Stephen Robertson

Slanting Lines

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

fiev and Carl Orf // still at school //
Aaron Copland and Kurt Weill // in their cots // William Walton not ye
ained.  // Unused parts from finished or
abandoned projects, // pieces half-constructed or half-deconstructed,
there, along with // all the other long-
abandoned projects.) // This one started with an almighty bang // —tho
back up the river Wharfe, // to Bolton
Abbey , and the Strid beyond, // and Barden Bridge—and now I flick my w
ng wild clouds across the sky, // lying
abed beneath the cobwebbed rafters, // warm and dry.  // On waters of t
he blind.  // A storm is raging as I lie
abed , // whipped wide awake by what the thunder said.  // Rain rattles
acy.  // An assault on my dignity.  // An
abrogation of my autonomy.  // Objective // In my groin and in my mind’
nother day // to feel your ever-present
absence , still // to find a way.  // I hear you say, // “But life is fo
No balance here.  The bad // is bad in
absolute , while the good // is good only in relation to the bad.  // Th
he word // No, the singularity is quite
absurd .  // In the beginning there were many words: // sitting, lying a
I suppose.  // Somewhere deep down in my
abysmal gut // (well, really, just around the final bend) // this crav
Ever tried // tried to
accept // tried to climb // tried to find // tried to forget // tried
le.  No rage— // just a sort of passive
acceptance .  // Set against this, a certain toughness, // hidden, but e
Cape Cod Morning // Almost
accidental , but carefully composed: // the sky behind the trees beyond
illion random patterns form—until // an
accidental spiral sequence finds // that it can make itself again, and
n purple sage to lie.  // A Cheshire cat
accosted them, // then walked his wild way // alone.  In Swale- and We
ing // The tide begins its steady, slow
accretion // Hear the marsh-birds calling // in places it has lost, re
d undecorated, but with marks and signs
accumulated over a century and a bit.  There is an area about 2ft squa
lay pope’s // soapy place.  // So apply,
ace : // scope a play // apocalypse.  //
ried // hard // to write // a fib on //
achievement , but got // only a fib on a cheap pun // [One iamb, two an
f, // dip our feet into water clear and
achingly cold, // and dry them on warm rock.  //
was already elderly // when my mother,
acquiring a newer model, donated // the reject to us for our new home.
aybe a million years, // it seems to be
acting // not in its own best interests.  // Too bad.  // First the bad
through the double-starred list of the
actinoids // ‡ by means of reactors or colliders or other toys //
tars and planets overhead // as well as
actions close at hand // (the apple said), // to comprehend the univer
rd created for the stage // by the best
actors of the age.  // Thank you for calling Shakespeareline. // * pron
s if on the shoulders of its owner, but
actually empty. // The sitting room of our house in Peckham
tch a gear, and take a lurch // at some
acute , unmeasured angle.  // Last September, meeting you.  // The world
nd little else arrayed?  // I think he’d
add a note to his remark— // in truth, how cheesy is the sometime chal
livion— // when the time comes, I might
add , not just yet.  //
// Voices, ipods, phones speak out— //
add to the road’s cacophony.  // Through air and ether people mutter, s
// Voices, ipods, phones speak out— //
add to the road’s cacophony.  // Voices coming from the room next door:
wed-on wood- // and metal-working vices
added to those // caused by generations of kitchen knives.  // Clearanc
he shape of things: // the steps which,
added up, construct // my life.  // Most of the steps are small, // fol
past to pilfer // the clusters beyond,
adding scratches // to the stains already covering your fingers // and
.  // Need just a few more.  // How about
adding space, time, love?  // One, // one, // two, three, // five, eigh
sing a charcoal stick, makes some small
additions .  And it becomes a scene, a group of people in evening dress
om Japan whose verses never would scan,
adds an extra list.  // As we* reach the sixth and seventh periods, sho
g just fine.  // But seven feet!  I must
admit that seems exceeding wide, // as if to start out on a voyage, a
by the rubrik of Boris the Mad.  // He’d
adore such a grand and flamboyant adventure—to // jump on the bandwago
no sign of the deep bay windows that //
adorn most later London terraced fronts.  // One of a block of four, it
// Give me some wind to blow us away //
Adrift the middle of the sea // Way-hay, blow us away // And there is
