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.

G

Destination // (and beginning—for
G ) // From random junctures in primeval winds // a billion random patt
ight // bird sings // growing bright //
gadget pings // go away // sleep clings // break of day // brighter no
nstructed // objects: defunct household
gadgets , // broken furniture, shelves no longer // serving any useful
, gleaming in his knight’s array // And
gaily singing on his way // Rode bold Sir Lancelot.  // Years have pass
wool.  // And as we lived and loved and
gained // and learnt and gave and lost, // we let each thread unroll b
them in again.  // Beards are great when
gales are threatening // keep drafts out and comfort in—but // there w
olours, more darknesses // more storms,
gales , lightning bolts // more days of sun or rain or passing cloud //
lcanic dust, // soft breezes and winter
gales .  // Was I shipwrecked?  Or cast overboard to avert shipwreck?  //
t it felt right. // Many art
galleries in many places.  Three solid days in the Uffizi in Florence.
f intent // In rollicking verse // On a
galloping horse— // But Aix was as far as he went.  // In Friday Market
at to fend off the rain.  // What an odd
game —to swallow the rain!  // He swallowed the rain to put out the fire
m to the top // so that the same period
games // allow the lines to peter out // and stop. // † as we step thr
some zeta factor // and my clear beta,
gamma , delta connection // is screwed up by a zeta factor // in ways t
ow that suggestion // to make the beta,
gamma , delta link.  // Damn—I had forgotten // that this equation also
sideways: perspiration // Alpha, beta,
gamma , delta.  // The way is clear.  This formulation // both lays the
nd the tentacles of zeta // by striking
gamma from consideration // and making an approximate relation // by t
d been once— // but they had filled the
gap to make a join // with the neighbouring block, leaving a row of ni
// Nigel Farrage // has a mouth like a
garage — // he opens it ever so wide // and you can see all the junk in
bench // At one end of the bench in the
garage sits // a miniature wooden eight-drawered chest // given to me
surely to be found // elsewhere in the
garage ).  // The bench was once // a kitchen dresser, already ancient i
n student 1880s) // builds a lab in her
garden // in Reigate, on her way to // recognition, fellowships // (Li
-o’er-run Shalott?  // She who hath this
garden laid // —Nurturing the wayward seed, // Planting out this cabba
e; enclosed within its arms // a walled
garden , left untended // for maybe thirty years.  A winding path // le
Stages // Hanging
garden .  Send a letter.  // Fresh clay tablet, stylus, scribe.  // Entrus
a source // of pure water: a still.  //
Garden shed // with a still?  Local // excise officer takes to // drop
s night or day; // the gardens, and the
garden walls // just slipped away.  // What country lanes or city stree
and whether it was night or day; // the
gardens , and the garden walls // just slipped away.  // What country la
n ideas found sleeping furiously // The
garlic slices the beef granule.  // The first boilers of iron plate glu
ing in place until at home // the small
gas fire has warmed the room // against the cold outside.  // (But that
and flat-fronted.  // No electricity— //
gas lighting from the thirties; // two taps; one loo // in a lean-to o
teen sixty nine the house was lit // by
gas , with open fires the only heat.  // The lino on the hall floor had
rapeseed and the corn.  // The five-bar
gate , the muddy track on the tarmac road.  // The walled paddock and th
ly grown to full maturity // to an iron-
gated pointed arch // piercing the wall, built like the house // of we
reet, shop-window-browsing.  // A group,
gathered around and gazing into // one window; but one young man half-
s and washers // are visible within.  //
Gathered round about, a motley crew // of categories in boxes, jars an
Gathering dark // Maybe, for some, the resolution lies // in their cup
one head, or a small cut brass piece by
Gaudier -Brzeska, and put it into our hands).  She introduced me to so
g down the problem // throwing down the
gauntlet // battening down the hatches // closing down the argument //
all, level with the top, // running the
gauntlet of the winter storm.  // The tide is high, and every wave trie
and loved and gained // and learnt and
gave and lost, // we let each thread unroll behind, // laying down the
off from looking at // the focus of her
gaze : does he not want // to tell?  // This painting has a private life
nd fewer still will pause or stay // To
gaze down on the ruins gray // That scar remote Shalott.  // In the duc
ten to the lapping of the water, // and
gaze into space.  // We have the space // and the time // to cross the
owsing.  // A group, gathered around and
gazing into // one window; but one young man half-turned // across the
while, though, they seem // to switch a
gear , and take a lurch // at some acute, unmeasured angle.  // Last Sep
haos with a raucous song:  // A thousand
geese are flying into night.  //
