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

nt // // Bulbs for kitchen lights—CS 60
W screw???—check first // // Cash m/c // // Washing // // Plan fina
, dippers, warblers, song-birds, // //
waders , hunters hovering under the sky.  // // People, people round th
wards the sea.  // // Along the margins
waders // // scutter, scavenge—redshank, // // godwit, curlew—long /
d the bladder-wrack, // // long-legged
waders scutter, scavenge, seek // // their winter sustenance.  Out in
tside, scraping the window.  // // That
waft of scent?  A malodourous revenant?  // // Don’t be silly, that’s
// grey John Major // // surely had a
wager // // that he could without worry // // take the hottest Curri
// of the Compagnie Internationale des
Wagons -Lits // // et des Grands Express Européens pass by.  // // In
reaming of course // // but maybe also
wailing and gnashing our teeth // // into the maelstrom, the fire and
-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 th
vasion of its space.  // // Two plovers
wait a little longer, // // then follow suit; the oystercatcher //
eth century— // // for this we have to
wait // // another thirteen and a half years.  // //
th our lives: // // the repainting can
wait .  // // I go to work.  // // Judith, artist, // // models in cla
r; // // debate is all—a synthesis can
wait .  // // Voices coming from the room next door:  // // Thesis and
/ boats are stranded at their stations,
waiting // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // as the ris
ound // // waiting to be found.  // //
Waiting for declension, conjugation, // // other morphologic variatio
bags or scattered on the ground // //
waiting to be found.  // // Waiting for declension, conjugation, // /
ting Dr Johnson’s ministrations, // //
waiting to discover their relations, // // find their denotations, co
follow him.  // // There was a week of
waiting while they fought it out.  // // There was a lull— // // But
ng good // // some dormant thing would
wake and sprout new growth.  // // And thus it was.  Just past the Lon
// // Finnegan going (despite it’s his
wake )— // // Beethoven’s music is just bloody marvellous, // // reso
Wake // // Fast asleep // // dark night // // dream deep // // fai
Epicycle // //
Wake .  // // Feel the water.  Push out below, // // tendrils into the
/ dives deep, leaving behind a swirling
wake .  // // Nearer, the lapwings forage up the beach.  // // At water
for far around, // // another creature
wakes ; great cogwheels grind.  // // They peer, they scan, they scrape
e winding trails // // through forests
waking to the spring // // intersect or fork.  Some of these meeting-
south to the Martello tower, // // we
walk along the banked-up track // // behind the wall, level with the
meadows // // to Grantchester.  As we
walk back // // against the wind it starts to snow.  // // A snowdrif
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
ud towers of Camelot.  // // Few people
walk the brambled way // // And fewer still will pause or stay // //
t the blue flame.  // // After lunch, a
walk // // through the summer’s brown bracken // // that covers the
he open path leads on, // // a gentler
walk , to bare bleak Malham Tarn.  // // Then back to skirt the edge of
/ One cold winter’s afternoon // // we
walk to the edge of town and on // // the mile across the river meado
down to the floor, to prevent it going
walkabout , // // a perambulation whenever it got to the spin // // p
Fragments of a life // // We
walked across England, once.  If you follow the west-to-east coast-to-
at themes as these, // // talking they
walked and walking talked— // // but never once of cheese.  // //
Cheshire cat accosted them, // // then
walked his wild way // // alone.  In Swale- and Wensleydale // // th
ention of anyone.  // // Haven’t passed
walkers for more than three hours now.  // // When are they likely to
ds of people milling all around, // //
walking and talking and standing still—and I, // // reaching the meet
acular views over Bassenthwaite.  // //
Walking down quickly, not paying attention, I // // stumble, fall hea
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 // // This year it
s these, // // talking they walked and
walking talked— // // but never once of cheese.  // //
// more boat or cycle rides // // more
walks , more bluebell woods // // more curlews, more ragged, slanting
ry wave tries hard // // to breach the
wall .  And when it hits just right // // the spray rises a mile into
y margins, in the lee // // of the sea-
wall , around the bladder-wrack, // // long-legged waders scutter, sca
-gated pointed arch // // piercing the
wall , built like the house // // of weathered Cotswold stone.  // //
g the banked-up track // // behind the
wall , level with the top, // // running the gauntlet of the winter st
over the drumming rain, // // a sharp
wall of sound.  // // Later still, after the storm has passed // // l
t embedded in // // the Newlyn harbour
wall .  // // One day, a storm will // // simply erase them.  // // Fo
Something there is that doesn’t love a
wall .  // // Out flew the web and floated wide; // // The mirror crac
e rain and the air?  // // The drystone
wall slanting across the moor, // // the heather and the bracken, the
// Plug in and switch on at the
wall socket. // // Put the ON / OFF switch to its ‘ON’ pos
the streetlight, // // the sign on the
wall , the sign on the post, // // the white-painted sign spreadeagled
// // // ‘Oh Mirror that hangs on the
wall // // who is the fairest of all?’  // // The mirror’s reply //
sing to me.  // // Mirror mirror on the
wall // // who is the fairest of them all?  // // (The cruel looking-
wn.  // // In Pompidou relief is on the
wall , // // wrestling figures, clinched before a fall; // // Lutteur
ouse; enclosed within its arms // // a
walled garden, left untended // // for maybe thirty years.  A winding
dy track on the tarmac road.  // // The
walled paddock and the orchard, // // the apple on the tree, the wind
ind to blow us away // // No wind! we
wallow in the swell // // Way-hay, blow us away // // The sails clat
// // plumb, strip everything:  // //
wallpaper from walls, // // distemper from ceilings, // // paint fro
nails, screw-eyes, picture hooks // //
wallplugs , rivets, self-tapping metal screws, // // rubber tap washer
strip everything: // // wallpaper from
walls , // // distemper from ceilings, // // paint from woodwork, //
edroom 2; Bathroom; Bicycle shed // //
walls ; doors; drains // // One to ten:  Tiles // // Ormeaux on Bastil
“Then why hasn’t she painted // // the
