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.

V

Vagrant monosyllables // Let he who is without zen… but there is a mul
lowing, if not a line, // at least some
vague direction.  // Once in a while, though, they seem // to switch a
sky, a line of those same firs // looks
vaguely oriental.  // Since then, of course, the bracken // has been pl
se // to inform or confuse, // elate or
validate or grieve— // these words live.  //
bove; // descend the steps to reach the
valley floor— // to leave behind, for now, the wilder moor.  // The tre
higher ground.  // Voices far across the
valley sound.  // The hills ranged all around // —they little care.  //
// In hospital // Voices far across the
valley sound // through still, warm air, // clear to my vantage point
y little care.  // Voices far across the
valley sound // through still, warm air.  // Voices, ipods, phones spea
// Climb by the obvious route from the
valley , with // Derwent behind me and scrambles ahead of me.  // Out of
wandering, under the sky.  // Mountains,
valleys , moors and dales, meadows, // hills, ravines descending, under
, a nozzle and tap.  // Above, a tube, a
valve , a smaller tube.  // Subjective // An invasion of my privacy.  //
ern, wonderfully // ornate.  A pump and
valves from a washing machine.  // An electric fan.  The dial of a cloc
nt.  // In Friday Market square // Jacob
van Artevelde makes an expansive gesture // towards the setting sun.  /
ows, the train moves on, // the guard’s
van trundles at the back.  // The bogeys go: click-clack click-clack. 
I can’t find.  // How could it suddenly
vanish ?  // It hasn’t just fallen behind.  // Two of our cushions are mi
ct that a train // will emerge from the
vanishing point.  //
even there.”  // Sadiq says “The Boris’s
vanity project has // gone off the rails.  I’m not such a mug.  // I’ve
through still, warm air, // clear to my
vantage point on higher ground.  // Voices far across the valley sound.
er // string, cord, matchstick, tallow,
vardo // cromarty, ringwold or savage ground // smoked trout, wevet, b
vital stress // expresses change.  Some
variant has found // how good sex is—to mix the genes around.  // The p
sion, conjugation, // other morphologic
variations , // awaiting Dr Johnson’s ministrations, // waiting to disc
k click-clack.  // On holiday by train! 
Vast hall // of city station, noisy, full // of people rushing there a
between feeding grounds // in lop-sided
vees and slanting lines, // dark against the sky.  // Ahead, another li
a life // Milk // Sausages or chops //
Veg —broccoli?  // Some fruit // Present for C—book?  // Coat to cleaners
trapped to my thigh // with elastic and
velcro .  // Below, a nozzle and tap.  // Above, a tube, a valve, a small
y house // that is my mother’s next big
venture after // producing six of us.  // L-shaped the house; enclosed
to whose dense interior // we sometimes
venture .  // Beyond the fir-trees lies // a bracken-covered heath.  The
-raked earth // Where tender shoots may
venture forth // On weed-o’er-run Shalott?  // She who hath this garden
to fill each line from side to side, //
verbosely quite enough to float or sink a battle-ship.  // But perhaps
art, // Or maybe I should write it in a
verse .  // But now the dawn has come, it does not pass, // this figment
ng enough for any line.  // With a terse
verse form, you see, // I can get along just fine.  // But seven feet! 
