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.

R

l’skiye Ostrova; Kirgiz Step; Karakoram
Ra // // countries; seas // // One to ten million:  Middle East //
/ // the cropped grass, the sheep- and
rabbit -droppings, // // the bare rocks and the ridge, knife-edge agai
/ whose music makes your languid pulses
race : // // fall, fall into the writer’s well-cast spell.  // // That
ar spirals // // strung around precise
radial anchor lines.  // // Across the channel, tidal creeks // // me
bone, calamine // // lichen, brinjal,
radicchio , citron, calluna // // brassica, hay, pelt, dove tale, pige
// // lying abed beneath the cobwebbed
rafters , // // warm and dry.  // // On waters of the creek as smooth
. // // … a steal…  // // Rage, // //
rage // // against // // the dying // // of the light.  Do not //
// // wars are lost and won.  Did they
rage around me // // where I stood for all men to see?  // // I canno
// except for age, pure and simple.  No
rage — // // just a sort of passive acceptance.  // // Set against thi
I must cheat. // // … a steal…  // //
Rage , // // rage // // against // // the dying // // of the light.
faculties to place // // at its door. 
Rage too against // // the cessation of treatment— // // but that is
my fingernails // // while the tornado
raged around me?  // // Or was it just a hedge, backwards?  // // Yest
luebell woods // // more curlews, more
ragged , slanting lines of geese // // more travels, journeys, voyages
es against the blind.  // // A storm is
raging as I lie abed, // // whipped wide awake by what the thunder sa
f space // // the sky is dark, but the
raging fire // // of the sun marks passing time.  // // Far down belo
shed?  // // Did I leap a chasm, ford a
raging torrent, // // get rolled over by an avalanche, // // fall th
d to send us on our way.  // // British
Rail announced that it would sink // // a hole to build the Channel T
the train.  // // Childhood journeys by
rail come back // // to my memory, patterns of clickety-clack.  // //
ack.  // // But that was then.  Now the
rail joints are welded, and the dominant sound // // is continuous an
london clay, blackened, arsenic // //
railings , pointing, down pipe, clunch, setting plaster // // string,
vanity project has // // gone off the
rails .  I’m not such a mug.  // // I’ve cancelled his buses, no more w
Long ago // // The
railway line passes near.  // // After the engine’s noisy roar, // //
pass by.  // // In the end, it was the
railway // // that contrived to send us on our way.  // // British Ra
ack // // a low embankment carries the
railway track.  // // (Down the slope to the end of the street and rig
osht; Badiyat ash Sham; Bisharin // //
railways ; borders; deserts // // One to five million:  Gulf of St Law
rwell.  // // (Two weeks later, British
Rail’s plans // // were scrapped and redesigned.  The house still sta
// // Seconds later, over the drumming
rain , // // a sharp wall of sound.  // // Later still, after the stor
he grass.  // // What do they know, the
rain and the air?  // //
the road.  // // What do they know, the
rain and the air?  // // The drystone wall slanting across the moor, /
the sky.  // // What do they know, the
rain and the air?  // // The glistening mud left by the ebb-tide.  //
ing gull.  // // What do they know, the
rain and the air?  // // The hedgerow, the field, the rapeseed and the
r // // // // What do they know, the
rain and the air?  // // The roof, the ridgetiles, the leaves in the l
The
rain and the air // // // // What do they know, the rain and the ai
// // What an odd game—to swallow the
rain !  // // He swallowed the rain to put out the fire.  // // You’d t
htning bolts // // more days of sun or
rain or passing cloud // // more meetings with old friends // // mor
awake by what the thunder said.  // //
Rain rattles on the rooftiles overhead // // and beats against the wi
s dimming now.  // // Further north the
rain teems down // // enough to overflow // // the river Don and flo
// // the clouds are low and spitting
rain .  // // The light is dimming now.  // // Further north the rain t
st?  // // I know only the wind and the
rain // // the sun and the clouds by day, // // the stars and the da
buds into the waxing light, the spring
rain .  Throw open // // the fire-coloured temptations, welcome in //
allow the rain!  // // He swallowed the
rain to put out the fire.  // // You’d think he’d expire from swallowi
// He swallowed his hat to fend off the
rain .  // // What an odd game—to swallow the rain!  // // He swallowed
lade // // shave again // // shine or
rain // // wind or cloud // // take train // // whether vain // //
at it meant // // I cannot say.  // //
Rainbow -bright, or black and white, // // or autumn hues, or shades o
coda to our past // // good lives, the
rainbow spans the sky.  // //
sea.  // // Tumbling through rocks with
rainbow spray, // // coursing the straits and the hollows, // // mea
ys go: click-clack click-clack.  // //
Raindrops slanting across the glass.  // // We jump at a sudden sound-
// with no arms, one leg, no tail, but
raised high, // // and head thrown back, I can dance.  // //
r the floods of fifty-three // // they
raised the ramparts: giant concrete blocks // // on piles all along
s // // curl around, leaving two small
raised triangles // // of city herbage in city clag // // —a handful
The well of love // // // //
Raisins are all very well in their place // // —in muesli, say, or ma
ve.  // // The usual translation is not
raisins // // but flagons.  Flagons might indeed // // distract me,
his pilaf.  // // But stay me not with
raisins nor // // with flagons, for I am well of love.  // // Apples
n path // // Between two beds of clean-
raked earth // // Where tender shoots may venture forth // // On wee
r // // observed that her natu- // //
ral son and heir // // was Tony Blair.  // // Nigel Farrage // // ha
plants.  // // On one // // a stately
ram , great curved horns // // stands tense, alert and staring.  A few
which is // // known as the Allerdale