walls ?”  // // Fair question.  // //
day; // // the gardens, and the garden
walls // // just slipped away.  // // What country lanes or city stre
d slopes rise up // // to rampart rock
walls , knife-edge against // // the deep blue sky.  We take our boots
tting room of our house in Peckham, the
walls stripped and undecorated, but with marks and signs accumulated o
ill // // in their cots // // William
Walton not yet born.  // // But Maurice Ravel has just joined // // t
// and Barden Bridge—and now I flick my
wand // // some miles of dale and moor to skip across // // and find
// In any season, some young man will
wander // // along the byways, thoughts tragic or tender— // // of l
s.  // // Carry them with me wherever I
wander … but // // help!  They are missing, I must have mislaid them w
heads.  In this bright green // // we
wander , hacking out our paths, or creeping through, // // maybe chanc
in the mind, some gentle // // way to
wander into // // a better place, a future that // // revives, reple
// I can’t see clearly:  I’ll need to
wander // // some way in that direction to determine // // whether s
reaking // // under the weight.  // //
Wander through the orchard, watch // // the apple clusters sway, //
the sky?  // // A whole wide world for
wandering , under the sky.  // // Mountains, valleys, moors and dales,
nasty new disease.  // // They seem to
want our help, but they can whistle // // as well for wind: we care n
iven me a plastic plate // // More!  I
want some more!  // // A spoon to the floor— // // clatter!  // // No
following nine // // options: if you
want the tempest // // please press one; for love’s labour’s lost //
word.  // // I’m sure it doesn’t really
want // // to kill me.  // // Like the asteroid // // barrelling onw
// the focus of her gaze: does he not
want // // to tell?  // // This painting has a private life.  // //
dge of the Lake District— // // family
wanting to rest and recuperate.  // // Skiddaw is looming, inviting ex
overnight // // in the oven of the pre-
war Aga, they will emerge // // a startling deep red, and taste delic
e Derbyshire moors.  // // But the next
war comes, and D is now called up.  // // First to Hunmanby on the nor
ell before the start of the first world
war ).  // // Fifty yards across the park at the back // // a low emba
payment of taxes?  Or was I a trophy of
war ?  // // I cannot now recall.  // // On the lands bordering the Med
// // There was a bitter, civil // //
war in Jordan.  // // There was a gun.  // // There was a bullet, stra
seventeen (dark days of the first world
war ) // // in Sheffield, steel town.  // // Mother once ran a fish-an
Black September // // // There was a
war .  // // There was a bitter, civil // // war in Jordan.  // // The
go round, and all’s fair in gloves and
war , though the course of true gloves never did run smooth.  No glove
ng out to colonise the heath, // // at
war with the bracken.  // // No fruit here—the thorns will catch // /
// // Sea-birds, pond-birds, dippers,
warblers , song-birds, // // waders, hunters hovering under the sky.  /
the valley sound // // through still,
warm air, // // clear to my vantage point on higher ground.  // // Vo
the valley sound // // through still,
warm air.  // // On the top deck of a 68 // // Voices, ipods, phones
not June.  // // Back home soon // //
warm and dry.  // // A crescent moon.  // // It’s Jan, not June.  // /
d beneath the cobwebbed rafters, // //
warm and dry.  // // On waters of the creek as smooth as satin, // //
ulder down // // potatoes roast // //
warm as toast // // flames gone // // potatoes roast // // embers w
smoulder down // // let it burn // //
warm as toast // // smoulder down // // potatoes roast // // warm a
on for one brief hour // // the air is
warm enough to melt // // the topmost layer.  The frost returns // /
mes gone // // last glow // // embers
warm // // fading now // // last glow // // tiny light // // fadin
one // // potatoes roast // // embers
warm // // flames gone // // last glow // // embers warm // // fad
d achingly cold, // // and dry them on
warm rock.  // //
l at home // // the small gas fire has
warmed the room // // against the cold outside.  // // (But that was
// grass and trees outside her window,
warming // // in the sun?  Or maybe nothing—maybe she // // is pensi
Spread out a green canopy // // in the
warming sunlight.  Soak up the rays and the air.  // // Transform the c
, // // smell the air, // // feel the
warmth of the fire, // // listen to the lapping of the water, // //
who dares me eat a peach?  // // Time’s
warring chariots can clatter by— // // we have the earth, the water a
e and fall.  Battles are fought, // //
wars are lost and won.  Did they rage around me // // where I stood f
a sigh // // is to show him his face,
warts and all.  // //
tapping metal screws, // // rubber tap
washers and fibre sealing rings.  // // The jars hang from their lids,
ars for all sorts of jams and pickles. 
Washers // // and nuts and bolts and screws and hooks // // were sav
—unlabelled, but the nuts and bolts and
washers // // are visible within.  // // Gathered round about, a motl
s: // // the larger bolts and nuts and
washers , // // flooring nails, staples, cuphooks, clouts // // mason
r it got to the spin // // part of its
washing cycle.  The other, the noise // // that it made as it spun, a
/ // ornate.  A pump and valves from a
washing machine.  // // An electric fan.  The dial of a clock.  Anothe
Good vibrations // // The Bendix
washing machine was already elderly // // when my mother, acquiring a
calling // // at the bar the waves are
washing over.  // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // The
w???—check first // // Cash m/c // //
Washing // // Plan finances—get advisor?  G’s contact maybe // // Rin
h Shea’s sculpture in the Hirschhorn in
Washington , close to a version of Rodin’s Balzac, and called “Post-Bal
// that the train is carrying nuclear
waste ; at the time // // it is just the timing that disturbs.  The li
ou’ll learn before a book.  // // Don’t
waste your time on wild boar’s head.  // // If Aristotle makes you cho
he stars emerge.  // // Sharp dots; but
watch and do not blink.  // // In time, an instant dash: // // a shoo
// // Later, the clouds amass:  // //
watch now: if you blink you will miss // // the instant jagged challe
ght.  // // Wander through the orchard,
watch // // the apple clusters sway, // // the clouds scud past, //
// lie back on the wet beach // // and
watch the stars emerge.  // // Sharp dots; but watch and do not blink.
