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.

E

ll.  // That book will hold against your
ear a shell // whose music makes your languid pulses race: // fall, fa
t, // no words, no human language in my
ear , // no voices in the almost-silence that I hear.  // The words with
hats and the like, appropriate to some
earlier era of the house’s existence.  We left the room unpainted for
inding my way through the scree so much
earlier .  // Later, much later, I limp into harbour.  My // family play
e, // or bend or hitch or bead?  // Some
earlier occasion when // our life-lines must have crossed, // some pas
Periodical //
Earth , air, // fire and water: just the four— // but the chemists nee
// … a steal… // … and one true fib //
Earth , // air, // fire, // and water.  // Need just a few more.  // How
y path // are elemental: water, sky and
earth // and rock and air; no fire and no gold, // no gems nor coins n
// to cross the waters, // explore the
earth , // and send signal fires // blazing into the air.  // Our space
ugh trees // fruit-laden boughs bent to
earth // apples in the grass //
four winds.  Broadcast the secret // to
earth , as far away as it will go.  Let the browns // and reds and golds
into the encroaching dark.  // Feel the
earth .  Feel the water return // to the dry ground.  Let the cooling dar
ods earthed.  // On the dark side of the
earth , // in the light of a fire, // and faint starlight from space //
ks passing time.  // Far down below, the
earth // is mostly water.  // From across the waters // blow the evanes
enge passing between them // or down to
earth .  // Seconds later, over the drumming rain, // a sharp wall of so
me.  // Now is the time // to lie on the
earth , // smell the air, // feel the warmth of the fire, // listen to
r— // of love unfinished or of peaceful
earth , // the mill-girl’s beauty or the maiden’s death, // the trout t
chariots can clatter by— // we have the
earth , the water and the sky.  //
azing into the air.  // Our space is the
earth , // time lives in fire, // leaving us the water and the air.  //
least a Fire.  // The others too I love—
Earth , Water, Air—but Fire // is something else again.  // A memory //
path // Between two beds of clean-raked
earth // Where tender shoots may venture forth // On weed-o’er-run Sha
emple columns spaced, // lightning rods
earthed .  // On the dark side of the earth, // in the light of a fire,
l.  // Up there are storms and calms, //
earthquake -waves and volcanic dust, // soft breezes and winter gales. 
nt airs // moistening the many-coloured
earths .  // In forests and in open spaces // there are times // when th
// putting up resistance // throwing up
earthworks // zipping up your jacket // tying up your shoelaces // top
// difficult scree but then joining an
easier // path with spectacular views over Bassenthwaite.  // Walking d
ous occupant, known as Mister Gray, // (
easier than his proper name of Gouriet) // had come as a child sixty-o
clipping, shortening // left alone they
easily win—but // there was an old man called Michael Finnegan— // cro
es; seas // One to ten million:  Middle
East // Bam Posht; Badiyat ash Sham; Bisharin // railways; borders; de
gland, once.  If you follow the west-to-
east coast-to-coast walk devised by Wainwright, you get sunburnt on th
// The first boilers of iron plate glue
east // Grow face fa-cai thick soup.  // XO sauce explodes to grow the
ach across the creek // and had a go at
East Hills.  // A once in a century storm, // that was thought to be.  /
ellow light-beams almost horizontal; //
East Hills aglow.  // Winds moaning round the corners and the rooftops,
East Hills // Hills?  Well, dunes // maybe two or three metres above /
Wind, fall // West wind //
East wind // Autumn wind is bowling on, // trees bending, dark green l
d up.  // First to Hunmanby on the north-
east Yorkshire coast // for the requisite square-bashing.  And then wh
high-pitched.  The borders we cross are
eastward : // under the channel and then from France to Belgium.  // But
, the churn // of waves upon the sand. 
