Stephen Robertson

Slanting Lines


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.


ot // only a fib on a cheap pun // [One
iamb , two anapest] feet // [make up an eight-syllable] beat.  // Selec-
still half-covered // in slowly melting
ice .  On the far side // the steep snow-covered slopes rise up // to r
to having owned // long long ago, that
icon of // a time and maybe social group // —and then, when that one d
Colourless green
ideas found sleeping furiously // The garlic slices the beef granule. 
sense in what he says, // through these
ideas he makes a worthy guide; // his voice is lively, gestures wide. 
of which I can discern, even perhaps //
identify across the years.  A copper beech // stands out, a clump of p
find some of them sublime.  // Must just
ignore the shop-committed crime, // the muzakal banality which stings.
to forget // tried to hear // tried to
ignore // tried to learn // tried to live // tried to love // tried to
ey come to Paris // Manuel de Falla and
Igor Stravinsky.  // A turn, a period of change?  // Well, yes.  In all
Iken Hall // Later, my mother will describe the house itself // as ugl
Daydream Dale Journey // From
Ilkley’s old stone bridge I trace a path // against the stream, back u
fray // remains in memory, for good or
ill , // another day.  // I cannot say // whether I have the necessary s
r’s chill // Lies fast upon the land so
ill .  // Seldom now the skylark’s trill; // No longer do the people fil
o its ‘ON’ position and the switch will
illuminate . // When the water boils the kettle will switch
d from my fickle memory— // elusive and
illusive treasure, she.  //
ggie’s encomium // came to be known to ’
im .  // Thomas Stearns Eliot // wrote poetry well, but // was no great
mind it conjures up a vision // of the
image that inspired it: a scattering // of people in a city street, sh
t to be fixed // while the long night’s
images last, // but notched on the stick // as the day slides into the
ides into the mist.  // The long night’s
images last.  // But now the light is fading // as the day slides into
hills, created by some force // beyond
imagination ; and of course // extracted from my fickle memory— // elus
n spaces // there are times // when the
imagination fires.  // Pots are thrown and fired, // crops are watered.
d inspiration // This figment of my own
imagination // is the space in which I must survive, // with Frida as
s my five- // or eight- or ten-year-old
imagination .  // It stands within a grove of trees, a very few // of wh
oes not pass, // this figment of my own
imagination .  // Maybe I should write it in a verse // with Frida as my
urn, // what reconstruct and // what re-
imagine ?  Not to rave // at fate, at chance, at // what has come about
can see // only the back // of the one
immediately in front.  // The wind is angry, howling and shrieking.  //
stone— // me, I’m not looking for such
immortality , // life after death would not be to my taste; // rather,
igh, // with crescent moon // from cold
immune .  // Let snow lie, // it’s Jan, not June.  // A blue lagoon, // t
irst-rate opportunity— // Isolation for
immunity — // To indulge in the felicity // Of unbounded domesticity.  /
hunt their prey.  But not for long // —
impermanence’s permanence the rule.  // Change will last forever.  // At
a monk-like hood— // and with (the most
important thing) // those wooden toggles, loops of string.  // I must c
// The taro rolls up an incense.  // The
impregnable fortress makes fish cake.  // Fried kind’s of seafood in mo
aker with no result.  // Fragile crab of
incense taste mushroom // Do the black boiler hair belly.  // The day b
ws bean bubble, // The taro rolls up an
incense .  // The impregnable fortress makes fish cake.  // Fried kind’s
n diameter (the pole // itself and four-
inch rings surely to be found // elsewhere in the garage).  // The benc
wooden curtain pole, // two and a half
inches in diameter (the pole // itself and four-inch rings surely to b
.  The boxes and tins are stacked // in
increasing disorder along the back // of the bench, as far as the wind
raisins // but flagons.  Flagons might
indeed // distract me, or Suliman, from his pilaf.  // But stay me not
Together and together and together, //
Indeed there will be time, there will be time // time for all the time
ombinations.  // Now Brin and Page build
index tabulations // of all the words their spiders’ crawls can find. 
unity— // Isolation for immunity— // To
indulge in the felicity // Of unbounded domesticity. // (not the Pirat
be // —only the last lives there.  // An
inflated bulb to hold // the other two in place.  // Subjective // Disc
// Those that they choose to use // to
inform or confuse, // elate or validate or grieve— // these words live
nd a letter.  // Scented paper, dip-pen,
ink .  // Branch post office, penny stamp.  // I love you.  // Papered bed
end a letter.  // New papyrus, brush and
ink .  // Command a messenger.  // I love you.  // Draughty hall.  Now send
etter.  // Parchment, new quill pen, and
ink .  // Employ a messenger.  // I love you.  // Curtained parlour.  Send
delicate tendrils far, // invading the
inky darkness, keeping // at bay the frights night has in store.  // Wh
nt starlight from space // reflected in
inky water, // the cool night air // slows down time.  // Now is the ti
Islands, beaches, clifftops, creeks and
inlets , // rocky shorelines tumbling under the sky.  // Sea-birds, pond
e Burnthouse // footpaths; phone boxes;
inns // One to twenty five thousand:  The Broads // Westwick; Woodbastw
seeping into each joint, // it must be
insane // to expect that a train // will emerge from the vanishing poi
y groin and in my mind’s eye:  // A tube
inside a tube inside a tube // —only the last lives there.  // An infla
my mind’s eye:  // A tube inside a tube
inside a tube // —only the last lives there.  // An inflated bulb to ho
g sunlight fills // the room we glimpse
inside .  A woman leans // upon a table in the window, looks // out int
they might be behind or under.  // Look
inside anything they might be in.  // Turn the place upside down.  // Be
nto coloured flesh // and hide a secret
