // And seek out any shade w
feet // // [make up an eight-syllable]
beat .  // // Selec- // // tions will do // // for five, three and tw
Camelot.  // // But what is this small
beaten path // // Between two beds of clean-raked earth // // Where
nd of the Chatterley ban // // and the
Beatles ’ first LP; // // strangely, though, not sex but fire).  // //
es on the rooftiles overhead // // and
beats against the window with the wind.  // // Whipped wide awake by w
e biggest // // of its group, but very
beautiful .  // // What does it look like from the inside?  // // See t
id he render // // for all of us, such
beauty brought he forth; // // and at the end, almost with dying brea
peaceful earth, // // the mill-girl’s
beauty or the maiden’s death, // // the trout that dart and pause and
Becalmed // // Run all the sails up the mast // // Way-hay, blow us
?  Eventually // // the Sheffield ties
become more tenuous, // // legs weaken, and isolation palls.  // // O
he village shop to seek supplies // //
becomes a daily ritual.  // // Suffolk, circa 1958 // // After the fl
ck, makes some small additions.  And it
becomes a scene, a group of people in evening dress, top hats and the
h the scents the sea-winds bring // //
becomes a trickle.  On the soft, receding // // Hear the marsh-birds
s, // // resonates on though the print
becomes faint; // // just as each new generation soon finds itself //
lprit must now be unmasked.  // // It’s
becoming quite clear that the hour // // for soft pussy-footing is pa
ne window, rather high— // // from the
bed all I could see was sky.  // // But rising gave me sight // // of
spiral hardness rests // // on the sea-
bed .  Forever?  // // Another, rougher softness, // // but with sharp
cross to a busy road // // but from my
bed I looked out on // // a corner of a tree-bordered square.  // //
head // // insufficient to send me to
bed .  // // Just imagine the grief // // and the consequence if // /
more, // // voices from the curtained
bed next door.  // // Responses muted, though the sense is raw, // //
care.  // // Voices from the curtained
bed next door: // // someone else’s fragile life is there.  // //
spital // // Voices from the curtained
bed next door: // // someone else’s fragile life is there.  // // Eac
seed, // // Planting out this cabbage-
bed — // // She was once a lady’s maid // // In gracious, towered Cam
a triangle of streets.  // // From the
bed the window was hidden // // but from the table we could see // /
t // // with a large window.  From our
bed // // we could see the tops of // // the trees in the front gard
// Turn the place upside down.  // //
Bedroom again, more drawers and cupboards.  // // Chair with pile of c
/ // One to fifty:  Ground floor // //
Bedroom 2; Bathroom; Bicycle shed // // walls; doors; drains // // O
ts patterns of light on the // // high
bedroom ceiling.  // //
oad into the distance.  // // The first
bedroom I had to myself // // had windows on two sides.  // // One lo
In our first house together // // the
bedroom was again first floor front.  // // Across the tiny front gard
Beds and trees and windows // // A corner of a tree-bordered square /
is small beaten path // // Between two
beds of clean-raked earth // // Where tender shoots may venture forth
// No.  // // Desk?  // // No.  // //
Bedside table?  // // No.  // // Kitchen again?  // // No.  No.  No. 
tamp.  // // I love you.  // // Papered
bedsit .  Send a letter.  // // Pad of paper, ballpoint pen.  // // Find
ges of a field.  // // Our first double
bedsitter // // was on the first floor front // // with a large wind
icious.) // // Another tree, perhaps a
beech , but green // // (I think that I can see the nuts it sheds) //
// identify across the years.  A copper
beech // // stands out, a clump of pears whose fruit // // is hard a
iously // // // The garlic slices the
beef granule.  // // The first boilers of iron plate glue east // //
: canals and cobbled streets // // and
beer and chocolate shops // // and churches, churches, churches // /
ptations, welcome in // // the roaming
bees .  // // Feel the fire.  Spread out a green canopy // // in the wa
e Judith has chosen the music, // // a
Beethoven string quartet.  // // Afterwards Colin and I go down to the
n going (despite it’s his wake)— // //
Beethoven’s music is just bloody marvellous, // // resonates on thoug
ing to be a disaster // // but then it
began rolling out its own // // finite but unbounded space-time conti
door open // // breathe in.  // // Now
begin .  // //
t goes // // How and where does it all
begin ?  // // From a spring.  // // Tell me, if you will, how it goes.
I.  // // We // // As for us, the bits
begin to fall off.  // // We are not so far behind.  // // Old age ain
// // The rule: we should not // //
begin unwrapping till it’s // // light enough to see.  // // Below th
Beginagain // // There was an old man called Michael Finnegan.  // //
// One more great change, one more new
beginning : // // a different kind of home // // here on the north No
ng is the end and // // the end is the
beginning and // // the bit in the middle is // // as long as a piec
somewhere.  // // Start again, from the
beginning , by the door.  // // Tables, shelves, cupboards, hooks, draw
Destination(and
beginning —for G) // // From random junctures in primeval winds // //
borne on the blue ocean.  // // In the
beginning I am small and playful, like the wind.  // // It changes dir
rt treatise on string theory // // The
beginning is the end and // // the end is the beginning and // // th
at the edges of the air // // and the
beginning of space // // the sky is dark, but the raging fire // //
Tide // // each new
beginning // // reiterates a pattern // // as old as the hills // /
gularity is quite absurd.  // // In the
beginning there were many words: // // sitting, lying all around //
You are here // // // // In the
beginning was the third.  // // (The first two were duds; the bits //
ed ranks of Christmas pine // // which
begins a mile down the road // // and into whose dense interior // /
ng // // makes another lingering turn,
begins // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // retreating back the
nts the sea-winds bring // // The tide
begins its steady, slow accretion // // Hear the marsh-birds calling
r: nights are drawing in // // the day
begins to go // // the clouds are low and spitting rain.  // // The l
// will burn for ever.  The fire once
begun // // would last for days and days.  Each morning I came down,
flips away, // // dives deep, leaving
behind a swirling wake.  // // Nearer, the lapwings forage up the beac
reach the valley floor— // // to leave
behind , for now, the wilder moor.  // // The treasures to be found alo
dying breath, // // a swan-song, left
behind for us to ponder, // // in any season.  // //
lost, // // we let each thread unroll
behind , // // laying down the past— // // until the day, just nine m
te from the valley, with // // Derwent
behind me and scrambles ahead of me.  // // Out of the pastures and on
n to fall off.  // // We are not so far
behind .  // // Old age ain’t no place for sissies.  // // —Bette Davis
hem.  // // Move anything they might be
behind or under.  // // Look inside anything they might be in.  // //
// // That scratching?  A poltergeist
behind the skirting?  // // Don’t be silly, that’s just a branch of th
but carefully composed: // // the sky
behind the trees beyond the meadow, // // tall grasses glowing in the
e walk along the banked-up track // //
behind the wall, level with the top, // // running the gauntlet of th
hpaste // // that the saxophonist left
behind .  // // This is the heat-death of the universe; // // the rest
ly vanish?  // // It hasn’t just fallen
behind .  // // Two of our cushions are missing // // from the sofa ju
be sharp if our toes were bare.  // //
Behind us, in the wood, // // tall straight pines reach for the sky,
he ramparts // // looking seaward, sun