Sharp lines // High overhead, the
geese are flying out // on their twice-a-day migration between feeding
curlews, more ragged, slanting lines of
geese // more travels, journeys, voyages, expeditions // more books, m
d and fifty thousand:  Low Countries //
Gelderland ; Glabbeek; Gramsbergen // conurbations; drained land // One
ock and air; no fire and no gold, // no
gems nor coins nor jewels; just the old // and weathered hills, create
couragement.  As the day went on, // we
generated quantities of fuel // and built a roaring blaze.  Then late
rint becomes faint; // just as each new
generation soon finds itself // rich rediscovering Bach’s counterpoint
t shipwreck?  // I cannot now recall.  //
Generations and generations // of fishermen and trading sailors // ply
nosaurs, the apes // advance across the
generations .  Each // sentient being touches and reshapes // the world
I cannot now recall.  // Generations and
generations // of fishermen and trading sailors // ply back and forth
rking vices added to those // caused by
generations of kitchen knives.  // Clearance time.  What can I possibly
has found // how good sex is—to mix the
genes around.  // The plants, the fish, the dinosaurs, the apes // adva
he dying // of the light.  Do not // go
gentle into that good night.  // Here, // now, // in this // extended /
house.) // The bracken spreads across a
gentle slope // towards the river.  A line of ancient oaks // (one bla
he light...  // But now no more— // your
gentle snore // puts all the ghosts to flight.  //
r light.  // Another softness, giant but
gentle .  // Soft digits hold softly, lift softly // place softly agains
idesong // The tide is out, the creek a
gentle trickle // Hear the marsh-birds calling // the drying sand with
, to go, // to travel in the mind, some
gentle // way to wander into // a better place, a future that // reviv
the scree the open path leads on, // a
gentler walk, to bare bleak Malham Tarn.  // Then back to skirt the edg
in my sleep // I hear the ground-swell
gently break and sift, // pushing the shingle back and forth and to an
mooth as satin, // drifting or paddling
gently side by side, // through clear and cool and quiet evening still
bits of buildings, human artifacts.  //
Geological time // is foreshortened.  This is now, here, // real human
taxpayer funding, and get old saint //
George of the Chancel to throw in some too.”  // So the project proceed
// the world just so.  // True love will
germinate and grow, // all tribulations to displace, // far away and l
d of scraping has ceased.  // This drain
germinates here.  //
Jacob van Artevelde makes an expansive
gesture // towards the setting sun.  // Go west, young man?  No, this i
a worthy guide; // his voice is lively,
gestures wide.  // The sun and wind upon the trees outside…  // I try to
musing strays.  // His voice is lively,
gestures wide.  // There is much sense in what he says.  // No voices in
ithesis debate.  // His voice is lively,
gestures wide— // there is much sense in what he says, // through thes
// Cash m/c // Washing // Plan finances—
get advisor?  G’s contact maybe // Ring M about Xmas // Ring Tony D abo
h a terse verse form, you see, // I can
get along just fine.  // But seven feet!  I must admit that seems excee
the line?  // Oh bugger!  Now we have to
get away.  //
See the slime on it?  // Wonder if I can
get it to do // anything remotely interesting?  //
I’ll give it some taxpayer funding, and
get old saint // George of the Chancel to throw in some too.”  // So th
etch // blue skies // legs itch // must
get on // first scratch // clothes on // spell broken // sleep gone //
year Hitler came to power).  // Then we
get on with our lives: // the repainting can wait.  // I go to work.  //
leap a chasm, ford a raging torrent, //
get rolled over by an avalanche, // fall through a wormhole, or cross
o-coast walk devised by Wainwright, you
get sunburnt on the right side of your face only.  As Judith had broke
he Most Evil deposes poor Boris, and //
gets the Red Margaret to look at the case.  // “It’s been a fiasco, a d
ur of our cushions are missing.  // It’s
getting beyond a bad joke.  // Destroying our comfort’s as rotten // as
g the water, // disturbing our roll, //
getting higher and closer.  // And the noise.  // A few ranks ahead, I s
d slumbers not: // a stealth invasion’s
getting off the ground.  // Up on the surface and for far around, // an
ull.  // From Brussels by local train to
Ghent : canals and cobbled streets // and beer and chocolate shops // a
usical box.  // There once was a poet in
Ghent // Who set out with the best of intent // In rollicking verse //
e— // your gentle snore // puts all the
ghosts to flight.  //
in harsher light.  // Another softness,
giant but gentle.  // Soft digits hold softly, lift softly // place sof
fty-three // they raised the ramparts: 
giant concrete blocks // on piles all along the shingle beach.  // The
mechanisms in the civic belltower— // a
giant musical box.  // There once was a poet in Ghent // Who set out wi
