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.

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Y

t the foot of the graph, // // so that

y can now scale the heights? // // Relate to me now the truth about X

The truth about x

in Leningrad in Soviet days. Kettle’s

Yard in Cambridge when it was still managed by Jim Ede (he would pick

Fragments of a life

t of the first world war). // // Fifty

yards across the park at the back // // a low embankment carries the

Peckham 1969—1991

ck Court; Sherlock Close // // houses;

yards ; curbs // // One to fifty: Ground floor // // Bedroom 2; Bathr

a tidal Norfolk creek // // a hundred

yards from my door // //

// it pulls the final prop. A hundred

yards // // of man’s best effort at defence // // drops thirty feet

Walking in winter

// As far as we can see? // // A few

yards only. As we climbed // // out of the rainy valley, we climbed

I will go the whole hog, the full nine

yards : turn the paper onto its side and write each line // // in some

// feeling slow // // rub eyes // //

yawn and stretch // // blue skies // // legs itch // // must get on

for a day— // // even more maybe—for a

year and a day // // in Norfolk where the sign reads slow you down. /

// // no matter what the season of the

year . // // At any time or season of the year // // we listen to Sch

en-million-year mountain // // hundred-

year forest // // hundred-million-year sea // // ten-thousand-year l

newspaper // // dated 1933 // // the

year Hitler came to power). // // Then we get on with our lives: //

/ // // Berkshire, 1962-3 // // This

year it snows on Boxing Day. // // The country road not cleared for d

Walking in winter

ed-million-year sea // // ten-thousand-

year lake // // thousand-year stream // // narrow stream // // open

forest // // rough moor // // million-

year moor // // ten-million-year mountain // // hundred-year forest

// million-year moor // // ten-million-

year mountain // // hundred-year forest // // hundred-million-year s

s here // // a new production for this

year // // of celebration—every line // // the Bard created for the

Septilla CDSeptilla CD*

he flickering light. // // Nearly-five-

year -old Colin // // needed a lavatory, and I had to leave the fire f

n hardboard. // // — // // 1973. Six-

year -old Emily visits. // // At home, two days later, // // she says

cross my five- // // or eight- or ten-

year -old imagination. // // It stands within a grove of trees, a very

// the Lucy Lavers // // eighty some

year old lifeboat // // restored to glory // // motors smoothly up t

dred-year forest // // hundred-million-

year sea // // ten-thousand-year lake // // thousand-year stream //

ten-thousand-year lake // // thousand-

year stream // // narrow stream // // open moor // // deep lake //

Interval // // There is a forty-one

year tale to tell // // —could I but find the words to make it plain.

// // not until seven years later, the

year that her first // // grandchild arrived? I can’t quite recall.

Good vibrations

ar. // // At any time or season of the

year // // we listen to Schubert’s Trout Quintet. // // Listening to

wait // // another thirteen and a half

years . // //

January Nineteen Hundred and One

even perhaps // // identify across the

years . A copper beech // // stands out, a clump of pears whose fruit

, left untended // // for maybe thirty

years . A winding path // // leads from the glazed back door // // t

l // // simply erase them. // // Four

years ago a storm demolished // // the dunes on the beach across the

y. // // —A fragment, formulated forty

years ago // // and filed in the middens of my mind. // // And in my

house // // that we bought some forty

years ago. // // One of the legs had rotted half away. // // But a n

old outside. // // (But that was forty

years ago // // —these days his hair is white all through.) // // ‘E

Walking in winter

le, lost in the mist. // // Forty-some

years ago, when I first walked // // this path, it would have been //

nto its glow. // // Another twenty one

years , // // another crematorium. // // This time Judith has chosen

/ crops are watered. // // Seasons and

years are counted and timed. // // Philosophies are aired, // // tem

t) // // had come as a child sixty-odd

years before // // (well before the start of the first world war). //

Peckham 1969—1991

rld to explore. // // But within a few

years , both son and daughter // // are dead too. Back to Sheffield a

Ninety-six and counting

erranean waves roll on. // // How many

years , decades, centuries // // have I lain upon this sandy seafloor?