behind us, low, // // yellow light-beams almost horizontal; // // Ea
adder, which // // we can then haul up
behind us, ready // // to defend against the next attack.  // // Towa
/ But we shall leave such counterpoints
behind us: // // time will tell.  // // Those are not the moments to
g, breaking.  // // I am lost.  The one
behind // // will finish me completely // // and for ever.  // //
// // ninety-nine years long.) // //
Béla Bartók and Frank Bridge // // are still at college // // Sergei
der the channel and then from France to
Belgium .  // // But we don’t notice them at all: the journey is seamle
/ // Though with only one ship and one
bell .) // // we there did espy a fair pretty maid // // with a comb
/ // Wonderful mechanisms in the civic
belltower — // // a giant musical box.  // // There once was a poet in
ushroom // // Do the black boiler hair
belly .  // // The day boiler duck is miscellaneous.  // //
nates here.  // // Please take all your
belongings with you, // // and could the last person to alight please
hreads // // In far-off times, my best-
beloved , // // when we were young and all, // // the woven patterns
pale, under my guard, // // below the
belt and over the line.  // // What’s in a name?  // // It’s been too
around their necks or attached to their
belts .  // //
g disorder along the back // // of the
bench , as far as the window.  // // Some of the contents and all of th
The
bench // // At one end of the bench in the garage sits // // a minia
The bench // // At one end of the
bench in the garage sits // // a miniature wooden eight-drawered ches
e clutter covering the remainder of the
bench // // is piled uncontained and unconstrained.  // // Unused par
iddle-aged New York woman, sitting on a
bench seat, observes the situation, and promptly, busily, without risi
// elsewhere in the garage).  // // The
bench was once // // a kitchen dresser, already ancient in // // the
ud.  On the far bank // // of the next
bend , another sandy beach // // to reach by boat.  That place we call
arrow side road curves to join // // a
bend on a bigger road.  The pavements // // curl around, leaving two
ave found some common course, // // or
bend or hitch or bead?  // // Some earlier occasion when // // our li
rom a dying glacier.  // // On the next
bend , the banks // // will exchange character.  // // A flowing river
I drift on mirror water, following the
bend , // // the curlew rises suddenly, // // screeching at my invasi
Sunburn // // Sonnet // //
Bend the light // // just so // // above, below, // // left and rig
ot // // and burn.  // // Tanka // //
Bend the light just so // // above, below, left and right, // // foc
// (well, really, just around the final
bend ) // // this craven kraken creeps, and slumbers not: // // a ste
tumn fruit is growing fat, // // trees
bending , boughs reaching // // for the ground, creaking // // under
Autumn wind is bowling on, // // trees
bending , dark green leaves showing // // their lighter backs, a few e
Good vibrations // // The
Bendix washing machine was already elderly // // when my mother, acqu
memory and desire, fertile earth // //
beneath , a place where something would unfold, // // something hard w
t cold, but every day // // the embers
beneath the ash were darkly glowing, asking only // // a slight encou
to twist into one, // // right there,
beneath the bridge.  // // If we could trace them in reverse, // // e
louds across the sky, // // lying abed
beneath the cobwebbed rafters, // // warm and dry.  // // On waters o
crafty sea is also digging down // //
beneath the piles.  Then one stormy night // // it pulls the final pr
s buried full // // to probe deep down
beneath the shining mud.  // //
w—long // // beaks probing deep // //
beneath the // // shining // // mud.  // // Sonnet // // Cold and c
what’s needed.  The // // real public
benefit’s not even there.”  // // Sadiq says “The Boris’s vanity proje
through trees // // fruit-laden boughs
bent to earth // // apples in the grass // //
across the pavement.  // // A bartender
bent to work; // // chrome coffee machines.  // // At the bar three p
Walking in winter // // // //
Berkshire , 1962-3 // // This year it snows on Boxing Day.  // // The
// // Dining table?  // // No.  // //
Beside easy chair?  // // No.  // // On television?  // // No.  // //
s: small, size 6, size 8, large.  // //
Beside it stands another of much later age: // // a plastic chest wit
Wells in winter // // We take the path
beside the wood—the fir // // and silver birch along the dunes that r
// // the drying sand with muddy spots
bespeckled .  // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // The tr
// // just three alliterative lines—at
best // // a semi-stanza—and then to cease?  It seems // // perverse
ard created for the stage // // by the
best actors of the age.  // // Thank you for calling Shakespeareline. 
Two threads // // In far-off times, my
best -beloved, // // when we were young and all, // // the woven patt
prop.  A hundred yards // // of man’s
best effort at defence // // drops thirty feet into a hole.  // // Ca
dden, but evident in the number, // //
best expressed Roman fashion:  // // CII.  // // We // // As for us,
eems to be acting // // not in its own
best interests.  // // Too bad.  // // Polarity // // // First the b
et in Ghent // // Who set out with the
best of intent // // In rollicking verse // // On a galloping horse—
ce.  We left the room unpainted for the
best part of the 22 years we lived there, and it wasn’t just because w
r cups.  Thomas certainly did his level
best // // to drink himself to death.  But for these falls, // // no
// just have to check on my map for the
best way back.  // // Reading a map now, I have to use spectacles.  //
recover the net.  // // You’d scarcely
bet he’d swallow a net.  // // He swallowed the net to trap the hat.  /
ds some zeta factor // // and my clear
beta , gamma, delta connection // // is screwed up by a zeta factor //
llow that suggestion // // to make the
beta , gamma, delta link. // // 1 back: frustration // // Damn—I had
/ 2 forward: inspiration // // Alpha,
beta , gamma, delta.  // // The way is clear.  This formulation // //
an approximate relation // // by tying
beta up with mu and lambda.  // // I can’t see clearly:  I’ll need to
o do is make connection // // alpha to
beta using this equation, // // then follow that suggestion // // to
age ain’t no place for sissies.  // // —
Bette Davis // //
ng the branches by the trunk // // or (
better ) by the real rope-ladder, which // // we can then haul up behi
and in the small, // // to learn (for
better or for worse) // // what moves us all.  // // From me you’ll l
ntle // // way to wander into // // a
better place, a future that // // revives, replenishes, makes good //
shions are missing.  // // It’s getting
beyond a bad joke.  // // Destroying our comfort’s as rotten // // as
each past to pilfer // // the clusters
beyond , adding scratches // // to the stains already covering your fi
, // // to Bolton Abbey, and the Strid
beyond , // // and Barden Bridge—and now I flick my wand // // some m
red hills, created by some force // //
beyond imagination; and of course // // extracted from my fickle memo
ior // // we sometimes venture.  // //
Beyond the fir-trees lies // // a bracken-covered heath.  The summer
nted fireworks // // in the dark edges
beyond the flickering light.  // // Nearly-five-year-old Colin // //
mposed: // // the sky behind the trees
beyond the meadow, // // tall grasses glowing in the morning sun //
t // // charges towards me // // from
beyond the pale, under my guard, // // below the belt and over the li
he some more the cool clear air.  // //
Beyond the scree the open path leads on, // // a gentler walk, to bar
round floor // // Bedroom 2; Bathroom;
Bicycle shed // // walls; doors; drains // // One to ten:  Tiles //
el link.  // // A monstrous hole, quite
big enough to eat // // the park and all the houses down the street. 
