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
ng, if not a line, // // at least some
vague direction.  // // Once in a while, though, they seem // // to s
a line of those same firs // // looks
vaguely oriental.  // // Since then, of course, the bracken // // has
cloud // // take train // // whether
vain // // same old // // shave again // // it’s insane // // i’m
/ to inform or confuse, // // elate or
validate or grieve— // // these words live.  // //
; // // descend the steps to reach the
valley floor— // // to leave behind, for now, the wilder moor.  // //
er ground.  // // Voices far across the
valley sound.  // // The hills ranged all around // // —they little c
ushup Edge // // Voices far across the
valley sound // // through still, warm air, // // clear to my vantag
ttle care.  // // Voices far across the
valley sound // // through still, warm air.  // // On the top deck of
// Climb by the obvious route from the
valley , with // // Derwent behind me and scrambles ahead of me.  // /
ering, under the sky.  // // Mountains,
valleys , moors and dales, meadows, // // hills, ravines descending, u
nozzle and tap.  // // Above, a tube, a
valve , a smaller tube.  // // Subjective // // An invasion of my priv
wonderfully // // ornate.  A pump and
valves from a washing machine.  // // An electric fan.  The dial of a
// In Friday Market square // // Jacob
van Artevelde makes an expansive gesture // // towards the setting su
the train moves on, // // the guard’s
van trundles at the back.  // // The bogeys go: click-clack click-cla
an’t find.  // // How could it suddenly
vanish ?  // // It hasn’t just fallen behind.  // // Two of our cushion
hat a train // // will emerge from the
vanishing point.  // //
there.”  // // Sadiq says “The Boris’s
vanity project has // // gone off the rails.  I’m not such a mug.  //
ugh still, warm air, // // clear to my
vantage point on higher ground.  // // Voices far across the valley so
/ // string, cord, matchstick, tallow,
vardo // // cromarty, ringwold or savage ground // // smoked trout,
al stress // // expresses change.  Some
variant has found // // how good sex is—to mix the genes around.  //
, conjugation, // // other morphologic
variations , // // awaiting Dr Johnson’s ministrations, // // waiting
ick-clack.  // // On holiday by train! 
Vast hall // // of city station, noisy, full // // of people rushing
een feeding grounds // // in lop-sided
vees and slanting lines, // // dark against the sky.  // // Ahead, an
// Milk // // Sausages or chops // //
Veg —broccoli?  // // Some fruit // // Present for C—book?  // // Coat
ped to my thigh // // with elastic and
velcro .  // // Below, a nozzle and tap.  // // Above, a tube, a valve,
use // // that is my mother’s next big
venture after // // producing six of us.  // // L-shaped the house; e
hose dense interior // // we sometimes
venture .  // // Beyond the fir-trees lies // // a bracken-covered hea
ed earth // // Where tender shoots may
venture forth // // On weed-o’er-run Shalott?  // // She who hath thi
ill each line from side to side, // //
verbosely quite enough to float or sink a battle-ship.  // // But perh
// // Or maybe I should write it in a
verse .  // // But now the dawn has come, it does not pass, // // this
nough for any line.  // // With a terse
verse form, you see, // // I can get along just fine.  // // But seve
// // Back the way we came.  // // All
verse is born free.  // //
the best of intent // // In rollicking
verse // // On a galloping horse— // // But Aix was as far as he wen
on.  // // Maybe I should write it in a
verse // // with Frida as my muse and inspiration // // This figment
, // // like the bard from Japan whose
verses never would scan, adds an extra list.  // // As we* reach the s
and the postal order).  // // Rhythmic
verses with echoed refrain // // in the rhythmic clattering noise of
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 // /
rewed-on wood- // // and metal-working
vices added to those // // caused by generations of kitchen knives.  /
ave.  // // There were no victors: only
victims .  // //
ntury turns.  // // Right on cue, Queen
Victoria dies.  // // (Next time around, in the digital era // // we
s of south London, 1969.  // // A small
Victorian terrace house // // stuccoed and flat-fronted.  // // No el
an unmarked grave.  // // There were no
victors : only victims.  // //
an easier // // path with spectacular
views over Bassenthwaite.  // // Walking down quickly, not paying atte
umboots.  The mile or two // // to the
village shop to seek supplies // // becomes a daily ritual.  // // Su
fftown; Deeside; Dumfries // // roads;
villages // // One to sixty three thousand three hundred and sixty:  T
kham 1969—1991 // // Of eighteen sixty
vintage , the house is flat // // in face, no sign of the deep bay win
e nuts and bolts and washers // // are
visible within.  // // Gathered round about, a motley crew // // of c
eed a designer with // // boldness and
vision —I know just the man.  // // He has built me some buses which bo
// // And in my mind it conjures up a
vision // // of the image that inspired it: a scattering // // of pe
e of zens.  The zens of the fathers are
visited on the sons, even if living in zen.  // // Gloves are a many-s
duced me to so many artists.  As I have
visited other places, I have found other treasures, and regret not hav
// — // // 1973.  Six-year-old Emily
visits .  // // At home, two days later, // // she says to her dad //
ss // // against their boundaries.  The
vital stress // // expresses change.  Some variant has found // // ho
eas he makes a worthy guide; // // his
voice is lively, gestures wide.  // // The sun and wind upon the trees
.  // // In the lecture room // // His
voice is lively, gestures wide— // // there is much sense in what he
isten, but my musing strays.  // // His
voice is lively, gestures wide.  // // There is much sense in what he
gainst 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 mor
ad’s cacophony.  // // Dialectic // //
Voices coming from the room next door: // // thesis and antithesis, d
ate is all—a synthesis can wait.  // //
Voices coming from the room next door:  // // Thesis and Antithesis de
vantage point on higher ground.  // //
Voices far across the valley sound.  // // The hills ranged all around
dsTriolets // // On Rushup Edge // //
Voices far across the valley sound // // through still, warm air, //
around // // —they little care.  // //
Voices far across the valley sound // // through still, warm air.  //
doctor asks the same once more, // //
voices from the curtained bed next door.  // // Responses muted, thoug
mal, machine.  // // In hospital // //
Voices from the curtained bed next door: // // someone else’s fragile
ons orderly, while exuding care.  // //
Voices from the curtained bed next door: // // someone else’s fragile
ime noises permeate the air // // with
voices human, animal, machine.  // // An owl, a leaping fish, a fox af
ime noises permeate the air // // with
voices human, animal, machine.  // // In hospital // // Voices from t
at he says.  // // Small hour // // No
voices in the almost-silence that I hear, // // the soft subliminal s
d link, and split, and fight.  // // No
voices in the almost-silence that I hear, // // the soft subliminal s
no human language in my ear, // // no
voices in the almost-silence that I hear.  // // The words within my h
.  // // On the top deck of a 68 // //
Voices , ipods, phones speak out— // // add to the road’s cacophony.  /
erein lies some deep philosophy?  // //
Voices , ipods, phones speak out— // // add to the road’s cacophony.  /
and ether people mutter, shout, // //
voices , ipods, phones speak out.  // // So many people talking: can w
// // what was left was not so much a
void // // as that which in my London childhood // // we’d call a bo
and calms, // // earthquake-waves and
volcanic dust, // // soft breezes and winter gales.  // // Was I ship
Sculpting the
vortex // // // // Jacob’s Rock Drill pierces through the brain //
ng wide, // // as if to start out on a
voyage , a full round-Britain trip.  // // I’ll need a ton of words to
countries tell // // or take you on a
voyage through deepest space: // // fall, fall into the writer’s well
of geese // // more travels, journeys,
voyages , expeditions // // more books, more coffee cups // // more t