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 ran
bird sings // // growing bright // //
gadget pings // // go away // // sleep clings // // break of day //
ucted // // objects: defunct household
gadgets , // // broken furniture, shelves no longer // // serving any
eaming in his knight’s array // // And
gaily singing on his way // // Rode bold Sir Lancelot.  // // Years h
l.  // // And as we lived and loved and
gained // // and learnt and gave and lost, // // we let each thread
in again.  // // Beards are great when
gales are threatening // // keep drafts out and comfort in—but // //
rs, more darknesses // // more storms,
gales , lightning bolts // // more days of sun or rain or passing clou
ic dust, // // soft breezes and winter
gales .  // // Was I shipwrecked?  Or cast overboard to avert shipwreck
felt right. // // Many art
galleries in many places.  Three solid days in the Uffizi in Florence.
// // In rollicking verse // // On a
galloping horse— // // But Aix was as far as he went.  // // In Frida
o fend off the rain.  // // What an odd
game —to swallow the rain!  // // He swallowed the rain to put out the
the top // // so that the same period
games // // allow the lines to peter out // // and stop. // // † as
e zeta factor // // and my clear beta,
gamma , delta connection // // is screwed up by a zeta factor // // i
hat suggestion // // to make the beta,
gamma , delta link. // // 1 back: frustration // // Damn—I had forgo
rward: inspiration // // Alpha, beta,
gamma , delta.  // // The way is clear.  This formulation // // both l
he tentacles of zeta // // by striking
gamma from consideration // // and making an approximate relation //
en once— // // but they had filled the
gap to make a join // // with the neighbouring block, leaving a row o
Nigel Farrage // // has a mouth like a
garage — // // he opens it ever so wide // // and you can see all the
h // // At one end of the bench in the
garage sits // // a miniature wooden eight-drawered chest // // give
ely to be found // // elsewhere in the
garage ).  // // The bench was once // // a kitchen dresser, already a
udent 1880s) // // builds a lab in her
garden // // in Reigate, on her way to // // recognition, fellowship
r-run Shalott?  // // She who hath this
garden laid // // —Nurturing the wayward seed, // // Planting out th
nclosed within its arms // // a walled
garden , left untended // // for maybe thirty years.  A winding path /
Stages // // Hanging
garden .  Send a letter.  // // Fresh clay tablet, stylus, scribe.  // /
// // of pure water: a still.  // //
Garden shed // // with a still?  Local // // excise officer takes to
ght or day; // // the gardens, and the
garden walls // // just slipped away.  // // What country lanes or ci
whether it was night or day; // // the
gardens , and the garden walls // // just slipped away.  // // What co
found sleeping furiously // // // The
garlic slices the beef granule.  // // The first boilers of iron plate
in place until at home // // the small
gas fire has warmed the room // // against the cold outside.  // // (
-fronted.  // // No electricity— // //
gas lighting from the thirties; // // two taps; one loo // // in a l
sixty nine the house was lit // // by
gas , with open fires the only heat.  // // The lino on the hall floor
eseed and the corn.  // // The five-bar
gate , the muddy track on the tarmac road.  // // The walled paddock an
rown to full maturity // // to an iron-
gated pointed arch // // piercing the wall, built like the house //
, shop-window-browsing.  // // A group,
gathered around and gazing into // // one window; but one young man h
shers // // are visible within.  // //
Gathered round about, a motley crew // // of categories in boxes, jar
Gathering dark // // // // // // // // // // // // // //
one head, or a small cut brass piece by
Gaudier -Brzeska, and put it into our hands).  She introduced me to so
wn the problem // // throwing down the
gauntlet // // battening down the hatches // // closing down the arg
level with the top, // // running the
gauntlet of the winter storm.  // // The tide is high, and every wave
loved and gained // // and learnt and
gave and lost, // // we let each thread unroll behind, // // laying
from looking at // // the focus of her