Ramble , traversing a // // difficult scree but then joining an easier
out.  // // Meet a dashing young fellow
rambler .  // // Marry, find a home // // on the very edge of Sheffiel
an a fish-and-chip shop.  // // A young
rambler , you take part // // in the mass trespass on Kinderscout.  //
round the world—and I, // // roaming,
rambling , drifting under the sky.  // //
g mountain // // running stream // //
rambling moor // // changing sea // // blue sea // // silver lake /
p snow-covered slopes rise up // // to
rampart rock walls, knife-edge against // // the deep blue sky.  We t
s of fifty-three // // they raised the
ramparts : giant concrete blocks // // on piles all along the shingle
ime.  // // Afternoon in winter, on the
ramparts // // looking seaward, sun behind us, low, // // yellow lig
effield, steel town.  // // Mother once
ran a fish-and-chip shop.  // // A young rambler, you take part // //
ompete for life.  // // Another billion
random changes: all // // —or almost all—are duds.  Nevertheless // /
nation(and beginning—for G) // // From
random junctures in primeval winds // // a billion random patterns fo
ures in primeval winds // // a billion
random patterns form—until // // an accidental spiral sequence finds
Random walk // // Looking backwards, I can see // // mistily, the sh
through a wormhole, or cross a mountain
range ?  // // Did I march towards my fate, // // or did I merely hang
ross the valley sound.  // // The hills
ranged all around // // —they little care.  // // Voices far across t
s counting their instantiations, // //
ranking , taking logs and drawing lines.  // // Chomsky looked for deep
ionally, I catch glimpses // // of the
ranks ahead.  // // But mostly, I can see // // only the back // //
ser.  // // And the noise.  // // A few
ranks ahead, I see them // // rearing up, up, turning over // // and
like // // the planted forest, serried
ranks of Christmas pine // // which begins a mile down the road // /
ir?  // // The hedgerow, the field, the
rapeseed and the corn.  // // The five-bar gate, the muddy track on th
// mostly carries suburban trains; more
rarely , // // carriages decked in the blue and gold livery // // of
Lockdown // // Here’s a first-
rate opportunity— // // Isolation for immunity— // // To indulge in
uare.  // // The second had one window,
rather high— // // from the bed all I could see was sky.  // // But r
death would not be to my taste; // //
rather , look forward to final oblivion— // // when the time comes, I
ven if my audience hear it spoken aloud
rather than seeing it on the page they will certainly know it.  // //
el the cold— // // and my breathing is
rather uncertain.”  // //
Rationale // // That scratching?  A poltergeist behind the skirting? 
// This time, the bug’s not spread by
rats and fleas // // but by their piss and snot and sweat and spittle
duck-weed-smothered edges // // Skinny
rats sniff out the ledges, // // While between the stream-floor ridge
my head, what do they care?  // // They
rattle round, and link, and split, and fight.  // // No voices in the
cept our own.  // // But Henri’s pieces
rattle too and shake // // our sense of part and whole, netsuke-like.
A poem for free // // The night mail
rattles north to the border // // (bringing the cheque and the postal
e by what the thunder said.  // // Rain
rattles on the rooftiles overhead // // and beats against the window
es at night, // // a heavy goods train
rattles the windows and plates // // on the shelves.  Later, the loca
ng, forming // // ordered chaos with a
raucous song:  // // A thousand geese are flying into night.  // //
uct and // // what re-imagine?  Not to
rave // // at fate, at chance, at // // what has come about, but to
Walton not yet born.  // // But Maurice
Ravel has just joined // // the Société des Apaches // // (or Bunch
moors and dales, meadows, // // hills,
ravines descending, under the sky.  // // Oceans, rivers, narrow chann
// Responses muted, though the sense is
raw , // // to questions orderly, while exuding care.  // // Voices fr
and right.  // // Focus in, // // each
ray // // trapped on its way // // from the sun.  // // Bright // /
w, left and right, // // focus in each
ray .  // // Trapped on its way from the sun, // // bright spot, turn
// in the warming sunlight.  Soak up the
rays and the air.  // // Transform the coloured flower into coloured f
ea.  // // On the sand, a scattering of
razor shells // // that would be sharp if our toes were bare.  // //
he ‘OFF’ position. // // To
re -boil the kettle, switch it on again.  If the appliance has just swi
// // what reconstruct and // // what
re -imagine?  Not to rave // // at fate, at chance, at // // what has
winds bring // // as the rising waters
reach and lift them // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // echoes
ext bend, another sandy beach // // to
reach by boat.  That place we call Japan: // // against the sky, a li
in the wood, // // tall straight pines
reach for the sky, // // dark trunks against the blue, // // shed lo
of // // the back of your hand as you
reach past to pilfer // // the clusters beyond, adding scratches //
// Forge ahead.  // // Spread.  // //
Reach .  // // Slacken.  // // Settle.  // // Pause.  // // Start.  //
scan, adds an extra list.  // // As we*
reach the sixth and seventh periods, short of horizontal space, // //
rags above; // // descend the steps to
reach the valley floor— // // to leave behind, for now, the wilder mo
the alotted time: // // that we could
reach this perfect knot // // and find ourselves at home.  // //
ke // // tried to mend // // tried to
reach // // tried to recall // // tried to see // // tried to sleep
g the beach.  Each // // finds its own
reach up the foreshore, // // the banked sand and shingle, perhaps //
// the world around her, far as she can
reach .  // // Who is this now, who dares me eat a peach?  // // Time’s
// nailed across two angled branches,
reached // // by clambering the branches by the trunk // // or (bett