s, the fish, the dinosaurs, the apes //
advance across the generations.  Each // sentient being touches and res
ake a temporary home, until // the next
adventure .  // (One time, though, the hollow holds // a real live snake
He’d adore such a grand and flamboyant
adventure —to // jump on the bandwagon he’ll be glad.”  // The Boris is
ash m/c // Washing // Plan finances—get
advisor ?  G’s contact maybe // Ring M about Xmas // Ring Tony D about w
chine.  // An owl, a leaping fish, a fox
afar — // night-time noises permeate the air.  // Someone snoring in the
fe’s // blitz on Sheffield.  // In north
Africa , D is killed.  // Later, one of the lodgers— // Polish servicema
d then of course it snows again.  // One
afternoon for one brief hour // the air is warm enough to melt // the
eless moments, taken // out of time.  //
Afternoon in winter, on the ramparts // looking seaward, sun behind us
feet into a hole.  // One cold winter’s
afternoon // we walk to the edge of town and on // the mile across the
usic, // a Beethoven string quartet.  //
Afterwards Colin and I go down to the basement // —the real crematoriu
overnight // in the oven of the pre-war
Aga , they will emerge // a startling deep red, and taste delicious.) /
Beside it stands another of much later
age : // a plastic chest with small, clear plastic drawers // —unlabell
ff.  // We are not so far behind.  // Old
age ain’t no place for sissies.  // —Bette Davis //
t?  // Not to return to old // ways—that
age // has passed.  What should // we salvage from it, what burn, // w
uch obvious culprit here, // except for
age , pure and simple.  No rage— // just a sort of passive acceptance. 
the stage // by the best actors of the
age .  // Thank you for calling Shakespeareline. // * pronounced ’four h
hs pregnant at the time.  A tiny middle-
aged New York woman, sitting on a bench seat, observes the situation,
orld just so, // a pretty maiden, heart
aglow // will sit and spin, so full of grace, // far away and long ago
-beams almost horizontal; // East Hills
aglow .  // Winds moaning round the corners and the rooftops, // rushing
so full of grace, // far away and long
ago .  // A fairy, good or bad, will know // exactly when to show her fa
a human sacrifice, // far away and long
ago .  // A handsome prince will boldly go // and dangers great will bra
ill // simply erase them.  // Four years
ago a storm demolished // the dunes on the beach across the creek // a
// —A fragment, formulated forty years
ago // and filed in the middens of my mind.  // And in my mind it conju
.  // It’s a level measured // a century
ago and // three hundred and forty miles // to the south-west: // mark
The world just so // Far away and long
ago , // once upon a time and place, // the world just so, // a pretty
ouse // that we bought some forty years
ago .  // One of the legs had rotted half away.  // But a new piece of fo
st confess to having owned // long long
ago , that icon of // a time and maybe social group // —and then, when
Long
ago // The railway line passes near.  // After the engine’s noisy roar,
tions to displace, // far away and long
ago , // the world just so.  //
d outside.  // (But that was forty years
ago // —these days his hair is white all through.) // ‘Every mile is t
/ From the moment almost a half-century
ago // when I first met your daughter // I have known fragments, snatc
bowdlerized.  // Broken?  It must be, if
agony’s evidence.  // Lying there wondering whether there’s any chance
we had to call // a halt to worry, and
agreed to sell // for demolition, move to Camberwell.  // (Two weeks la
shiny erection to // burnish my halo. 
Ah , I have a whim // to build a fine bridge clear across a great river
?  // No.  // But which jacket yesterday? 
Ah , that one.  // But no.  // Table by door?  // No.  // Kitchen?  // No. 
ting lines, // dark against the sky.  //
Ahead , another line, // flat and sharp and natural too: // pale sky en
nally, I catch glimpses // of the ranks
ahead .  // But mostly, I can see // only the back // of the one immedia
is this cataclysm?  // Now the one just
ahead // goes head over heels // on hard, unyielding // rocks and ston
loser.  // And the noise.  // A few ranks
ahead , I see them // rearing up, up, turning over // and hear them cra
with // Derwent behind me and scrambles
ahead of me.  // Out of the pastures and onto the fell side, still // c
marshes and the sea.  The sun // is low
ahead of us, the sky is clear.  // Across the wood, onto the beach.  We
/ Build speed.  // Build power.  // Forge
ahead .  // Spread.  // Reach.  // Slacken.  // Settle.  // Pause.  // Start.