gaze : does he not want // // to tell?  // // This painting has a priv
ewer still will pause or stay // // To
gaze down on the ruins gray // // That scar remote Shalott.  // // In
to the lapping of the water, // // and
gaze into space.  // // We have the space // // and the time // // t
ng.  // // A group, gathered around and
gazing into // // one window; but one young man half-turned // // ac
e, though, they seem // // to switch a
gear , and take a lurch // // at some acute, unmeasured angle.  // //
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 fee
curlews, more ragged, slanting lines of
geese // // more travels, journeys, voyages, expeditions // // more
d fifty thousand:  Low Countries // //
Gelderland ; Glabbeek; Gramsbergen // // conurbations; drained land //
and air; no fire and no gold, // // no
gems nor coins nor jewels; just the old // // and weathered hills, cr
agement.  As the day went on, // // we
generated quantities of fuel // // and built a roaring blaze.  Then l
becomes faint; // // just as each new
generation soon finds itself // // rich rediscovering Bach’s counterp
eck?  // // I cannot now recall.  // //
Generations and generations // // of fishermen and trading sailors //
urs, the apes // // advance across the
generations .  Each // // sentient being touches and reshapes // // th
nnot now recall.  // // Generations and
generations // // of fishermen and trading sailors // // ply back an
g vices added to those // // caused by
generations of kitchen knives.  // // Clearance time.  What can I poss
found // // how good sex is—to mix the
genes around.  // // The plants, the fish, the dinosaurs, the apes //
// // of the light.  Do not // // go
gentle into that good night. // // … and one true fib // // Here, //
e.) // // The bracken spreads across a
gentle slope // // towards the river.  A line of ancient oaks // //
...  // // But now no more— // // your
gentle snore // // puts all the ghosts to flight.  // //
ght.  // // Another softness, giant but
gentle .  // // Soft digits hold softly, lift softly // // place softl
ong // // The tide is out, the creek a
gentle trickle // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // the drying s
go, // // to travel in the mind, some
gentle // // way to wander into // // a better place, a future that
scree the open path leads on, // // a
gentler walk, to bare bleak Malham Tarn.  // // Then back to skirt the
my sleep // // I hear the ground-swell
gently break and sift, // // pushing the shingle back and forth and t
h as satin, // // drifting or paddling
gently side by side, // // through clear and cool and quiet evening s
s of buildings, human artifacts.  // //
Geological time // // is foreshortened.  This is now, here, // // re
payer funding, and get old saint // //
George of the Chancel to throw in some too.”  // // So the project pro
he world just so.  // // True love will
germinate and grow, // // all tribulations to displace, // // far aw
scraping has ceased.  // // This drain
germinates here.  // //
Jacob van Artevelde makes an expansive
gesture // // towards the setting sun.  // // Go west, young man?  No
rthy guide; // // his voice is lively,
gestures wide.  // // The sun and wind upon the trees outside…  // //
ing strays.  // // His voice is lively,
gestures wide.  // // There is much sense in what he says.  // // Smal
ecture room // // His voice is lively,
gestures wide— // // there is much sense in what he says, // // thro
m/c // // Washing // // Plan finances—
get advisor?  G’s contact maybe // // Ring M about Xmas // // Ring To
terse verse form, you see, // // I can
get along just fine.  // // But seven feet!  I must admit that seems e
line?  // // Oh bugger!  Now we have to
get away.  // //
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.”  //
blue skies // // legs itch // // must
get on // // first scratch // // clothes on // // spell broken //
r Hitler came to power).  // // Then we
get on with our lives: // // the repainting can wait.  // // I go to
a chasm, ford a raging torrent, // //
get rolled over by an avalanche, // // fall through a wormhole, or cr
o-coast walk devised by Wainwright, you
get sunburnt on the right side of your face only.  As Judith had broke
ost Evil deposes poor Boris, and // //