Eastwards we turn, // along the open beach, in rich sea air.  // Look u
No.  // Dining table?  // No.  // Beside
easy chair?  // No.  // On television?  // No.  // Desk?  // No.  // Bedside
reach.  // Who is this now, who dares me
eat a peach?  // Time’s warring chariots can clatter by— // we have the
ead.  // If Aristotle makes you choke //
eat me instead.  // My ancestor caused Eve to know // more than Jehovah
/ A monstrous hole, quite big enough to
eat // the park and all the houses down the street.  // We joined the l
shift and melt, // form and reform each
ebb and flow, each moonphase // and each season (the navigation buoys
air?  // The glistening mud left by the
ebb -tide.  // The moored boat listing on the mudflat.  // The salt-marsh
or aping the style of that wonderfully
eccentric twentieth-century American poet, // Mr Ogden Nash, and carry
postal order).  // Rhythmic verses with
echoed refrain // in the rhythmic clattering noise of the train.  // Ch
them // Hear the marsh-birds calling //
echoes of the distant sea-swell rock them // Breath the scents the sea
// Oh, people spread!  Quick, guys, an
ecstasy of fumbling, // building the clumsy barriers just in time // t
bridge when it was still managed by Jim
Ede (he would pick up a Brancusi stone head, or a small cut brass piec
rise up // to rampart rock walls, knife-
edge against // the deep blue sky.  We take our boots off, // dip our
// the bare rocks and the ridge, knife-
edge against the sky.  // What do they know, the rain and the air?  // T
ths gone, // when both lines crossed an
edge , // and two seemed to twist into one, // right there, beneath the
nuts it sheds) // on the grove’s outer
edge , contains our own // tree-house, a canted deck of ancient planks,
Malham Tarn.  // Then back to skirt the
edge of Malham Cove, // with fields below and limestone crags above; /
ard and land with my // shin on a knife-
edge of rock that protrudes from the // edge of the path, not yet blun
r.  // Marry, find a home // on the very
edge of Sheffield // facing the Derbyshire moors.  // But the next war
On Skiddaw // Holiday cottage, the
edge of the Lake District— // family wanting to rest and recuperate.  /
edge of rock that protrudes from the //
edge of the path, not yet blunted or bowdlerized.  // Broken?  It must
ld winter’s afternoon // we walk to the
edge of town and on // the mile across the river meadows // to Grantch
Sounds // Triolets // On Rushup
Edge // On the top deck of a 68 // Dialectic // In the lecture room //
Hear the marsh-birds calling // water’s
edge , the birds are searching, finding.  // Breath the scents the sea-w
ings forage up the beach.  // At water’s
edge the oyster-catchers, gulls // compete for surface scraps.  The be
// Evening.  A great dark cloud // fire-
edged , blots out the setting sun.  // Later, the clouds amass: // watch
bs // shed leaves with perfect sculpted
edges .  // A bramble sends great arcing shoots, // strong curves lined
s, and planted fireworks // in the dark
edges beyond the flickering light.  // Nearly-five-year-old Colin // ne
, the bracken // has been ploughed, the
edges fenced, the house // demolished and rebuilt.  The trees remain. 
Reflections // High up above, at the
edges of the air // and the beginning of space // the sky is dark, but
it had missed: // fragments around the
edges of the blaze.  // Even now, // I feel the heat upon my face.  // T
Hear the marsh-birds calling // to the
edges of the sea-grass—pauses, // Breath the scents the sea-winds brin
Shalott.  // In the duck-weed-smothered
edges // Skinny rats sniff out the ledges, // While between the stream
s itself inside.  // Movement is faster,
edgier , rougher.  // Rough softness grows // but hardness cannot grow. 
s showing // their lighter backs, a few
edging // towards the brown.  // Autumn fruit is growing fat, // trees
s through the brain // and splits apart
Edwardian disdain.  // Man and drill are two, and now are one: // no pe
ined the local protest, but to small //
effect .  At last we felt we had to call // a halt to worry, and agreed
prop.  A hundred yards // of man’s best
effort at defence // drops thirty feet into a hole.  // One cold winter
t the egg’s // way of making // another
egg // then what I should // not be doing // is counting // my eggs.  /
ld // not be doing // is counting // my
eggs .  //
// … but if the chicken // is just the
egg’s // way of making // another egg // then what I should // not be
as built me some buses which boosted my
ego —the // Heatherwick’s sure to produce a fine plan.  // We also need
he samphire, // the oyster-catcher, the
egret , the gliding gull.  // What do they know, the rain and the air?  /
// One, // one, // two, three, // five,
eight .  But // “Fibonacci”’s four— // not a Fibonacci number.  // Time?