// We are not so far behind.  // Old age
ain’t no place for sissies.  // —Bette Davis //
// What do they know, the rain and the
air ?  //
n fire, // leaving us the water and the
air .  //
ng—a pipe heating up.  // That breath of
air ?  A passing presence?  // Don’t be silly, that’s just a draught fro
forth and to and fro, // in a flat calm
air .  A winter storm // brings wild mountains of water crashing down /
add to the road’s cacophony.  // Through
air and ether people mutter, shout, // voices, ipods, phones speak out
s // High up above, at the edges of the
air // and the beginning of space // the sky is dark, but the raging f
t, and breathe some more the cool clear
air .  // Beyond the scree the open path leads on, // a gentler walk, to
// The others too I love—Earth, Water,
Air —but Fire // is something else again.  // A memory // (nineteen-sixt
the valley sound // through still, warm
air , // clear to my vantage point on higher ground.  // Voices far acro
me // to lie on the earth, // smell the
air , // feel the warmth of the fire, // listen to the lapping of the w
Periodical // Earth,
air , // fire and water: just the four— // but the chemists need many
eal… // … and one true fib // Earth, //
air , // fire, // and water.  // Need just a few more.  // How about addi
One afternoon for one brief hour // the
air is warm enough to melt // the topmost layer.  The frost returns //
n, // along the open beach, in rich sea
air .  // Look up, look up, my love—the sky is calling.  // Dark shapes a
l: water, sky and earth // and rock and
air ; no fire and no gold, // no gems nor coins nor jewels; just the ol
ight // the spray rises a mile into the
air // (or so it seems to me), to crash back down— // you must be nimb
d send signal fires // blazing into the
air .  // Our space is the earth, // time lives in fire, // leaving us t
lected in inky water, // the cool night
air // slows down time.  // Now is the time // to lie on the earth, //
afar— // night-time noises permeate the
air .  // Someone snoring in the tent next door, // a motorcycle coursin
// What do they know, the rain and the
air ?  // The drystone wall slanting across the moor, // the heather and
// What do they know, the rain and the
air ?  // The glistening mud left by the ebb-tide.  // The moored boat li
// What do they know, the rain and the
air ?  // The hedgerow, the field, the rapeseed and the corn.  // The fiv
// What do they know, the rain and the
air ?  // The roof, the ridgetiles, the leaves in the leaded gully.  // T
ming sunlight.  Soak up the rays and the
air .  // Transform the coloured flower into coloured flesh // and hide
/ and hide a secret inside.  // Feel the
air .  Turn in the four winds.  Broadcast the secret // to earth, as far
the valley sound // through still, warm
air .  // Voices, ipods, phones speak out— // add to the road’s cacophon
The rain and the
air // What do they know, the rain and the air?  // The roof, the ridge
by a mile.  // Tony Blair // floated on
air // when Maggie’s encomium // came to be known to ’im.  // Thomas St
lind.  // Night-time noises permeate the
air // with voices human, animal, machine.  // An owl, a leaping fish,
lane.  // Night-time noises permeate the
air // with voices human, animal, machine.  // Voices from the curtaine
counted and timed.  // Philosophies are
aired , // temple columns spaced, // lightning rods earthed.  // On the
cross the waters // blow the evanescent
airs // moistening the many-coloured earths.  // In forests and in open
g verse // On a galloping horse— // But
Aix was as far as he went.  // In Friday Market square // Jacob van Art
am, great curved horns // stands tense,
alert and staring.  A few // feet away, a sheep, cowering // —and a la
ce we know but little // across so many
alien lands and seas // some people have some nasty new disease.  // Th
th you, // and could the last person to
alight please switch off the lights.  // This departure has arrived.  //
ernative route which is // known as the
Allerdale Ramble, traversing a // difficult scree but then joining an
Park Parade; Pretoria Road // streets;
alleys ; cycle paths // One to two thousand:  Jesus College // The Chimn
sed, make my muse suggest // just three
alliterative lines—at best // a semi-stanza—and then to cease?  It see
, makes everyone shuffle up in order to
allow Judith to sit down.  They obey her, all shapes and sizes of New
top // so that the same period games //
allow the lines to peter out // and stop. // † as we step through the
iting explorers—a // challenge I cannot
allow to go answerless.  // Lone expedition to conquer the mountaintop.