gets the Red Margaret to look at the case.  // // “It’s been a fiasco,
f our cushions are missing.  // // It’s
getting beyond a bad joke.  // // Destroying our comfort’s as rotten /
ter, // // disturbing our roll, // //
getting higher and closer.  // // And the noise.  // // A few ranks ah
umbers not: // // a stealth invasion’s
getting off the ground.  // // Up on the surface and for far around, /
// // From Brussels by local train to
Ghent : canals and cobbled streets // // and beer and chocolate shops
al box.  // // There once was a poet in
Ghent // // Who set out with the best of intent // // In rollicking
/ your gentle snore // // puts all the
ghosts to flight.  // //
harsher light.  // // Another softness,
giant but gentle.  // // Soft digits hold softly, lift softly // // p
three // // they raised the ramparts: 
giant concrete blocks // // on piles all along the shingle beach.  //
anisms in the civic belltower— // // a
giant musical box.  // // There once was a poet in Ghent // // Who se
or there— // // Who can that attactive
girl be?  // // I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.  // /
lass in her hand.  // // See the pretty
girl in that mirror there— // // Who can that attactive girl be?  //
d or of peaceful earth, // // the mill-
girl’s beauty or the maiden’s death, // // the trout that dart and pa
ps // // (Linnean Society 1904, // //
Girton College 1913).  // // The Reigate lab, of course // // has a s
// // Ethel Sargant, botanist // // (
Girton student 1880s) // // builds a lab in her garden // // in Reig
erick // // There was an old Fellow of
Girton // // who always made love with his shirt on.  // // Saying “N
for giving and receiving.  // // Did I
give enough?  // // I cannot say.  // //
needs time to come through.  // // I’ll
give it some taxpayer funding, and get old saint // // George of the
/ And we can some direction find // //
Give me some wind to blow us away // //
/ No hope of whistling up a wind // //
Give me some wind to blow us away // // Adrift the middle of the sea
// The sails clatter as we roll // //
Give me some wind to blow us away // // Horizon’s clear from end to e
And there is nothing here for me // //
Give me some wind to blow us away // // Just feel the breathless sun
ut we are bound for nowhere fast // //
Give me some wind to blow us away // // No wind! we wallow in the sw
// And seek out any shade we can // //
Give me some wind to blow us away // // Now sluice the decks to cool
// And pour a bucket on my head // //
Give me some wind to blow us away // // Perhaps tomorrow there’ll be
They should have
given me a plastic plate // // More!  I want some more!  // // A spoo
ture wooden eight-drawered chest // //
given to me (budding carpenter) as a child // // for nails and screws
// // Emily Thornberry’s // // photo
gives Labour a // // cardiovascular // // seismic event.  // //
direction from minute to minute; // //
gives me siblings to chase or criss-cross // // over and under // //
different ways.  // // Days enough for
giving and receiving.  // // Did I give enough?  // // I cannot say.  /
sand:  Low Countries // // Gelderland;
Glabbeek ; Gramsbergen // // conurbations; drained land // // One to
Gladknots // // I think.  // // I’m
glad , I think.  // // I think that I’m glad // // (therefore I am tha
glad // // (therefore I am that).  I’m
glad .  // // I’m glad that I think // // (therefore I’m glad that I a
glad that I think // // (therefore I’m
glad that I am).  // // That’s what I think.  // //
efore I am that).  I’m glad.  // // I’m
glad that I think // // (therefore I’m glad that I am).  // // That’s
o // // jump on the bandwagon he’ll be
glad .”  // // The Boris is happy.  “We need a designer with // // bol
glad, I think.  // // I think that I’m
glad // // (therefore I am that).  I’m glad.  // // I’m glad that I t
ifferent stitch to cast?  // // No, I’m
glad we did not meet // // before the alotted time: // // that we co
Gladknots // // I think.  // // I’m glad, I think.  // // I think tha
Sat night—check time // // Tickets to
Glasgow 6th-7th // // Camera in bag for Mon // // Did I submit tax f
ir pretty maid // // with a comb and a
glass in her hand.  // // See the pretty girl in that mirror there— //
of them all?  // // (The cruel looking-