n the garage sits // a miniature wooden
eight -drawered chest // given to me (budding carpenter) as a child //
e to three hundred and sixteen thousand
eight hundred:  Scotland // Dufftown; Deeside; Dumfries // roads; vill
lo; six for king lear; // seven hamlet;
eight macbeth; nine // for any other choice.  You’ll find // that ever
such thought would cross my five- // or
eight - or ten-year-old imagination.  // It stands within a grove of tre
iamb, two anapest] feet // [make up an
eight -syllable] beat.  // Selec- // tions will do // for five, three an
Peckham 1969—1991 // Of
eighteen sixty vintage, the house is flat // in face, no sign of the d
m do not even have proper names.  // The
eighth layer has not been started yet, so the only thing to do about /
ladder.  // Strapped to my thigh // with
elastic and velcro.  // Below, a nozzle and tap.  // Above, a tube, a va
oose to use // to inform or confuse, //
elate or validate or grieve— // these words live.  //
The Bendix washing machine was already
elderly // when my mother, acquiring a newer model, donated // the rej
nd valves from a washing machine.  // An
electric fan.  The dial of a clock.  Another dial, // from a stand-on
hanical purpose // now half-forgotten. 
Electrical components.  // A pair of cast-iron supports for an old // h
unt of water you need as this will save
electricity . // Always make sure that the lid is properly f
use // stuccoed and flat-fronted.  // No
electricity — // gas lighting from the thirties; // two taps; one loo /
t scale.  A device // for demonstrating
electricity to children: // a wooden board on which are mounted // bat
Fibonacci series //
Elemental fib… // … three fibs about fibs… // … a swindle… // … a stea
asures to be found along my path // are
elemental : water, sky and earth // and rock and air; no fire and no go
tale, pigeon // mouse’s back, mole’s or
elephant’s breath // peignoir, charlotte’s locks, nancy’s blushes // d
e to be known to ’im.  // Thomas Stearns
Eliot // wrote poetry well, but // was no great shakes // in the marri
brooks, that chatter and meander; // of
Ellen , Norna, or of Rosamunde.  // Sorrow, longing, dreams pervade the
th, Water, Air—but Fire // is something
else again.  // A memory // (nineteen-sixty-one or so—my teens—already
ttitude, // in birthday suit and little
else arrayed?  // I think he’d add a note to his remark— // in truth, h
d four-inch rings surely to be found //
elsewhere in the garage).  // The bench was once // a kitchen dresser,
the curtained bed next door: // someone
else’s fragile life is there.  //
the curtained bed next door: // someone
else’s fragile life is there.  // Each new doctor asks the same once mo
This poem
eludes me // No time // for flow // or rhyme, // no.  // Words go // fr
// extracted from my fickle memory— //
elusive and illusive treasure, she.  //
ds across the park at the back // a low
embankment carries the railway track.  // (Down the slope to the end of
to the south-west: // marked by a bolt
embedded in // the Newlyn harbour wall.  // One day, a storm will // si
g to find it cold, but every day // the
embers beneath the ash were darkly glowing, asking only // a slight en
row on timber // let it burn // glowing
embers // smoulder down // let it burn // warm as toast // smoulder do
timber // sparks take flight // glowing
embers // throw on timber // let it burn // glowing embers // smoulder
ers warm // flames gone // last glow //
embers warm // fading now // last glow // tiny light // fading now //
ast // flames gone // potatoes roast //
embers warm // flames gone // last glow // embers warm // fading now /
ell; // a book should suck you into its
embrace .  // Fall, fall into the writer’s well-cast spell.  // That book
he soft and sensuous flesh joins love’s
embrace .  // Mother and child are two, and now are one: // no perfectab
Emerald Lake // The winding trails // through forests waking to the sp
the oven of the pre-war Aga, they will
emerge // a startling deep red, and taste delicious.) // Another tree,
nsane // to expect that a train // will
emerge from the vanishing point.  //
on the wet beach // and watch the stars
emerge .  // Sharp dots; but watch and do not blink.  // In time, an inst
// What was it, then, from which I just
emerged ?  // Did I jump, or was I pulled or pushed?  // Did I leap a cha
movement in the corner?  The hem of an
emerging apparition?  // Don’t be silly, that’s … omigod, it’s a cockro
g two toeholds in // Essex and Kent, //
Emily Thornberry’s // photo gives Labour a // cardiovascular // seismi
hardboard.  // — // 1973.  Six-year-old
Emily visits.  // At home, two days later, // she says to her dad // “J
e lands bordering the Mediterranean, //
empires rise and fall.  Battles are fought, // wars are lost and won. 