owing fat, // // trees bending, boughs
reaching // // for the ground, creaking // // under the weight.  //
est growths are long and barbed, // //
reaching out to colonise the heath, // // at war with the bracken.  //
alking and standing still—and I, // //
reaching the meeting point under the bridge // // and finding you, my
t of the actinoids // // ‡ by means of
reactors or colliders or other toys // //
awls can find.  // // — // // A writer
read , a speaker heard, // // at every word a choice has made.  // //
// dressed for the occasion, // // we
read the flower-borne messages // // and talked to relatives not seen
on my map for the best way back.  // //
Reading a map now, I have to use spectacles.  // // Carry them with me
a day // // in Norfolk where the sign
reads slow you down.  // //
In Norfolk // // In Norfolk the sign
reads slow you down // // just in case we were driving too fast.  //
the battle ground.  // // The field is
ready now, the lines are drawn.  // // Whichever wins, whichever meets
h // // we can then haul up behind us,
ready // // to defend against the next attack.  // // Towards the riv
for one day // // put in pouch // //
ready to go // // // // // // Recipe for starting a sourdough sta
ned to passing time.  // // For all the
real and everlasting moments, // // there will be time.  // //
fruit, though Suliman’s pilaf // // is
real comfort food.  But comfort me not // // with apples, nor with pi
d I go down to the basement // // —the
real crematorium— // // and see her consigned to the flames.  // // (
ection to determine // // whether some
real delta integration // // is possible at all.  I have to try.  //
reshortened.  This is now, here, // //
real human time.  // //
time, though, the hollow holds // // a
real live snake, standing up and hissing // // at our approach.  We t
are far from what’s needed.  The // //
real public benefit’s not even there.”  // // Sadiq says “The Boris’s
by the trunk // // or (better) by the
real rope-ladder, which // // we can then haul up behind us, ready //
n, copulate and die.  // // But for the
real turn, the cataclysm // // which will both inspire and destroy //
the hope of a rescuer?  // // Slowly I
realise the pain is subsiding, the // // leg was not broken, and afte
as my muse and inspiration— // // that
reality in which I live.  // //
Reality // // // // // That
reality in which I live // // is likely different from the one you kn
Reality // // // // // That reality in which I live // // is like
hese transient trials pass?  // // It’s
really hard to know.  // // We have no crystal ball, no glass.  // //
e sofa just outside the door.  // // It
really is very annoying— // // I hope we don’t lose any more.  // //
ep down in my abysmal gut // // (well,
really , just around the final bend) // // this craven kraken creeps,
ty-six and counting // // How little I
really know of your life!  // // From the moment almost a half-century
tation.  Nuisance.  // // Pain? no, not
really .  // // Objective // // Yellow liquid flows.  // // Subjective
ts create and sometimes destroy.  Did I
really // // spring from the hands of the great Praxiteles?  // // I
rong a word.  // // I’m sure it doesn’t
really want // // to kill me.  // // Like the asteroid // // barrell
// A few ranks ahead, I see them // //
rearing up, up, turning over // // and hear them crashing down.  // /
it come to my mind?  // // A couple of
reasons .  One, that it had to be bolted // // down to the floor, to p
n sore, renew our sense of // // time,
rebuild the day.  // //
fenced, the house // // demolished and
rebuilt .  The trees remain.  // //
for all men to see?  // // I cannot now
recall .  // // Cities flourish and decay.  In forgotten corners, // /
to avert shipwreck?  // // I cannot now
recall .  // // Generations and generations // // of fishermen and tra
e great Praxiteles?  // // I cannot now
recall .  // // No matter!  Now, in a stranger place, a colder clime, /
// grandchild arrived?  I can’t quite
recall .  Nor can I now // // picture it clearly.  So why does it come
I a trophy of war?  // // I cannot now
recall .  // // On the lands bordering the Mediterranean, // // empire
d // // tried to reach // // tried to
recall // // tried to see // // tried to sleep // // tried to speak
his sandy seafloor?  // // I cannot now
recall .  // // Up there are storms and calms, // // earthquake-waves
// // becomes a trickle.  On the soft,
receding // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // water’s edge, the
u all know the story that once // // I
received a slight knock on the bonce.  // // For sure my laws must //
ways.  // // Days enough for giving and
receiving .  // // Did I give enough?  // // I cannot say.  // //
stard.  // // The small bowl of wedding
reception stews bean bubble, // // The taro rolls up an incense.  //
// ready to go // // // // // //
Recipe for starting a sourdough starter.  // //   // // In the Califo
eaks; // // Joyce has his Liffey whose
recirculation keeps // // Finnegan going (despite it’s his wake)— //
// // in Reigate, on her way to // //
recognition , fellowships // // (Linnean Society 1904, // // Girton C
ndril // // before you can back out to
reconnoitre // // another part of the bush.  Take care not to spill /
propel // // your thoughts, destroy or
reconstruct a case: // // jump willing into every word-filled well.  /
salvage from it, what burn, // // what
reconstruct and // // what re-imagine?  Not to rave // // at fate, a
Recorded syllables // // Together and together and together, // // I
/ // and that was the last syllabub of
recorded time.  // // From the bottom of the barrel // // the sound o
a hook.  // // He swallowed the hook to
recover the net.  // // You’d scarcely bet he’d swallow a net.  // //
rict— // // family wanting to rest and
recuperate .  // // Skiddaw is looming, inviting explorers—a // // cha
hey will emerge // // a startling deep
red , and taste delicious.) // // Another tree, perhaps a beech, but g
ky.  // // It’s Jan, not June.  // // A