mirror there— // Who can that attactive
girl be?  // I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.  // I do n
a glass in her hand.  // See the pretty
girl in that mirror there— // Who can that attactive girl be?  // I hav
ished or of peaceful earth, // the mill-
girl’s beauty or the maiden’s death, // the trout that dart and pause
ellowships // (Linnean Society 1904, //
Girton College 1913).  // The Reigate lab, of course // has a source //
siècle.  // Ethel Sargant, botanist // (
Girton student 1880s) // builds a lab in her garden // in Reigate, on
Limerick // There was an old Fellow of
Girton // who always made love with his shirt on.  // Saying “Now that
ough for giving and receiving.  // Did I
give enough?  // I cannot say.  //
but needs time to come through.  // I’ll
give it some taxpayer funding, and get old saint // George of the Chan
ay // And we can some direction find //
Give me some wind to blow us away //
ay // No hope of whistling up a wind //
Give me some wind to blow us away // Adrift the middle of the sea // W
away // The sails clatter as we roll //
Give me some wind to blow us away // Horizon’s clear from end to end /
// And there is nothing here for me //
Give me some wind to blow us away // Just feel the breathless sun beat
// But we are bound for nowhere fast //
Give me some wind to blow us away // No wind! we wallow in the swell
way // And seek out any shade we can //
Give me some wind to blow us away // Now sluice the decks to cool the
away // And pour a bucket on my head //
Give me some wind to blow us away // Perhaps tomorrow there’ll be wind
They should have
given me a plastic plate // More!  I want some more!  // A spoon to the
iniature wooden eight-drawered chest //
given to me (budding carpenter) as a child // for nails and screws.  A
nd Kent, // Emily Thornberry’s // photo
gives Labour a // cardiovascular // seismic event.  //
ges direction from minute to minute; //
gives me siblings to chase or criss-cross // over and under // as we s
u in different ways.  // Days enough for
giving and receiving.  // Did I give enough?  // I cannot say.  //
thousand:  Low Countries // Gelderland;
Glabbeek ; Gramsbergen // conurbations; drained land // One to three hu
Gladknots // I think.  // I’m
glad , I think.  // I think that I’m glad // (therefore I am that).  I’m
I’m glad // (therefore I am that).  I’m
glad .  // I’m glad that I think // (therefore I’m glad that I am).  // T
I’m glad that I think // (therefore I’m
glad that I am).  // That’s what I think.  //
therefore I am that).  I’m glad.  // I’m
glad that I think // (therefore I’m glad that I am).  // That’s what I
re—to // jump on the bandwagon he’ll be
glad .”  // The Boris is happy.  “We need a designer with // boldness an
I’m glad, I think.  // I think that I’m
glad // (therefore I am that).  I’m glad.  // I’m glad that I think //
a different stitch to cast?  // No, I’m
glad we did not meet // before the alotted time: // that we could reac
Gladknots // I think.  // I’m glad, I think.  // I think that I’m glad /
Once Sat night—check time // Tickets to
Glasgow 6th-7th // Camera in bag for Mon // Did I submit tax form??  //
a fair pretty maid // with a comb and a
glass in her hand.  // See the pretty girl in that mirror there— // Who
rest of them all?  // (The cruel looking-
glass that will never show a lass // As comely or as kindly or as youn
to know.  // We have no crystal ball, no
glass .  // The light has all gone, now.  //
clack.  // Raindrops slanting across the
glass .  // We jump at a sudden sound-blast— // another train on the nex
ow neon light // spilling through plate-
glass windows // across the pavement.  // A bartender bent to work; //
e because the fellow // was not wearing
glasses .  //
d patterned lattices of life // through
glasses , darkly.  // —A fragment, formulated forty years ago // and fil
ears.  A winding path // leads from the
glazed back door // through box and holly grown to full maturity // to
.  // Not until the fateful day // When,
gleaming in his knight’s array // And gaily singing on his way // Rode
, // the oyster-catcher, the egret, the
gliding gull.  // What do they know, the rain and the air?  // The hedge
r morning sunlight fills // the room we
glimpse inside.  A woman leans // upon a table in the window, looks //
ould such a mundane scene // so briefly
glimpsed , make my muse suggest // just three alliterative lines—at bes
kes us strong.  // Occasionally, I catch
glimpses // of the ranks ahead.  // But mostly, I can see // only the b
they know, the rain and the air?  // The
glistening mud left by the ebb-tide.  // The moored boat listing on the
her room.  // Only through the mirror’s
gloam // Dared she look to Camelot.  // Not until the fateful day // Wh
with double cream) // Dr Foster went to
Gloucester // for a summer spin— // and liked a lass from Lancashire;
f true gloves never did run smooth.  No
glove lost.  // We have nothing to wear but wear itself.  Without wear
e the world go round, and all’s fair in
gloves and war, though the course of true gloves never did run smooth.