y // // Rode bold Sir Lancelot. // //

Years have passed. The winter’s chill // // Lies fast upon the land

The Lady’s Maid

// and talked to relatives not seen for

years . // // It had to be, but it was not the memory we needed. // /

// ten or a thousand or maybe a million

years , // // it seems to be acting // // not in its own best interes

Capricorn suite

home. Or was it // // not until seven

years later, the year that her first // // grandchild arrived? I can

Good vibrations

heat upon my face. // // Twenty three

years later, when my mother died // // we had the proper formal funer

entieth century only // // ninety-nine

years long.) // // Béla Bartók and Frank Bridge // // are still at c

January Nineteen Hundred and One

// // On the cornices // // a hundred

years of whitewash. // // We wire from scratch, // // plumb, strip e

m unpainted for the best part of the 22

years we lived there, and it wasn’t just because we never got around t

Fragments of a life

ces, // // crested by the fuzz of last

year’s growth, // // looks like a great sea-crag in miniature, // //

yeast wind // // flour, water, mix well // // mollycoddle for one da

Ode to the yeast wind

// // —spinning around one of the hot

yellow bits // // way out here in the remoter backwaters // // of th

ing seaward, sun behind us, low, // //

yellow light-beams almost horizontal; // // East Hills aglow. // //

Recorded syllables

no, not really. // // Objective // //

Yellow liquid flows. // // Subjective/objective // // Tap left open.

Capricorn suite

Hopper Chōka // //

Yellow neon light // // spilling through plate-glass windows // // a

ng to patch? // // Will it find I’ve a

yen to make audiences laugh, // // so my name should be written in li

The truth about x

turn, a period of change? // // Well,

yes . In all the arts // // currents criss-cross, revolutions // //

January Nineteen Hundred and One

Judith is a painter, isn’t she?” // //

Yes . // // “Then why hasn’t she painted // // the walls?” // // Fai

Anticipation // //

Yes , there will be more. // // More hills, dales, crags, beaches //

an I go there, with my eyesight? // //

Yes , with fuel to burn. // // If the lines be blurred just right, //

Babylon by candlelight

tomorrow // // tomorrow // // will be

yesterday . // //

ybe? // // No. // // But which jacket

yesterday ? Ah, that one. // // But no. // // Table by door? // // N

Another senior moment

was it just a hedge, backwards? // //

Yesterday I was told: it looks clear. // // So life should now appea

Capricorn suite

No. No. No. // // Dammit, used them

yesterday . Must be somewhere. // // Start again, from the beginning,

Another senior moment

n the time comes, I might add, not just

yet . // //

h ride. // // —Hold on! I’m not ready

yet . // //

The state of the world

s from the // // edge of the path, not

yet blunted or bowdlerized. // // Broken? It must be, if agony’s evi

in their cots // // William Walton not

yet born. // // But Maurice Ravel has just joined // // the Société

January Nineteen Hundred and One

ee. // // Below the bulges, // // not

yet decipherable, // // orange and penny. // // Brandy, a candle: //

Light and shadow

// // 3 sideways: perspiration // //

Yet here’s a thought. Just maybe I can // // circle round the tentac

/ // the world with dittoed offspring.

Yet it will // // occasionally not breed true. Now strife: // // the

/ The eighth layer has not been started

yet , so the only thing to do about // // it is to turn back and trave

p the carriers of plague at bay. // //

Yet someone here is staggering and stumbling— // // how in hell did h

// // An uncompleted day // // is not

yet to be fixed— // // but each interval passing by // // may be not

/ may be notched on a stick. // // Not

yet to be fixed // // while the long night’s images last, // // but

ot kill // // another day.” // // And

yet you stay // // inside my head, and take away my will // // to fi

round to it. // // On a New

York subway: Judith and me standing as there are no seats; she is 4 o

Fragments of a life

nt at the time. A tiny middle-aged New

York woman, sitting on a bench seat, observes the situation, and promp

Fragments of a life

y obey her, all shapes and sizes of New

Yorkers , like lambs. It is a memory that Judith treasures for the res

Fragments of a life

// First to Hunmanby on the north-east

Yorkshire coast // // for the requisite square-bashing. And then whe

Ninety-six and counting

/ Polish husband transforms into // //

Yorkshire male, expecting // // tea on the table when he returns from

Ninety-six and counting

s, my best-beloved, // // when we were

young and all, // // the woven patterns traced and covered // // the

ass // // As comely or as kindly or as

young as what she was!) // // I am not cruel, only truthful— // // T

All done with mirrors

s on Kinderscout. // // Meet a dashing

young fellow rambler. // // Marry, find a home // // on the very edg

Ninety-six and counting

/ Butterfish cooked to no sauce. // //

Young flourishing bowl bowl shrimp // // Do a boiler burn the duck he

Colourless green ideas found sleeping furiously

gazing into // // one window; but one

young man half-turned // // across the rest, looking with unfocussed

owards the setting sun. // // Go west,

young man? No, this is about // // a century and a half before Colum

A poem for free

dera rondeau // // In any season, some

young man will wander // // along the byways, thoughts tragic or tend

was a bullet, stray. // // There was a

young man writhing in the splinters of the shattered window pane. //

Black September

once ran a fish-and-chip shop. // // A

young rambler, you take part // // in the mass trespass on Kinderscou

Ninety-six and counting