y // were magnificent, but could not be
allowed // to remain in occupation of that space.  // And so, for two s
turn tail and flee // as fast as breath
allows us, not to feel safe // until inside the house.) // The bracken
g.  Gloves make the world go round, and
all’s fair in gloves and war, though the course of true gloves never d
projects.) // This one started with an
almighty bang // —thought it was going to be a disaster // but then it
y know of your life!  // From the moment
almost a half-century ago // when I first met your daughter // I have
Cape Cod Morning //
Almost accidental, but carefully composed: // the sky behind the trees
ther billion random changes: all // —or
almost all—are duds.  Nevertheless // ten thousand different species ri
n behind us, low, // yellow light-beams
almost horizontal; // East Hills aglow.  // Winds moaning round the cor
ne // slice alongside // almost pole to
almost pole // close as you can.  // Apple, pear: // pole-to-pole // in
ides of the stone // slice alongside //
almost pole to almost pole // close as you can.  // Apple, pear: // pol
se in what he says.  // No voices in the
almost -silence that I hear, // the soft subliminal sibilance of night,
d split, and fight.  // No voices in the
almost -silence that I hear, // the soft subliminal sibilance of night.
language in my ear, // no voices in the
almost -silence that I hear.  // The words within my head, what do they
ty brought he forth; // and at the end,
almost with dying breath, // a swan-song, left behind for us to ponder
ed them, // then walked his wild way //
alone .  In Swale- and Wensleydale // they passed the following day.  //
Your snore //
Alone in the dark of the night // I would’ve turned on the light...  //
need some clipping, shortening // left
alone they easily win—but // there was an old man called Michael Finne
e wires through the pane // loop lazily
along and then // greet each pole like a jumping jack.  // The bogeys g
terse verse form, you see, // I can get
along just fine.  // But seven feet!  I must admit that seems exceeding
lder moor.  // The treasures to be found
along my path // are elemental: water, sky and earth // and rock and a
s are stacked // in increasing disorder
along the back // of the bench, as far as the window.  // Some of the c
south to the Martello tower, // we walk
along the banked-up track // behind the wall, level with the top, // r
breakers // come at an angle, sweep //
along the beach.  Each // finds its own reach up the foreshore, // the
y season, some young man will wander //
along the byways, thoughts tragic or tender— // of love unfinished or
de the wood—the fir // and silver birch
along the dunes that run // between the marshes and the sea.  The sun
t // not only on, but of, // sand.  All
along the foreshore, // the remains of trees // that once grew on the
// is draining back towards the sea.  //
Along the margins waders // scutter, scavenge—redshank, // godwit, cur
draining back again towards the sea.  //
Along the muddy margins, in the lee // of the sea-wall, around the bla
s upon the sand.  Eastwards we turn, //
along the open beach, in rich sea air.  // Look up, look up, my love—th
giant concrete blocks // on piles all
along the shingle beach.  // The mile south to the Martello tower, // w
ange will last forever.  // At intervals
along the south horizon // container ships in stately progress pass //
engine’s noisy roar, // coaches follow
along the track: // the bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // At nig
; the bits // are somewhere back there,
along with // all the other long-abandoned projects.) // This one star
nd the flat sides of the stone // slice
alongside // almost pole to almost pole // close as you can.  // Apple,
I’m glad we did not meet // before the
alotted time: // that we could reach this perfect knot // and find our
that even if my audience hear it spoken
aloud rather than seeing it on the page they will certainly know it.  /
tration // 3 sideways: perspiration //
Alpha , beta, gamma, delta.  // The way is clear.  This formulation // b
All we need to do is make connection //
alpha to beta using this equation, // then follow that suggestion // t
he bench was once // a kitchen dresser,
already ancient in // the damp basement of the Peckham house // that w
y // (nineteen-sixty-one or so—my teens—
already // between the end of the Chatterley ban // and the Beatles’ f