on the sons, even if living in zen.  //
Gloves are a many-splendoured thing.  Gloves make the world go round,
/ Gloves are a many-splendoured thing. 
Gloves make the world go round, and all’s fair in gloves and war, thou
oves and war, though the course of true
gloves never did run smooth.  No glove lost.  // We have nothing to wea
ick-clack click-clack.  // At night, the
glow and flying sparks.  // Grass on the lineside banks is marked // wi
rudge, // and welcomed us back into its
glow .  // Another twenty one years, // another crematorium.  // This tim
t // embers warm // flames gone // last
glow // embers warm // fading now // last glow // tiny light // fading
Landing light // Under the door the
glow is peeking, // feeling its way across the floor.  // From the lamp
brighter now // here to stay // morning
glow // time to rise // feeling slow // rub eyes // yawn and stretch /
ow // embers warm // fading now // last
glow // tiny light // fading now // dark night //
the embers beneath the ash were darkly
glowing , asking only // a slight encouragement.  As the day went on, /
rs // throw on timber // let it burn //
glowing embers // smoulder down // let it burn // warm as toast // smo
hrow on timber // sparks take flight //
glowing embers // throw on timber // let it burn // glowing embers //
Or is it just the clarity of light, the
glowing // grass and trees outside her window, warming // in the sun? 
rees beyond the meadow, // tall grasses
glowing in the morning sun // below and to the right.  And rising left
ule.  // The first boilers of iron plate
glue east // Grow face fa-cai thick soup.  // XO sauce explodes to grow
ith plywood strips // carefully cut and
glued .  And labelled the front— // Nails: tacks, panel pins, ovals and
rs // The good Lady Lumley is pondering
glumly .  “I // need a new project to keep me in trim— // now the Gurkh
lk countryside, each tall bare trunk //
gnarled and twisted by the wind, supports // a wild, tufted crown—quit
ng thin needles.  // In the distance, //
gnarled broadleaf trees with twisted limbs // shed leaves with perfect
of course // but maybe also wailing and
gnashing our teeth // into the maelstrom, the fire and brimstone // th
news // Polarity // Battle lines // The
goat // Catheter // The other side // The all-clear // Five days after
y wound.  // I am transfixed as a horned
goat // charges towards me // from beyond the pale, under my guard, //
only truthful— // The eye of the little
god , four cornered.  // Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.  //
too can be // as dumb as all of us, the
gods themselves.  //
Themselves // Stupidity, I think the
gods themselves // will find in all the books that line the shelves, /
aders // scutter, scavenge—redshank, //
godwit , curlew—long // beaks probing deep // beneath the // shining //
ach is good // for all.  The redshanks,
godwits , curlews search // for hidden treasure, long beaks buried full
riend is crowned mayor of London, he //
goes by the rubrik of Boris the Mad.  // He’d adore such a grand and fl
cataclysm?  // Now the one just ahead //
goes head over heels // on hard, unyielding // rocks and stones, // fa
So it
goes // How and where does it all begin?  // From a spring.  // Tell me,
spring.  // Tell me, if you will, how it
goes .  // It flows.  // To find its end, where must it flee?  // To the s
Ever // Tennison’s stream, we know,
goes on for ever, his // poetry too to posterity speaks; // Joyce has
y whose recirculation keeps // Finnegan
going (despite it’s his wake)— // Beethoven’s music is just bloody mar
butchers working rough.  // The light is
going now.  // How will these transient trials pass?  // It’s really har
drives us ever onward.  // Where are we
going , so fierce and so fast?  // I know only the wind and the rain //
tomless, endless ocean.  // Where are we
going ?  // Something is changing: the ocean // is bottomless no longer.