/ Parchment, new quill pen, and ink.  //
Employ a messenger.  // I love you.  // Curtained parlour.  Send a letter
softness.  // Can this go on forever?  //
Empty again, in harsher light.  // Another softness, giant but gentle. 
// Softness grows still, fades away.  //
Empty spiral hardness rests // on the sea-bed.  Forever?  // Another, r
he shoulders of its owner, but actually
empty . // The sitting room of our house in Peckham, the wal
n’t be silly, that’s just the bin—needs
emptying .  // That knocking?  Footsteps in the next room?  // Don’t be s
ucing six of us.  // L-shaped the house;
enclosed within its arms // a walled garden, left untended // for mayb
lair // floated on air // when Maggie’s
encomium // came to be known to ’im.  // Thomas Stearns Eliot // wrote
and sharp and natural too: // pale sky
encounters dark sea.  // On the sand, a scattering of razor shells // t
darkly glowing, asking only // a slight
encouragement .  As the day went on, // we generated quantities of fuel
he winds, let it whirl away // into the
encroaching dark.  // Feel the earth.  Feel the water return // to the d
a field flooded and then left // to the
encroaching mud.  On the far bank // of the next bend, another sandy b
beauty brought he forth; // and at the
end , almost with dying breath, // a swan-song, left behind for us to p
n string theory // The beginning is the
end and // the end is the beginning and // the bit in the middle is //
// The beginning is the end and // the
end is the beginning and // the bit in the middle is // as long as a p
ds Express Européens pass by.  // In the
end , it was the railway // that contrived to send us on our way.  // Br
/ that something is growing at the tail
end of my colon: // probably malignant.  // ‘Malignant’ seems too stron
the bush are saved forever).  // At the
end of summer, and in the first mists // or wild winds of autumn, on t
The bench // At one
end of the bench in the garage sits // a miniature wooden eight-drawer
e or so—my teens—already // between the
end of the Chatterley ban // and the Beatles’ first LP; // strangely,
.  // These are the buffers, this is the
end of the line.  // The last post has been sounded.  // The last post h
ad.  // Nothing remains // but the fuzzy
end of the lollipop and the squeezed out tube of toothpaste // that th
ailway track.  // (Down the slope to the
end of the street and right, // the line bridges over the road.) Some
This may be the
end // The dance // On the continent // In her very own month of May /
, where we met and all was well; // the
end , the moment life just seemed to drain // away from you, in those l
In my
end …  // This train terminates here.  // Please take all your belongings
to blow us away // Horizon’s clear from
end to end // Way-hay, blow us away // No hope of whistling up a wind
us away // Horizon’s clear from end to
end // Way-hay, blow us away // No hope of whistling up a wind // Give
ow it goes.  // It flows.  // To find its
end , where must it flee?  // To the sea.  // Tumbling through rocks with
ttention to metre, until I can mark its
end with such a strong and obvious rhyme // that even if my audience h
/ to find a way.  // And now today // is
ending .  I suppose tomorrow’s still // another day // to find a way.  /
en-grey-black ocean, // the bottomless,
endless ocean.  // Where are we going?  // Something is changing: the oc
mer, home in Camberwell.  // Between the
endpoints there were many days // —or should have been—for many kinds
the words to make it plain.  // Two book-
ends bracket our shared domain: // the start, the lobby of a Greek hot
First we go to the front to see // the
engine , wheels bigger than me— // a great big monster, steaming, black
railway line passes near.  // After the
engine’s noisy roar, // coaches follow along the track: // the bogeys
towards their major source of trade:  //
England .  // Back the way we came.  // All verse is born free.  //
nts of a life // We walked across
England , once.  If you follow the west-to-east coast-to-coast walk dev
ngle, perhaps // (when the tide is high
enough ) // as far the cliff.  The wind // whips the spume // into irre
at?  // Seven syllables would be // long
enough for any line.  // With a terse verse form, you see, // I can get
r seeing you in different ways.  // Days
enough for giving and receiving.  // Did I give enough?  // I cannot say
for giving and receiving.  // Did I give
enough ?  // I cannot say.  //
are said // to be good.  That’s good //
enough , I suppose.  // Somewhere deep down in my abysmal gut // (well,
el link.  // A monstrous hole, quite big
enough to eat // the park and all the houses down the street.  // We jo
e from side to side, // verbosely quite
enough to float or sink a battle-ship.  // But perhaps instead I will g
ouds scud past, // maybe catch // close
enough to make you jump, or far away, // the thud as one more apple hi
n for one brief hour // the air is warm
enough to melt // the topmost layer.  The frost returns // to make a c
// Further north the rain teems down //
enough to overflow // the river Don and flood the plain.  // The light
// begin unwrapping till it’s // light
enough to see.  // Below the bulges, // not yet decipherable, // orange
for many kinds of loving.  // Did I love
enough ? use every day?  // Days for seeing you in different ways.  // D
// (or Bunch of Hooligans) // later to
enrol , when they come to Paris // Manuel de Falla and Igor Stravinsky.