red balloon, // // way up high, // // with crescent moon // // from
deposes poor Boris, and // // gets the
Red Margaret to look at the case.  // // “It’s been a fiasco, a drain
lingered long in Leicestershire; // //
red was the evening sky.  // // By Derby town they settled down // //
ntains of water crashing down // // to
redefine the contours of the shore.  // // Around the river mouth the
h Rail’s plans // // were scrapped and
redesigned .  The house still stands.) // //
eneration soon finds itself // // rich
rediscovering Bach’s counterpoint— // // frescos are fragile, but Pie
located every spring, the charts // //
redrawn ).  // // The line of pebble-dunes protects // // a calmer gre
s it will go.  Let the browns // // and
reds and golds replace the greens.  Now throw the canopy too // // to
margins waders // // scutter, scavenge—
redshank , // // godwit, curlew—long // // beaks probing deep // //
The beach is good // // for all.  The
redshanks , godwits, curlews search // // for hidden treasure, long be
through the spout as this will help to
reduce the amount of limescale that builds up on the filter. //
/ and faint starlight from space // //
reflected in inky water, // // the cool night air // // slows down t
Reflections // // High up above, at the edges of the air // // and t
shingle shift and melt, // // form and
reform each ebb and flow, each moonphase // // and each season (the n
/ // And won’t be fixed and always did
refract // // The one before it into at least two.  // //
er).  // // Rhythmic verses with echoed
refrain // // in the rhythmic clattering noise of the train.  // // C
e lodgers— // // Polish serviceman and
refugee — // // is worth another try.  A son.  // // Council house the
// // retreating back the way it came,
regains // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // the channe
aces, I have found other treasures, and
regret not having had the chance to show some of them to her.  Just fo
take him to the house.  // // I always
regretted , felt cheated by // // that twenty-minute hiatus.  // // Bu
// // Girton College 1913).  // // The
Reigate lab, of course // // has a source // // of pure water: a st
// builds a lab in her garden // // in
Reigate , on her way to // // recognition, fellowships // // (Linnean
Tide // // each new beginning // //
reiterates a pattern // // as old as the hills // // each iteration
iring a newer model, donated // // the
reject to us for our new home.  Or was it // // not until seven years
ration // // and making an approximate
relation // // by tying beta up with mu and lambda.  // // I can’t se
, while the good // // is good only in
relation to the bad.  // // The chances are said // // to be good.  T
tions, // // waiting to discover their
relations , // // find their denotations, connotations.  // // Roget c
wer-borne messages // // and talked to
relatives not seen for years.  // // It had to be, but it was not the
iren call // // is in reverse, a brief
release — // // until the following night at least.  // // Odysseus' s
ins, whichever meets defeat, // // the
relict of the fight will be my wound.  // // The goat // // // I am
lity except our own.  // // In Pompidou
relief is on the wall, // // wrestling figures, clinched before a fal
e navigation buoys must needs // // be
relocated every spring, the charts // // redrawn).  // // The line of
// demolished and rebuilt.  The trees
remain .  // //
olk blackberries // // of my childhood
remain forever perfect, // // forever simultaneously sweet and tart,
ent, but could not be allowed // // to
remain in occupation of that space.  // // And so, for two successive
urpose.  // // The clutter covering the
remainder of the bench // // is piled uncontained and unconstrained. 
/ // Should I start crawling the miles
remaining , or // // should I stay put in the hope of a rescuer?  // /
ad chosen a dunce.  // // // // There
remains a small bruise on my head // // insufficient to send me to be
last word has been had.  // // Nothing
remains // // but the fuzzy end of the lollipop and the squeezed out
ind a way.  // // The final fray // //
remains in memory, for good or ill, // // another day.  // // I canno
d.  All along the foreshore, // // the
remains of trees // // that once grew on the hill above, // // and b
fs and ways of Camelot.  // // Only one
remains to shiver // // On the island in the river, // // Tending he
?  // // I think he’d add a note to his
remark — // // in truth, how cheesy is the sometime chalk.  // //
ll.  // // Those are not the moments to
remember : // // they can be consigned to passing time.  // // For all
agments, snatches— // // some now half-
remembered , some long since forgotten— // // but nothing that resembl
s trenches death at twenty three // //
reminds us of so much we’ll never see.  // // Life and death are two,
ps if we asked him politely // // he’d
remorsefully put them all back.  // // Six of our cushions are missing
down on the ruins gray // // That scar
remote Shalott.  // // In the duck-weed-smothered edges // // Skinny
r if I can get it to do // // anything
remotely interesting?  // //
yellow bits // // way out here in the
remoter backwaters // // of the western spiral arm (which will never
/ // such richness in his music did he
render // // for all of us, such beauty brought he forth; // // and
bout, but to close // // an open sore,
renew our sense of // // time, rebuild the day.  // //
s calling // // in places it has lost,
reoccupation // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // of th
en we get on with our lives: // // the
repainting can wait.  // // I go to work.  // // Judith, artist, // /
en.  // // Settle.  // // Pause.  // //
Repeat twice daily.  // // (Not by the sun // // —use moontime // //
et the browns // // and reds and golds
replace the greens.  Now throw the canopy too // // to the winds, let
test Currie.  // // Gordon Brown // //
replaced his frown // // with a one-sided smile // // that was off b
// In hard cast bronze all hardness now