glass that will never show a lass // // As comely or as kindly or as
now.  // // We have no crystal ball, no
glass .  // // The light has all gone, now.  // //
k.  // // Raindrops slanting across the
glass .  // // We jump at a sudden sound-blast— // // another train on
eon light // // spilling through plate-
glass windows // // across the pavement.  // // A bartender bent to w
cause the fellow // // was not wearing
glasses .  // //
tterned lattices of life // // through
glasses , darkly.  // // —A fragment, formulated forty years ago // //
.  A winding path // // leads from the
glazed back door // // through box and holly grown to full maturity /
Not until the fateful day // // When,
gleaming in his knight’s array // // And gaily singing on his way //
// the oyster-catcher, the egret, the
gliding gull.  // // What do they know, the rain and the air?  // // T
rning sunlight fills // // the room we
glimpse inside.  A woman leans // // upon a table in the window, look
such a mundane scene // // so briefly
glimpsed , make my muse suggest // // just three alliterative lines—at
us strong.  // // Occasionally, I catch
glimpses // // of the ranks ahead.  // // But mostly, I can see // /
know, the rain and the air?  // // The
glistening mud left by the ebb-tide.  // // The moored boat listing on
room.  // // Only through the mirror’s
gloam // // Dared she look to Camelot.  // // Not until the fateful d
cream) // // // // Dr Foster went to
Gloucester // // for a summer spin— // // and liked a lass from Lanc
f true gloves never did run smooth.  No
glove lost.  // // We have nothing to wear but wear itself.  Without w
e the world go round, and all’s fair in
gloves and war, though the course of true gloves never did run smooth.
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
clack click-clack.  // // At night, the
glow and flying sparks.  // // Grass on the lineside banks is marked /
e, // // and welcomed us back into its
glow .  // // Another twenty one years, // // another crematorium.  //
ers warm // // flames gone // // last
glow // // embers warm // // fading now // // last glow // // tiny
Landing light // // Under the door the
glow is peeking, // // feeling its way across the floor.  // // From
now // // here to stay // // morning
glow // // time to rise // // feeling slow // // rub eyes // // ya
bers 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 o
row on timber // // let it burn // //
glowing embers // // smoulder down // // let it burn // // warm as
timber // // sparks take flight // //
glowing embers // // throw on timber // // let it burn // // glowin
Or is it just the clarity of light, the
glowing // // grass and trees outside her window, warming // // in t
beyond the meadow, // // tall grasses
glowing in the morning sun // // below and to the right.  And rising
// // The first boilers of iron plate
glue east // // Grow face fa-cai thick soup.  // // XO sauce explodes
plywood strips // // carefully cut and
glued .  And labelled the front— // // Nails: tacks, panel pins, ovals
/ // The good Lady Lumley is pondering
glumly .  “I // // need a new project to keep me in trim— // // now t
ountryside, each tall bare trunk // //
gnarled and twisted by the wind, supports // // a wild, tufted crown—
needles.  // // In the distance, // //
gnarled broadleaf trees with twisted limbs // // shed leaves with per
ourse // // but maybe also wailing and
gnashing our teeth // // into the maelstrom, the fire and brimstone /
// // // I am transfixed as a horned
goat // // charges towards me // // from beyond the pale, under my g
the fight will be my wound.  // // The
goat // // // I am transfixed as a horned goat // // charges toward
truthful— // // The eye of the little
god , four cornered.  // // Something there is that doesn’t love a wall
can be // // as dumb as all of us, the
gods themselves.  // //
hemselves // // Stupidity, I think the
gods themselves // // will find in all the books that line the shelve
// scutter, scavenge—redshank, // //
godwit , curlew—long // // beaks probing deep // // beneath the // /
is good // // for all.  The redshanks,
godwits , curlews search // // for hidden treasure, long beaks buried
d is crowned mayor of London, he // //
goes by the rubrik of Boris the Mad.  // // He’d adore such a grand an