stenance.  Out in the bay // // a seal
watches us, then flips away, // // dives deep, leaving behind a swirl
urse // // has a source // // of pure
water : a still.  // // Garden shed // // with a still?  Local // //
re.  // // The others too I love—Earth,
Water , Air—but Fire // // is something else again.  // // A memory //
re, // // listen to the lapping of the
water , // // and gaze into space.  // // We have the space // // and
nquer the mountaintop.  // // Bottle of
water and lunch in my haversack.  // // Climb by the obvious route fro
me lives in fire, // // leaving us the
water and the air.  // //
atter by— // // we have the earth, the
water and the sky.  // //
illuminate. // // When the
water boils the kettle will switch off automatically.  The kettle can
filter. // // The amount of
water can be measured by the level mark on the outside of the kettle. 
our boots off, // // dip our feet into
water clear and achingly cold, // // and dry them on warm rock.  // /
r storm // // brings wild mountains of
water crashing down // // to redefine the contours of the shore.  //
solid underneath us // // churning the
water , // // disturbing our roll, // // getting higher and closer.  /
Creek mud // // As I drift on mirror
water , following the bend, // // the curlew rises suddenly, // // sc
down below, the earth // // is mostly
water .  // // From across the waters // // blow the evanescent airs /
ical // // Earth, air, // // fire and
water : just the four— // // but the chemists need many more.  // //
// When the kettle has boiled the
water may be poured out through the spout. // //
// throw half away // // more flour,
water , mix well // // mollycoddle for one day // // put in pouch //
Ode to the yeast wind // // flour,
water , mix well // // mollycoddle for one day // // throw half away
// throw half away // // more flour,
water , mix well // // mollycoddle for one day // // throw half away
// throw half away // // more flour,
water , mix well // // mollycoddle for one day // // throw half away
th, // // air, // // fire, // // and
water .  // // Need just a few more.  // // How about adding space, tim
Epicycle // // Wake.  // // Feel the
water .  Push out below, // // tendrils into the dark and damp.  Now pus
g dark.  // // Feel the earth.  Feel the
water return // // to the dry ground.  Let the cooling dark // // set
bring // // In the saltmarsh channels
water rises // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // to the edges of
und along my path // // are elemental: 
water , sky and earth // // and rock and air; no fire and no gold, //
ght from space // // reflected in inky
water , // // the cool night air // // slows down time.  // // Now is
Only fill the kettle with the amount of
water you need as this will save electricity. // // Always
are thrown and fired, // // crops are
watered .  // // Seasons and years are counted and timed.  // // Philos
is mostly water.  // // From across the
waters // // blow the evanescent airs // // moistening the many-colo
// // and the time // // to cross the
waters , // // explore the earth, // // and send signal fires // //
rafters, // // warm and dry.  // // On
waters of the creek as smooth as satin, // // drifting or paddling ge
he sea-winds bring // // as the rising
waters reach and lift them // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // //
Troubled
waters // // The good Lady Lumley is pondering glumly.  “I // // nee
// Hear the marsh-birds calling // //
water’s edge, the birds are searching, finding.  // // Breath the scen
lapwings forage up the beach.  // // At
water’s edge the oyster-catchers, gulls // // compete for surface scr
orm.  // // The tide is high, and every
wave tries hard // // to breach the wall.  And when it hits just righ
are storms and calms, // // earthquake-
waves and volcanic dust, // // soft breezes and winter gales.  // //
rsh-birds calling // // at the bar the
waves are washing over.  // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring /
// straight up // // the Mediterranean
waves roll on.  // // How many years, decades, centuries // // have I
faintly, far away, the churn // // of
waves upon the sand.  Eastwards we turn, // // along the open beach,
owers, mosses, // // ferns and grasses
waving under the sky.  // // Islands, beaches, clifftops, creeks and i
.  // // Of shoes and ships and sealing
wax , // // and such great themes as these, // // talking they walked
ow push out above, // // buds into the
waxing light, the spring rain.  Throw open // // the fire-coloured tem
ill // // another day // // to find a
way .  // //
the glow is peeking, // // feeling its
way across the floor.  // // From the lamp on the landing it’s spillin
idors // // light-footed did I make my
way ?  // // Across what carpets, rugs or floors?  // // I cannot say. 
osted them, // // then walked his wild
way // // alone.  In Swale- and Wensleydale // // they passed the fo
ot.  // // Few people walk the brambled
way // // And fewer still will pause or stay // // To gaze down on t
ve the necessary skill // // to find a
way .  // // And now today // // is ending.  I suppose tomorrow’s stil
st have to check on my map for the best
way back.  // // Reading a map now, I have to use spectacles.  // // C
// // that contrived to send us on our
way .  // // British Rail announced that it would sink // // a hole to
/ on its way up and again // // on its
way down.  // // It’s a level measured // // a century ago and // //
, // // each ray // // trapped on its
way // // from the sun.  // // Bright // // spot // // turn // //
ocus in each ray.  // // Trapped on its
way from the sun, // // bright spot, turn white hot and burn.  // //
luice the decks to cool the wood // //
Way -hay, blow us away // // And pour a bucket on my head // // Give
eel the breathless sun beat down // //
Way -hay, blow us away // // And seek out any shade we can // // Give
// Adrift the middle of the sea // //
Way -hay, blow us away // // And there is nothing here for me // // G
erhaps tomorrow there’ll be wind // //
Way -hay, blow us away // // And we can some direction find // // Giv
// Run all the sails up the mast // //
Way -hay, blow us away // // But we are bound for nowhere fast // //
Horizon’s clear from end to end // //
Way -hay, blow us away // // No hope of whistling up a wind // // Giv
No wind! we wallow in the swell // //
Way -hay, blow us away // // The sails clatter as we roll // // Give
present absence, still // // to find a
way .  // // I hear you say, // // “But life is for the living, do not
early:  I’ll need to wander // // some