replaced , // // the soft and sensuous flesh joins love’s embrace.  //
er place, a future that // // revives,
replenishes , makes good // // the damaged present, this dark night?  /
he fairest of all?’  // // The mirror’s
reply // // with no hint of a sigh // // is to show him his face, wa
use the margin is too narrow for a full
report // // Turns out† that the seventh layer consists mostly of one
rth-east Yorkshire coast // // for the
requisite square-bashing.  And then when he ships out, // // back to
// should I stay put in the hope of a
rescuer ?  // // Slowly I realise the pain is subsiding, the // // leg
ince forgotten— // // but nothing that
resembles a narrative.  // // Born nineteen-seventeen (dark days of th
Each // // sentient being touches and
reshapes // // the world around her, far as she can reach.  // // Who
r, // // casts in plaster or cement or
resin , // // draws in pencil or pen or charcoal, // // paints in oil
ewing up your courage // // putting up
resistance // // throwing up earthworks // // zipping up your jacket
// // // // // Maybe, for some, the
resolution lies // // in their cups.  Thomas certainly did his level
music is just bloody marvellous, // //
resonates on though the print becomes faint; // // just as each new g
t of horizontal space, // // we must**
resort to footnotes just to keep a healthy handle on the case.  // //
rom the curtained bed next door.  // //
Responses muted, though the sense is raw, // // to questions orderly,
gain to clamber Gordale Scar // // and
rest , and breathe some more the cool clear air.  // // Beyond the scre
Lake District— // // family wanting to
rest and recuperate.  // // Skiddaw is looming, inviting explorers—a /
young man half-turned // // across the
rest , looking with unfocussed eyes // // into the distance down the s
a memory that Judith treasures for the
rest of her life. // //
he mud cliffs // // above my head, the
rest of the marsh // // is out of sight.  // //
// in silent contemplation.  // // The
rest of the world is dark.  // //
m Kings.  // // If I can filter out the
rest , the aural grime, // // even I, atheist, find some of them subli
leader of Flemish weavers, pointing the
rest // // towards their major source of trade:  // // England.  // /
allowed the net to trap the hat.  // //
Restart for that.  // //
heat-death of the universe; // // the
restaurant has closed, // // and that was the last syllabub of record
sharp mountain // // still lake // //
resting lake // // rustling forest // // tumbling mountain // // ru
ades away.  // // Empty spiral hardness
rests // // on the sea-bed.  Forever?  // // Another, rougher softnes
// // Blow up a little croaker with no
result .  // // Fragile crab of incense taste mushroom // // Do the bl
and after a while I can // // think of
resuming my journey unaided—I // // just have to check on my map for
se.  // // Start.  // // Tiptoe.  // //
Retrace .  // // Shrink.  // // Drop back.  // // Build speed.  // // B
r.  // // Pull in.  // // Merge.  // //
Retract .  // // Slacken.  // // Settle.  // // Pause.  // // Repeat tw
// Hear the marsh-birds calling // //
retreating back the way it came, regains // // Breath the scents the
Barnard Castle?  // // Three score, out/
return // // Can I go there, with my eyesight?  // // Yes, with fuel
present, this dark night?  // // Not to
return to old // // ways—that age // // has passed.  What should //
.  // // Feel the earth.  Feel the water
return // // to the dry ground.  Let the cooling dark // // settle ar
pecting // // tea on the table when he
returns from work // // in a Sheffield steel mill.  // // Daughter mo
lt // // the topmost layer.  The frost
returns // // to make a crust.  The next two months // // are clear
each past which // // the falling tide
reveals the deep black mud // // which oozes softly up between our to
// both lays the problem out and then
reveals // // the parts of a solution.  // // All we need to do is ma
// That waft of scent?  A malodourous
revenant ?  // // Don’t be silly, that’s just the bin—needs emptying.  /
he // // is pensive, dreaming, lost in
reverie .  // // And the artist who is showing us the scene // // —doe
s and reversions, // // reversings and
reversals —these as well.  // // But we shall leave such counterpoints
hters too.  The siren call // // is in
reverse , a brief release— // // until the following night at least.  /
ridge.  // // If we could trace them in
reverse , // // each our own tangled thread, // // would we have foun
ns and revisions and reversions, // //
reversings and reversals—these as well.  // // But we shall leave such
ide.  // // Decisions and revisions and
reversions , // // reversings and reversals—these as well.  // // But
// // in twenty-ten, of all the flesh
reviewed // // in magazines, on billboards high displayed, // // eac
/ on evening tide.  // // Decisions and
revisions and reversions, // // reversings and reversals—these as wel
// a better place, a future that // //
revives , replenishes, makes good // // the damaged present, this dark
Revolt // // // // // // // shave again // // oh lord // // ta
l the arts // // currents criss-cross,
revolutions // // blossom and fade, movements // // are born, copula
/ // No time // // for flow // // or
rhyme , // // no.  // // Words go // // from mind // // like snow.  /
its end with such a strong and obvious
rhyme // // that even if my audience hear it spoken aloud rather than
erses with echoed refrain // // in the
rhythmic clattering noise of the train.  // // Childhood journeys by r
noise // // that it made as it spun, a
rhythmic staccato juddering // // with a touch of syncopation.  // //
he cheque and the postal order).  // //
Rhythmic verses with echoed refrain // // in the rhythmic clattering
new generation soon finds itself // //
rich rediscovering Bach’s counterpoint— // // frescos are fragile, bu
e turn, // // along the open beach, in
rich sea air.  // // Look up, look up, my love—the sky is calling.  //
e the fates would squander— // // such
richness in his music did he render // // for all of us, such beauty