nnot grow.  // // Rough softness is too
big , // // leaves for another home.  // // Another rough softness.  //
, wheels bigger than me— // // a great
big monster, steaming, black.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack click
y house // // that is my mother’s next
big venture after // // producing six of us.  // // L-shaped the hous
road curves to join // // a bend on a
bigger road.  The pavements // // curl around, leaving two small rais
front to see // // the engine, wheels
bigger than me— // // a great big monster, steaming, black.  // // Th
/ // with a bar across.  Not quite the
biggest // // of its group, but very beautiful.  // // What does it l
flesh reviewed // // in magazines, on
billboards high displayed, // // each model posed in languid attitude
s must compete for life.  // // Another
billion random changes: all // // —or almost all—are duds.  Neverthele
om junctures in primeval winds // // a
billion random patterns form—until // // an accidental spiral sequenc
ke grows // // eyes smart // // smoke
billows // // move apart // // eyes smart // // flames creep // //
e grows // // smoke curls // // smoke
billows // // smoke grows // // eyes smart // // smoke billows //
// // Don’t be silly, that’s just the
bin —needs emptying.  // // That knocking?  Footsteps in the next room?
side the wood—the fir // // and silver
birch along the dunes that run // // between the marshes and the sea.
of part and whole, netsuke-like.  // //
Bird and fish are two, and now are one: // // no perfectability excep
// dream deep // // faint light // //
bird sings // // growing bright // // gadget pings // // go away //
-birds calling // // water’s edge, the
birds are searching, finding.  // // Breath the scents the sea-winds b
bows face seaward // // Hear the marsh-
birds calling // // against the current pushing strongly townward.  //
s in the harbour; // // Hear the marsh-
birds calling // // at the bar the waves are washing over.  // // Bre
ndbanks.  Listing // // Hear the marsh-
birds calling // // boats are stranded at their stations, waiting //
ach and lift them // // Hear the marsh-
birds calling // // echoes of the distant sea-swell rock them // //
y, slow accretion // // Hear the marsh-
birds calling // // in places it has lost, reoccupation // // Breath
ring turn, begins // // Hear the marsh-
birds calling // // retreating back the way it came, regains // // B
a gentle trickle // // Hear the marsh-
birds calling // // the drying sand with muddy spots bespeckled.  //
around once more // // Hear the marsh-
birds calling // // to face the town, runs headlong for the bar, //
nnels water rises // // Hear the marsh-
birds calling // // to the edges of the sea-grass—pauses, // // Brea
he soft, receding // // Hear the marsh-
birds calling // // water’s edge, the birds are searching, finding.  /
g under the sky.  // // Sea-birds, pond-
birds , dippers, warblers, song-birds, // // waders, hunters hovering
ines tumbling under the sky.  // // Sea-
birds , pond-birds, dippers, warblers, song-birds, // // waders, hunte
ds, pond-birds, dippers, warblers, song-
birds , // // waders, hunters hovering under the sky.  // // People, p
Pushing 60 // // My sixtieth
birthday is nearing— // // brings a thought that is far from cheering
el posed in languid attitude, // // in
birthday suit and little else arrayed?  // // I think he’d add a note
ast // // Bam Posht; Badiyat ash Sham;
Bisharin // // railways; borders; deserts // // One to five million:
the end is the beginning and // // the
bit in the middle is // // as long as a piece of string.  // //
signs accumulated over a century and a
bit .  There is an area about 2ft square of brush marks in a darker pai
d.  // // (The first two were duds; the
bits // // are somewhere back there, along with // // all the other
// CII.  // // We // // As for us, the
bits begin to fall off.  // // We are not so far behind.  // // Old ag
once grew on the hill above, // // and
bits of buildings, human artifacts.  // // Geological time // // is f
into the night // // I fed it all the
bits that it had missed: // // fragments around the edges of the blaz
—spinning around one of the hot yellow
bits // // way out here in the remoter backwaters // // of the weste
// There was a war.  // // There was a
bitter , civil // // war in Jordan.  // // There was a gun.  // // The
wo months // // are clear and fine and
bitter cold.  // // Every step, // // your foot upon the crust, you t
I cannot say.  // // Rainbow-bright, or
black and white, // // or autumn hues, or shades of grey— // // the
of incense taste mushroom // // Do the
black boiler hair belly.  // // The day boiler duck is miscellaneous. 
the wire brush // // of David’s thick
black hair, // // staying in place until at home // // the small gas
/ // the falling tide reveals the deep
black mud // // which oozes softly up between our toes.  Across the r
, // // the ocean, the blue-green-grey-
black ocean, // // the bottomless, endless ocean.  // // Where are we
Black September // // // There was a war.  // // There was a bitter,
// // with smears of fires, burnt and
black .  // // The bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // // On holid
— // // a great big monster, steaming,
black .  // // The bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // // Telephon
Suffolk heath, // // the wild Suffolk
blackberries // // of my childhood remain forever perfect, // // for
you will deliver // // for tomorrow’s
blackberry -and-apple pie // // —the ones you ate straight off the bus
F.B.L // // london clay,
blackened , arsenic // // railings, pointing, down pipe, clunch, setti
lee // // of the sea-wall, around the
bladder -wrack, // // long-legged waders scutter, scavenge, seek // /
e train // // rough grain // // sharp
blade // // shave again // // shine or rain // // wind or cloud //
// that was off by a mile.  // // Tony
Blair // // floated on air // // when Maggie’s encomium // // came
// // ral son and heir // // was Tony
Blair .  // // Nigel Farrage // // has a mouth like a garage— // // h
enied.  // // Anyway, the cancer can be
blamed // // for many things.  Hard to tell, now, // // which failin
glass.  // // We jump at a sudden sound-
blast — // // another train on the next track.  // // The bogeys go: 
er.  A line of ancient oaks // // (one
blasted trunk is hollow through, and can be climbed // // inside) mar
/ // fragments around the edges of the
blaze .  // // Even now, // // I feel the heat upon my face.  // // Tw
ties of fuel // // and built a roaring
blaze .  Then late into the night // // I fed it all the bits that it
, slipper satin, worsted // // dimity,
blazer , babouche // // borrowed light, dimpse, mizzle, skylight // /
th, // // and send signal fires // //
blazing into the air.  // // Our space is the earth, // // time lives
eads on, // // a gentler walk, to bare
bleak Malham Tarn.  // // Then back to skirt the edge of Malham Cove,
nights, more dreams // // more seasons
bleeding into seasons.  // // Just not so many more.  // //
l Finnegan.  // // The wind came up and
blew him in again.  // //
hy grin—but // // the wind came up and
