\u00a0Poems<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0Untitled Poem <\/strong>(from 1966)<\/p>\n what would she<\/p>\n in all the world<\/p>\n to touch closely<\/p>\n she seems leaning<\/p>\n too close too soon<\/p>\n to touch or least<\/p>\n to glance in eyes<\/p>\n the strangeness<\/p>\n of our ways<\/p>\n for in turn<\/p>\n we move our wills<\/p>\n away from birth<\/p>\n and from our bodies<\/p>\n the other wanders<\/p>\n seeking freedom<\/p>\n <\/p>\n why lost, contained<\/p>\n when we only<\/p>\n find it here<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Untitled<\/strong> (c.1967)<\/p>\n I am bombarded<\/p>\n by white umbrellas<\/p>\n adrift in late afternoon air<\/p>\n feathery lace-ribbed<\/p>\n they clutch at my hair<\/p>\n & slide over my neck<\/p>\n it is the seed of green things<\/p>\n I think slowly being warm<\/p>\n just sitting & tired<\/p>\n I cannot smell the flowers<\/p>\n of our garden they are too far<\/p>\n away from me<\/p>\n on the other side<\/p>\n of the short-cropped lawn<\/p>\n behind me an excavator\u2019s neck<\/p>\n peers with its one wheel of eye<\/p>\n at the hairs<\/p>\n standing up straight<\/p>\n on my head<\/p>\n needless to say<\/p>\n I am alone<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n September<\/strong> (c.1967)<\/p>\n along the trickle<\/p>\n of brown earth<\/p>\n a slow amble to the brow<\/p>\n & I watch the valley<\/p>\n resting<\/p>\n <\/p>\n then urging on for the hurry<\/p>\n & inbreaths of descent<\/p>\n the outbreaths<\/p>\n building short soft houses<\/p>\n of mist<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I slip into the lowerscape<\/p>\n turf & twigs screwed in my hand<\/p>\n feet splaying<\/p>\n tightening<\/p>\n mad ballet<\/p>\n of out &<\/p>\n in<\/p>\n <\/p>\n two feet<\/p>\n playing pizzicato<\/p>\n leap along a whispy dark thread<\/p>\n of sheep path<\/p>\n <\/p>\n into a slow flatness<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I turn<\/p>\n toward the hills<\/p>\n who shrug a few trees<\/p>\n at me<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I turn<\/p>\n again<\/p>\n & make a clown\u2019s counterpoint<\/p>\n <\/p>\n in<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 &<\/p>\n out<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 of<\/p>\n the<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 dot<\/p>\n ted<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 white<\/p>\n lines<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 all<\/p>\n along<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 the<\/p>\n road<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Untitled<\/strong> (14 October 1967)<\/p>\n street forever<\/p>\n down to the docks<\/p>\n & widening<\/p>\n out into the still grey<\/p>\n autumnal sea<\/p>\n <\/p>\n leaves of grey boats<\/p>\n veins of red & blue<\/p>\n girding a funnel<\/p>\n a thin & thick stripe<\/p>\n waistband necklace<\/p>\n upon a nest of frigate\u2019s branches<\/p>\n stuck on top of a sheaf<\/p>\n of aluminium wireless spikes<\/p>\n <\/p>\n woodyards<\/p>\n timber piles<\/p>\n stacks of<\/p>\n two by fours<\/p>\n <\/p>\n a coast thick droopy<\/p>\n fog\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 quiet shawl<\/p>\n around the shoulders<\/p>\n of the bay<\/p>\n no view<\/p>\n of the inland<\/p>\n mountains<\/p>\n points of fir<\/p>\n knifing out the sea-green<\/p>\n hillsides<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Last two poems of October 1967<\/strong><\/p>\n I.<\/p>\n the years rotate\u2026.<\/p>\n lopped-off stumps<\/p>\n naked round ends of fir branches<\/p>\n radiating out<\/p>\n at the horizontal<\/p>\n tall fir body<\/p>\n with crinkly bark<\/p>\n furrowed old skin<\/p>\n magpie<\/p>\n on the eaves<\/p>\n looks under<\/p>\n runs<\/p>\n bounces<\/p>\n the rippled roof thrust down<\/p>\n lurches into the greenery<\/p>\n thick needles close around him<\/p>\n hidden<\/p>\n he clacks away<\/p>\n cluclac<\/p>\n klalak<\/p>\n low cloud gropes along<\/p>\n small whisp fire-smoke<\/p>\n drifts & rolls<\/p>\n fades into grey tree-tops<\/p>\n II.