fill the kettle above the MAX level and
ensure that it is always above the MIN level. // Only fill
/ Fresh clay tablet, stylus, scribe.  //
Entrust to messenger.  // I love you.  // Flowing Nile.  Send a letter.  /
then still Westmorland.  It wasn’t very
environmentally friendly of us, but it felt right. // Many
downwind.  // The cliff // is of course
ephemeral , built // not only on, but of, // sand.  All along the fores
Epicycle // Wake.  // Feel the water.  Push out below, // tendrils into
k.  // Damn—I had forgotten // that this
equation also needs some zeta factor // and my clear beta, gamma, delt
connection // alpha to beta using this
equation , // then follow that suggestion // to make the beta, gamma, d
Cores // Cut a kiwi //
equatorially : // no pips, no stone.  // Avocado: // pole-to-pole // all
// But no, for once // cut an apple //
equatorially // see its secret: // the apple is a five-pointed fruit. 
to separate.  // Orange, lemon, lime:  //
equatorially // squeeze the juice // leave the pith and pips.  // Papay
d the like, appropriate to some earlier
era of the house’s existence.  We left the room unpainted for the best
s.  // (Next time around, in the digital
era // we will take the turn on the zero, not the one // making the tw
all.  // One day, a storm will // simply
erase them.  // Four years ago a storm demolished // the dunes on the b
// now the Gurkhas are happy—some shiny
erection to // burnish my halo.  Ah, I have a whim // to build a fine
one ship and one bell.) // we there did
espy a fair pretty maid // with a comb and a glass in her hand.  // See
auding and // taking two toeholds in //
Essex and Kent, // Emily Thornberry’s // photo gives Labour a // cardi
agnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits //
et des Grands Express Européens pass by.  // In the end, it was the rai
must be moonshine // Fin de siècle.  //
Ethel Sargant, botanist // (Girton student 1880s) // builds a lab in h
he road’s cacophony.  // Through air and
ether people mutter, shout, // voices, ipods, phones speak out.  // So
of the world // One to thirty million: 
Eurasia // Kuril’skiye Ostrova; Kirgiz Step; Karakoram Ra // countries
es Wagons-Lits // et des Grands Express
Européens pass by.  // In the end, it was the railway // that contrived
ng and stumbling— // how in hell did he
evade the line?  // Oh bugger!  Now we have to get away.  //
.  // From across the waters // blow the
evanescent airs // moistening the many-coloured earths.  // In forests
/ eat me instead.  // My ancestor caused
Eve to know // more than Jehovah thought she should— // but keeping us
to be synthesised.  Some of them do not
even have proper names.  // The eighth layer has not been started yet,
soft subliminal sibilance of night.  //
Even I, atheist, find some of them sublime— // Britten’s Ceremony or t
/ the muzakal banality which stings.  //
Even I, atheist, find some of them sublime, // Britten’s Ceremony or t
ilter out the rest, the aural grime, //
even I, atheist, find some of them sublime.  // Must just ignore the sh
of the fathers are visited on the sons,
even if living in zen.  // Gloves are a many-splendoured thing.  Gloves
such a strong and obvious rhyme // that
even if my audience hear it spoken aloud rather than seeing it on the
ngle Street // The sea is never still. 