blew it in again.  // // Beards may need some clipping, shortening //
is chin—but // // the wind came up and
blew them in again.  // // Beards are good for finger-fiddling // //
and kin—but // // the wind came up and
blew them in again.  // // Beards are great when gales are threatening
lashes silhouette the trees against the
blind .  // // A storm is raging as I lie abed, // // whipped wide awa
lashes silhouette the trees against the
blind .  // // Under canvas // // Night-time noises permeate the air /
// // Sharp dots; but watch and do not
blink .  // // In time, an instant dash: // // a shooting star.  // //
clouds amass: // // watch now: if you
blink you will miss // // the instant jagged challenge passing betwee
at the height of the Luftwaffe’s // //
blitz on Sheffield.  // // In north Africa, D is killed.  // // Later,
ove it.  // // The all-clear // // //
Blitz .  The heavy bombers, lighter now, // // are droning back toward
ake a join // // with the neighbouring
block , leaving a row of nine.  // // In nineteen sixty nine the house
London terraced fronts.  // // One of a
block of four, it had been once— // // but they had filled the gap to
ying fields // // One to five hundred: 
Block plan // // Sherlock Road; Sherlock Court; Sherlock Close // //
ey raised the ramparts: giant concrete
blocks // // on piles all along the shingle beach.  // // The mile so
a cause.  // // A // // The fall drew
blood .  // // No such obvious culprit here, // // except for age, pur
wake)— // // Beethoven’s music is just
bloody marvellous, // // resonates on though the print becomes faint;
the flowers bloom and wither // // and
bloom again.  They’ve been there // // for a decade now.  // //
g, too.  // // Around them, the flowers
bloom and wither // // and bloom again.  They’ve been there // // fo
urrents criss-cross, revolutions // //
blossom and fade, movements // // are born, copulate and die.  // //
A great dark cloud // // fire-edged,
blots out the setting sun.  // // Later, the clouds amass: // // watc
melot.  // // Then, as winds of fortune
blow , // // It was arranged that she should go // // And take her pl
r.  // // From across the waters // //
blow the evanescent airs // // moistening the many-coloured earths.  /
the crispy bean curd of boiler, // //
Blow up a little croaker with no result.  // // Fragile crab of incens
ection find // // Give me some wind to
blow us away // //
g up a wind // // Give me some wind to
blow us away // // Adrift the middle of the sea // // Way-hay, blow
decks to cool the wood // // Way-hay,
blow us away // // And pour a bucket on my head // // Give me some w
reathless sun beat down // // Way-hay,
blow us away // // And seek out any shade we can // // Give me some
t the middle of the sea // // Way-hay,
blow us away // // And there is nothing here for me // // Give me so
morrow there’ll be wind // // Way-hay,
blow us away // // And we can some direction find // // Give me some
l the sails up the mast // // Way-hay,
blow us away // // But we are bound for nowhere fast // // Give me s
as we roll // // Give me some wind to
blow us away // // Horizon’s clear from end to end // // Way-hay, bl
here for me // // Give me some wind to
blow us away // // Just feel the breathless sun beat down // // Way-
s clear from end to end // // Way-hay,
blow us away // // No hope of whistling up a wind // // Give me some
owhere fast // // Give me some wind to
blow us away // // No wind! we wallow in the swell // // Way-hay, b
hade we can // // Give me some wind to
blow us away // // Now sluice the decks to cool the wood // // Way-h
on my head // // Give me some wind to
blow us away // // Perhaps tomorrow there’ll be wind // // Way-hay,
we wallow in the swell // // Way-hay,
blow us away // // The sails clatter as we roll // // Give me some w
n: we clamber down.  // // The whistle
blows , the train moves on, // // the guard’s van trundles at the back
rarely, // // carriages decked in the
blue and gold livery // // of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons
ll it catches fire, // // pour out the
blue flame.  // // After lunch, a walk // // through the summer’s bro
k like from the inside?  // // See that
blue -green ball of stuff? // // —spinning around one of the hot yello
arkness by night, // // the ocean, the
blue -green-grey-black ocean, // // the bottomless, endless ocean.  //
ie, // // it’s Jan, not June.  // // A
blue lagoon, // // the deep blue sky.  // // The crescent moon // //
s over sand and rock // // in filtered
blue light, // // carrying hardness with it.  // // Sometimes softnes
, the wild wind // // and borne on the
blue ocean.  // // In the beginning I am small and playful, like the w
n’t wear jackets // // Shapeless, navy
blue or fawn, // // three-quarter length, or maybe short, // // patc
ambling moor // // changing sea // //
blue sea // // silver lake // // purple moor // // green forest //
the sky, // // dark trunks against the
blue , // // shed long thin needles.  // // In the distance, // // gn
rub eyes // // yawn and stretch // //
blue skies // // legs itch // // must get on // // first scratch //
.  // // A blue lagoon, // // the deep
blue sky.  // // The crescent moon // // some cryptic rune.  // // Th
lls, knife-edge against // // the deep
blue sky.  We take our boots off, // // dip our feet into water clear
or cycle rides // // more walks, more
bluebell woods // // more curlews, more ragged, slanting lines of gee
November
blues // // November: nights are drawing in // // the day begins to
om the // // edge of the path, not yet
blunted or bowdlerized.  // // Broken?  It must be, if agony’s evidenc
th fuel to burn.  // // If the lines be
blurred just right, // // You may go there with your eyesight.  // //
// peignoir, charlotte’s locks, nancy’s
blushes // // drop cloth, slipper satin, worsted // // dimity, blaze
Circle line // //
Board anywhere // //
lectricity to children: // // a wooden
board on which are mounted // // battery box, switches, lights, buzze
k.  // // Don’t waste your time on wild
boar’s head.  // // If Aristotle makes you choke // // eat me instead
left by the ebb-tide.  // // The moored
boat listing on the mudflat.  // // The salt-marsh, the sedge and the
ills, dales, crags, beaches // // more
boat or cycle rides // // more walks, more bluebell woods // // more
another sandy beach // // to reach by
boat .  That place we call Japan: // // against the sky, a line of tho
// Hear the marsh-birds calling // //
boats are stranded at their stations, waiting // // Breath the scents
nds bring // // the channel, turns the
boats around once more // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // to f
’s van trundles at the back.  // // The
bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // //
ches follow along the track: // // the
bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // // At night, the glow and fly
her train on the next track.  // // The
bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // // Country station: we clamb
ople rushing there and back.  // // The
bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // // First we go to the front t