<\/p>\n Robert<\/p>\n drags a branch of birch<\/p>\n still silver in parts<\/p>\n scrapes the gravel makes<\/p>\n tracks in the driveway<\/p>\n turns it over<\/p>\n & over<\/p>\n until it pivots<\/p>\n on the bramble bushes<\/p>\n curves of spruce<\/p>\n hang down<\/p>\n comb the air just<\/p>\n above his head<\/p>\n bundles of brown leaves<\/p>\n drift<\/p>\n around the wheels<\/p>\n of the Vauxhall<\/p>\n ivy in the distance<\/p>\n darkens the first six feet<\/p>\n of a dead but standing<\/p>\n straight unbranched<\/p>\n birch again<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Fogface<\/strong> (8 November 1967)<\/p>\n fog came down<\/p>\n crept over us<\/p>\n all of us in the streets<\/p>\n against lights<\/p>\n billowing<\/p>\n flat sheets in the dark<\/p>\n paced in it<\/p>\n face & breath<\/p>\n blended<\/p>\n no great<\/p>\n distinction<\/p>\n fog & face<\/p>\n cold flesh thrust<\/p>\n into<\/p>\n parting<\/p>\n it<\/p>\n head<\/p>\n the space<\/p>\n between sheets<\/p>\n of fog<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Dogwalk<\/strong> (8 November 1967)<\/p>\n a dog<\/p>\n tailpole erect<\/p>\n pats four feet<\/p>\n across the frosted<\/p>\n bridge<\/p>\n makes curious shade<\/p>\n of the fuzzy sun<\/p>\n <\/p>\n shows he is no statue<\/p>\n but animal walking<\/p>\n <\/p>\n grabs the cold by its<\/p>\n stiff morning coat &<\/p>\n shakes, for himself,<\/p>\n a day\u2019s warmth out of it<\/p>\n <\/p>\n no man\u2019s dog<\/p>\n <\/p>\n a loner<\/p>\n <\/p>\n knows the road<\/p>\n & the space between<\/p>\n each vehicle<\/p>\n too well<\/p>\n to be suddenly<\/p>\n a red splash<\/p>\n brushed with tyres<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Gorse-gandering<\/strong> (November 1967)<\/p>\n wetrock<\/p>\n & the fern tangle<\/p>\n knees gouged<\/p>\n <\/p>\n spears of seeded grass<\/p>\n hang handles down<\/p>\n from my sweater<\/p>\n & jeans<\/p>\n <\/p>\n up the gorse ridge<\/p>\n clay stuck to shoes<\/p>\n peep between spikes<\/p>\n at cows & the far<\/p>\n outcrop<\/p>\n <\/p>\n shale slides<\/p>\n flat decks of granite<\/p>\n quartz blocks jut out<\/p>\n & glint<\/p>\n <\/p>\n high sun<\/p>\n peers into bottom quarry<\/p>\n shade<\/p>\n <\/p>\n rock doves<\/p>\n hurl themselves<\/p>\n or fall<\/p>\n feet drawn up<\/p>\n beaks & necks<\/p>\n extended<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Fire in the Rain <\/strong>(5 January 1968)<\/p>\n almost midnight again.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n & it rained today<\/p>\n wind with it & thin mist<\/p>\n <\/p>\n three children died<\/p>\n on the radio<\/p>\n their house on fire<\/p>\n in all that rain<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I heard a fire siren<\/p>\n in the late afternoon<\/p>\n but it wasn\u2019t for them<\/p>\n they were<\/p>\n two hundred miles away<\/p>\n & for half-a-minute<\/p>\n national news<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Two Untitled <\/strong>(probably 1968)<\/p>\n even if<\/p>\n you had taken<\/p>\n the trouble<\/p>\n to look<\/p>\n back<\/p>\n I would<\/p>\n certainly<\/p>\n still have<\/p>\n walked on<\/p>\n & the discomfort<\/p>\n would be no less:<\/p>\n <\/p>\n my head swivelling<\/p>\n a thousand miles<\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n there\u2019s a crow<\/p>\n in a tree<\/p>\n <\/p>\n a linnet on<\/p>\n the tip of<\/p>\n that rock<\/p>\n <\/p>\n jay-bird<\/p>\n rattles his throat<\/p>\n out of sight<\/p>\n <\/p>\n it\u2019s cold & still<\/p>\n <\/p>\n eight inches of tree-stump<\/p>\n jarring out the flat green<\/p>\n lawn<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Untitled<\/strong> (2 June 1968)<\/p>\n black<\/p>\n bird<\/p>\n in bushes<\/p>\n scrambles<\/p>\n <\/p>\n cracks<\/p>\n twigs<\/p>\n just like<\/p>\n a man<\/p>\n <\/p>\n would<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Untitled<\/strong> (c.1968)<\/p>\n shifting my leg<\/p>\n I uncover an inch<\/p>\n or two<\/p>\n of bare armchair<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Pea-stick Rondo<\/strong> (c.1968)<\/p>\n chopping birch branches<\/p>\n <\/p>\n for pea-sticks you have<\/p>\n to get them about three<\/p>\n feet long\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 the smaller<\/p>\n twigs forming something<\/p>\n like a fan<\/p>\n <\/p>\n you point the thick end<\/p>\n <\/p>\n & clean the lower six<\/p>\n inches of side-twigs<\/p>\n so that you can push<\/p>\n it into the soil\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 you<\/p>\n make a vaulting of<\/p>\n sticks\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 an extended<\/p>\n tent\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 the fine tips &<\/p>\n small buds crossing<\/p>\n hands at the top<\/p>\n <\/p>\n when your peas<\/p>\n <\/p>\n are planted & you\u2019ve<\/p>\n waited they\u2019ll twine<\/p>\n & creep up both sides<\/p>\n of the tent until they<\/p>\n tangle together at the<\/p>\n top & drop fat pods<\/p>\n into sheltered air<\/p>\n between them &<\/p>\n the ground<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Two Poems from Iconolatre, Issue 22\/23, 1968<\/strong><\/p>\n (retaining the punctuation and typographical tics as published)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n kids hand,<\/p>\n rubbed flat along the length<\/p>\n of the iron bridge,<\/p>\n leaves a mark.