calculated indefatigable and tentatively illimitable naïveté …

breathe it all / in




                                no thought today
                                nothing is joined up
                                nothing ever was

                                I just thought it was
                                thought it should be
                                the way I valued it

                                          to be
                                          so tired

                                from not connecting
                                from finding no reflection
                                to recognise myself

                                to be and so sure that
                                all these thoughts were
                                coming from a someone


                                                                                       it will
be so

                                it will never be
                                so and the import
                                ance of all this

                                is to live and
                                breathe it all





being & identity wormhole: extrapolates
breathing & life & living wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
reflection wormhole: there
settling wormhole: reversing the polarity
thought wormhole: connections
values wormhole: the sounds the difficulty and the long long strands of liquorice






                past the deep pink-slash columns
                                of the temple
                                              steps wide and flanking
                                the salmon town behind
                                              in olive evening

                                              I needed to utter
                but my conscious mouth could not form
                                around the sound
                                              deeper than the back of my throat
                                dark as the shape
                                              that suddenly shifted in the temple





evening wormhole: tag cloud poem VI – anyone’s eyes
olive wormhole: multifarious: the Dark Knight Returns (1986)
passing wormhole: waiting room
pink wormhole: is she / looking at me?
sound wormhole: Batman#175






                the trouble of doing more
                                than just doing
                                              is that it extrapolates
                                              beyond the event itself in order to
                                maximise the effect
                and make myself stand out from the activity-
                                                              enough to notice myself





being wormhole: reversing the polarity
doing & identity wormhole: irretrievable / breakdown / of marriage
samsara wormhole: no exit
talking to yself wormhole: we’re all the same age really


irretrievable / breakdown / of marriage




                                                                                 of marriage

                                                              the anxiety
                of proffering
                                what I have to do or say – born of
                                              leapt insight
                                                              and creativity –
                                                              and it being
                                courteously passed in the corridor with a slightly
                                              over-long smile
                or curtly skipped to the next item –
                                 nothing to contribute                     look it’s not on
                                              the agenda                        important things to do –
                                                              stupid stupid stupid

                                and the punishment of being
                                              relied on
                                to contribute nevertheless





anxiety & doing & identity wormhole: reversing the polarity
creativity wormhole: poessay VIII: / educational behaviourism
obligation wormhole: The Future of Teaching: performance or capability (‘oh, not ‘teaching’ then?’)
smile wormhole: letters to Mum IV – healing comes in smiling
teaching wormhole: no exit







                             between the clouds the
                           sea and grasses the power
                                         of undulation





Buddha wormhole: posture
clouds wormhole: oh-pen too
haiku(esque) wormhole: ‘I come from the brow …’
sea wormhole: a cup of tea, gov


reversing the polarity




                                              to have gentleness in what I do
                                to forsake the old anxiety
                that drives me to do different to be better to achieve vindication
                                              to cultivate a dwelling counter to
                                pushing through and defining myself
                by that pushing
                                the way to set up home in this all is to just sit
                and to just do whatever I am doing while
                                              reversing the polarity





anxiety & doing & settling & sitting wormhole: should is good when / too used to cruise
being wormhole: contemplating my painted copy / of Vallejo’s Conan
identity wormhole: whirlpool


is she / looking at me?




                                              is she
                                looking at me?

                                several blinks
                and her hands in her lap
                fingers clasped loosely around the others
                                a free thumb brushes
                                              the finger joints







Brighton wormhole: tag cloud poem III – the journey to BEING and back again
girl wormhole: the retriever the daughter and the mother
hands wormhole: Batman#175
looking wormhole: oh-pen
muse wormhole: still waving!
pink wormhole: a cup of tea, gov
train wormhole: sniff


letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love





Dear Mum,

it was a shock to see you in hospital, overstretched just
                                living at home
                                and still I hadn’t admitted just
                                              how ill you are
                                and the meet to make the final arrangements
                for whenever they become and seeing you face up to this yourself
                                              has shown me dealing with icing and marzipan
                                                              and not a lot much courage

                it is almost guaranteed that we will not say goodbye as we would like
                                I’d like to say all the things that a Grand Goodbye at the End of a Life
                                              through the choke and early mourning wisp of times
                                                              we grew together in Genesta Road
                                that will always remain