yond, adding scratches // to the stains
already covering your fingers // and your palms.  Sometimes you must s
tions // The Bendix washing machine was
already elderly // when my mother, acquiring a newer model, donated //
under my feet.  // No time, no time.  //
Already I am toppling over him // crashing, splitting, breaking.  // I
ow: all the while // the crafty sea is
also digging down // beneath the piles.  Then one stormy night // it p
ck’s sure to produce a fine plan.  // We
also need money—of course private finance will // jump to join in, but
n—I had forgotten // that this equation
also needs some zeta factor // and my clear beta, gamma, delta connect
ng and screaming of course // but maybe
also wailing and gnashing our teeth // into the maelstrom, the fire an
to the pinnacle.  // Now to descend, an
alternative route which is // known as the Allerdale Ramble, traversin
ip not far from land // (Navigation was
always a difficult art, // Though with only one ship and one bell.) //
ove the MAX level and ensure that it is
always above the MIN level. // Only fill the kettle with th
it’s cracked // And won’t be fixed and
always did refract // The one before it into at least two.  //
here was an old Fellow of Girton // who
always made love with his shirt on.  // Saying “Now that I’m old, // I
is will save electricity. //
Always make sure that the lid is properly firmly closed. //
spring melt.  But an old pine forest //
always provides a bridge.  The trunks // of fallen trees, fresh from t
while // to take him to the house.  // I
always regretted, felt cheated by // that twenty-minute hiatus.  // But
day slides into the mist.  // Morning is
always the morning.  //
Morning // Morning is
always the morning // of an uncompleted day.  // Not until light is fad
t the setting sun.  // Later, the clouds
amass : // watch now: if you blink you will miss // the instant jagged
wonderfully eccentric twentieth-century
American poet, // Mr Ogden Nash, and carry on without much attention t
owed light, dimpse, mizzle, skylight //
ammonite , mahogany, archive // plummett // Note:  Fifty colours of Far
new ground to conquer.  // Spiders’ webs
among the undergrowth.  // Look closely: precise angular spirals // st
e spout as this will help to reduce the
amount of limescale that builds up on the filter. // The am
lds up on the filter. // The
amount of water can be measured by the level mark on the outside of th
// Only fill the kettle with the
amount of water you need as this will save electricity. //
ad to the Kröller-Müller museum outside
Amsterdam .  The Hermitage in Leningrad in Soviet days.  Kettle’s Yard
a fib on a cheap pun // [One iamb, two
anapest ] feet // [make up an eight-syllable] beat.  // Selec- // tions
akes you choke // eat me instead.  // My
ancestor caused Eve to know // more than Jehovah thought she should— /
spirals // strung around precise radial
anchor lines.  // Across the channel, tidal creeks // meandering throug
was once // a kitchen dresser, already
ancient in // the damp basement of the Peckham house // that we bought
slope // towards the river.  A line of
ancient oaks // (one blasted trunk is hollow through, and can be climb
our own // tree-house, a canted deck of
ancient planks, // nailed across two angled branches, reached // by cl
ut wear or favour, fools rush in, where
angels wear to tread.  I’ll wear not what men say.  //
ke a lurch // at some acute, unmeasured
angle .  // Last September, meeting you.  // The world looks different no
d today.  So the breakers // come at an
angle , sweep // along the beach.  Each // finds its own reach up the f
of ancient planks, // nailed across two
angled branches, reached // by clambering the branches by the trunk //
// were twittering.  The twain // with
anglo -saxon attitudes // then to Caerphilly came.  // They lingered lon
ne immediately in front.  // The wind is
angry , howling and shrieking.  // It pushes us harder, // makes us grow
undergrowth.  // Look closely: precise
angular spirals // strung around precise radial anchor lines.  // Acros
permeate the air // with voices human,
animal , machine.  // An owl, a leaping fish, a fox afar— // night-time
permeate the air // with voices human,
animal , machine.  // Voices from the curtained bed next door: // someon
to send us on our way.  // British Rail
announced that it would sink // a hole to build the Channel Tunnel lin
