#EnglishWriters
Closed like confessionals, they th… Loud noons of cities, giving back None of the glances they absorb. Light glossy grey, arms on a plaqu… They come to rest at any kerb:
At once whatever happened starts r… Panting, and back on board, we lin… With trousers ripped, light wallet… Yes, gone, thank God! Remembering… We toss for half the night, but fi…
If I were called in To construct a religion I should make use of water. Going to church Would entail a fording
Beyond all this, the wish to be al… However the sky grows dark with in… However we follow the printed dire… However the family is photographed… Beyond all this, the wish to be al…
My readers... sometimes I wonder whether they really exist. Truly they arer remarkably tolerant, manifesting themselves only by the occasional query as to where they can buy records: ju...
Strange to know nothing, never to… Of what is true or right or real, But forced to qualify or so I fee… Or Well, it does seem so: Someone must know.
When getting my nose in a book Cured most things short of school, It was worth ruining my eyes To know I could still keep cool, And deal out the old right hook
Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand, As epitaph: He chucked up everything And just cleared off, And always the voice will sound
Why should I let the toad work Squat on my life? Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork And drive the brute off? Six days of the week it soils
To put one brick upon another, Add a third and then a forth, Leaves no time to wonder whether What you do has any worth. But to sit with bricks around you
The cloakroom pegs are empty now, And locked the classroom door, The hollow desks are lined with du… And slow across the floor A sunbeam creeps between the chair…
Always too eager for the future, w… Pick up bad habits of expectancy. Something is always approaching; e… Till then we say, Watching from a bluff the tiny, cl…
My age fallen away like white swad… Floats in the middle distance, bec… An inhabited cloud. I bend closer… A lighted tenement scuttling with… O you tall game I tired myself wi…
Like the train’s beat Swift language flutters the lips Of the Polish airgirl in the corn… The swinging and narrowing sun Lights her eyelashes, shapes
Waiting for breakfast, while she b… I looked down at the empty hotel y… Once meant for coaches. Cobblesto… But sent no light back to the load… Sunk as it was with mist down to t…