m?  // // Now the one just ahead // //
goes head over heels // // on hard, unyielding // // rocks and stone
So it
goes // // How and where does it all begin?  // // From a spring.  //
ng.  // // Tell me, if you will, how it
goes .  // // It flows.  // // To find its end, where must it flee?  //
Ever // // Tennison’s stream, we know,
goes on for ever, his // // poetry too to posterity speaks; // // Jo
ose recirculation keeps // // Finnegan
going (despite it’s his wake)— // // Beethoven’s music is just bloody
hers working rough.  // // The light is
going now.  // // How will these transient trials pass?  // // It’s re
ves us ever onward.  // // Where are we
going , so fierce and so fast?  // // I know only the wind and the rain
ess, endless ocean.  // // Where are we
going ?  // // Something is changing: the ocean // // is bottomless no
an almighty bang // // —thought it was
going to be a disaster // // but then it began rolling out its own //
// // down to the floor, to prevent it
going walkabout, // // a perambulation whenever it got to the spin //
// // carriages decked in the blue and
gold livery // // of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits //
// // and rock and air; no fire and no
gold , // // no gems nor coins nor jewels; just the old // // and wea
rter.  // //   // // In the California
gold rush of 1849, and again in the Klondike in 1896, in order to make
go.  Let the browns // // and reds and
golds replace the greens.  Now throw the canopy too // // to the winds
more.  // // Where have all the duffles
gone ?  // // Anoraks now, every one.  // //
uld now appear // // as it did a month
gone , // // BC (Before Capricorn).  // // But of course that is not s
// The possibility of peace is now long
gone .  // // In just a few days’ time, these two will meet // // and
hes on // // spell broken // // sleep
gone // // in motion // // sun on skin // // door open // // breat
roast // // embers warm // // flames
gone // // last glow // // embers warm // // fading now // // last
// live on long after his colours have
gone ; // // learning his lesson, the great Michelangelo // // makes
all, no glass.  // // The light has all
gone , now.  // //
“The Boris’s vanity project has // //
gone off the rails.  I’m not such a mug.  // // I’ve cancelled his bus
oast // // warm as toast // // flames
gone // // potatoes roast // // embers warm // // flames gone // /
// // until the day, just nine months
gone , // // when both lines crossed an edge, // // and two seemed to
ces are said // // to be good.  That’s
good // // enough, I suppose.  // // Battle lines // // // // //
mpete for surface scraps.  The beach is
good // // for all.  The redshanks, godwits, curlews search // // fo
d blew them in again.  // // Beards are
good for finger-fiddling // // stroking, tickling, searching in—but /
ad // // is bad in absolute, while the
good // // is good only in relation to the bad.  // // The chances ar
// // // First the bad news, then the
good : // // it's cancer; but it hasn’t spread.  // // No balance here
Troubled waters // // The
good Lady Lumley is pondering glumly.  “I // // need a new project to
extended // // coda to our past // //
good lives, the rainbow spans the sky.  // //
ping us in darkness so // // cannot be
good .  // // Nevertheless I draw the line // // at dropping onto Isaa
ght.  Do not // // go gentle into that
good night. // // … and one true fib // // Here, // // now, // //
d in absolute, while the good // // is
good only in relation to the bad.  // // The chances are said // // t
far away and long ago.  // // A fairy,
good or bad, will know // // exactly when to show her face, // // th
inal fray // // remains in memory, for
good or ill, // // another day.  // // I cannot say // // whether I
ange.  Some variant has found // // how
good sex is—to mix the genes around.  // // The plants, the fish, the
/ // The chances are said // // to be
good .  That’s good // // enough, I suppose.  // // Battle lines // /
that // // revives, replenishes, makes
good // // the damaged present, this dark night?  // // Not to return
Good vibrations // // The Bendix washing machine was already elderly
n we parted, did we say // // our last
goodbyes , or maybe they // // just slipped away— // // I cannot say.