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n a bit of him<\/p>\n rubbed off<\/p>\n on it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n some of it<\/p>\n (dust & rust)<\/p>\n rubbed off<\/p>\n on him.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n mutual gift<\/p>\n of bridge & boy.<\/p>\n even this cold evening.<\/p>\n unintended.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n walked home<\/p>\n during a lull<\/p>\n in the rain<\/p>\n when the sun<\/p>\n (an extended flash)<\/p>\n smacked the concrete<\/p>\n & I\u2019m almost sure<\/p>\n steam rose<\/p>\n <\/p>\n christmas<\/p>\n I\u2019d seen<\/p>\n hung up<\/p>\n from lamp to lamp<\/p>\n across the street<\/p>\n <\/p>\n but that was in town<\/p>\n above slick shops<\/p>\n & bus queues<\/p>\n <\/p>\n here a gull<\/p>\n traverses the street<\/p>\n at fifty feet<\/p>\n twists its head<\/p>\n yawps<\/p>\n & climbs higher<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n And another poem from an Iconolatre Anthology, 1969<\/strong><\/p>\n (a few pages after poems by Douglas Blazek, George Bowering and Charles Bukowski \u2013 illustrious company, at the time)<\/p>\n chewed & chopped<\/p>\n into tea-leaf stature<\/p>\n fibres strung-out<\/p>\n pulled along the length<\/p>\n of a certain white papet<\/p>\n <\/p>\n comes the hand<\/p>\n fire on the match<\/p>\n <\/p>\n the death:<\/p>\n charring red<\/p>\n then feathered white<\/p>\n falls some of it<\/p>\n <\/p>\n & the transfiguration:<\/p>\n some of it<\/p>\n rolling<\/p>\n curling<\/p>\n snakes its goodbye<\/p>\n into the corners<\/p>\n & transparency<\/p>\n <\/p>\n one tight room<\/p>\n left gasping<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n the smoking.<\/p>\n R. Strauss to the ears.<\/p>\n Oct. 67<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Goat Story<\/strong> (c.1969)<\/p>\n in the yellow field<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I found a wild goat<\/p>\n with a tattered ear\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 he\u2019d<\/p>\n caught somehow in a thicket<\/p>\n on a thorn\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 bitch-of-a-bush<\/p>\n bellowed & threshed dark<\/p>\n under black-pine\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 came out<\/p>\n red-eared & wet of sweat<\/p>\n & blood\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 lay down by the mill<\/p>\n licked it dry\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 & slept<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I met him perhaps two hours<\/p>\n later\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 freshly wounded\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 grey<\/p>\n beard<\/p>\n one<\/p>\n snow-ear<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Summer Sequence: Cityscape<\/strong> (c.1969)<\/p>\n ‘Nothing is little to him who feels it<\/em><\/p>\n with great sensibility.<\/em>\u2019 Samuel Johnson<\/p>\n <\/p>\n all afternoon<\/p>\n children play games<\/p>\n as if their lives<\/p>\n depended on it<\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n hot tyres branding<\/p>\n the road\u2019s black<\/p>\n face<\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n a flash of white<\/p>\n lifts my eye:<\/p>\n a seagull in all<\/p>\n that blue of sky<\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n I sweep the dust<\/p>\n along the floor<\/p>\n but the patch of<\/p>\n sunlight will not<\/p>\n be hurried<\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n a sea moves overhead:<\/p>\n waves of thin cloud<\/p>\n lapping against the sun<\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n myself I see<\/p>\n in the urgent wanderings<\/p>\n of the fly<\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n a