outside the door.  // It really is very
annoying — // I hope we don’t lose any more.  // Three of our cushions a
// Where have all the duffles gone?  //
Anoraks now, every one.  //
for that.  // There’s only one possible
answer : // this cat-burglar’s Buster the cat.  //
ers—a // challenge I cannot allow to go
answerless .  // Lone expedition to conquer the mountaintop.  // Bottle o
Anticipation // Yes, there will be more.  // More hills, dales, crags,
from the room next door: // thesis and
antithesis , debate // about it and about, and evermore // voices comin
from the room next door:  // Thesis and
Antithesis debate.  // His voice is lively, gestures wide— // there is
?  // No!  // No time // for thesis // or
antithesis .  // Have to cut straight to synthesis.  // Tried // hard //
nce // I could attract the attention of
anyone .  // Haven’t passed walkers for more than three hours now.  // Wh
it?  // Wonder if I can get it to do //
anything remotely interesting?  //
laces I wouldn’t have put them.  // Move
anything they might be behind or under.  // Look inside anything they m
ight be behind or under.  // Look inside
anything they might be in.  // Turn the place upside down.  // Bedroom a
nvolved.  // P // The fall is denied.  //
Anyway , the cancer can be blamed // for many things.  Hard to tell, no
Circle line // Board
anywhere //
avel has just joined // the Société des
Apaches // (or Bunch of Hooligans) // later to enrol, when they come t
pierces through the brain // and splits
apart Edwardian disdain.  // Man and drill are two, and now are one:  //
// eyes smart // smoke billows // move
apart // eyes smart // flames creep // move apart // flames leap // fl
t // eyes smart // flames creep // move
apart // flames leap // flames creep // growing bright // flames leap
py.  // Lay pop case // plea as copy.  //
Ape calypso // place, so pay // a cosy Apple // app, coy sale.  // Aye,
he plants, the fish, the dinosaurs, the
apes // advance across the generations.  Each // sentient being touches
ach line // in something approaching or
aping the style of that wonderfully eccentric twentieth-century Americ
e.  // So apply, ace: // scope a play //
apocalypse .  //
city. // (not the Pirates of Penzance –
apologies to WSG) //
pso // place, so pay // a cosy Apple //
app , coy sale.  // Aye, cops lap // a clay pope’s // soapy place.  // So
in the corner?  The hem of an emerging
apparition ?  // Don’t be silly, that’s … omigod, it’s a cockroach!  Hel
it looks clear.  // So life should now
appear // as it did a month gone, // BC (Before Capricorn).  // But of
Ape calypso // place, so pay // a cosy
Apple // app, coy sale.  // Aye, cops lap // a clay pope’s // soapy pla
ander through the orchard, watch // the
apple clusters sway, // the clouds scud past, // maybe catch // close
rom each.  // But no, for once // cut an
apple // equatorially // see its secret: // the apple is a five-pointe
p, or far away, // the thud as one more
apple hits the muddy grass.  // Winds bowling through trees // fruit-la
equatorially // see its secret: // the
apple is a five-pointed fruit.  //
walled paddock and the orchard, // the
apple on the tree, the windfall in the grass.  // What do they know, th
to almost pole // close as you can.  //
Apple , pear: // pole-to-pole // in half then quarters // cut the core
eliver // for tomorrow’s blackberry-and-
apple pie // —the ones you ate straight off the bush are saved forever
// His inspiration is not mine // (the
apple said).  //
The
apple said // Of course we’d like to understand // the stars and plane
s well as actions close at hand // (the
apple said), // to comprehend the universe // both in the large and in
e not with them, nor comfort me // with
apples , for I am well of love.  // The usual translation is not raisins
// fruit-laden boughs bent to earth //
apples in the grass //
with flagons, for I am well of love.  //
Apples may perhaps be comforting // as any fruit, though Suliman’s pil
mfort food.  But comfort me not // with
apples , nor with pilaf.  I can't speak // for Suliman, but I am well o
the kettle, switch it on again.  If the
appliance has just switched off you may have to wait a few minutes bef
// a clay pope’s // soapy place.  // So
apply , ace: // scope a play // apocalypse.  //
Check L’s dob—70 next b/day?  // Dentist
appointment —week of 10th // Write poem for Weds //