d.) Sometimes at night, // // a heavy
goods train rattles the windows and plates // // on the shelves.  Lat
Foss.  // // Upstream again to clamber
Gordale Scar // // and rest, and breathe some more the cool clear air
// // take the hottest Currie.  // //
Gordon Brown // // replaced his frown // // with a one-sided smile /
k-white was her skin.  // // In Cheddar
Gorge the chaffinches // // were twittering.  The twain // // with a
re, and it wasn’t just because we never
got around to it. // // On a New York subway:  Judith and
// // a fib on // // achievement, but
got // // only a fib on a cheap pun // // … a swindle…  // // [One i
out, // // a perambulation whenever it
got to the spin // // part of its washing cycle.  The other, the nois
// // (easier than his proper name of
Gouriet ) // // had come as a child sixty-odd years before // // (wel
ow // // will sit and spin, so full of
grace , // // far away and long ago.  // // A fairy, good or bad, will
// She was once a lady’s maid // // In
gracious , towered Camelot.  // // Then, as winds of fortune blow, //
Countries // // Gelderland; Glabbeek;
Gramsbergen // // conurbations; drained land // // One to three hund
Boris the Mad.  // // He’d adore such a
grand and flamboyant adventure—to // // jump on the bandwagon he’ll b
s later, the year that her first // //
grandchild arrived?  I can’t quite recall.  Nor can I now // // pictu
w: migrate south // // to London, two
grandchildren , // // and a world to explore.  // // But within a few
growing from the clapboards, // // but
grander far, a corniced window bay // // in darker wood.  Clear morni
nationale des Wagons-Lits // // et des
Grands Express Européens pass by.  // // In the end, it was the railwa
mile across the river meadows // // to
Grantchester .  As we walk back // // against the wind it starts to sn
y // // // The garlic slices the beef
granule .  // // The first boilers of iron plate glue east // // Grow
ughs bent to earth // // apples in the
grass // //
ross a great river, where // // trees,
grass and flowers can stretch shore to shore.  // // Of bridges traver
he clarity of light, the glowing // //
grass and trees outside her window, warming // // in the sun?  Or may
e thud as one more apple hits the muddy
grass .  // // East wind // // Winds bowling through trees // // frui
ght, the glow and flying sparks.  // //
Grass on the lineside banks is marked // // with smears of fires, bur
calling // // to the edges of the sea-
grass —pauses, // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // make
he moss, the lichen, // // the cropped
grass , the sheep- and rabbit-droppings, // // the bare rocks and the
w, looks // // out into sunlight, over
grass , towards // // some distant point outside the picture frame.  //
apple on the tree, the windfall in the
grass .  // // What do they know, the rain and the air?  // //
he trees beyond the meadow, // // tall
grasses glowing in the morning sun // // below and to the right.  And
s and flowers, mosses, // // ferns and
grasses waving under the sky.  // // Islands, beaches, clifftops, cree
imbed // // inside) mark out the sandy/
grassy bank that is // // the cliff.  A narrow sandy beach past which
rival, // // was buried in an unmarked
grave .  // // There were no victors: only victims.  // //
For Robert
Graves // // // // For Robert Graves, the naked and the nude // //
Robert Graves // // // // For Robert
Graves , the naked and the nude // // were chalk and cheese; so what w
The Lady’s Maid // // Under a
gray and lowering sky // // The fields that by the river lie // // A
The previous occupant, known as Mister
Gray , // // (easier than his proper name of Gouriet) // // had come
r stay // // To gaze down on the ruins
gray // // That scar remote Shalott.  // // In the duck-weed-smothere
sculpted edges.  // // A bramble sends
great arcing shoots, // // strong curves lined with jagged thorns, //
engine, wheels bigger than me— // // a
great big monster, steaming, black.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack
n, and isolation palls.  // // One more
great change, one more new beginning: // // a different kind of home
around, // // another creature wakes;
great cogwheels grind.  // // They peer, they scan, they scrape, they
ts.  // // On one // // a stately ram,
great curved horns // // stands tense, alert and staring.  A few //
fs of compacted mud.  // // Evening.  A
great dark cloud // // fire-edged, blots out the setting sun.  // //
e gone; // // learning his lesson, the
great Michelangelo // // makes his work lasting by carving in stone—
es rise and fall // // and rise again. 