s of fires, burnt and black.  // // The
bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // // On holiday by train!  Vast
ch pole like a jumping jack.  // // The
bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // // Raindrops slanting across
ig monster, steaming, black.  // // The
bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // // Telephone wires through th
‘OFF’ position. // // To re-
boil the kettle, switch it on again.  If the appliance has just switch
. // // When the kettle has
boiled the water may be poured out through the spout. // //
olith // // Do the crispy bean curd of
boiler , // // Blow up a little croaker with no result.  // // Fragile
lourishing bowl bowl shrimp // // Do a
boiler burn the duck head.  // // The prefecture of river drives meal
black boiler hair belly.  // // The day
boiler duck is miscellaneous.  // //
ense taste mushroom // // Do the black
boiler hair belly.  // // The day boiler duck is miscellaneous.  // //
ices the beef granule.  // // The first
boilers of iron plate glue east // // Grow face fa-cai thick soup.  //
inate. // // When the water
boils the kettle will switch off automatically.  The kettle can be swi
slave again // // pull chain // // be
bold // // brake train // // it’s plain // // grow beard // // bra
nd gaily singing on his way // // Rode
bold Sir Lancelot.  // // Years have passed.  The winter’s chill // /
long ago.  // // A handsome prince will
boldly go // // and dangers great will bravely face, // // the world
happy.  “We need a designer with // //
boldness and vision—I know just the man.  // // He has built me some b
/ to the south-west: // // marked by a
bolt embedded in // // the Newlyn harbour wall.  // // One day, a sto
ple of reasons.  One, that it had to be
bolted // // down to the floor, to prevent it going walkabout, // //
am, back up the river Wharfe, // // to
Bolton Abbey, and the Strid beyond, // // and Barden Bridge—and now I
boxes, jars and tins: // // the larger
bolts and nuts and washers, // // flooring nails, staples, cuphooks,
d pickles.  Washers // // and nuts and
bolts and screws and hooks // // were saved from all sorts of deconst
rs // // —unlabelled, but the nuts and
bolts and washers // // are visible within.  // // Gathered round abo
es // // more storms, gales, lightning
bolts // // more days of sun or rain or passing cloud // // more mee
all-clear // // // Blitz.  The heavy
bombers , lighter now, // // are droning back towards their bases, //
my London childhood // // we’d call a
bombsite —desolate but rife // // with memory and desire, fertile eart
// // I received a slight knock on the
bonce .  // // For sure my laws must // // have forever been lost //
vage ground // // smoked trout, wevet,
bone , calamine // // lichen, brinjal, radicchio, citron, calluna //
/ XO sauce explodes to grow the fragile
bone .  // // The peasant family stir-fries four // // Butterfish cook
Bonfire // // Dark night // // strike match // // tiny light // //
// // Some fruit // // Present for C—
book ?  // // Coat to cleaners // // Pay newsagent // // Bulbs for ki
l.  // // From me you’ll learn before a
book .  // // Don’t waste your time on wild boar’s head.  // // If Aris
the words to make it plain.  // // Two
book -ends bracket our shared domain: // // the start, the lobby of a
as rotten // // as stealing a library
book .  // // Five of our cushions are missing.  // // How can we count
g into every word-filled well; // // a
book should suck you into its embrace.  // // Fall, fall into the writ
s well-cast spell.  // // And now, this
book , the here and now dispel // // and conjure me to quite a differe
atch the hook.  // // That’s not in the
book , to swallow a hook.  // // He swallowed the hook to recover the n
nto every word-filled well.  // // That
book will hold against your ear a shell // // whose music makes your
e writer’s well-cast spell.  // // That
book will set you puzzles which propel // // your thoughts, destroy o
e writer’s well-cast spell.  // // That
book will take you o’er a stormy fell // // with her who to her lover
nto every word-filled well.  // // That
book will tales of distant countries tell // // or take you on a voya
rneys, voyages, expeditions // // more
books , more coffee cups // // more tragedies, comedies, histories //
themselves // // will find in all the
books that line the shelves, // // and close to home as well: they to
// // He has built me some buses which
boosted my ego—the // // Heatherwick’s sure to produce a fine plan.  /
// // the deep blue sky.  We take our
boots off, // // dip our feet into water clear and achingly cold, //
As Judith had broken in a new pair of
boots , we buried the old pair somewhere on one of the passes high abov
// The night mail rattles north to the
border // // (bringing the cheque and the postal order).  // // Rhyth
looked out on // // a corner of a tree-
bordered square.  // // The second had one window, rather high— // //
s and windows // // A corner of a tree-
bordered square // // trees around the edges of a field // // the tr
cannot now recall.  // // On the lands
bordering the Mediterranean, // // empires rise and fall.  Battles ar
yat ash Sham; Bisharin // // railways;
borders ; deserts // // One to five million:  Gulf of St Lawrence //
// is continuous and high-pitched.  The
borders we cross are eastward: // // under the channel and then from
enty-minute hiatus.  // // But the fire
bore us no grudge, // // and welcomed us back into its glow.  // // A
ave again // // it’s insane // // i’m
bored // // take train // // what a pain // // and absurd // // sl
/ —but Sadiq the Most Evil deposes poor
Boris , and // // gets the Red Margaret to look at the case.  // // “I
he bandwagon he’ll be glad.”  // // The
Boris is happy.  “We need a designer with // // boldness and vision—I
London, he // // goes by the rubrik of
Boris the Mad.  // // He’d adore such a grand and flamboyant adventure
not even there.”  // // Sadiq says “The
Boris’s vanity project has // // gone off the rails.  I’m not such a
/ full of family and lodgers.  Daughter
born // // at the height of the Luftwaffe’s // // blitz on Sheffield
heir cots // // William Walton not yet
born .  // // But Maurice Ravel has just joined // // the Société des
blossom and fade, movements // // are
born , copulate and die.  // // But for the real turn, the cataclysm //
ck the way we came.  // // All verse is
born free.  // //
hing that resembles a narrative.  // //
Born nineteen-seventeen (dark days of the first world war) // // in S
the occasion, // // we read the flower-
borne messages // // and talked to relatives not seen for years.  //
d by the wind, the wild wind // // and
borne on the blue ocean.  // // In the beginning I am small and playfu
mewhere on one of the passes high above
Borrowdale in what was then still Westmorland.  It wasn’t very environ
// // dimity, blazer, babouche // //
borrowed light, dimpse, mizzle, skylight // // ammonite, mahogany, ar
// Fin de siècle.  // // Ethel Sargant,
botanist // // (Girton student 1880s) // // builds a lab in her gard
.  // // Subjective // // Discomfort. 