                                              that you are coming to the end of your life
                                is so definitely sad, you said that
                                              you don’t want us to be too upset
                but I am going to be anyway, and already am
                                I will be losing a dear parent
                                I will be losing a dear friend
                                              and I have to be sad about that
(with Nan I came through the crying by learning the times we spent together
                like a lesson, sharing and doing
                                I wish I had shared this with her)
                                              I will be sad losing you
                but I won’t be sad because I am losing our lives together
                                these things which have already happened
                                              which cannot be lost
                                even when you die
                                even when I die:

                your fight to bring us up after Dad left
                                the sacrifices moving down from Eglington Hill
                                              a posh meal only on Sundays
                you said to me one day that we were only a paper delivery away
                                              from the standard of living as when Dad was there
                                as we crossed a road doing shopping for here and there
                the happy stores we had in for Christmas
                                you having to go to work every day
and making the best of it coming home
                                              to the sparse meal to help with the diet
                                                                                    hundreds of times
                hundreds of times which I cannot remember and never experienced
but stay in my heart
                it wasn’t effort in vain
                it wasn’t not noticed
                it wasn’t not valued

Thank you.   I was aware

                                from quite early that
                                I was one of very few children
                                whose parent had left them in the 1960s
                your bringing me up is one of the most treasured things in my life
                                              you taught me this
                                although I still haven’t mastered
                or even learnt it very well: carrying on in duty and love
                                you have had much to be bitter about
                                but I have seen you – visibly – emerge
                                like a Phoenix “come on, this is no good …”
                (I am a depressive and a self – indulger and “aren’t you ever going to smile again …?”
                                              that child still does it – far too serious when there is anything to do
                                with him) and I treasure the laughs we had when younger
                                              I will learn to have them in my own family
                because I will miss you when you go
                                and every time I miss you I will have silly time with them
                I remember aching stomach at times
                                I remember you squealing with laughter
                                              I remember Nan’s joy at seeing you laugh so much when you did;
                                I know you hadn’t perfected it yourself
                                I know I only remember the times when it just happened
                                              but it is a valuable lesson

                the magic of Eglington Hill
                                with its many rooms, its endless floors
                                              become a symbol
of possibilities of life, the ‘scene’ of your providing and care
                the magic of Genesta Road
                                where I grew to learn how to see
                                the bedroom decorated orange and yellow
                                then black and white because you asked us
                with shelves to put my comics and books
                                the kitchen to study with the smell of meal
                                              the lounge to book and write and type …
                                                              flavours of my life
                my development now the space which you clothed me in
                                you are those flavours and
                                as I ‘develop’ into the future
                                you are always here
                                              (you always started from what I was
                                               and letting me do what I needed whether you liked it or not
                I try the same with my own kids
                but only remember when I fail
                                yet another lesson, Mum,
                                you have been so wise
                                              and neither you nor I have
                                              fully appreciated it)

                                the magic of reading:
                                the mere presence of books
                                the unfold of opening paper
                                the rocky uphill of snatched syntax
                the scent of travel the pride of cover
                                I try to have the same for my kids
                so that even if they never read them
                                              they will line their walls with book
                (Joe has satire and sci-fi and atlas
                                Jon has earth and struggle and revolution
                                              Charlotte has stacks and stacks of comic)
                                I will be satisfied with that and I hope you had a similar hope
                                              and yes, Mum, it worked
                                                              and it was valuable
                                                                                    another job well done, I think

