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.

J

then // greet each pole like a jumping
jack .  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // Raindrops slantin
o.  No?  No.  // Other pocket?  // No.  //
Jacket , maybe?  // No.  // But which jacket yesterday?  Ah, that one.  //
rowing up earthworks // zipping up your
jacket // tying up your shoelaces // topping up the tank // tearing up
.  // Jacket, maybe?  // No.  // But which
jacket yesterday?  Ah, that one.  // But no.  // Table by door?  // No.  //
Donkeys don’t wear
jackets // Shapeless, navy blue or fawn, // three-quarter length, or m
he went.  // In Friday Market square //
Jacob van Artevelde makes an expansive gesture // towards the setting
Sculpting the vortex //
Jacob’s Rock Drill pierces through the brain // and splits apart Edwar
you blink you will miss // the instant
jagged challenge passing between them // or down to earth.  // Seconds
est // clear stream // grey mountain //
jagged mountain // choppy sea // swirling stream // smooth lake // den
ing shoots, // strong curves lined with
jagged thorns, // seeking new ground to conquer.  // Spiders’ webs amon
worn on the day but one preceding.”  // —
James Joyce, Ulysses.  //
metal polish, // jars for all sorts of
jams and pickles.  Washers // and nuts and bolts and screws and hooks
rm and dry.  // A crescent moon.  // It’s
Jan , not June.  //
m cold immune.  // Let snow lie, // it’s
Jan , not June.  // A blue lagoon, // the deep blue sky.  // The crescent
crescent moon, // a winter sky.  // It’s
Jan , not June.  // A red balloon, // way up high, // with crescent moon
ryptic rune.  // The senses fly.  // It’s
Jan , not June.  // Back home soon // warm and dry.  // A crescent moon. 
kip across // and find myself in wooded
Janet’s Foss.  // Upstream again to clamber Gordale Scar // and rest, a
January Nineteen Hundred and One // The century turns.  // Right on cue
/ to reach by boat.  That place we call
Japan : // against the sky, a line of those same firs // looks vaguely
period or layer, // like the bard from
Japan whose verses never would scan, adds an extra list.  // As we* rea
motley crew // of categories in boxes,
jars and tins: // the larger bolts and nuts and washers, // flooring n
or throat lozenges or metal polish, //
jars for all sorts of jams and pickles.  Washers // and nuts and bolts
washers and fibre sealing rings.  // The
jars hang from their lids, nailed to // the shelf above.  The boxes an
ncestor caused Eve to know // more than
Jehovah thought she should— // but keeping us in darkness so // cannot
ys; cycle paths // One to two thousand: 
Jesus College // The Chimney; Cranmer Room; Café Bar // courts; stairc
ven-mile climb // brings us to a hidden
jewel lake, // soup-spoon-shaped, still half-covered // in slowly melt
e and no gold, // no gems nor coins nor
jewels ; just the old // and weathered hills, created by some force //
Cambridge when it was still managed by
Jim Ede (he would pick up a Brancusi stone head, or a small cut brass
ou can see all the junk inside. // grey
John Major // surely had a wager // that he could without worry // tak
morphologic variations, // awaiting Dr
Johnson’s ministrations, // waiting to discover their relations, // fi
junction.  // Narrow side road curves to
join // a bend on a bigger road.  The pavements // curl around, leavin
course private finance will // jump to
join in, but needs time to come through.  // I’ll give it some taxpayer
/ but they had filled the gap to make a
join // with the neighbouring block, leaving a row of nine.  // In nine
d all the houses down the street.  // We
joined the local protest, but to small // effect.  At last we felt we
yet born.  // But Maurice Ravel has just
joined // the Société des Apaches // (or Bunch of Hooligans) // later
raversing a // difficult scree but then
joining an easier // path with spectacular views over Bassenthwaite.  /
eplaced, // the soft and sensuous flesh
joins love’s embrace.  // Mother and child are two, and now are one:  //
uint // with the cold seeping into each
joint , // it must be insane // to expect that a train // will emerge f
ck.  // But that was then.  Now the rail
joints are welded, and the dominant sound // is continuous and high-pi
orthwest?  That was just // Hitchcock’s