ith an almighty bang // —thought it was
going to be a disaster // but then it began rolling out its own // fin
ted // down to the floor, to prevent it
going walkabout, // a perambulation whenever it got to the spin // par
ly, // carriages decked in the blue and
gold livery // of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits // et d
rth // and rock and air; no fire and no
gold , // no gems nor coins nor jewels; just the old // and weathered h
ough starter.  //   // In the California
gold rush of 1849, and again in the Klondike in 1896, in order to make
will go.  Let the browns // and reds and
golds replace the greens.  Now throw the canopy too // to the winds, le
one more.  // Where have all the duffles
gone ?  // Anoraks now, every one.  //
should now appear // as it did a month
gone , // BC (Before Capricorn).  // But of course that is not so.  // Se
// The possibility of peace is now long
gone .  // In just a few days’ time, these two will meet // and clash —
// clothes on // spell broken // sleep
gone // in motion // sun on skin // door open // breathe in.  // Now be
potatoes roast // embers warm // flames
gone // last glow // embers warm // fading now // last glow // tiny li
// live on long after his colours have
gone ; // learning his lesson, the great Michelangelo // makes his work
al ball, no glass.  // The light has all
gone , now.  //
says “The Boris’s vanity project has //
gone off the rails.  I’m not such a mug.  // I’ve cancelled his buses,
tatoes roast // warm as toast // flames
gone // potatoes roast // embers warm // flames gone // last glow // e
ast— // until the day, just nine months
gone , // when both lines crossed an edge, // and two seemed to twist i
chances are said // to be good.  That’s
good // enough, I suppose.  // Somewhere deep down in my abysmal gut //
mpete for surface scraps.  The beach is
good // for all.  The redshanks, godwits, curlews search // for hidden
p and blew them in again.  // Beards are
good for finger-fiddling // stroking, tickling, searching in—but // th
he bad // is bad in absolute, while the
good // is good only in relation to the bad.  // The chances are said /
oo bad.  // First the bad news, then the
good : // it's cancer; but it hasn’t spread.  // No balance here.  The b
Troubled waters // The
good Lady Lumley is pondering glumly.  “I // need a new project to kee
this // extended // coda to our past //
good lives, the rainbow spans the sky.  //
keeping us in darkness so // cannot be
good .  // Nevertheless I draw the line // at dropping onto Isaac’s head
e light.  Do not // go gentle into that
good night.  // Here, // now, // in this // extended // coda to our pas
s bad in absolute, while the good // is
good only in relation to the bad.  // The chances are said // to be goo
, // far away and long ago.  // A fairy,
good or bad, will know // exactly when to show her face, // the world
he final fray // remains in memory, for
good or ill, // another day.  // I cannot say // whether I have the nec
s change.  Some variant has found // how
good sex is—to mix the genes around.  // The plants, the fish, the dino
e bad.  // The chances are said // to be
good .  That’s good // enough, I suppose.  // Somewhere deep down in my
ure that // revives, replenishes, makes
good // the damaged present, this dark night?  // Not to return to old
Good vibrations // The Bendix washing machine was already elderly // w
when we parted, did we say // our last
goodbyes , or maybe they // just slipped away— // I cannot say.  //
road.) Sometimes at night, // a heavy
goods train rattles the windows and plates // on the shelves.  Later,
et’s Foss.  // Upstream again to clamber
Gordale Scar // and rest, and breathe some more the cool clear air.  //
ut worry // take the hottest Currie.  //
Gordon Brown // replaced his frown // with a one-sided smile // that w
milk-white was her skin.  // In Cheddar
Gorge the chaffinches // were twittering.  The twain // with anglo-sax
re, and it wasn’t just because we never
got around to it. // On a New York subway:  Judith and me s
o write // a fib on // achievement, but
got // only a fib on a cheap pun // [One iamb, two anapest] feet // [m
lkabout, // a perambulation whenever it
got to the spin // part of its washing cycle.  The other, the noise //
ray, // (easier than his proper name of
Gouriet ) // had come as a child sixty-odd years before // (well before
aglow // will sit and spin, so full of
grace , // far away and long ago.  // A fairy, good or bad, will know //
ed— // She was once a lady’s maid // In
gracious , towered Camelot.  // Then, as winds of fortune blow, // It wa
Low Countries // Gelderland; Glabbeek;
Gramsbergen // conurbations; drained land // One to three hundred and
of Boris the Mad.  // He’d adore such a
grand and flamboyant adventure—to // jump on the bandwagon he’ll be gl
years later, the year that her first //
grandchild arrived?  I can’t quite recall.  Nor can I now // picture i
g new: migrate south // to London, two
grandchildren , // and a world to explore.  // But within a few years, b
if growing from the clapboards, // but
grander far, a corniced window bay // in darker wood.  Clear morning s
nternationale des Wagons-Lits // et des
Grands Express Européens pass by.  // In the end, it was the railway //
the mile across the river meadows // to
Grantchester .  As we walk back // against the wind it starts to snow. 