Bother .  // // Irritation.  Nuisance.  // // Pain? no, not really.  //
tion to conquer the mountaintop.  // //
Bottle of water and lunch in my haversack.  // // Climb by the obvious
en the stream-floor ridges // // Now a
bottom -feeder dredges // // Through the silt of Camelot.  // // But w
labub of recorded time.  // // From the
bottom of the barrel // // the sound of scraping has ceased.  // // T
rn back and traverse the table from the
bottom to the top // // so that the same period games // // allow th
blue-green-grey-black ocean, // // the
bottomless , endless ocean.  // // Where are we going?  // // Something
ething is changing: the ocean // // is
bottomless no longer.  // // I feel something // // never felt before
owling through trees // // fruit-laden
boughs bent to earth // // apples in the grass // //
t is growing fat, // // trees bending,
boughs reaching // // for the ground, creaking // // under the weigh
ent of the Peckham house // // that we
bought some forty years ago.  // // One of the legs had rotted half aw
Way-hay, blow us away // // But we are
bound for nowhere fast // // Give me some wind to blow us away // //
populations press // // against their
boundaries .  The vital stress // // expresses change.  Some variant has
// edge of the path, not yet blunted or
bowdlerized .  // // Broken?  It must be, if agony’s evidence.  // // L
d to no sauce.  // // Young flourishing
bowl bowl shrimp // // Do a boiler burn the duck head.  // // The pre
fries a leaf mustard.  // // The small
bowl of wedding reception stews bean bubble, // // The taro rolls up
no sauce.  // // Young flourishing bowl
bowl shrimp // // Do a boiler burn the duck head.  // // The prefectu
// // West wind // // Autumn wind is
bowling on, // // trees bending, dark green leaves showing // // the
dy grass.  // // East wind // // Winds
bowling through trees // // fruit-laden boughs bent to earth // // a
g // // straining at their lines.  The
bows face seaward // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // against t
rom the glazed back door // // through
box and holly grown to full maturity // // to an iron-gated pointed a
of weathered Cotswold stone.  // // The
box and holly // // were magnificent, but could not be allowed // //
pen.  // // Find a stamp, street-corner
box .  // // I love you.  // // Wi-fi café.  Send a letter.  // // Lapto
// Perhaps I should plant // // some
box or holly.  // //
// the produce of our labours.  // // A
box or holly root, smouldering slowly, // // will burn for ever.  The
ard on which are mounted // // battery
box , switches, lights, buzzers, plugs // // and connecting leads.  An
civic belltower— // // a giant musical
box .  // // There once was a poet in Ghent // // Who set out with the
nailed to // // the shelf above.  The
boxes and tins are stacked // // in increasing disorder along the bac
Mabe Burnthouse // // footpaths; phone
boxes ; inns // // One to twenty five thousand:  The Broads // // West
, a motley crew // // of categories in
boxes , jars and tins: // // the larger bolts and nuts and washers, //
/ // once had other uses.  The plastic
boxes // // were made for slides or toothpowder, tins // // for coco
re, 1962-3 // // This year it snows on
Boxing Day.  // // The country road not cleared for days // // —and t
// Beyond the fir-trees lies // // a
bracken -covered heath.  The summer fronds // // rise far above our he
ntal.  // // Since then, of course, the
bracken // // has been ploughed, the edges fenced, the house // // d
onise the heath, // // at war with the
bracken .  // // No fruit here—the thorns will catch // // at your sle
// until inside the house.) // // The
bracken spreads across a gentle slope // // towards the river.  A lin
walk // // through the summer’s brown
bracken // // that covers the heath.  // // On magic carpet // // th
ss the moor, // // the heather and the
bracken , the moss, the lichen, // // the cropped grass, the sheep- an
to make it plain.  // // Two book-ends
bracket our shared domain: // // the start, the lobby of a Greek hote
nnecting leads.  Another pair // // of
brackets , this time for a wooden curtain pole, // // two and a half i
Jacob’s Rock Drill pierces through the
brain // // and splits apart Edwardian disdain.  // // Man and drill
// // pull chain // // be bold // //
brake train // // it’s plain // // grow beard // // brave again //
s with perfect sculpted edges.  // // A
bramble sends great arcing shoots, // // strong curves lined with jag
of Camelot.  // // Few people walk the
brambled way // // And fewer still will pause or stay // // To gaze
g?  // // Don’t be silly, that’s just a
branch of the tree outside, scraping the window.  // // That waft of s
// Scented paper, dip-pen, ink.  // //
Branch post office, penny stamp.  // // I love you.  // // Papered bed
nches, reached // // by clambering the
branches by the trunk // // or (better) by the real rope-ladder, whic
planks, // // nailed across two angled
branches , reached // // by clambering the branches by the trunk // /
managed by Jim Ede (he would pick up a
Brancusi stone head, or a small cut brass piece by Gaudier-Brzeska, an
erable, // // orange and penny.  // //
Brandy , a candle: // // heat till it catches fire, // // pour out th
p a Brancusi stone head, or a small cut
brass piece by Gaudier-Brzeska, and put it into our hands).  She intro
njal, radicchio, citron, calluna // //
brassica , hay, pelt, dove tale, pigeon // // mouse’s back, mole’s or
// it’s plain // // grow beard // //
brave again // // forsake train // //
boldly go // // and dangers great will
bravely face, // // the world just so.  // // True love will germinat
gh, and every wave tries hard // // to
breach the wall.  And when it hits just right // // the spray rises a
, in order to make proper San Francisco
bread , prospectors would carry with them their sourdough starters, car
p // // I hear the ground-swell gently
break and sift, // // pushing the shingle back and forth and to and f
// go away // // sleep clings // //
break of day // // brighter now // // here to stay // // morning gl
uffolk // // South wind today.  So the
breakers // // come at an angle, sweep // // along the beach.  Each
ght.  // // Slanting lines are forming,
breaking , forming // // ordered chaos with a raucous song:  // // A t
ng over him // // crashing, splitting,
breaking .  // // I am lost.  The one behind // // will finish me comp
/ // and at the end, almost with dying
breath , // // a swan-song, left behind for us to ponder, // // in an
/ climbing the contours and catching my
breath again.  // // Skirting the back of the Little Man precipice, //
We turn tail and flee // // as fast as
breath allows us, not to feel safe // // until inside the house.) //
plumbing—a pipe heating up.  // // That
breath of air?  A passing presence?  // // Don’t be silly, that’s just
// mouse’s back, mole’s or elephant’s
breath // // peignoir, charlotte’s locks, nancy’s blushes // // drop
he birds are searching, finding.  // //
Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // //
anded at their stations, waiting // //
Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // as the rising waters reac
town, runs headlong for the bar, // //
Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // becomes a trickle.  On th
rrent pushing strongly townward.  // //
Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // In the saltmarsh channels
e edges of the sea-grass—pauses, // //
Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // makes another lingering t
places it has lost, reoccupation // //
Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // of the mudflats and the s
the distant sea-swell rock them // //
Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // straining at their lines.