rags, beaches // // more boat or cycle
rides // // more walks, more bluebell woods // // more curlews, more
roppings, // // the bare rocks and the
ridge , knife-edge against the sky.  // // What do they know, the rain
Ocean // // Marianas Trench, Macquarie
Ridge , Mendocino Seascarp // // the shape of the world // // One to
precipice, // // one final push up the
ridge to the pinnacle.  // // Now to descend, an alternative route whi
, // // While between the stream-floor
ridges // // Now a bottom-feeder dredges // // Through the silt of C
rain and the air?  // // The roof, the
ridgetiles , the leaves in the leaded gully.  // // The street between
/ // we’d call a bombsite—desolate but
rife // // with memory and desire, fertile earth // // beneath, a pl
the morning sun // // below and to the
right .  And rising left // // the Cape Cod house’s painted clapboard
so // // above, below, // // left and
right .  // // Focus in, // // each ray // // trapped on its way //
t just so // // above, below, left and
right , // // focus in each ray.  // // Trapped on its way from the su
ronmentally friendly of us, but it felt
right . // // Many art galleries in many places.  Three sol
nd One // // The century turns.  // //
Right on cue, Queen Victoria dies.  // // (Next time around, in the di
by Wainwright, you get sunburnt on the
right side of your face only.  As Judith had broken in a new pair of b
the slope to the end of the street and
right , // // the line bridges over the road.) Sometimes at night, //
Type
right // // The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog // //
breach the wall.  And when it hits just
right // // the spray rises a mile into the air // // (or so it seem
nd two seemed to twist into one, // //
right there, beneath the bridge.  // // If we could trace them in reve
rn.  // // If the lines be blurred just
right , // // You may go there with your eyesight.  // //
s—get advisor?  G’s contact maybe // //
Ring M about Xmas // // Ring Tony D about works in basement // // Ti
under and over.  // // Complete another
ring .  // // Sleep.  // //
t maybe // // Ring M about Xmas // //
Ring Tony D about works in basement // // Tickets for Once Sat night—
r (the pole // // itself and four-inch
rings surely to be found // // elsewhere in the garage).  // // The b
// rubber tap washers and fibre sealing
rings .  // // The jars hang from their lids, nailed to // // the shel
chstick, tallow, vardo // // cromarty,
ringwold or savage ground // // smoked trout, wevet, bone, calamine /
// // Ormeaux on Bastille; Ormeaux on
Rioja ; Ormeaux on Lagoon // // taps; pipes // // One to one // // Y
ferent species rise and fall // // and
rise again.  Great populations press // // against their boundaries.  T
s // // ten thousand different species
rise and fall // // and rise again.  Great populations press // // ag
ering the Mediterranean, // // empires
rise and fall.  Battles are fought, // // wars are lost and won.  Did
overed heath.  The summer fronds // //
rise far above our heads.  In this bright green // // we wander, hack
stay // // morning glow // // time to
rise // // feeling slow // // rub eyes // // yawn and stretch // /
de // // the steep snow-covered slopes
rise up // // to rampart rock walls, knife-edge against // // the de
hen it hits just right // // the spray
rises a mile into the air // // (or so it seems to me), to crash back
// // In the saltmarsh channels water
rises // // Hear the marsh-birds calling // // to the edges of the s
, following the bend, // // the curlew
rises suddenly, // // screeching at my invasion of its space.  // //
ituation, and promptly, busily, without
rising from her seat, makes everyone shuffle up in order to allow Judi
bed all I could see was sky.  // // But
rising gave me sight // // of an acacia, a fence and many // // tree
sun // // below and to the right.  And
rising left // // the Cape Cod house’s painted clapboard side.  // //
cents the sea-winds bring // // as the
rising waters reach and lift them // // Hear the marsh-birds calling
to seek supplies // // becomes a daily
ritual .  // // Suffolk, circa 1958 // // After the floods of fifty-th
cross a gentle slope // // towards the
river .  A line of ancient oaks // // (one blasted trunk is hollow thr
wn // // enough to overflow // // the
river Don and flood the plain.  // // The light is fading now.  // //
the duck head.  // // The prefecture of
river drives meal chicken, // // Olive dish dried meat floss stir fri
nst the next attack.  // // Towards the
river is a group of firs // // —the kind you sometimes see in lines a
ering sky // // The fields that by the
river lie // // Are rough and unkempt.  Buzzards fly // // Above the
softly up between our toes.  Across the
river // // lies the lagoon, a field flooded and then left // // to
town and on // // the mile across the
river meadows // // to Grantchester.  As we walk back // // against
ll exchange character.  // // A flowing
river , meandering across // // a flood plain, excavates one bank //
ontours of the shore.  // // Around the
river mouth the tides run strong.  // // Channels and banks of shingle
s to shiver // // On the island in the
river , // // Tending her cabbage patch forever, // // The hermit of
// // against the stream, back up the
river Wharfe, // // to Bolton Abbey, and the Strid beyond, // // and
uild a fine bridge clear across a great
river , where // // trees, grass and flowers can stretch shore to shor
down the roses // // floating down the
river // // whistling down the wind // // not as in // // screwing
scending, under the sky.  // // Oceans,
rivers , narrow channels, torrents, // // tarns, and streams slow-flow
Eye, // // a bright September day, the
river’s edge, // // with crowds of people milling all around, // //
w-eyes, picture hooks // // wallplugs,
rivets , self-tapping metal screws, // // rubber tap washers and fibre
ine // // which begins a mile down the
road // // and into whose dense interior // // we sometimes venture.