way in that direction to determine // // whether some real delta inte
o such message.  Theirs // // is a one-
way invitation to the rocks.  // // But me, now, I'm just lucky.  // /
/ Alpha, beta, gamma, delta.  // // The
way is clear.  This formulation // // both lays the problem out and t
irds calling // // retreating back the
way it came, regains // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring //
chicken // // is just the egg’s // //
way of making // // another egg // // then what I should // // not
round one of the hot yellow bits // //
way out here in the remoter backwaters // // of the western spiral ar
s array // // And gaily singing on his
way // // Rode bold Sir Lancelot.  // // Years have passed.  The wint
and take away my will // // to find a
way .  // // The final fray // // remains in memory, for good or ill,
ave mislaid them when // // finding my
way through the scree so much earlier.  // // Later, much later, I lim
do?  // // Can we not // // find some
way to move, to go, // // to travel in the mind, some gentle // // w
in her garden // // in Reigate, on her
way to // // recognition, fellowships // // (Linnean Society 1904, /
travel in the mind, some gentle // //
way to wander into // // a better place, a future that // // revives
that the tide rushes past // // on its
way up and again // // on its way down.  // // It’s a level measured
not June.  // // A red balloon, // //
way up high, // // with crescent moon // // from cold immune.  // //
trade:  // // England.  // // Back the
way we came.  // // All verse is born free.  // //
// // Days for seeing you in different
ways .  // // Days enough for giving and receiving.  // // Did I give e
o the people fill // // The wharfs and
ways of Camelot.  // // Only one remains to shiver // // On the islan
ght?  // // Not to return to old // //
ways —that age // // has passed.  What should // // we salvage from i
s screwed up by a zeta factor // // in
ways that I can neither // // control nor understand. // // 3 sidewa
this garden laid // // —Nurturing the
wayward seed, // // Planting out this cabbage-bed— // // She was onc
d ties become more tenuous, // // legs
weaken , and isolation palls.  // // One more great change, one more ne
o glove lost.  // // We have nothing to
wear but wear itself.  Without wear or favour, fools rush in, where an
ost.  // // 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
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.  // //
more because the fellow // // was not
wearing glasses.  // //
he wall, built like the house // // of
weathered Cotswold stone.  // // The box and holly // // were magnifi
ins nor jewels; just the old // // and
weathered hills, created by some force // // beyond imagination; and
umbus.  // // He is a leader of Flemish
weavers , pointing the rest // // towards their major source of trade:
oesn’t love a wall.  // // Out flew the
web and floated wide; // // The mirror crack’d from side to side.  //
new ground to conquer.  // // Spiders’
webs among the undergrowth.  // // Look closely: precise angular spir
leaf mustard.  // // The small bowl of
wedding reception stews bean bubble, // // The taro rolls up an incen
ment—week of 10th // // Write poem for
Weds // //
nder shoots may venture forth // // On
weed -o’er-run Shalott?  // // She who hath this garden laid // // —Nu
scar remote Shalott.  // // In the duck-
weed -smothered edges // // Skinny rats sniff out the ledges, // // W
g up the contract // // pulling up the
weeds // // picking up the pieces // // wrapping up the meeting //
unkempt.  Buzzards fly // // Above the
weedy hedgerows, by // // The once-proud towers of Camelot.  // // Fe
next b/day?  // // Dentist appointment—
week of 10th // // Write poem for Weds // //
r her to follow him.  // // There was a
week of waiting while they fought it out.  // // There was a lull— //
lition, move to Camberwell.  // // (Two
weeks later, British Rail’s plans // // were scrapped and redesigned.
.  Another dial, // // from a stand-on
weight scale.  A device // // for demonstrating electricity to childr
r the ground, creaking // // under the
weight .  // // Wander through the orchard, watch // // the apple clus
hink // // ‘This time, it will hold my
weight .’  // // But every step it drops you down // // into soft snow
at school // // Aaron Copland and Kurt
Weill // // in their cots // // William Walton not yet born.  // //
n // // the fire-coloured temptations,
welcome in // // the roaming bees.  // // Feel the fire.  Spread out a
the fire bore us no grudge, // // and
welcomed us back into its glow.  // // Another twenty one years, // /
that was then.  Now the rail joints are
welded , and the dominant sound // // is continuous and high-pitched. 
Wells in winter // // We take the path beside the wood—the fir // //
s wild way // // alone.  In Swale- and
Wensleydale // // they passed the following day.  // // Of shoes and
horse— // // But Aix was as far as he
went .  // // In Friday Market square // // Jacob van Artevelde makes
// a slight encouragement.  As the day
went on, // // we generated quantities of fuel // // and built a roa
double cream) // // // // Dr Foster
went to Gloucester // // for a summer spin— // // and liked a lass f
orthwest by west, westnorthwest, // //
west by north, west.  // // North by northwest?  That was just // //
red and forty miles // // to the south-
west : // // marked by a bolt embedded in // // the Newlyn harbour wa
t, westnorthwest, // // west by north,
west .  // // North by northwest?  That was just // // Hitchcock’s jok
North, west // // North.  Go
west .  // // North by west, northnorthwest, // // northwest by north,
North,
west // // North.  Go west.  // // North by west, northnorthwest, //
// // North.  Go west.  // // North by
west , northnorthwest, // // northwest by north, northwest, // // nor
cross England, once.  If you follow the
west -to-east coast-to-coast walk devised by Wainwright, you get sunbur
y north, northwest, // // northwest by
west , westnorthwest, // // west by north, west.  // // North by north
Wind, fall // //
West wind // // Autumn wind is bowling on, // // trees bending, dark
// towards the setting sun.  // // Go
west , young man?  No, this is about // // a century and a half before
in the remoter backwaters // // of the
western spiral arm (which will never be fashionable).  // // See the s
above Borrowdale in what was then still
Westmorland .  It wasn’t very environmentally friendly of us, but it fe
h, northwest, // // northwest by west,
westnorthwest , // // west by north, west.  // // North by northwest? 