ngland.  // Back the way we came.  // All
verse is born free.  //
ith the best of intent // In rollicking
verse // On a galloping horse— // But Aix was as far as he went.  // In
nation.  // Maybe I should write it in a
verse // with Frida as my muse and inspiration // This figment of my o
ayer, // like the bard from Japan whose
verses never would scan, adds an extra list.  // As we* reach the sixth
eque and the postal order).  // Rhythmic
verses with echoed refrain // in the rhythmic clattering noise of the
he Hirschhorn in Washington, close to a
version of Rodin’s Balzac, and called “Post-Balzac”.  It is a full-len
Good
vibrations // The Bendix washing machine was already elderly // when m
d screwed-on wood- // and metal-working
vices added to those // caused by generations of kitchen knives.  // Cl
d grave.  // There were no victors: only
victims .  //
e century turns.  // Right on cue, Queen
Victoria dies.  // (Next time around, in the digital era // we will tak
epths of south London, 1969.  // A small
Victorian terrace house // stuccoed and flat-fronted.  // No electricit
in an unmarked grave.  // There were no
victors : only victims.  //
ning an easier // path with spectacular
views over Bassenthwaite.  // Walking down quickly, not paying attentio
ur gumboots.  The mile or two // to the
village shop to seek supplies // becomes a daily ritual.  // After the
/ Dufftown; Deeside; Dumfries // roads;
villages // One to sixty three thousand three hundred and sixty:  Truro
Peckham 1969—1991 // Of eighteen sixty
vintage , the house is flat // in face, no sign of the deep bay windows
t the nuts and bolts and washers // are
visible within.  // Gathered round about, a motley crew // of categorie
We need a designer with // boldness and
vision —I know just the man.  // He has built me some buses which booste
ind.  // And in my mind it conjures up a
vision // of the image that inspired it: a scattering // of people in
e of zens.  The zens of the fathers are
visited on the sons, even if living in zen.  // Gloves are a many-splen
duced me to so many artists.  As I have
visited other places, I have found other treasures, and regret not hav
oard.  // — // 1973.  Six-year-old Emily
visits .  // At home, two days later, // she says to her dad // “Judith
press // against their boundaries.  The
vital stress // expresses change.  Some variant has found // how good s
e ideas he makes a worthy guide; // his
voice is lively, gestures wide.  // The sun and wind upon the trees out
// Thesis and Antithesis debate.  // His
voice is lively, gestures wide— // there is much sense in what he says
to listen, but my musing strays.  // His
voice is lively, gestures wide.  // There is much sense in what he says
ly against another softness // and soft
voice says // I can hear the sea.  //
// about it and about, and evermore //
voices coming from the room next door.  // For and against, and more, a
out— // add to the road’s cacophony.  //
Voices coming from the room next door: // thesis and antithesis, debat
debate is all—a synthesis can wait.  //
Voices coming from the room next door:  // Thesis and Antithesis debate
o my vantage point on higher ground.  //
Voices far across the valley sound.  // The hills ranged all around //
said // Under canvas // In hospital //
Voices far across the valley sound // through still, warm air, // clea
ged all around // —they little care.  //
Voices far across the valley sound // through still, warm air.  // Voic
new doctor asks the same once more, //
voices from the curtained bed next door.  // Responses muted, though th
with voices human, animal, machine.  //
Voices from the curtained bed next door: // someone else’s fragile lif
estions orderly, while exuding care.  //
Voices from the curtained bed next door: // someone else’s fragile lif
ht-time noises permeate the air // with
voices human, animal, machine.  // An owl, a leaping fish, a fox afar—
ht-time noises permeate the air // with
voices human, animal, machine.  // Voices from the curtained bed next d
re is much sense in what he says.  // No
voices in the almost-silence that I hear, // the soft subliminal sibil
, and link, and split, and fight.  // No
voices in the almost-silence that I hear, // the soft subliminal sibil
rds, no human language in my ear, // no
voices in the almost-silence that I hear.  // The words within my head,
ey sound // through still, warm air.  //
Voices , ipods, phones speak out— // add to the road’s cacophony.  // Th
re herein lies some deep philosophy?  //
Voices , ipods, phones speak out— // add to the road’s cacophony.  // Vo
air and ether people mutter, shout, //
voices , ipods, phones speak out.  // So many people talking: can we do
orms and calms, // earthquake-waves and
volcanic dust, // soft breezes and winter gales.  // Was I shipwrecked?
Sculpting the
vortex // Jacob’s Rock Drill pierces through the brain // and splits a
eeding wide, // as if to start out on a
voyage , a full round-Britain trip.  // I’ll need a ton of words to fill
tant countries tell // or take you on a
voyage through deepest space: // fall, fall into the writer’s well-cas
nes of geese // more travels, journeys,
voyages , expeditions // more books, more coffee cups // more tragedies