Poems by first line

A!
A day so silent
A day such as this
after a soggy winter / with no neighbours
after the ecstasy / the laundry
Ah, James / party buddy / frisbee partner
Ah, we Brits are happy now
Ah! The unsung beauty of ink
All Hail To Thee! / Oh Mighty Guardian Of The Trans-Kitchen Sub-Carpet Hot Water Pipe!
All winter and all spring I worked hard
amble bumble bimble
an older woman / is standing near the lock
And did those feet in ancient times dance upon England's mountains green?
And on the twelfth day God harvested the golden barley
Arise beautiful man from your slumber

because you will be teased by delicious breezes
behold / a bottle / of pure poetry
Beneath the lightning-gashed yet stoical oak
Before my very eyes and feet
beech trees tingling green
Black poodle Ruby galloping over white virgin snow
Bloomin' Middle Pleistocene horses

Call ahead to the angels
Can't you see, you myopic oxymorons?
caterpillar sleeps
Come workers, come witches, come socialists, come elves

Dark moon Cape Wrath
Dave was a fisherman
Deep, deep into the ink black night
Deep peace of the fertile earth to you
dog disembarks itself upon my horizon
Do the pheasants know why they are being fed so well?
don’t quite know which one of us is in exile

early hours, fridaynightyawningintosaturdaymorning
early December Western Cape skies
England is sometimes so damn sweet
even from this distance / you make me / swoonandswellandooze
Every time I open a new bottle of whisky

February she flashes knickers of pure snowdrop white
first born of the garden
for over seven years now / I’ve watched the sunrise / slowly pendulum / across my horizon
from within its gathered folds of gently wrinkled skin
Fuck it, bru / tear down that zoo

Grandfather Fire! / ever bountiful / ever beautiful / ever patient / ever kind

He’s like an old, forbidding, slightly foreboding
Herm, Herm, Hermione
Hobo poet worships the spirits of the hedge
Holometabolic haiku
hooray for water and waterways
how delicious the taste of the weave of the air
humanity is born free but everywhere is in supermarket chains 

I blame my parents
I came / I saw
i caught this morning / your electric blue flight
I did not ask to be born a Troll
if you've got an itch
I got a pure love for you, baby
I have become a collector of sea-worn bricks
I wanna be an urban shaman
In the lead up to Christmas
it only took a few days / for her precious little act / of kindness / to leave the village bounds
It takes a few mornings to refine the art
it was stretched out over / that long and lazy May Day bank holiday weekend
it's 10.13pm and I'm sitting at my desk staring at a blank sheet of paper
It's just before dawn
"It's not biblical!" the priest would thunder
It's when I open your wardrobe

Jennifer Death, the ebony-eyed crocodile
Joy & Woe are woven fine
Just east of Northampton
Just put one foot / in front of the other

Last night I dreamed / I came across a crocodile
Late June, eleven o'clock, the mid-summer sun finally gone down
"Leap and the net shall appear"
Let the world be
Like an open book
listen to the ideology of the trees
love is in the air

May I be full of loving kindness
May you be as happy as that damp-nosed dog
May your dreams be wet and filthy
Maybe: there ain't no moment better than this
me and lisa we don't need no psychotherapy
me and the earth
Mid-morning in the chancel of my village church
Monday morning blues
Most mornings / lost in my poetic musings
my duvet and me have come to a loosely monogamous arrangement
My mid-May midday errand to the Post Office completed
My nephew catches my eye / with a question perched upon his ruffled brow

O hommous, processed manna to my soul
O! Yesterday my sweet Fanny left me
Oh, my beautiful boy
oh there were cracks as wide as our smiles
Oh you fuckedup angels dancing on the head of a pin
On the whole / the larger the dragon / the slower its sense of time
open up the book / that will surely kill you
Otter is dead

Platform two
pond

Ransack scrap whirl whisk
rock has met this other rock

Several hundred times I’ve made my way down / the steep coastal path to Seaton Hole
she dealt with dirt and glory
She threw the slickest moves on the dancefloor
Sing hooray for the beauty of the bicycle
sitting on a bench beside the Botley Road
sitting quietly, doing nothing
some say it's the first snowdrops
Some say the finest apples / are to be found in the heart of Kent
Sometimes all I can do / is go down to the sea
Sometimes I feel like a washing machine
Sometimes / I love the sea for its vast and magnificent indifference
Sometimes she comes as an invitation whispered upon the breeze
Sometimes she comes like a kitchen spider
somewhere / always / even now
Somewhere between music and ink
spring is sprung
Striding across frozen furrows
Sunday lunch at the Gun and Spitroast and the moment I've been awaiting for arrives

that we find our tails today rather than tomorrow
the bright waning moon
The early afternoon light begins to bleed with gold
The Emperor is at it again, parading naked down Whitehall
The firm geography of the island
“The first coffee house in all of England”
the hungry White Man / is fighting back
the lonely old poet / upon the hill
the meadow abloom / a symphony of colour
the monster wants
the patient kitchen spider
the old poet sat in the cafe
the one good thing that came out of my mother’s death
the purity of the pivot of a hammer happily swung
The slightest flutter of nerve impulses
the sunlight enters the moon
the sunlight springs off the river water
There's a pebble in my shoe
This being human business, it's a bit like being a bloomin' Bed & Breakfast
this human being malarkey is a dizzying thing
this morn i awoke to the hum of the song of the first frisbee of spring
this world, has it always been this mad?
tiananmen bicycles and tiananmen tanks hurry along beijing streets to different rhythms
To open the stove door at dawn and find some embers still aglow
Today I must go thirsty to the well
Tomorrow being a school day
two foxes at dusk

up high inside the mulberry tree
upon the turning brow of that wintered hill the army finally tired

Wake up
walking along the Devil's Backbone
We used to be hairy and burly
We used to meet front left of the dance floor
Welcome / this moment / as it is
What is the sound
What is the sound of one poet dying?
When a great royal oak falls
When there are no keys in your pocket
William Blake & Allen Ginsberg & Adrian Mitchell all refused to enter Heaven's gates
Winnie the Pooh!
Woman, you're gorgeous whatever you wear
woodsmoke blessings embrace us all

You infect me
You passed on to me your love of poetry
you slip into sleep in my october arms
you tickle all my boxes
your armpits smell of fenugreek