twenty five thousand:  The Broads // //
Westwick ; Woodbastwick; Winterton // // fences; marshes; footbridges
storm has passed // // lie back on the
wet beach // // and watch the stars emerge.  // // Sharp dots; but wa
d or savage ground // // smoked trout,
wevet , bone, calamine // // lichen, brinjal, radicchio, citron, callu
/ against the stream, back up the river
Wharfe , // // to Bolton Abbey, and the Strid beyond, // // and Barde
No longer do the people fill // // The
wharfs and ways of Camelot.  // // Only one remains to shiver // // O
to the front to see // // the engine,
wheels bigger than me— // // a great big monster, steaming, black.  //
going walkabout, // // a perambulation
whenever it got to the spin // // part of its washing cycle.  The oth
e spectacles.  // // Carry them with me
wherever I wander… but // // help!  They are missing, I must have mis
another day.  // // I cannot say // //
whether I have the necessary skill // // to find a way.  // // And no
s, and their rooms and halls // // and
whether it was night or day; // // the gardens, and the garden walls
the frights night has in store.  // //
Whether I’m lying awake or sleeping // // or floating half in half ou
y in that direction to determine // //
whether some real delta integration // // is possible at all.  I have
evidence.  // // Lying there wondering
whether there’s any chance // // I could attract the attention of any
wind or cloud // // take train // //
whether vain // // same old // // shave again // // it’s insane //
lines are drawn.  // // Whichever wins,
whichever meets defeat, // // the relict of the fight will be my woun
ready now, the lines are drawn.  // //
Whichever wins, whichever meets defeat, // // the relict of the fight
o // // burnish my halo.  Ah, I have a
whim // // to build a fine bridge clear across a great river, where /
gainst the window with the wind.  // //
Whipped wide awake by what the thunder said, // // flashes silhouette
gs.  // // What the thunder said // //
Whipped wide awake by what the thunder said // // flashes silhouette
A storm is raging as I lie abed, // //
whipped wide awake by what the thunder said.  // // Rain rattles on th
// as far the cliff.  The wind // //
whips the spume // // into irregular clots, picks them up, // // and
canopy too // // to the winds, let it
whirl away // // into the encroaching dark.  // // Feel the earth.  Fe
called Michael Finnegan.  // // He grew
whiskers on his chin—but // // the wind came up and blew them in agai
hey seem to want our help, but they can
whistle // // as well for wind: we care not a tittle.  // // Many die
y station: we clamber down.  // // The
whistle blows, the train moves on, // // the guard’s van trundles at
s // // floating down the river // //
whistling down the wind // // not as in // // screwing up your coura
Way-hay, blow us away // // No hope of
whistling up a wind // // Give me some wind to blow us away // // Ad
ears ago // // —these days his hair is
white all through.) // // ‘Every mile is two’? no, hardly thus.  //
from the sun, // // bright spot, turn
white hot and burn.  // //
/ Bright // // spot // // turn // //
white // // hot // // and burn.  // // Tanka // // Bend the light j
ay.  // // Rainbow-bright, or black and
white , // // or autumn hues, or shades of grey— // // the colours th
wall, the sign on the post, // // the
white -painted sign spreadeagled on the road.  // // What do they know,
a lass from Lancashire; // // so milk-
white was her skin.  // // In Cheddar Gorge the chaffinches // // wer
the cornices // // a hundred years of
whitewash .  // // We wire from scratch, // // plumb, strip everything
/ // But perhaps instead I will go the
whole hog, the full nine yards: turn the paper onto its side and write
and shake // // our sense of part and
whole , netsuke-like.  // // Bird and fish are two, and now are one:  //
there, shining, under the sky?  // // A
whole wide world for wandering, under the sky.  // // Mountains, valle
ns a mile down the road // // and into
whose dense interior // // we sometimes venture.  // // Beyond the fi
ech // // stands out, a clump of pears
whose fruit // // is hard as stone.  (But when stewed overnight // /
// in any season.  // // The author, he
whose life the fates would squander— // // such richness in his music
ll hold against your ear a shell // //
whose music makes your languid pulses race: // // fall, fall into the
ity speaks; // // Joyce has his Liffey
whose recirculation keeps // // Finnegan going (despite it’s his wake
layer, // // like the bard from Japan
whose verses never would scan, adds an extra list.  // // As we* reach
t-corner box.  // // I love you.  // //
Wi -fi café.  Send a letter.  // // Laptop, plug in power socket.  // //
ke a garage— // // he opens it ever so
wide // // and you can see all the junk inside. // // grey John Majo
eet!  I must admit that seems exceeding
wide , // // as if to start out on a voyage, a full round-Britain trip
he window with the wind.  // // Whipped
wide awake by what the thunder said, // // flashes silhouette the tre
// What the thunder said // // Whipped
wide awake by what the thunder said // // flashes silhouette the tree
is raging as I lie abed, // // whipped
wide awake by what the thunder said.  // // Rain rattles on the roofti
/ deep lake // // high mountain // //
wide sea // // close forest // // by lake and stream // // by fores
ll.  // // Out flew the web and floated
wide ; // // The mirror crack’d from side to side.  // // I look into
e; // // his voice is lively, gestures
wide .  // // The sun and wind upon the trees outside…  // // I try to
s.  // // His voice is lively, gestures
wide .  // // There is much sense in what he says.  // // Small hour //
om // // His voice is lively, gestures
wide — // // there is much sense in what he says, // // through these
shining, under the sky?  // // A whole
wide world for wandering, under the sky.  // // Mountains, valleys, mo
a book.  // // Don’t waste your time on
wild boar’s head.  // // If Aristotle makes you choke // // eat me in
orners and the rooftops, // // rushing
wild clouds across the sky, // // lying abed beneath the cobwebbed ra
calm air.  A winter storm // // brings
wild mountains of water crashing down // // to redefine the contours
Later we scatter the ashes // // in a
wild part of the old South London cemetery.  // // Perhaps I should pl
, on the wild Suffolk heath, // // the
wild Suffolk blackberries // // of my childhood remain forever perfec
// // or wild winds of autumn, on the
wild Suffolk heath, // // the wild Suffolk blackberries // // of my
twisted by the wind, supports // // a
wild , tufted crown—quite unlike // // the planted forest, serried ran
t accosted them, // // then walked his
wild way // // alone.  In Swale- and Wensleydale // // they passed t
// // —I am conceived by the wind, the
wild wind // // and borne on the blue ocean.  // // In the beginning
ummer, and in the first mists // // or
wild winds of autumn, on the wild Suffolk heath, // // the wild Suffo
r— // // to leave behind, for now, the
wilder moor.  // // The treasures to be found along my path // // are
Kurt Weill // // in their cots // //
William Walton not yet born.  // // But Maurice Ravel has just joined
Jump
willing in // // Jump willing into every word-filled well; // // a b
Jump willing in // // Jump
willing into every word-filled well; // // a book should suck you int
