Cogges Farm, Witney, 21 April, 2012

Sunday April 22, 2012 § Leave a comment

Under copper sun
                           the secular glory of the sunshine
                           resolving what is holy in me,
                           so that there is something too, that is
                           resolved in the day
                           what is disclosed
                           torment of styles
                           enough that we may inhabit
                           the improvisation,
                           allowed to be various
                           we are simplified
                           not fewer, but in harmony
                           like the
                           crooked slate enclosing the
                           pale orchard
                           walk without desire
                           a touch of fire
                           on the                                    



‘The sky is unsunned’, 3 August, 2006

Tuesday April 17, 2012 § Leave a comment


For Jase

The sky is unsunned, blanked by significance
clouds lettering the empty page, incomplete

this town is a hunch
                                & you look surprised
as though each day you have discovered it afresh
a secret unlearned

                       how can we mitigate
              the shambles of meeting

                                                   still less
the longing that curves beyond our
             still and helpful

less insistent because as a found thing we can
kid ourselves that it brings



Monday Blues, 2 March, 2009

Sunday April 15, 2012 § Leave a comment

Monday blues:
                        whisky and coke

bravado ladders your last pair
             of good tights

the cool hard drum of the extractor fan
                           the gentle grazing of
the electric shower

click:       a power surge
                             I had not reckoned on such



Letters to JG

Sunday April 8, 2012 § Leave a comment


Letters to JG

Can I write to you now?
Can I take the risk?
Can I take the risk either way?

i) New Year

Is it the way you rest a hand
Against your cheek? The wilful checking
Of a natural exuberance maybe, or is it something
More sombre, more true?

The premature morning light, caught here
Between the slats of the blind is certainly
Unforgiving, and you look tired.

Behind us, the room offers a summary of all
Our past departures, the casual reminiscences
Caught in all three dimensions, and how.

The shade considers us in more or less the same
Ways it always has; the generous lifting of
Some burden. This morning finds you much as it finds me:
that’s something, after all.

ii) On Briggate

Some change alright: the chalky acceptance of
The North. Another fiction. Entirely blotted out
By the snow, hesitant on the window ledge.

I received your letter. The sky is my answer,
However it finds you. Whether absent and without
Alternatives, or calm, tracking your quarry

Along Briggate your inky footsteps make a line
between us. How you make a virtue of your ephemera.

iii) At Your Place

I was never convinced by the limits you imposed
On yourself. Look at you now:

             The way you reach for a plum, resting a stockinged foot
                                      On the coffee table.

                          The way you answer the telephone.

Our secrets are temporary, we can concede that much.

iv) Who Loves You Baby?

Once, I thought I did.
Now I realise that I only
thought I did.

The difference
could not be
more, or
less, stark.

It is what
it is.

New Years Day, 1 January, 2012

Thursday April 5, 2012 § Leave a comment



Another sunless morning
                  (mild, so I push open the kitchen window
there is no light in the mineral sky,
only fading to light
to dark blue, from darker blue,
but there is movement

as one, me and the boy turn in time to see through the kitchen window
a flock of birds spiral over the power lines,

there is the sense that this is the time in the day when
all the important transactions are made

                                                        Breakfast          washing      beginning         beginning



Cleaning the windows, there is only so much
can be reflected back in them, they contain
only so much light, so many images –

                   There cannot be more in the world than
                   there is

all else is refraction, and that not very helpful.



When you need to roast a ham, you really need to roast a ham.




Later, the old line reasserts itself (how familiar, how droll
exerts its tawdry spell
part frontier, part fault-line

I would best describe it
as a deep longing for that which
you actually have

So that you are at once placed outside yourself, the
only resort to stall this drought of the heart

to immerse
                                     a stance, crooked in the line of the sun

                                                                          carry that
                                                               heavy water



Reading Olson today:

“There are necessities/are bigger than we are”




with all the light gone

           only left

                            the carrion

                strung out




Seattle Poems, 5-8 January, 2012

Tuesday April 3, 2012 § Leave a comment

Not new poems, but written earlier this year, on a trip to Seattle.



                         gull     exposes perspective
                                    for the sham that it is

                                    against skyscrapers

                                    moon like a shark’s eye
                                    glimpse    apricot     sun


Hotel Bedroom
                  its like a jack vettriano print,

                                       the concave light from the standard lamp, framing neat

                                                                                                    alternately tapioca
                                                                                                                                              and melon through
                                                                                                                                                     the wall

                                                                                    and that                                                textured like rice cake 

                        the shadow appalling
                  and inconsequential

                  you can’t have it both ways,
                  you can’t

if you can hear that car-horn in the street outside
then you’re just not trying hard enough



the silence of rain                 falling
softly on the              lime sidewalk
heavy         the silence of the light

Burton-On-Trent, Sunday (1 April, 2012)

Sunday April 1, 2012 § Leave a comment

Tonight there is the smell of
on the air. A

yeasty sort of self-reliance
and defiance, likely

as unreliable as it is
welcome, game

and foolhardy, the greater selfishness
is deferred
the long sight of

memory. The town has crowned
its sons with
an abundance

resignation, its secret life relieved,
temporarily. The
of birds. And now slowly
it grows dark.

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