Great populations press // // against their boundaries.  The vital str
lly // // spring from the hands of the
great Praxiteles?  // // I cannot now recall.  // // No matter!  Now,
/ to build a fine bridge clear across a
great river, where // // trees, grass and flowers can stretch shore t
// wrote poetry well, but // // was no
great shakes // // in the marriage stakes.  // //
ships and sealing wax, // // and such
great themes as these, // // talking they walked and walking talked—
d blew them in again.  // // Beards are
great when gales are threatening // // keep drafts out and comfort in
rince will boldly go // // and dangers
great will bravely face, // // the world just so.  // // True love wi
omain: // // the start, the lobby of a
Greek hotel // // in summer, where we met and all was well; // // th
e from the inside?  // // See that blue-
green ball of stuff? // // —spinning around one of the hot yellow bit
ees.  // // Feel the fire.  Spread out a
green canopy // // in the warming sunlight.  Soak up the rays and the
/ silver lake // // purple moor // //
green forest // // clear stream // // grey mountain // // jagged mo
ss by night, // // the ocean, the blue-
green -grey-black ocean, // // the bottomless, endless ocean.  // // W
// Another tree, perhaps a beech, but
green // // (I think that I can see the nuts it sheds) // // on the
Colourless
green ideas found sleeping furiously // // // The garlic slices the
bowling on, // // trees bending, dark
green leaves showing // // their lighter backs, a few edging // // t
f pebble-dunes protects // // a calmer
green oasis, band of salt-marsh // // where barn-owls hunt their prey
se far above our heads.  In this bright
green // // we wander, hacking out our paths, or creeping through, //
s // // and reds and golds replace the
greens .  Now throw the canopy too // // to the winds, let it whirl awa
/ // loop lazily along and then // //
greet each pole like a jumping jack.  // // The bogeys go: click-clac
/ the remains of trees // // that once
grew on the hill above, // // and bits of buildings, human artifacts.
man called Michael Finnegan.  // // He
grew whiskers on his chin—but // // the wind came up and blew them in
night, // // the ocean, the blue-green-
grey -black ocean, // // the bottomless, endless ocean.  // // Where a
you can see all the junk inside.  // //
grey John Major // // surely had a wager // // that he could without
green forest // // clear stream // //
grey mountain // // jagged mountain // // choppy sea // // swirling
te, // // or autumn hues, or shades of
grey — // // the colours that I saw last night // // just slipped awa
/ // across the criss-cross checks and
grids and patterned lattices of life // // through glasses, darkly.  /
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
ning // // thought he’d flaunt a bushy
grin —but // // the wind came up and blew it in again.  // // Beards m
another creature wakes; great cogwheels
grind .  // // They peer, they scan, they scrape, they test, they sound
autonomy.  // // Objective // // In my
groin and in my mind’s eye:  // // A tube inside a tube inside a tube
bending, boughs reaching // // for the
ground , creaking // // under the weight.  // // Wander through the or
uses; yards; curbs // // One to fifty: 
Ground floor // // Bedroom 2; Bathroom; Bicycle shed // // walls; do
Feel the water return // // to the dry
ground .  Let the cooling dark // // settle around and about, under and
rdo // // cromarty, ringwold or savage
ground // // smoked trout, wevet, bone, calamine // // lichen, brinj
ll.  Even in my sleep // // I hear the
ground -swell gently break and sift, // // pushing the shingle back an
// and clash — and I’m to be the battle
ground .  // // The field is ready now, the lines are drawn.  // // Whi
with jagged thorns, // // seeking new
ground to conquer.  // // Spiders’ webs among the undergrowth.  // //
// a stealth invasion’s getting off the
ground .  // // Up on the surface and for far around, // // another cr
// clear to my vantage point on higher
ground .  // // Voices far across the valley sound.  // // The hills ra
ound // // in bags or scattered on the
ground // // waiting to be found.  // // Waiting for declension, conj
r twice-a-day migration between feeding
grounds // // in lop-sided vees and slanting lines, // // dark again
icon of // // a time and maybe social
group // // —and then, when that one died, one more.  // // Where hav
s.  Not quite the biggest // // of its
group , but very beautiful.  // // What does it look like from the insi
street, shop-window-browsing.  // // A