des.  // // One looked across to a busy
road // // but from my bed I looked out on // // a corner of a tree-
y suburban junction.  // // Narrow side
road curves to join // // a bend on a bigger road.  The pavements //
line of sight // // along a tree-lined
road into the distance.  // //
full of trees // // along a tree-lined
road into the distance.  // // The first bedroom I had to myself // /
snows on Boxing Day.  // // The country
road not cleared for days // // —and then of course it snows again.  /
ive hundred:  Block plan // // Sherlock
Road ; Sherlock Court; Sherlock Close // // houses; yards; curbs // /
right, // // the line bridges over the
road .) Sometimes at night, // // a heavy goods train rattles the win
/ // Petty Cury; Park Parade; Pretoria
Road // // streets; alleys; cycle paths // // One to two thousand:  J
urves to join // // a bend on a bigger
road .  The pavements // // curl around, leaving two small raised tria
bar gate, the muddy track on the tarmac
road .  // // The walled paddock and the orchard, // // the apple on t
alking in the drizzle the long approach
road to the Kröller-Müller museum outside Amsterdam.  The Hermitage in
white-painted sign spreadeagled on the
road .  // // What do they know, the rain and the air?  // // The dryst
// Dufftown; Deeside; Dumfries // //
roads ; villages // // One to sixty three thousand three hundred and s
ds, phones speak out— // // add to the
road’s cacophony.  // // Dialectic // // Voices coming from the room
ds, phones speak out— // // add to the
road’s cacophony.  // // Through air and ether people mutter, shout, /
ured temptations, welcome in // // the
roaming bees.  // // Feel the fire.  Spread out a green canopy // // i
e, people round the world—and I, // //
roaming , rambling, drifting under the sky.  // //
s near.  // // After the engine’s noisy
roar , // // coaches follow along the track: // // the bogeys go: cl
d quantities of fuel // // and built a
roaring blaze.  Then late into the night // // I fed it all the bits
oast // // flames gone // // potatoes
roast // // embers warm // // flames gone // // last glow // // em
st // // smoulder down // // potatoes
roast // // warm as toast // // flames gone // // potatoes roast //
For
Robert Graves // // // // For Robert Graves, the naked and the nude
For Robert Graves // // // // For
Robert Graves, the naked and the nude // // were chalk and cheese; so
ingly cold, // // and dry them on warm
rock .  // //
mental: water, sky and earth // // and
rock and air; no fire and no gold, // // no gems nor coins nor jewels
pting the vortex // // // // Jacob’s
Rock Drill pierces through the brain // // and splits apart Edwardian
s.  // // Softness crawls over sand and
rock // // in filtered blue light, // // carrying hardness with it. 
niature, // // a tumbling precipice of
rock —or maybe ice // // from a dying glacier.  // // On the next bend
with my // // shin on a knife-edge of
rock that protrudes from the // // edge of the path, not yet blunted
// // echoes of the distant sea-swell
rock them // // Breath the scents the sea-winds bring // // strainin
overed slopes rise up // // to rampart
rock walls, knife-edge against // // the deep blue sky.  We take our
heels // // on hard, unyielding // //
rocks and stones, // // falls back under my feet.  // // No time, no
- and rabbit-droppings, // // the bare
rocks and the ridge, knife-edge against the sky.  // // What do they k
s // // is a one-way invitation to the
rocks .  // // But me, now, I'm just lucky.  // //
// To the sea.  // // Tumbling through
rocks with rainbow spray, // // coursing the straits and the hollows,
s, clifftops, creeks and inlets, // //
rocky shorelines tumbling under the sky.  // // Sea-birds, pond-birds,
// And gaily singing on his way // //
Rode bold Sir Lancelot.  // // Years have passed.  The winter’s chill
rn in Washington, close to a version of
Rodin’s Balzac, and called “Post-Balzac”.  It is a full-length bronze
temple columns spaced, // // lightning
rods earthed.  // // On the dark side of the earth, // // in the ligh
their denotations, connotations.  // //
Roget charted their associations.  // // Zipf was counting their insta
urning the water, // // disturbing our
roll , // // getting higher and closer.  // // And the noise.  // // A
us away // // The sails clatter as we
roll // // Give me some wind to blow us away // // Horizon’s clear f
aight up // // the Mediterranean waves
roll on.  // // How many years, decades, centuries // // have I lain
hasm, ford a raging torrent, // // get
rolled over by an avalanche, // // fall through a wormhole, or cross
t out with the best of intent // // In
rollicking verse // // On a galloping horse— // // But Aix was as fa
be a disaster // // but then it began
rolling out its own // // finite but unbounded space-time continuum /
tion stews bean bubble, // // The taro
rolls up an incense.  // // The impregnable fortress makes fish cake. 
nt in the number, // // best expressed
Roman fashion:  // // CII.  // // We // // As for us, the bits begin
The Liedera
rondeau // // In any season, some young man will wander // // along
know, the rain and the air?  // // The
roof , the ridgetiles, the leaves in the leaded gully.  // // The stree
hunder said.  // // Rain rattles on the
rooftiles overhead // // and beats against the window with the wind. 
Winds moaning round the corners and the
rooftops , // // rushing wild clouds across the sky, // // lying abed
/ // the small gas fire has warmed the
room // // against the cold outside.  // // (But that was forty years
sus College // // The Chimney; Cranmer
Room ; Café Bar // // courts; staircases; playing fields // // One to
/ That knocking?  Footsteps in the next
room ?  // // Don’t be silly, that’s just the plumbing—a pipe heating u
, we’ve // // just thirty three—surely
room for one more.  // // Now it happens my old friend is crowned mayo
ntithesis debate.  // // In the lecture
room // // His voice is lively, gestures wide— // // there is much s
evermore // // voices coming from the
room next door.  // // For and against, and more, against and for; //
Dialectic // // Voices coming from the
room next door: // // thesis and antithesis, debate // // about it a
can wait.  // // Voices coming from the
room next door:  // // Thesis and Antithesis debate.  // // In the lec
ly empty. // // The sitting
room of our house in Peckham, the walls stripped and undecorated, but
omb // // That was the fastness of her
room .  // // Only through the mirror’s gloam // // Dared she look to
of the house’s existence.  We left the
room unpainted for the best part of the 22 years we lived there, and i
Clear morning sunlight fills // // the
room we glimpse inside.  A woman leans // // upon a table in the wind
annot say.  // // The houses, and their
rooms and halls // // and whether it was night or day; // // the gar
e of our labours.  // // A box or holly
root , smouldering slowly, // // will burn for ever.  The fire once be
he trunk // // or (better) by the real
rope -ladder, which // // we can then haul up behind us, ready // //
meander; // // of Ellen, Norna, or of
Rosamunde .  // // Sorrow, longing, dreams pervade the path // // in a
wn the barriers // // cutting down the
roses // // floating down the river // // whistling down the wind //
y years ago.  // // One of the legs had
rotted half away.  // // But a new piece of four by two turned it into
oke.  // // Destroying our comfort’s as
rotten // // as stealing a library book.  // // Five of our cushions
// // It seems that there must be some
rotter // // who’s sneaking our cushions away // // Four of our cush
fields that by the river lie // // Are
rough and unkempt.  Buzzards fly // // Above the weedy hedgerows, by
// // oh lord // // take train // //
rough grain // // sharp blade // // shave again // // shine or rain
smooth lake // // dense forest // //
rough moor // // million-year moor // // ten-million-year mountain /
leaves for another home.  // // Another
rough softness.  // // Can this go on forever?  // // Empty again, in
ment is faster, edgier, rougher.  // //
Rough softness grows // // but hardness cannot grow.  // // Rough sof
// // but hardness cannot grow.  // //
Rough softness is too big, // // leaves for another home.  // // Anot
// // seem more like butchers working
rough .  // // The light is going now.  // // How will these transient
ide.  // // Movement is faster, edgier,
rougher .  // // Rough softness grows // // but hardness cannot grow. 