Even in my sleep // I hear the ground-swell gently break and sift, //
o, more than that.  Maybe for a day— //
even more maybe—for a year and a day // in Norfolk where the sign read
ments around the edges of the blaze.  //
Even now, // I feel the heat upon my face.  // Twenty three years later
, a very few // of which I can discern,
even perhaps // identify across the years.  A copper beech // stands o
eded.  The // real public benefit’s not
even there.”  // Sadiq says “The Boris’s vanity project has // gone off
aving sharp cliffs of compacted mud.  //
Evening .  A great dark cloud // fire-edged, blots out the setting sun.
t becomes a scene, a group of people in
evening dress, top hats and the like, appropriate to some earlier era
hrong // moves north against the fading
evening light.  // Slanting lines are forming, breaking, forming // ord
long in Leicestershire; // red was the
evening sky.  // By Derby town they settled down // on purple sage to l
de, // through clear and cool and quiet
evening stillness // on evening tide.  // Decisions and revisions and r
cool and quiet evening stillness // on
evening tide.  // Decisions and revisions and reversions, // reversings
s Labour a // cardiovascular // seismic
event .  //
here something there?  // Some object or
event which holds her stare?  // Or is it just the clarity of light, th
// How many friends have you outlived? 
Eventually // the Sheffield ties become more tenuous, // legs weaken,
// will finish me completely // and for
ever .  //
Tennison’s stream, we know, goes on for
ever , his // poetry too to posterity speaks; // Joyce has his Liffey w
weeps spray from our tops, // drives us
ever onward.  // Where are we going, so fierce and so fast?  // I know o
level firm surface. // Where
ever possible fill the kettle through the spout as this will help to r
ther day // Another day // to feel your
ever -present absence, still // to find a way.  // I hear you say, // “B
s a mouth like a garage— // he opens it
ever so wide // and you can see all the junk inside. // grey John Majo
Ever // Tennison’s stream, we know, goes on for ever, his // poetry to
t, smouldering slowly, // will burn for
ever .  The fire once begun // would last for days and days.  Each morn
Ever tried // tried to accept // tried to climb // tried to find // tr
o passing time.  // For all the real and
everlasting moments, // there will be time.  //
esis, debate // about it and about, and
evermore // voices coming from the room next door.  // For and against,
s of loving.  // Did I love enough? use
every day?  // Days for seeing you in different ways.  // Days enough fo
down, // expecting to find it cold, but
every day // the embers beneath the ash were darkly glowing, asking on
duction for this year // of celebration—
every line // the Bard created for the stage // by the best actors of
ays his hair is white all through.) // ‘
Every mile is two’? no, hardly thus.  // Some miles are ten, while oth
e all the duffles gone?  // Anoraks now,
every one.  //
// The top of the table is sparse, but
every second period or layer, // like the bard from Japan whose verses
any other choice.  You’ll find // that
every single play is here // a new production for this year // of cele
gation buoys must needs // be relocated
every spring, the charts // redrawn).  // The line of pebble-dunes prot
s time, it will hold my weight.’  // But
every step it drops you down // into soft snow, up to the tops // of y
are clear and fine and bitter cold.  //
Every step, // your foot upon the crust, you think // ‘This time, it w
winter storm.  // The tide is high, and
every wave tries hard // to breach the wall.  And when it hits just ri
/ A writer read, a speaker heard, // at
every word a choice has made.  // Those that they choose to use // to i
Jump willing in // Jump willing into
every word-filled well; // a book should suck you into its embrace.  //
a different place.  // Jump willing into
every word-filled well, // fall, fall into the writer’s well-cast spel
side makes haste: // jump willing into
every word-filled well.  // That book will hold against your ear a shel
econstruct a case: // jump willing into
every word-filled well.  // That book will tales of distant countries t
ly, without rising from her seat, makes
everyone shuffle up in order to allow Judith to sit down.  They obey h
/ We wire from scratch, // plumb, strip
everything : // wallpaper from walls, // distemper from ceilings, // pa
zed.  // Broken?  It must be, if agony’s
evidence .  // Lying there wondering whether there’s any chance // I cou
is, a certain toughness, // hidden, but
evident in the number, // best expressed Roman fashion:  // CII.  // We