to quite a different place.  // // Jump
willing into every word-filled well, // // fall, fall into the writer
r lover’s side makes haste: // // jump
willing into every word-filled well.  // // That book will hold agains
troy or reconstruct a case: // // jump
willing into every word-filled well.  // // That book will tales of di
hortening // // left alone they easily
win —but // // there was an old man called Michael Finnegan— // // cr
/ —I am conceived by the wind, the wild
wind // // and borne on the blue ocean.  // // In the beginning I am
rce and so fast?  // // I know only the
wind and the rain // // the sun and the clouds by day, // // the sta
Wind, fall // // West
wind // // Autumn wind is bowling on, // // trees bending, dark gree
man called Michael Finnegan.  // // The
wind came up and blew him in again.  // //
he’d flaunt a bushy grin—but // // the
wind came up and blew it in again.  // // Beards may need some clippin
rew whiskers on his chin—but // // the
wind came up and blew them in again.  // // Beards are good for finger
t all their kith and kin—but // // the
wind came up and blew them in again.  // // Beards are great when gale
Wind , fall // // West wind // // Autumn wind is bowling on, // // t
/ // we march in formation.  // // The
wind feeds us, makes us strong.  // // Occasionally, I catch glimpses
Ode to the yeast
wind // // flour, water, mix well // // mollycoddle for one day //
s away // // No hope of whistling up a
wind // // Give me some wind to blow us away // // Adrift the middle
the backs of the older ones.  // // The
wind grows steady and purposeful.  // // We form into rows and columns
he one immediately in front.  // // The
wind is angry, howling and shrieking.  // // It pushes us harder, //
nd, fall // // West wind // // Autumn
wind is bowling on, // // trees bending, dark green leaves showing //
inning I am small and playful, like the
wind .  // // It changes direction from minute to minute; // // gives
er.  As we walk back // // against the
wind it starts to snow.  // // A snowdrift forms against the wire brus
own the river // // whistling down the
wind // // not as in // // screwing up your courage // // putting u
shave again // // shine or rain // //
wind or cloud // // take train // // whether vain // // same old //
trunk // // gnarled and twisted by the
wind , supports // // a wild, tufted crown—quite unlike // // the pla
—Tell me.  // // —I am conceived by the
wind , the wild wind // // and borne on the blue ocean.  // // In the
some direction find // // Give me some
wind to blow us away // //
whistling up a wind // // Give me some
wind to blow us away // // Adrift the middle of the sea // // Way-ha
clatter as we roll // // Give me some
wind to blow us away // // Horizon’s clear from end to end // // Way
nothing here for me // // Give me some
wind to blow us away // // Just feel the breathless sun beat down //
nd for nowhere fast // // Give me some
wind to blow us away // // No wind! we wallow in the swell // // Wa
ut any shade we can // // Give me some
wind to blow us away // // Now sluice the decks to cool the wood //
a bucket on my head // // Give me some
wind to blow us away // // Perhaps tomorrow there’ll be wind // // W
Covehithe, Suffolk // // South
wind today.  So the breakers // // come at an angle, sweep // // alo
vely, gestures wide.  // // The sun and
wind upon the trees outside…  // // I try to listen, but my musing str
way // // Perhaps tomorrow there’ll be
wind // // Way-hay, blow us away // // And we can some direction fin
but they can whistle // // as well for
wind : we care not a tittle.  // // Many die—thus limiting their needs.
s, // // we take on the purpose of the
wind ; // // we march in formation.  // // The wind feeds us, makes us
me some wind to blow us away // // No
wind ! we wallow in the swell // // Way-hay, blow us away // // The
/ and beats against the window with the
wind .  // // Whipped wide awake by what the thunder said, // // flash
h enough) // // as far the cliff.  The
wind // // whips the spume // // into irregular clots, picks them up
apple hits the muddy grass.  // // East
wind // // Winds bowling through trees // // fruit-laden boughs bent
hard, // // the apple on the tree, the
windfall in the grass.  // // What do they know, the rain and the air?
ended // // for maybe thirty years.  A
winding path // // leads from the glazed back door // // through box
Emerald Lake // // The
winding trails // // through forests waking to the spring // // inte
rds, // // but grander far, a corniced
window bay // // in darker wood.  Clear morning sunlight fills // //
// // of people in a city street, shop-
window -browsing.  // // A group, gathered around and gazing into // /
hered around and gazing into // // one
window ; but one young man half-turned // // across the rest, looking
e first floor front // // with a large
window .  From our bed // // we could see the tops of // // the trees
woman leans // // upon a table in the
window , looks // // out into sunlight, over grass, towards // // som
thing in the splinters of the shattered
window pane.  // // There was an overcrowded hospital.  // // There we
dered square.  // // The second had one
window , rather high— // // from the bed all I could see was sky.  //
back // // of the bench, as far as the
window .  // // Some of the contents and all of the containers // // o
ranch of the tree outside, scraping the
window .  // // That waft of scent?  A malodourous revenant?  // // Don
wing // // grass and trees outside her
window , warming // // in the sun?  Or maybe nothing—maybe she // //
gle of streets.  // // From the bed the
window was hidden // // but from the table we could see // // a tria
s overhead // // and beats against the
window with the wind.  // // Whipped wide awake by what the thunder sa
Beds and trees and
windows // // A corner of a tree-bordered square // // trees around
ght // // spilling through plate-glass
windows // // across the pavement.  // // A bartender bent to work; /
// // a heavy goods train rattles the
windows and plates // // on the shelves.  Later, the local rumour sta
irst bedroom I had to myself // // had
windows on two sides.  // // One looked across to a busy road // // b
// // in face, no sign of the deep bay
windows that // // adorn most later London terraced fronts.  // // On
/ // From random junctures in primeval
winds // // a billion random patterns form—until // // an accidental
he muddy grass.  // // East wind // //
Winds bowling through trees // // fruit-laden boughs bent to earth //
nding.  // // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // //
aiting // // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // // as the rising waters reach and lift them // // Hea
e bar, // // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // // becomes a trickle.  On the soft, receding // // He
nward.  // // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // // In the saltmarsh channels water rises // // Hear t
auses, // // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // // makes another lingering turn, begins // // Hear th
pation // // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // // of the mudflats and the sandbanks.  Listing // //
k them // // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // // straining at their lines.  The bows face seaward //