joke .  //
e missing.  // It’s getting beyond a bad
joke .  // Destroying our comfort’s as rotten // as stealing a library b
// There was a bitter, civil // war in
Jordan .  // There was a gun.  // There was a bullet, stray.  // There was
Daydream Dale
Journey // From Ilkley’s old stone bridge I trace a path // against th
// But we don’t notice them at all: the
journey is seamless // and, in truth, a little dull.  // From Brussels
r a while I can // think of resuming my
journey unaided—I // just have to check on my map for the best way bac
tering noise of the train.  // Childhood
journeys by rail come back // to my memory, patterns of clickety-clack
lanting lines of geese // more travels,
journeys , voyages, expeditions // more books, more coffee cups // more
s // poetry too to posterity speaks; //
Joyce has his Liffey whose recirculation keeps // Finnegan going (desp
n the day but one preceding.”  // —James
Joyce , Ulysses.  //
it made as it spun, a rhythmic staccato
juddering // with a touch of syncopation.  //
t. // On a New York subway: 
Judith and me standing as there are no seats; she is 4 or 5 months pre
epainting can wait.  // I go to work.  //
Judith , artist, // models in clay or plaster, // casts in plaster or c
n the right side of your face only.  As
Judith had broken in a new pair of boots, we buried the old pair somew
s, // another crematorium.  // This time
Judith has chosen the music, // a Beethoven string quartet.  // Afterwa
days later, // she says to her dad // “
Judith is a painter, isn’t she?”  // Yes.  // “Then why hasn’t she paint
is brush after painting some woodwork. 
Judith sees something in the shapes, and using a charcoal stick, makes
ome of them to her.  Just for example: 
Judith Shea’s sculpture in the Hirschhorn in Washington, close to a ve
s everyone shuffle up in order to allow
Judith to sit down.  They obey her, all shapes and sizes of New Yorker
rkers, like lambs.  It is a memory that
Judith treasures for the rest of her life. //
n, lime: // equatorially // squeeze the
juice // leave the pith and pips.  // Papaya, melon: // pole-to-pole //
ndrops slanting across the glass.  // We
jump at a sudden sound-blast— // another train on the next track.  // T
a grand and flamboyant adventure—to //
jump on the bandwagon he’ll be glad.”  // The Boris is happy.  “We need
maybe catch // close enough to make you
jump , or far away, // the thud as one more apple hits the muddy grass.
en, from which I just emerged?  // Did I
jump , or was I pulled or pushed?  // Did I leap a chasm, ford a raging
money—of course private finance will //
jump to join in, but needs time to come through.  // I’ll give it some
Jump willing in // Jump willing into every word-filled well; // a book
Jump willing in //
Jump willing into every word-filled well; // a book should suck you in
njure me to quite a different place.  //
Jump willing into every word-filled well, // fall, fall into the write
who to her lover’s side makes haste:  //
jump willing into every word-filled well.  // That book will hold again
ghts, destroy or reconstruct a case:  //
jump willing into every word-filled well.  // That book will tales of d
long and then // greet each pole like a
jumping jack.  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-clack.  // Raindrops
Type right // The quick brown fox
jumps over the lazy dog //
London standoff // An ordinary suburban
junction .  // Narrow side road curves to join // a bend on a bigger roa
// (and beginning—for G) // From random
junctures in primeval winds // a billion random patterns form—until //
y.  // A crescent moon.  // It’s Jan, not
June .  //
mune.  // Let snow lie, // it’s Jan, not
June .  // A blue lagoon, // the deep blue sky.  // The crescent moon //
The moon in
June // A crescent moon, // a winter sky.  // It’s Jan, not June.  // A
moon, // a winter sky.  // It’s Jan, not
June .  // A red balloon, // way up high, // with crescent moon // from
ne.  // The senses fly.  // It’s Jan, not
June .  // Back home soon // warm and dry.  // A crescent moon.  // It’s J
ce to my tune, // I’ll lead.”  But come
June // it turns out she has feet of clay.  // My control is as strong
ever so wide // and you can see all the
junk inside. // grey John Major // surely had a wager // that he could