group , gathered around and gazing into // // one window; but one youn
t attack.  // // Towards the river is a
group of firs // // —the kind you sometimes see in lines across // /
l additions.  And it becomes a scene, a
group of people in evening dress, top hats and the like, appropriate t
imagination.  // // It stands within a
grove of trees, a very few // // of which I can discern, even perhaps
an see the nuts it sheds) // // on the
grove’s outer edge, contains our own // // tree-house, a canted deck
so.  // // True love will germinate and
grow , // // all tribulations to displace, // // far away and long ag
// It pushes us harder, // // makes us
grow broader and taller, // // sweeps spray from our tops, // // dri
boilers of iron plate glue east // //
Grow face fa-cai thick soup.  // // XO sauce explodes to grow the frag
rt.  // // Tiptoe.  // // Probe.  // //
Grow .  // // Push forward.  // // Build speed.  // // Build power.  //
ftness grows // // but hardness cannot
grow .  // // Rough softness is too big, // // leaves for another home
thick soup.  // // XO sauce explodes to
grow the fragile bone.  // // The peasant family stir-fries four // /
Hebdo, I learn // // that something is
growing at the tail end of my colon: // // probably malignant.  // //
flames leap // // flames creep // //
growing bright // // flames leap // // sparks take flight // // gro
// faint light // // bird sings // //
growing bright // // gadget pings // // go away // // sleep clings
s leap // // sparks take flight // //
growing bright // // throw on timber // // sparks take flight // //
wards the brown.  // // Autumn fruit is
growing fat, // // trees bending, boughs reaching // // for the grou
clapboard side.  // // At centre, as if
growing from the clapboards, // // but grander far, a corniced window
back door // // through box and holly
grown to full maturity // // to an iron-gated pointed arch // // pie
edgier, rougher.  // // Rough softness
grows // // but hardness cannot grow.  // // Rough softness is too bi
curls // // smoke billows // // smoke
grows // // eyes smart // // smoke billows // // move apart // //
elters inside hardness.  // // Softness
grows , hardness grows too, // // spirals round itself, trumpet-like. 
curls // // flame unfurls // // smoke
grows // // smoke curls // // smoke billows // // smoke grows // /
acks of the older ones.  // // The wind
grows steady and purposeful.  // // We form into rows and columns acro
Can this go on forever?  // // Softness
grows still, fades away.  // // Empty spiral hardness rests // // on
rdness.  // // Softness grows, hardness
grows too, // // spirals round itself, trumpet-like.  // // Can this
Sharpness // // The latest
growths are long and barbed, // // reaching out to colonise the heath
hiatus.  // // But the fire bore us no
grudge , // // and welcomed us back into its glow.  // // Another twen
e // // from beyond the pale, under my
guard , // // below the belt and over the line.  // // What’s in a nam
e blows, the train moves on, // // the
guard’s van trundles at the back.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack c
.  At others, though, // // we have to
guess .  // // The woods are full of streams, // // swollen with sprin
/ through these ideas he makes a worthy
guide ; // // his voice is lively, gestures wide.  // // The sun and w
s; deserts // // One to five million: 
Gulf of St Lawrence // // Shickshock Mountains; Shippegan Island; Cap
oyster-catcher, the egret, the gliding
gull .  // // What do they know, the rain and the air?  // // The hedge
od, onto the beach.  We hear // // the
gulls , and faintly, far away, the churn // // of waves upon the sand.
// At water’s edge the oyster-catchers,
gulls // // compete for surface scraps.  The beach is good // // for
he ridgetiles, the leaves in the leaded
gully .  // // The street between the houses, the streetlight, // // t
oft snow, up to the tops // // of your
gumboots .  The mile or two // // to the village shop to seek supplies
/ // war in Jordan.  // // There was a
gun .  // // There was a bullet, stray.  // // There was a young man wr
ject to keep me in trim— // // now the
Gurkhas are happy—some shiny erection to // // burnish my halo.  Ah,
/ // Somewhere deep down in my abysmal
gut // // (well, really, just around the final bend) // // this crav
ttle.  // // Oh, people spread!  Quick,
guys , an ecstasy of fumbling, // // building the clumsy barriers just
shing // // Plan finances—get advisor? 
G’s contact maybe // // Ring M about Xmas // // Ring Tony D about wo
lops // // schizophrenia.  // // After
G’s death, a chance // // for something new: migrate south // // to