rence.  Walking in the drizzle the long
approach road to the Kröller-Müller museum outside Amsterdam.  The Her
nake, standing up and hissing // at our
approach .  We turn tail and flee // as fast as breath allows us, not t
ide and write each line // in something
approaching or aping the style of that wonderfully eccentric twentieth
n evening dress, top hats and the like,
appropriate to some earlier era of the house’s existence.  We left the
ay, or maybe Christmas cake, // or more
appropriately , Suliman’s pilaf.  // But stay me not with them, nor comf
mma from consideration // and making an
approximate relation // by tying beta up with mu and lambda.  // I can’
ll maturity // to an iron-gated pointed
arch // piercing the wall, built like the house // of weathered Cotswo
cted or half-deconstructed, // for some
architectural or mechanical purpose // now half-forgotten.  Electrical
mizzle, skylight // ammonite, mahogany,
archive // plummett // Note:  Fifty colours of Farrow & Ball //
culpted edges.  // A bramble sends great
arcing shoots, // strong curves lined with jagged thorns, // seeking n
over a century and a bit.  There is an
area about 2ft square of brush marks in a darker paint, made by a hous
ng down the hatches // closing down the
argument // shutting down the computer // tearing down the barriers //
Fire // My sign is
Aries .  Though it seems a poor // fit for me, it is at least a Fire.  /
te your time on wild boar’s head.  // If
Aristotle makes you choke // eat me instead.  // My ancestor caused Eve
ter backwaters // of the western spiral
arm (which will never be fashionable).  // See the slime on it?  // Wond
L-shaped the house; enclosed within its
arms // a walled garden, left untended // for maybe thirty years.  A w
anger place, a colder clime, // with no
arms , one leg, no tail, but raised high, // and head thrown back, I ca
en, as winds of fortune blow, // It was
arranged that she should go // And take her place in service to // The
l day // When, gleaming in his knight’s
array // And gaily singing on his way // Rode bold Sir Lancelot.  // Ye
de, // in birthday suit and little else
arrayed ?  // I think he’d add a note to his remark— // in truth, how ch
dead: // had died three hours after his
arrival , // was buried in an unmarked grave.  // There were no victors:
, the year that her first // grandchild
arrived ?  I can’t quite recall.  Nor can I now // picture it clearly. 
(certainly long before // the children
arrived ) I divided each drawer // into four or more sections, with ply
h off the lights.  // This departure has
arrived .  // The locomotive will desist from locomotion, // this is our
F.B.L // london clay, blackened,
arsenic // railings, pointing, down pipe, clunch, setting plaster // s
, but it felt right. // Many
art galleries in many places.  Three solid days in the Uffizi in Flore
s.  // I’d paint it for you if I had the
art , // Or maybe I should write it in a verse.  // But now the dawn has
d // (Navigation was always a difficult
art , // Though with only one ship and one bell.) // we there did espy
o— // I’d paint it for you if I had the
art // To you, this is a dream in which I’m caught // Which, come the
// In Friday Market square // Jacob van
Artevelde makes an expansive gesture // towards the setting sun.  // Go
above, // and bits of buildings, human
artifacts .  // Geological time // is foreshortened.  This is now, here,
g can wait.  // I go to work.  // Judith,
artist , // models in clay or plaster, // casts in plaster or cement or
, dreaming, lost in reverie.  // And the
artist who is showing us the scene // —does he know what it is she see
r hands).  She introduced me to so many
artists .  As I have visited other places, I have found other treasures
sh and decay.  In forgotten corners, //
artists create and sometimes destroy.  Did I really // spring from the
and destroy // so many poets and other
artists // which will drag us // kicking and screaming of course // bu
od of change?  // Well, yes.  In all the
arts // currents criss-cross, revolutions // blossom and fade, movemen
ion:  Middle East // Bam Posht; Badiyat
ash Sham; Bisharin // railways; borders; deserts // One to five millio
but every day // the embers beneath the
ash were darkly glowing, asking only // a slight encouragement.  As th
/ funeral pyres.) Later we scatter the
ashes // in a wild part of the old South London cemetery.  // Perhaps I