the sea-bed.  Forever?  // // Another,
rougher softness, // // but with sharp claws and barbs, // // fasten
th names and distances // // that only
roughly match the map.  At others, though, // // we have to guess.  //
// are visible within.  // // Gathered
round about, a motley crew // // of categories in boxes, jars and tin
doured thing.  Gloves make the world go
round , and all’s fair in gloves and war, though the course of true glo
, what do they care?  // // They rattle
round , and link, and split, and fight.  // // No voices in the almost-
as if to start out on a voyage, a full
round -Britain trip.  // // I’ll need a ton of words to fill each line
ows, hardness grows too, // // spirals
round itself, trumpet-like.  // // Can this go on forever?  // // Soft
// Nails: tacks, panel pins, ovals and
round ; // // Screws: small, size 6, size 8, large.  // // Beside it s
East Hills aglow.  // // Winds moaning
round the corners and the rooftops, // // rushing wild clouds across
hought.  Just maybe I can // // circle
round the tentacles of zeta // // by striking gamma from consideratio
ng under the sky.  // // People, people
round the world—and I, // // roaming, rambling, drifting under the sk
a full-length bronze cape, upright and
rounded as if on the shoulders of its owner, but actually empty.
haversack.  // // Climb by the obvious
route from the valley, with // // Derwent behind me and scrambles ahe
.  // // Now to descend, an alternative
route which is // // known as the Allerdale Ramble, traversing a //
with the neighbouring block, leaving a
row of nine.  // // In nineteen sixty nine the house was lit // // by
ady and purposeful.  // // We form into
rows and columns across the deep.  // // Without knowing what it is, /
time to rise // // feeling slow // //
rub eyes // // yawn and stretch // // blue skies // // legs itch //
vets, self-tapping metal screws, // //
rubber tap washers and fibre sealing rings.  // // The jars hang from
mayor of London, he // // goes by the
rubrik of Boris the Mad.  // // He’d adore such a grand and flamboyant
lashing stream // // bright sea // //
rugged moor // // sharp mountain // // still lake // // resting lak
ake my way?  // // Across what carpets,
rugs or floors?  // // I cannot say.  // // The houses, and their room
ause or stay // // To gaze down on the
ruins gray // // That scar remote Shalott.  // // In the duck-weed-sm
g // // —impermanence’s permanence the
rule .  // // Change will last forever.  // // At intervals along the s
Light and shadow // // The
rule : we should not // // begin unwrapping till it’s // // light en
/ // on the shelves.  Later, the local
rumour states // // that the train is carrying nuclear waste; at the
Becalmed // //
Run all the sails up the mast // // Way-hay, blow us away // // But
/ and silver birch along the dunes that
run // // between the marshes and the sea.  The sun // // is low ahe
s may venture forth // // On weed-o’er-
run Shalott?  // // She who hath this garden laid // // —Nurturing th
ugh the course of true gloves never did
run smooth.  No glove lost.  // // We have nothing to wear but wear it
// // Around the river mouth the tides
run strong.  // // Channels and banks of shingle shift and melt, // /
/ The crescent moon // // some cryptic
rune .  // // The senses fly.  // // It’s Jan, not June.  // // Back ho
forest // // tumbling mountain // //
running stream // // rambling moor // // changing sea // // blue se
nd the wall, level with the top, // //
running the gauntlet of the winter storm.  // // The tide is high, and
-birds calling // // to face the town,
runs headlong for the bar, // // Breath the scents the sea-winds brin
Sonnet // // Cold and clear.  The tide
runs out, the creek // // is draining back again towards the sea.  //
Nonnet // // Cold and clear.  The tide
runs out, the creek // // is draining back towards the sea.  // // Al
itself.  Without wear or favour, fools
rush in, where angels wear to tread.  I’ll wear not what men say.  //
// //   // // In the California gold
rush of 1849, and again in the Klondike in 1896, in order to make prop
home?  // // It’s a level that the tide
rushes past // // on its way up and again // // on its way down.  //
y station, noisy, full // // of people
rushing there and back.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack click-clack
nd the corners and the rooftops, // //
rushing wild clouds across the sky, // // lying abed beneath the cobw
SoundsTriolets // // On
Rushup Edge // // Voices far across the valley sound // // through s
/ still lake // // resting lake // //
rustling forest // // tumbling mountain // // running stream // //