furiously // The garlic slices the beef
granule .  // The first boilers of iron plate glue east // Grow face fa-
n boughs bent to earth // apples in the
grass //
r across a great river, where // trees,
grass and flowers can stretch shore to shore.  // Of bridges traversing
st the clarity of light, the glowing //
grass and trees outside her window, warming // in the sun?  Or maybe n
t night, the glow and flying sparks.  //
Grass on the lineside banks is marked // with smears of fires, burnt a
irds calling // to the edges of the sea-
grass —pauses, // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // makes anothe
n, the moss, the lichen, // the cropped
grass , the sheep- and rabbit-droppings, // the bare rocks and the ridg
indow, looks // out into sunlight, over
grass , towards // some distant point outside the picture frame.  // Wha
apple on the tree, the windfall in the
grass .  // What do they know, the rain and the air?  //
e thud as one more apple hits the muddy
grass .  // Winds bowling through trees // fruit-laden boughs bent to ea
nd the trees beyond the meadow, // tall
grasses glowing in the morning sun // below and to the right.  And ris
hrubs and flowers, mosses, // ferns and
grasses waving under the sky.  // Islands, beaches, clifftops, creeks a
e climbed // inside) mark out the sandy/
grassy bank that is // the cliff.  A narrow sandy beach past which //
s arrival, // was buried in an unmarked
grave .  // There were no victors: only victims.  //
For Robert
Graves // For Robert Graves, the naked and the nude // were chalk and
For Robert Graves // For Robert
Graves , the naked and the nude // were chalk and cheese; so what would
The Lady’s Maid // Under a
gray and lowering sky // The fields that by the river lie // Are rough
The previous occupant, known as Mister
Gray , // (easier than his proper name of Gouriet) // had come as a chi
se or stay // To gaze down on the ruins
gray // That scar remote Shalott.  // In the duck-weed-smothered edges
fect sculpted edges.  // A bramble sends
great arcing shoots, // strong curves lined with jagged thorns, // see
the engine, wheels bigger than me— // a
great big monster, steaming, black.  // The bogeys go: click-clack cli
eaken, and isolation palls.  // One more
great change, one more new beginning: // a different kind of home // h
far around, // another creature wakes;
great cogwheels grind.  // They peer, they scan, they scrape, they test
her plants.  // On one // a stately ram,
great curved horns // stands tense, alert and staring.  A few // feet
cliffs of compacted mud.  // Evening.  A
great dark cloud // fire-edged, blots out the setting sun.  // Later, t
have gone; // learning his lesson, the
great Michelangelo // makes his work lasting by carving in stone— // m
pecies rise and fall // and rise again. 