caught badly short // I’ll just have to
ask ‘Where d’you pee?’  //
can we counter-attack?  // Perhaps if we
asked him politely // he’d remorsefully put them all back.  // Six of o
rs beneath the ash were darkly glowing,
asking only // a slight encouragement.  As the day went on, // we gene
agile life is there.  // Each new doctor
asks the same once more, // voices from the curtained bed next door.  /
Wake // Fast
asleep // dark night // dream deep // faint light // bird sings // gro
ive // An invasion of my privacy.  // An
assault on my dignity.  // An abrogation of my autonomy.  // Objective /
s, connotations.  // Roget charted their
associations .  // Zipf was counting their instantiations, // ranking, t
really want // to kill me.  // Like the
asteroid // barrelling onwards, to wipe us out in // ten or a thousand
ackberry-and-apple pie // —the ones you
ate straight off the bush are saved forever).  // At the end of summer,
bliminal sibilance of night.  // Even I,
atheist , find some of them sublime— // Britten’s Ceremony or the ones
zakal banality which stings.  // Even I,
atheist , find some of them sublime, // Britten’s Ceremony or the ones
t the rest, the aural grime, // even I,
atheist , find some of them sublime.  // Must just ignore the shop-commi
tected in pouches around their necks or
attached to their belts.  //
ions are missing.  // How can we counter-
attack ?  // Perhaps if we asked him politely // he’d remorsefully put t
us, ready // to defend against the next
attack .  // Towards the river is a group of firs // —the kind you somet
l in that mirror there— // Who can that
attactive girl be?  // I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
te.  // Walking down quickly, not paying
attention , I // stumble, fall heavily forward and land with my // shin
ere’s any chance // I could attract the
attention of anyone.  // Haven’t passed walkers for more than three hou
r Ogden Nash, and carry on without much
attention to metre, until I can mark its end with such a strong and ob
splayed, // each model posed in languid
attitude , // in birthday suit and little else arrayed?  // I think he’d
ttering.  The twain // with anglo-saxon
attitudes // then to Caerphilly came.  // They lingered long in Leicest
g whether there’s any chance // I could
attract the attention of anyone.  // Haven’t passed walkers for more th
ng and obvious rhyme // that even if my
audience hear it spoken aloud rather than seeing it on the page they w
s.  // If I can filter out the rest, the
aural grime, // even I, atheist, find some of them sublime.  // Must ju
rvade the path // in any season.  // The
author , he whose life the fates would squander— // such richness in hi
water boils the kettle will switch off
automatically .  The kettle can be switched off manually by putting the
t on my dignity.  // An abrogation of my
autonomy .  // Objective // In my groin and in my mind’s eye:  // A tube
, a few edging // towards the brown.  //
Autumn fruit is growing fat, // trees bending, boughs reaching // for
inbow-bright, or black and white, // or
autumn hues, or shades of grey— // the colours that I saw last night /
in the first mists // or wild winds of
autumn , on the wild Suffolk heath, // the wild Suffolk blackberries //
Wind, fall // West wind // East wind //
Autumn wind is bowling on, // trees bending, dark green leaves showing
aging torrent, // get rolled over by an
avalanche , // fall through a wormhole, or cross a mountain range?  // D
as I shipwrecked?  Or cast overboard to
avert shipwreck?  // I cannot now recall.  // Generations and generation
equatorially: // no pips, no stone.  //
Avocado : // pole-to-pole // all around the stone // twist to separate.
on, // other morphologic variations, //
awaiting Dr Johnson’s ministrations, // waiting to discover their rela
e window with the wind.  // Whipped wide
awake by what the thunder said, // flashes silhouette the trees agains
or the ones from Kings.  // Whipped wide
awake by what the thunder said // flashes silhouette the trees against
s raging as I lie abed, // whipped wide
awake by what the thunder said.  // Rain rattles on the rooftiles overh
ight has in store.  // Whether I’m lying
awake or sleeping // or floating half in half out, I’m sure // it’ll l
ay // a cosy Apple // app, coy sale.  //
Aye , cops lap // a clay pope’s // soapy place.  // So apply, ace: // sc