seagull rides<\/p>\n on a puff of cloud<\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n sunbeams press<\/p>\n upon the typewriter keys<\/p>\n & this poem gets<\/p>\n written<\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n shadows on my flesh:<\/p>\n sparrows cross the sun<\/p>\n *<\/p>\n I sit here enthralled:<\/p>\n sky like a great<\/p>\n map unfolding<\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n slowly the shadows<\/p>\n revolve: the trees,<\/p>\n the earth, turning<\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n I slept for an<\/p>\n afternoon while all around<\/p>\n the sound of children<\/p>\n playing<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Four ways to the old woman <\/strong>(from 1968-69)<\/p>\n I<\/strong><\/p>\n From a letter about her childhood:<\/p>\n …..<\/p>\n we made fires of birch branches,<\/em><\/p>\n dead old fungi rotted into crisp<\/em><\/p>\n summer pulp, bracken, hay, fibres<\/em><\/p>\n pulled from dead stumps white<\/em><\/p>\n & easy to split. Smoke hung<\/em><\/p>\n over forty acres of wild daffodils<\/em><\/p>\n \u2026..<\/p>\n <\/p>\n II<\/strong><\/p>\n A man:<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I met old woman<\/em><\/p>\n along the thin road.<\/em><\/p>\n She had on a haggard face.<\/em><\/p>\n Her bony old legs<\/em><\/p>\n Were\u00a0 like walking sticks.<\/em><\/p>\n We didn\u2019t speak.<\/em><\/p>\n Silence climbed ten miles.<\/em><\/p>\n Her gown was of fine<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 dried<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 skin.<\/em><\/p>\n I felt she hadn\u2019t lied to me.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n III<\/strong><\/p>\n She:<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I was more alone with him<\/em><\/p>\n than without. He never spoke.<\/em><\/p>\n We were both on the same road.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n IV<\/strong><\/p>\n Sing up old woman<\/p>\n tell us about the men.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Men do not figure in it at all.<\/em><\/p>\n They laid me down and I was easy.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Why do you wear such a gown?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It is to hide a scar. My only<\/em><\/p>\n breast is still firm. Feel.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Was it cancer?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It was restlessness. I was not<\/em><\/p>\n content. Wanted more.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Love?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Enough.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n Railway observations from the early 1970s<\/strong><\/p>\n Ducks on a pond<\/p>\n cows in a field<\/p>\n a few hundred people<\/p>\n on a train<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n A sheep on its back<\/p>\n in the middle of a field<\/p>\n <\/p>\n dying?<\/p>\n or giving birth?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Cows with their ears tagged<\/p>\n me & my dreams<\/p>\n we\u2019re all on our way to market<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n In the evening light<\/p>\n even short trees make long shadows<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I sit on the train reading Chinese philosophy<\/p>\n out the window there\u2019s an ancient White Horse<\/p>\n on my lap, a dead fly<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Wind ripples water<\/p>\n & bends the grass<\/p>\n but a business man\u2019s face<\/p>\n stays the same<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Clouds & sheep<\/p>\n sheep & clouds<\/p>\n <\/p>\n what\u2019s the difference?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n A man does a crossword<\/p>\n I read a book<\/p>\n a girl falls asleep<\/p>\n <\/p>\n we may get off at different stations<\/p>\n but we\u2019re all on the same train<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n *<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Somewhere in Somerset<\/p>\n eight cows meet on a bridge<\/p><\/blockquote>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u00a0Poems \u00a0Untitled Poem (from 1966) what would she in all the world to touch closely she seems leaning too close too soon to touch or least to glance in eyes the strangeness of our ways for in turn we move … Continue reading \n