ng back the way it came, regains // //
Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // the channel, turns the bo
bar the waves are washing over.  // //
Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // The tide begins its stead
and with muddy spots bespeckled.  // //
Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // The trickle slackens, cha
// sun on skin // // door open // //
breathe in.  // // Now begin.  // //
amber Gordale Scar // // and rest, and
breathe some more the cool clear air.  // // Beyond the scree the open
/ // I do feel the cold— // // and my
breathing is rather uncertain.”  // //
nd to blow us away // // Just feel the
breathless sun beat down // // Way-hay, blow us away // // And seek
ng.  Yet it will // // occasionally not
breed true.  Now strife: // // the different dittoes must compete for
ke-waves and volcanic dust, // // soft
breezes and winter gales.  // // Was I shipwrecked?  Or cast overboard
// reaching the meeting point under the
bridge // // and finding you, my lover and my friend.  // //
and the Strid beyond, // // and Barden
Bridge —and now I flick my wand // // some miles of dale and moor to s
ars long.) // // Béla Bartók and Frank
Bridge // // are still at college // // Sergei Prokofiev and Carl Or
h, I have a whim // // to build a fine
bridge clear across a great river, where // // trees, grass and flowe
re will I pay for—and // // now on the
bridge I am pulling the plug.”  // //
Journey // // From Ilkley’s old stone
bridge I trace a path // // against the stream, back up the river Wha
to one, // // right there, beneath the
bridge .  // // If we could trace them in reverse, // // each our own
ld pine forest // // always provides a
bridge .  The trunks // // of fallen trees, fresh from the winter’s st
f the street and right, // // the line
bridges over the road.) Sometimes at night, // // a heavy goods trai
s can stretch shore to shore.  // // Of
bridges traversing the Thames here in London, we’ve // // just thirty
ows again.  // // One afternoon for one
brief hour // // the air is warm enough to melt // // the topmost la
The siren call // // is in reverse, a
brief release— // // until the following night at least.  // // Odyss
y should such a mundane scene // // so
briefly glimpsed, make my muse suggest // // just three alliterative
leap // // flames creep // // growing
bright // // flames leap // // sparks take flight // // growing bri
light // // bird sings // // growing
bright // // gadget pings // // go away // // sleep clings // // b
// rise far above our heads.  In this
bright green // // we wander, hacking out our paths, or creeping thro
ant // // I cannot say.  // // Rainbow-
bright , or black and white, // // or autumn hues, or shades of grey—
rk forest // // flashing stream // //
bright sea // // rugged moor // // sharp mountain // // still lake
as.  Just past the London Eye, // // a
bright September day, the river’s edge, // // with crowds of people m
on its way // // from the sun.  // //
Bright // // spot // // turn // // white // // hot // // and burn
Trapped on its way from the sun, // //
bright spot, turn white hot and burn.  // //
/ // sparks take flight // // growing
bright // // throw on timber // // sparks take flight // // glowing
sleep clings // // break of day // //
brighter now // // here to stay // // morning glow // // time to ri
// // into the maelstrom, the fire and
brimstone // // that will be the twentieth century— // // for this w
their surface combinations.  // // Now
Brin and Page build index tabulations // // of all the words their sp
// // Breath the scents the sea-winds
bring // //
// // Breath the scents the sea-winds
bring // // as the rising waters reach and lift them // // Hear the
// // Breath the scents the sea-winds
bring // // becomes a trickle.  On the soft, receding // // Hear the
// // Breath the scents the sea-winds
bring // // In the saltmarsh channels water rises // // Hear the mar
// // Breath the scents the sea-winds
bring // // makes another lingering turn, begins // // Hear the mars
// // Breath the scents the sea-winds
bring // // of the mudflats and the sandbanks.  Listing // // Hear t
// // Breath the scents the sea-winds
bring // // straining at their lines.  The bows face seaward // // H
// // Breath the scents the sea-winds
bring // // the channel, turns the boats around once more // // Hear
// // Breath the scents the sea-winds
bring // // The tide begins its steady, slow accretion // // Hear th
// // Breath the scents the sea-winds
bring // // The trickle slackens, changes in the harbour; // // Hear
ail rattles north to the border // // (
bringing the cheque and the postal order).  // // Rhythmic verses with
My sixtieth birthday is nearing— // //
brings a thought that is far from cheering: // // that while the past
d all.  // // A seven-mile climb // //
brings us to a hidden jewel lake, // // soup-spoon-shaped, still half
a flat calm air.  A winter storm // //
brings wild mountains of water crashing down // // to redefine the co
t, wevet, bone, calamine // // lichen,
brinjal , radicchio, citron, calluna // // brassica, hay, pelt, dove t
to start out on a voyage, a full round-
Britain trip.  // // I’ll need a ton of words to fill each line from s
contrived to send us on our way.  // //
British Rail announced that it would sink // // a hole to build the C
to Camberwell.  // // (Two weeks later,
British Rail’s plans // // were scrapped and redesigned.  The house s
eist, find some of them sublime— // //
Britten’s Ceremony or the ones from Kings.  // // If I can filter out
eist, find some of them sublime, // //
Britten’s Ceremony or the ones from Kings.  // // What the thunder sai
/ Feel the air.  Turn in the four winds. 
Broadcast the secret // // to earth, as far away as it will go.  Let t
egan— // // thought his profile needed
broadening // // thought he’d flaunt a bushy grin—but // // the wind
pushes us harder, // // makes us grow
broader and taller, // // sweeps spray from our tops, // // drives u
// // In the distance, // // gnarled
broadleaf trees with twisted limbs // // shed leaves with perfect scu
// // One to twenty five thousand:  The
Broads // // Westwick; Woodbastwick; Winterton // // fences; marshes
ilk // // Sausages or chops // // Veg—
broccoli ?  // // Some fruit // // Present for C—book?  // // Coat to
in is subsiding, the // // leg was not
broken , and after a while I can // // think of resuming my journey un
ects: defunct household gadgets, // //
broken furniture, shelves no longer // // serving any useful purpose.