inside .  // Feel the air.  Turn in the four winds.  Broadcast the secret
so wide // and you can see all the junk
inside . // grey John Major // surely had a wager // that he could with
with it.  // Sometimes softness shelters
inside hardness.  // Softness grows, hardness grows too, // spirals rou
s hollow through, and can be climbed //
inside ) mark out the sandy/grassy bank that is // the cliff.  A narrow
harp claws and barbs, // fastens itself
inside .  // Movement is faster, edgier, rougher.  // Rough softness grow
// another day.”  // And yet you stay //
inside my head, and take away my will // to find a way.  // The final f
ful.  // What does it look like from the
inside ?  // See that blue-green ball of stuff? // —spinning around one
th allows us, not to feel safe // until
inside the house.) // The bracken spreads across a gentle slope // tow
Zigzag // 2 forward: 
inspiration // 1 back: frustration // 3 sideways: perspiration // Al
/ at dropping onto Isaac’s head.  // His
inspiration is not mine // (the apple said).  //
t survive, // with Frida as my muse and
inspiration — // that reality in which I live.  //
in a verse // with Frida as my muse and
inspiration // This figment of my own imagination // is the space in w
turn, the cataclysm // which will both
inspire and destroy // so many poets and other artists // which will d
on the stump // make promises-to-go //
inspired by our local Trump.  // The light is failing now.  // The surge
njures up a vision // of the image that
inspired it: a scattering // of people in a city street, shop-window-b
et.  I could not see // what he saw…  //
Inspired ?  Why should such a mundane scene // so briefly glimpsed, mak
watch and do not blink.  // In time, an
instant dash: // a shooting star.  // To the sharp senses, nature has m
now: if you blink you will miss // the
instant jagged challenge passing between them // or down to earth.  //
ssociations.  // Zipf was counting their
instantiations , // ranking, taking logs and drawing lines.  // Chomsky
// (Not by the sun // —use moontime //
instead ).  //
t or sink a battle-ship.  // But perhaps
instead I will go the whole hog, the full nine yards: turn the paper o
If Aristotle makes you choke // eat me
instead .  // My ancestor caused Eve to know // more than Jehovah though
to determine // whether some real delta
integration // is possible at all.  I have to try.  //
n Ghent // Who set out with the best of
intent // In rollicking verse // On a galloping horse— // But Aix was
I can get it to do // anything remotely
interesting ?  //
ems to be acting // not in its own best
interests .  // Too bad.  // First the bad news, then the good: // it's c
e down the road // and into whose dense
interior // we sometimes venture.  // Beyond the fir-trees lies // a br
lue and gold livery // of the Compagnie
Internationale des Wagons-Lits // et des Grands Express Européens pass
they sound; // they write their notes,
interpret what they find.  // The possibility of peace is now long gone
through forests waking to the spring //
intersect or fork.  Some of these meeting-points // are signposted wit
// Not until light is fading // has the
interval passed by.  // An uncompleted day // is not yet to be fixed— /
// is not yet to be fixed— // but each
interval passing by // may be notched on a stick.  // Not yet to be fix
Interval // There is a forty-one year tale to tell // —could I but fin
ule.  // Change will last forever.  // At
intervals along the south horizon // container ships in stately progre
zeska, and put it into our hands).  She
introduced me to so many artists.  As I have visited other places, I h
r, // sending delicate tendrils far, //
invading the inky darkness, keeping // at bay the frights night has in
ve, a smaller tube.  // Subjective // An
invasion of my privacy.  // An assault on my dignity.  // An abrogation
creeps, and slumbers not: // a stealth
invasion’s getting off the ground.  // Up on the surface and for far ar
o such message.  Theirs // is a one-way
invitation to the rocks.  // But me, now, I'm just lucky.  //
and recuperate.  // Skiddaw is looming,
inviting explorers—a // challenge I cannot allow to go answerless.  //
eath.  But for these falls, // no drink
involved .  // P // The fall is denied.  // Anyway, the cancer can be bla
// through still, warm air.  // Voices,
ipods , phones speak out— // add to the road’s cacophony.  // Through ai
n lies some deep philosophy?  // Voices,
ipods , phones speak out— // add to the road’s cacophony.  // Voices com
ether people mutter, shout, // voices,
ipods , phones speak out.  // So many people talking: can we doubt // t
d holly grown to full maturity // to an
iron -gated pointed arch // piercing the wall, built like the house //
e beef granule.  // The first boilers of
iron plate glue east // Grow face fa-cai thick soup.  // XO sauce explo
lectrical components.  // A pair of cast-
iron supports for an old // high-level lavatory cistern, wonderfully /
f.  The wind // whips the spume // into
irregular clots, picks them up, // and strews them downwind.  // The cl
/ Subjective // Discomfort.  Bother.  //
Irritation .  Nuisance.  // Pain? no, not really.  // Objective // Yellow
ess I draw the line // at dropping onto
Isaac’s head.  // His inspiration is not mine // (the apple said).  //
ence // Shickshock Mountains; Shippegan
Island ; Cape Sable // bays; harbours // One to one million two hundred
// Only one remains to shiver // On the
island in the river, // Tending her cabbage patch forever, // The herm
ns and grasses waving under the sky.  //
Islands , beaches, clifftops, creeks and inlets, // rocky shorelines tu
// Here’s a first-rate opportunity— //
Isolation for immunity— // To indulge in the felicity // Of unbounded
ecome more tenuous, // legs weaken, and
isolation palls.  // One more great change, one more new beginning:  //
yawn and stretch // blue skies // legs
itch // must get on // first scratch // clothes on // spell broken //
pattern // as old as the hills // each
iteration // shifts the sand, carves the coastline // into something n
floating half in half out, I’m sure //
it’ll last forever, the light that’s leaking // under the door.  //