Great populations press // against their boundaries.  The vital stress
really // spring from the hands of the
great Praxiteles?  // I cannot now recall.  // No matter!  Now, in a str
/ to build a fine bridge clear across a
great river, where // trees, grass and flowers can stretch shore to sh
iot // wrote poetry well, but // was no
great shakes // in the marriage stakes.  //
and ships and sealing wax, // and such
great themes as these, // talking they walked and walking talked— // b
p and blew them in again.  // Beards are
great when gales are threatening // keep drafts out and comfort in—but
me prince will boldly go // and dangers
great will bravely face, // the world just so.  // True love will germi
ed domain: // the start, the lobby of a
Greek hotel // in summer, where we met and all was well; // the end, t
like from the inside?  // See that blue-
green ball of stuff? // —spinning around one of the hot yellow bits //
ng bees.  // Feel the fire.  Spread out a
green canopy // in the warming sunlight.  Soak up the rays and the air.
ue sea // silver lake // purple moor //
green forest // clear stream // grey mountain // jagged mountain // ch
rkness by night, // the ocean, the blue-
green -grey-black ocean, // the bottomless, endless ocean.  // Where are
) // Another tree, perhaps a beech, but
green // (I think that I can see the nuts it sheds) // on the grove’s
Colourless
green ideas found sleeping furiously // The garlic slices the beef gra
d is bowling on, // trees bending, dark
green leaves showing // their lighter backs, a few edging // towards t
ne of pebble-dunes protects // a calmer
green oasis, band of salt-marsh // where barn-owls hunt their prey.  B
se far above our heads.  In this bright
green // we wander, hacking out our paths, or creeping through, // may
rowns // and reds and golds replace the
greens .  Now throw the canopy too // to the winds, let it whirl away //
e pane // loop lazily along and then //
greet each pole like a jumping jack.  // The bogeys go: click-clack cl
e, // the remains of trees // that once
grew on the hill above, // and bits of buildings, human artifacts.  //
old man called Michael Finnegan.  // He
grew whiskers on his chin—but // the wind came up and blew them in aga
by night, // the ocean, the blue-green-
grey -black ocean, // the bottomless, endless ocean.  // Where are we go
and you can see all the junk inside.  //
grey John Major // surely had a wager // that he could without worry /
moor // green forest // clear stream //
grey mountain // jagged mountain // choppy sea // swirling stream // s
white, // or autumn hues, or shades of
grey — // the colours that I saw last night // just slipped away.  // Th
ee // across the criss-cross checks and
grids and patterned lattices of life // through glasses, darkly.  // —A
orm or confuse, // elate or validate or
grieve — // these words live.  //
If I can filter out the rest, the aural
grime , // even I, atheist, find some of them sublime.  // Must just ign
oadening // thought he’d flaunt a bushy
grin —but // the wind came up and blew it in again.  // Beards may need
another creature wakes; great cogwheels
grind .  // They peer, they scan, they scrape, they test, they sound; //
n of my autonomy.  // Objective // In my
groin and in my mind’s eye:  // A tube inside a tube inside a tube // —
ees bending, boughs reaching // for the
ground , creaking // under the weight.  // Wander through the orchard, w
/ houses; yards; curbs // One to fifty: 
Ground floor // Bedroom 2; Bathroom; Bicycle shed // walls; doors; dra
th.  Feel the water return // to the dry
ground .  Let the cooling dark // settle around and about, under and ove
, vardo // cromarty, ringwold or savage
ground // smoked trout, wevet, bone, calamine // lichen, brinjal, radi
still.  Even in my sleep // I hear the
ground -swell gently break and sift, // pushing the shingle back and fo
// and clash — and I’m to be the battle
ground .  // The field is ready now, the lines are drawn.  // Whichever w
ined with jagged thorns, // seeking new
ground to conquer.  // Spiders’ webs among the undergrowth.  // Look clo
// a stealth invasion’s getting off the
ground .  // Up on the surface and for far around, // another creature w
// clear to my vantage point on higher
ground .  // Voices far across the valley sound.  // The hills ranged all
l around // in bags or scattered on the
ground // waiting to be found.  // Waiting for declension, conjugation,
r twice-a-day migration between feeding
grounds // in lop-sided vees and slanting lines, // dark against the s
that icon of // a time and maybe social
group // —and then, when that one died, one more.  // Where have all th
cross.  Not quite the biggest // of its
group , but very beautiful.  // What does it look like from the inside? 