side of your face only.  As Judith had
broken in a new pair of boots, we buried the old pair somewhere on one
not yet blunted or bowdlerized.  // //
Broken ?  It must be, if agony’s evidence.  // // Lying there wondering
scratch // // clothes on // // spell
broken // // sleep gone // // in motion // // sun on skin // // do
ity except our own.  // // In hard cast
bronze all hardness now replaced, // // the soft and sensuous flesh j
led “Post-Balzac”.  It is a full-length
bronze cape, upright and rounded as if on the shoulders of its owner,
e and flicker under // // the bubbling
brooks , that chatter and meander; // // of Ellen, Norna, or of Rosamu
ender // // for all of us, such beauty
brought he forth; // // and at the end, almost with dying breath, //
backs, a few edging // // towards the
brown .  // // Autumn fruit is growing fat, // // trees bending, bough
nch, a walk // // through the summer’s
brown bracken // // that covers the heath.  // // On magic carpet //
Type right // // The quick
brown fox jumps over the lazy dog // //
take the hottest Currie.  // // Gordon
Brown // // replaced his frown // // with a one-sided smile // // t
rth, as far away as it will go.  Let the
browns // // and reds and golds replace the greens.  Now throw the can
of people in a city street, shop-window-
browsing .  // // A group, gathered around and gazing into // // one w
e.  // // // // There remains a small
bruise on my head // // insufficient to send me to bed.  // // Just i
t, made by a house-painter cleaning his
brush after painting some woodwork.  Judith sees something in the shap
ile.  Send a letter.  // // New papyrus,
brush and ink.  // // Command a messenger.  // // I love you.  // // D
.  There is an area about 2ft square of
brush marks in a darker paint, made by a house-painter cleaning his br
// A snowdrift forms against the wire
brush // // of David’s thick black hair, // // staying in place unti
d, in truth, a little dull.  // // From
Brussels by local train to Ghent: canals and cobbled streets // // an
, or a small cut brass piece by Gaudier-
Brzeska , and put it into our hands).  She introduced me to so many art
ll bowl of wedding reception stews bean
bubble , // // The taro rolls up an incense.  // // The impregnable fo
and pause and flicker under // // the
bubbling brooks, that chatter and meander; // // of Ellen, Norna, or
Way-hay, blow us away // // And pour a
bucket on my head // // Give me some wind to blow us away // // Perh
ight-drawered chest // // given to me (
budding carpenter) as a child // // for nails and screws.  At some mo
rk and damp.  Now push out above, // //
buds into the waxing light, the spring rain.  Throw open // // the fir
final destination.  // // These are the
buffers , this is the end of the line.  // // The last post has been so
n hell did he evade the line?  // // Oh
bugger !  Now we have to get away.  // //
jective // // Tap left open.  // // Oh
bugger !  // // The other side // // // What was it, then, from which
ting their needs.  // // This time, the
bug’s not spread by rats and fleas // // but by their piss and snot a
h my halo.  Ah, I have a whim // // to
build a fine bridge clear across a great river, where // // trees, gr
combinations.  // // Now Brin and Page
build index tabulations // // of all the words their spiders’ crawls
ush forward.  // // Build speed.  // //
Build power.  // // Forge ahead.  // // Spread.  // // Reach.  // // S
/ Drop back.  // // Build speed.  // //
Build power.  // // Pull in.  // // Merge.  // // Retract.  // // Slac
/ // Grow.  // // Push forward.  // //
Build speed.  // // Build power.  // // Forge ahead.  // // Spread.  //
// // Shrink.  // // Drop back.  // //
Build speed.  // // Build power.  // // Pull in.  // // Merge.  // //
ced that it would sink // // a hole to
build the Channel Tunnel link.  // // A monstrous hole, quite big enou
k, guys, an ecstasy of fumbling, // //
building the clumsy barriers just in time // // to keep the carriers
w on the hill above, // // and bits of
buildings , human artifacts.  // // Geological time // // is foreshort
churches, churches, churches // // and
buildings that turn out not to be churches.  // // Wonderful mechanism
st // // (Girton student 1880s) // //
builds a lab in her garden // // in Reigate, on her way to // // rec
to reduce the amount of limescale that
builds up on the filter. // // The amount of water can be
generated quantities of fuel // // and
built a roaring blaze.  Then late into the night // // I fed it all t
short, // // and dark night fell as we
built and lit the fire // // on the dark stones, and planted firework
pointed arch // // piercing the wall,
built like the house // // of weathered Cotswold stone.  // // The bo
sion—I know just the man.  // // He has
built me some buses which boosted my ego—the // // Heatherwick’s sure
he cliff // // is of course ephemeral,
built // // not only on, but of, // // sand.  All along the foreshor
he last lives there.  // // An inflated
bulb to hold // // the other two in place.  // // Subjective // // D
n city clag // // —a handful of trees,
bulbs // // and other plants.  // // On one // // a stately ram, gre
to cleaners // // Pay newsagent // //
Bulbs for kitchen lights—CS 60W screw???—check first // // Cash m/c /
/ light enough to see.  // // Below the
bulges , // // not yet decipherable, // // orange and penny.  // // B
// There was a gun.  // // There was a
bullet , stray.  // // There was a young man writhing in the splinters
// the Société des Apaches // // (or
Bunch of Hooligans) // // later to enrol, when they come to Paris //
// // and each season (the navigation
buoys must needs // // be relocated every spring, the charts // // r
ly one possible answer: // // this cat-
burglar’s Buster the cat.  // //
// // for hidden treasure, long beaks
buried full // // to probe deep down beneath the shining mud.  // //
ree hours after his arrival, // // was
buried in an unmarked grave.  // // There were no victors: only victim
h had broken in a new pair of boots, we
buried the old pair somewhere on one of the passes high above Borrowda
// // bright spot, turn white hot and
burn .  // //
y root, smouldering slowly, // // will
burn for ever.  The fire once begun // // would last for days and day
rs // // throw on timber // // let it
burn // // glowing embers // // smoulder down // // let it burn //
h my eyesight?  // // Yes, with fuel to
burn .  // // If the lines be blurred just right, // // You may go the
turn // // white // // hot // // and
burn .  // // Tanka // // Bend the light just so // // above, below,
ing bowl bowl shrimp // // Do a boiler
burn the duck head.  // // The prefecture of river drives meal chicken
g fire.  // // He swallowed the fire to
burn the string.  // // What a strange thing, to swallow some string! 
bers // // smoulder down // // let it
burn // // warm as toast // // smoulder down // // potatoes roast /
should // // we salvage from it, what
burn , // // what reconstruct and // // what re-imagine?  Not to rave
are happy—some shiny erection to // //
burnish my halo.  Ah, I have a whim // // to build a fine bridge clea
is marked // // with smears of fires,
burnt and black.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // /
mouth // // Mevagissey; Mingoose; Mabe
Burnthouse // // footpaths; phone boxes; inns // // One to twenty fi
t no.  Once in a while // // a perfect
burst still catches at my tastebuds // // and drags me back again.  //
t such a mug.  // // I’ve cancelled his
buses , no more will I pay for—and // // now on the bridge I am pullin
st the man.  // // He has built me some
buses which boosted my ego—the // // Heatherwick’s sure to produce a
// —the ones you ate straight off the
bush are saved forever).  // // At the end of summer, and in the first
reconnoitre // // another part of the
bush .  Take care not to spill // // your precious hoard (I mean the o
lowing, under the sky.  // // Trees and
bushes , shrubs and flowers, mosses, // // ferns and grasses waving un
broadening // // thought he’d flaunt a
bushy grin—but // // the wind came up and blew it in again.  // // Be
follow suit; the oystercatcher // //
busily foraging across the bank // // lets me get much closer // //
, observes the situation, and promptly,
busily , without rising from her seat, makes everyone shuffle up in ord
ot at all fair.  // // The pledges from
business are far from what’s needed.  The // // real public benefit’s
le more priming (the // // buy-in from
business is not keeping pace) // // —but Sadiq the Most Evil deposes
sible answer: // // this cat-burglar’s
Buster the cat.  // //
wo sides.  // // One looked across to a
busy road // // but from my bed I looked out on // // a corner of a
continental flow // // seem more like
butchers working rough.  // // The light is going now.  // // How will
e peasant family stir-fries four // //
Butterfish cooked to no sauce.  // // Young flourishing bowl bowl shri
with a little more priming (the // //
buy -in from business is not keeping pace) // // —but Sadiq the Most E
iver lie // // Are rough and unkempt. 
Buzzards fly // // Above the weedy hedgerows, by // // The once-prou
d // // battery box, switches, lights,
buzzers , plugs // // and connecting leads.  Another pair // // of br
young man will wander // // along the
byways , thoughts tragic or tender— // // of love unfinished or of pea