egains // // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // // the channel, turns the boats around once more // /
over.  // // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // // The tide begins its steady, slow accretion // // H
ckled.  // // Breath the scents the sea-
winds bring // // The trickle slackens, changes in the harbour; // /
.  // // Feel the air.  Turn in the four
winds .  Broadcast the secret // // to earth, as far away as it will go
Now throw the canopy too // // to the
winds , let it whirl away // // into the encroaching dark.  // // Feel
zontal; // // East Hills aglow.  // //
Winds moaning round the corners and the rooftops, // // rushing wild
, and in the first mists // // or wild
winds of autumn, on the wild Suffolk heath, // // the wild Suffolk bl
cious, towered Camelot.  // // Then, as
winds of fortune blow, // // It was arranged that she should go // /
r cymbelline; // // the merry wives of
windsor , four; // // five othello; six for king lear; // // seven ha
ace, // // the world just so.  // // A
wingéd dragon, flying low, // // will seek a human sacrifice, // //
, the lines are drawn.  // // Whichever
wins , whichever meets defeat, // // the relict of the fight will be m
Walking in
winter // // // // Berkshire, 1962-3 // // This year it snows on B
volcanic dust, // // soft breezes and
winter gales.  // // Was I shipwrecked?  Or cast overboard to avert sh
// // out of time.  // // Afternoon in
winter , on the ramparts // // looking seaward, sun behind us, low, //
n June // // A crescent moon, // // a
winter sky.  // // It’s Jan, not June.  // // A red balloon, // // wa
and fro, // // in a flat calm air.  A
winter storm // // brings wild mountains of water crashing down // /
top, // // running the gauntlet of the
winter storm.  // // The tide is high, and every wave tries hard // /
rs scutter, scavenge, seek // // their
winter sustenance.  Out in the bay // // a seal watches us, then flip
Wells in
winter // // We take the path beside the wood—the fir // // and silv
e Broads // // Westwick; Woodbastwick;
Winterton // // fences; marshes; footbridges // // One to ten thousa
/ Cambridge, circa 1966 // // One cold
winter’s afternoon // // we walk to the edge of town and on // // th
ancelot.  // // Years have passed.  The
winter’s chill // // Lies fast upon the land so ill.  // // Seldom no
// // of fallen trees, fresh from the
winter’s storms // // or long since stripped of bark, criss-cross //
asteroid // // barrelling onwards, to
wipe us out in // // ten or a thousand or maybe a million years, //
w.  // // A snowdrift forms against the
wire brush // // of David’s thick black hair, // // staying in place
a hundred years of whitewash.  // // We
wire from scratch, // // plumb, strip everything: // // wallpaper fr
ick-clack click-clack.  // // Telephone
wires through the pane // // loop lazily along and then // // greet
// Around them, the flowers bloom and
wither // // and bloom again.  They’ve been there // // for a decade
// and a world to explore.  // // But
within a few years, both son and daughter // // are dead too.  Back t
-year-old imagination.  // // It stands
within a grove of trees, a very few // // of which I can discern, eve
nd bolts and washers // // are visible
within .  // // Gathered round about, a motley crew // // of categorie
us.  // // L-shaped the house; enclosed
within its arms // // a walled garden, left untended // // for maybe
t-silence that I hear.  // // The words
within my head, what do they care?  // // They rattle round, and link,
ows and columns across the deep.  // //
Without knowing what it is, // // we take on the purpose of the wind;
oet, // // 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 //
rant monosyllables // // Let he who is
without zen… but there is a multitude of zens.  The zens of the father
three for cymbelline; // // the merry
wives of windsor, four; // // five othello; six for king lear; // //
er // // the source of danger // // a
wolf crouches // // his senses tingling, too.  // // Around them, the
s // // the room we glimpse inside.  A
woman leans // // upon a table in the window, looks // // out into s
the time.  A tiny middle-aged New York
woman , sitting on a bench seat, observes the situation, and promptly,
oom, // // Her mistress never left the
womb // // That was the fastness of her room.  // // Only through the
es are fought, // // wars are lost and
won .  Did they rage around me // // where I stood for all men to see?
le).  // // See the slime on it?  // //
Wonder if I can get it to do // // anything remotely interesting?  //
on the north Norfolk coast.  // // The
wonder is that you can still laugh.  // //
hat turn out not to be churches.  // //
Wonderful mechanisms in the civic belltower— // // a giant musical bo
approaching or aping the style of that
wonderfully eccentric twentieth-century American poet, // // Mr Ogden
old // // high-level lavatory cistern,
wonderfully // // ornate.  A pump and valves from a washing machine. 
if agony’s evidence.  // // Lying there
wondering whether there’s any chance // // I could attract the attent
// from saws and hammers and screwed-on
wood - // // and metal-working vices added to those // // caused by g
a corniced window bay // // in darker
wood .  Clear morning sunlight fills // // the room we glimpse inside.
us, the sky is clear.  // // Across the
wood , onto the beach.  We hear // // the gulls, and faintly, far away
oes were bare.  // // Behind us, in the
wood , // // tall straight pines reach for the sky, // // dark trunks
nter // // We take the path beside the
wood —the fir // // and silver birch along the dunes that run // // b
// // Now sluice the decks to cool the
wood // // Way-hay, blow us away // // And pour a bucket on my head
e thousand:  The Broads // // Westwick;
Woodbastwick ; Winterton // // fences; marshes; footbridges // // One
o skip across // // and find myself in
wooded Janet’s Foss.  // // Upstream again to clamber Gordale Scar //
ating electricity to children: // // a
wooden board on which are mounted // // battery box, switches, lights
air // // of brackets, this time for a
wooden curtain pole, // // two and a half inches in diameter (the pol
h in the garage sits // // a miniature
wooden eight-drawered chest // // given to me (budding carpenter) as
(the most important thing) // // those
wooden toggles, loops of string.  // // I must confess to having owned
gh, // // we have to guess.  // // The
woods are full of streams, // // swollen with spring melt.  But an ol
rides // // more walks, more bluebell
woods // // more curlews, more ragged, slanting lines of geese // //
cleaning his brush after painting some
woodwork .  Judith sees something in the shapes, and using a charcoal s
temper from ceilings, // // paint from
woodwork , // // lino from floors.  // // (Under the lino, newspaper /
ss for cold hands), // // thick felted
wool , a monk-like hood— // // and with (the most important thing) //
covered // // the world with skeins of
wool .  // // And as we lived and loved and gained // // and learnt an
read, a speaker heard, // // at every
word a choice has made.  // // Those that they choose to use // // to
lling in // // Jump willing into every
word -filled well; // // a book should suck you into its embrace.  //
t place.  // // Jump willing into every
word -filled well, // // fall, fall into the writer’s well-cast spell.