ot keeping pace) // —but Sadiq the Most
Evil deposes poor Boris, and // gets the Red Margaret to look at the c
.  // A fairy, good or bad, will know //
exactly when to show her face, // the world just so.  // A wingéd drago
to show some of them to her.  Just for
example :  Judith Shea’s sculpture in the Hirschhorn in Washington, clo
handle on the case. // * following the
example of the chemists and their sort // ** because the margin is to
ut seven feet!  I must admit that seems
exceeding wide, // as if to start out on a voyage, a full round-Britai
od.  // No such obvious culprit here, //
except for age, pure and simple.  No rage— // just a sort of passive a
, and now are one: // no perfectability
except our own.  //
, and now are one: // no perfectability
except our own.  // But Henri’s pieces rattle too and shake // our sens
, and now are one: // no perfectability
except our own.  // His senseless trenches death at twenty three // rem
, and now are one: // no perfectability
except our own.  // In hard cast bronze all hardness now replaced, // t
, and now are one: // no perfectability
except our own.  // In Pompidou relief is on the wall, // wrestling fig
Garden shed // with a still?  Local //
excise officer takes to // dropping by unannounced.  // Catch them at i
yer consists mostly of ones that do not
exist // but need‡ to be synthesised.  Some of them do not even have p
iate to some earlier era of the house’s
existence .  We left the room unpainted for the best part of the 22 yea
ncer, but capricorn.  // Objective // An
exobladder .  // Strapped to my thigh // with elastic and velcro.  // Bel
square // Jacob van Artevelde makes an
expansive gesture // towards the setting sun.  // Go west, young man? 
each joint, // it must be insane // to
expect that a train // will emerge from the vanishing point.  //
band transforms into // Yorkshire male,
expecting // tea on the table when he returns from work // in a Sheffi
and days.  Each morning I came down, //
expecting to find it cold, but every day // the embers beneath the ash
cannot allow to go answerless.  // Lone
expedition to conquer the mountaintop.  // Bottle of water and lunch in
ese // more travels, journeys, voyages,
expeditions // more books, more coffee cups // more tragedies, comedie
o put out the fire.  // You’d think he’d
expire from swallowing fire.  // He swallowed the fire to burn the stri
row face fa-cai thick soup.  // XO sauce
explodes to grow the fragile bone.  // The peasant family stir-fries fo
n, two grandchildren, // and a world to
explore .  // But within a few years, both son and daughter // are dead
and the time // to cross the waters, //
explore the earth, // and send signal fires // blazing into the air.  /
perate.  // Skiddaw is looming, inviting
explorers —a // challenge I cannot allow to go answerless.  // Lone expe
ionale des Wagons-Lits // et des Grands
Express Européens pass by.  // In the end, it was the railway // that c
den, but evident in the number, // best
expressed Roman fashion:  // CII.  // We // As for us, the bits begin to
t their boundaries.  The vital stress //
expresses change.  Some variant has found // how good sex is—to mix the
d night.  // Here, // now, // in this //
extended // coda to our past // good lives, the rainbow spans the sky.
whose verses never would scan, adds an
extra list.  // As we* reach the sixth and seventh periods, short of ho
// beyond imagination; and of course //
extracted from my fickle memory— // elusive and illusive treasure, she
is raw, // to questions orderly, while
exuding care.  // Voices from the curtained bed next door: // someone e
jective // In my groin and in my mind’s
eye :  // A tube inside a tube inside a tube // —only the last lives the
/ I am not cruel, only truthful— // The
eye of the little god, four cornered.  // Something there is that doesn
cross the rest, looking with unfocussed
eyes // into the distance down the street.  I could not see // what he
At the bar three people sit // all six
eyes lowered // in silent contemplation.  // The rest of the world is d
uphooks, clouts // masonry nails, screw-
eyes , picture hooks // wallplugs, rivets, self-tapping metal screws, /
smart // smoke billows // move apart //
eyes smart // flames creep // move apart // flames leap // flames cree
urls // smoke billows // smoke grows //
eyes smart // smoke billows // move apart // eyes smart // flames cree
// time to rise // feeling slow // rub
eyes // yawn and stretch // blue skies // legs itch // must get on //
st right, // You may go there with your
eyesight .  //
, out/return // Can I go there, with my
eyesight ?  // Yes, with fuel to burn.  // If the lines be blurred just r