city street, shop-window-browsing.  // A
group , gathered around and gazing into // one window; but one young ma
next attack.  // Towards the river is a
group of firs // —the kind you sometimes see in lines across // the Su
l additions.  And it becomes a scene, a
group of people in evening dress, top hats and the like, appropriate t
-old imagination.  // It stands within a
grove of trees, a very few // of which I can discern, even perhaps //
I can see the nuts it sheds) // on the
grove’s outer edge, contains our own // tree-house, a canted deck of a
ust so.  // True love will germinate and
grow , // all tribulations to displace, // far away and long ago, // th
ng.  // It pushes us harder, // makes us
grow broader and taller, // sweeps spray from our tops, // drives us e
irst boilers of iron plate glue east //
Grow face fa-cai thick soup.  // XO sauce explodes to grow the fragile
daily // Start.  // Tiptoe.  // Probe.  //
Grow .  // Push forward.  // Build speed.  // Build power.  // Forge ahead.
h softness grows // but hardness cannot
grow .  // Rough softness is too big, // leaves for another home.  // Ano
cai thick soup.  // XO sauce explodes to
grow the fragile bone.  // The peasant family stir-fries four // Butter
lie Hebdo, I learn // that something is
growing at the tail end of my colon: // probably malignant.  // ‘Malign
apart // flames leap // flames creep //
growing bright // flames leap // sparks take flight // growing bright
am deep // faint light // bird sings //
growing bright // gadget pings // go away // sleep clings // break of
// flames leap // sparks take flight //
growing bright // throw on timber // sparks take flight // glowing emb
/ towards the brown.  // Autumn fruit is
growing fat, // trees bending, boughs reaching // for the ground, crea
ted clapboard side.  // At centre, as if
growing from the clapboards, // but grander far, a corniced window bay
azed back door // through box and holly
grown to full maturity // to an iron-gated pointed arch // piercing th
ter, edgier, rougher.  // Rough softness
grows // but hardness cannot grow.  // Rough softness is too big, // le
/ smoke curls // smoke billows // smoke
grows // eyes smart // smoke billows // move apart // eyes smart // fl
s shelters inside hardness.  // Softness
grows , hardness grows too, // spirals round itself, trumpet-like.  // C
/ smoke curls // flame unfurls // smoke
grows // smoke curls // smoke billows // smoke grows // eyes smart //
he backs of the older ones.  // The wind
grows steady and purposeful.  // We form into rows and columns across t
// Can this go on forever?  // Softness
grows still, fades away.  // Empty spiral hardness rests // on the sea-
e hardness.  // Softness grows, hardness
grows too, // spirals round itself, trumpet-like.  // Can this go on fo
Sharpness // The latest
growths are long and barbed, // reaching out to colonise the heath, //
nute hiatus.  // But the fire bore us no
grudge , // and welcomed us back into its glow.  // Another twenty one y
ds me // from beyond the pale, under my
guard , // below the belt and over the line.  // What’s in a name?  // It
istle blows, the train moves on, // the
guard’s van trundles at the back.  // The bogeys go: click-clack click
map.  At others, though, // we have to
guess .  // The woods are full of streams, // swollen with spring melt. 
/ through these ideas he makes a worthy
guide ; // his voice is lively, gestures wide.  // The sun and wind upon
rders; deserts // One to five million: 
Gulf of St Lawrence // Shickshock Mountains; Shippegan Island; Cape Sa
oyster-catcher, the egret, the gliding
gull .  // What do they know, the rain and the air?  // The hedgerow, the
e wood, onto the beach.  We hear // the
gulls , and faintly, far away, the churn // of waves upon the sand.  Ea
// At water’s edge the oyster-catchers,
gulls // compete for surface scraps.  The beach is good // for all.  T
he ridgetiles, the leaves in the leaded
gully .  // The street between the houses, the streetlight, // the sign
to soft snow, up to the tops // of your
gumboots .  The mile or two // to the village shop to seek supplies //
civil // war in Jordan.  // There was a
gun .  // There was a bullet, stray.  // There was a young man writhing i
project to keep me in trim— // now the
Gurkhas are happy—some shiny erection to // burnish my halo.  Ah, I ha
e.  // Somewhere deep down in my abysmal
gut // (well, really, just around the final bend) // this craven krake
spittle.  // Oh, people spread!  Quick,
guys , an ecstasy of fumbling, // building the clumsy barriers just in
/ Washing // Plan finances—get advisor? 
G’s contact maybe // Ring M about Xmas // Ring Tony D about works in b
Son develops // schizophrenia.  // After
G’s death, a chance // for something new: migrate south // to London,