s haste: // // jump willing into every
word -filled well.  // // That book will hold against your ear a shell
a case: // // jump willing into every
word -filled well.  // // That book will tales of distant countries tel
ost has been collected.  // // The last
word has been had.  // // Nothing remains // // but the fuzzy end of
.  // // ‘Malignant’ seems too strong a
word .  // // I’m sure it doesn’t really want // // to kill me.  // //
The
word // // No, the singularity is quite absurd.  // // In the beginni
flow // // or rhyme, // // no.  // //
Words go // // from mind // // like snow.  // // A line // // to sh
ate or validate or grieve— // // these
words live.  // //
ubliminal sibilance of night, // // no
words , no human language in my ear, // // no voices in the almost-sil
// // In the beginning there were many
words : // // sitting, lying all around // // in bags or scattered on
ild index tabulations // // of all the
words their spiders’ crawls can find.  // // — // // A writer read, a
Britain trip.  // // I’ll need a ton of
words to fill each line from side to side, // // verbosely quite enou
le to tell // // —could I but find the
words to make it plain.  // // Two book-ends bracket our shared domain
almost-silence that I hear.  // // The
words within my head, what do they care?  // // They rattle round, and
he pavement.  // // A bartender bent to
work ; // // chrome coffee machines.  // // At the bar three people si
/ tea on the table when he returns from
work // // in a Sheffield steel mill.  // // Daughter moves away to t
the repainting can wait.  // // I go to
work .  // // Judith, artist, // // models in clay or plaster, // //
the great Michelangelo // // makes his
work lasting by carving in stone— // // me, I’m not looking for such
by two turned it into // // a perfect
workbench —the cuts and holes and scars // // from saws and hammers an
e to // // The Lady of Shalott.  // //
Working all day at her loom, // // Her mistress never left the womb /
tal flow // // seem more like butchers
working rough.  // // The light is going now.  // // How will these tr
s and screwed-on wood- // // and metal-
working vices added to those // // caused by generations of kitchen k
g M about Xmas // // Ring Tony D about
works in basement // // Tickets for Once Sat night—check time // //
he sky.  // // People, people round the
world —and I, // // roaming, rambling, drifting under the sky.  // //
t being touches and reshapes // // the
world around her, far as she can reach.  // // Who is this now, who da
ing, under the sky?  // // A whole wide
world for wandering, under the sky.  // // Mountains, valleys, moors a
any-splendoured thing.  Gloves make the
world go round, and all’s fair in gloves and war, though the course of
t contemplation.  // // The rest of the
world is dark.  // //
/ // 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
actly when to show her face, // // the
world just so.  // // A wingéd dragon, flying low, // // will seek a
The
world just so // // Far away and long ago, // // once upon a time an
ers great will bravely face, // // the
world just so.  // // True love will germinate and grow, // // all tr
Last September, meeting you.  // // The
world looks different now.  // //
docino Seascarp // // the shape of the
world // // One to thirty million:  Eurasia // // Kuril’skiye Ostrov
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 lo
eteen-seventeen (dark days of the first
world war) // // in Sheffield, steel town.  // // Mother once ran a f
make itself again, and fill // // the
world with dittoed offspring.  Yet it will // // occasionally not bree
patterns traced and covered // // the
world with skeins of wool.  // // And as we lived and loved and gained
by an avalanche, // // fall through a
wormhole , or cross a mountain range?  // // Did I march towards my fat
ing pocket of the trousers which he had
worn on the day but one preceding.”  // // —James Joyce, Ulysses.  //
we felt we had to call // // a halt to
worry , and agreed to sell // // for demolition, move to Camberwell.  /
ad a wager // // that he could without
worry // // take the hottest Currie.  // // Gordon Brown // // repla
all, // // to learn (for better or for
worse ) // // what moves us all.  // // From me you’ll learn before a
ushes // // drop cloth, slipper satin,
worsted // // dimity, blazer, babouche // // borrowed light, dimpse,
olish serviceman and refugee— // // is
worth another try.  A son.  // // Council house the other side of Shef
, // // through these ideas he makes a
worthy guide; // // his voice is lively, gestures wide.  // // The su
Alone in the dark of the night // // I
would’ve turned on the light...  // // But now no more— // // your ge
// the relict of the fight will be my
wound .  // // The goat // // // I am transfixed as a horned goat //
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
eds // // picking up the pieces // //
wrapping up the meeting // // shutting up shop // //
Pompidou relief is on the wall, // //
wrestling figures, clinched before a fall; // // Lutteurs—they are tw
sis.  // // Tried // // hard // // to
write // // a fib on // // achievement, but got // // only a fib on
d // // 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
I had the art, // // Or maybe I should
write it in a verse.  // // But now the dawn has come, it does not pas
own imagination.  // // Maybe I should
write it in a verse // // with Frida as my muse and inspiration // /
Dentist appointment—week of 10th // //
Write poem for Weds // //
ape, they test, they sound; // // they
write their notes, interpret what they find.  // // The possibility of
// tried to understand // // tried to
write // // tried to write a poem // //
ers’ crawls can find.  // // — // // A
writer read, a speaker heard, // // at every word a choice has made. 
filled well, // // fall, fall into the
writer’s well-cast spell.  // //
epest space: // // fall, fall into the
writer’s well-cast spell.  // // And now, this book, the here and now
pulses race: // // fall, fall into the
writer’s well-cast spell.  // // That book will set you puzzles which
its embrace.  // // Fall, fall into the
writer’s well-cast spell.  // // That book will take you o’er a stormy
et, stray.  // // There was a young man
writhing in the splinters of the shattered window pane.  // // There w
/ // Feel something…  // // Shit!  The
wrong trousers!  // // “Was it there?  // // It was in the correspondi
poet // // Thomas Stearns Eliot // //
wrote poetry well, but // // was no great shakes // // in the marria
the Pirates of Penzance – apologies to
WSG ) // //