                                invigoration of sheets over ourselves and haunting the Common one morning
                putting all the milk bottles from the street on the doorstep of one house a few doors down
                                              planning the front room when you won some money, allowing ourselves gift of ideas on wheels
                letting me go hitch – hiking when I suddenly said I needed to go – I still don’t know how you did that
                                friendship of strolling the park, the ruined Abbey, wandering Woolwich on a Saturday morning
                                                              Mother and Son strolling

                and yes, I can agree with you, you have had a good life
                wherever you go we will meet again in some way
                and these specks of our lives will intrigue us
                                              in some form familiar but unrecognisable
I am very sad to be losing you but comforted with what we have shared
                it is probably only now that I realise how much I love you
                                              and how closely we lived

                I shall miss the Mum who taught me a life
                                but I shall always be breathing the lesson

love from,


Mum died 20th March 1999; I wrote this letter but hesitated sending it – a regret of my life; I ‘send’ it now hoping she’ll read it somewhere.   Having marked her would-be 81st birthday the day before yesterday, I thought it high time …




part of the ongoing life and page of … Mum
bedroom wormhole: sitting up in bed s i m u l t a n e o u s l y
black wormhole: capes flying
books wormhole: Tulips by Sylvia Plath – How Far To Step Before You Raise The Other Foot
breathing wormhole: whirlpool
child & Christmas & Dad & Eglinton Hill & Genesta Road & mother & Mum & talking wormhole: letters to Mum IV – healing comes in smiling
comics wormhole: introducing / the stranger
death wormhole: we’re born // to die
kitchen wormhole: sounds // suddenly / stop
life wormhole & writing time: no exit
living wormhole: letters to Mum III – ongoing-term // eventually
love wormhole: a cup of tea, gov
morning & streets wormhole: oh-pen too
Nan & work wormhole: letters to mum II – family // like a grate
orange wormhole: the precision // the gentleness // and / the letting go
reading wormhole: stuck free to move within
roads wormhole: I could step / more open
Saturday wormhole: letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk
speech wormhole: we’re all the same age really
Sunday wormhole: zazen in everyday life
white wormhole: Bat-Shadow
Woolwich wormhole: ‘like a piece of ice on a hot stove / the poem must ride on its own melting’
yellow wormhole: on sitting / in front of / a hedge


mlewisredford is now THREEEEEEE! – and he’s getting tired and middle aged

so, now; three years old today – ‘I thougt it was longer’ said C, and it does feel like longer … blogging has a tendency to rather collapse the ticking of time (‘… has anyone looked at my last post yet; what about now; what about now?’).

Over these years I have noticed bloggers who just disappear from the scene (i.e. they take their blogs down – Linda Redwine, Sarah Jane Prosetry …), those who just stop blogging (assailed teacher, Earthslang, dizzy yet?, Misfits Miscellany, omrum), and those who just go private (Emina Redzic).   Is three years a long time for a blog – is mlewisredford getting way into middle age … I am feeling tired, but I don’t think I want to go just yet …

Anyway, celebrations: 1323 poems, 47 poeviews, 15 892 views, 1 566 followers (followers going crazy since I got freshly pressed over a year ago, but most of them I don’t hear from again, they’re just looking for a little advertising …) and I am gradually reincorporating my work on teaching matters; and lookit …

mlr stats 2014

… and then …

mlr world 2014

… and look at this bunch of sweeties (johnnycrabcakes – a fine pond skater; Liana – an hour of soft light; Rhino House – better than an elephant in a room; John – a Reader living life; Jilanne Hoffman a writer with stacks of books; Bonnie Marshall – a superb Reader – like pouring water into a cup; (and a special mention to Jana White – an appreciator of evenings) …

mlr commenters 2014

… these seem to be pretty popular:

me – 497 hits
Moebius strip – 447 hits
index – 208 hits; some of my best work here
poeviews – 124 hits
Batman: Year One (1987) – 95 hits, quite an old’n
one lovely blog award – 85 hits … sheesh
wormholes – 72 hits; and I’ve barely started writing this one …
others – 69 hits; which I’m pleased about
the Last Day of Morecambe Illuminations – 60 hits; which I’m surprised about
thought-provoking blog – 46 hits; well, who’d’ve thought
the Dragon’s Loyalty Award – 41 hits; ‘fume’
here is a / whiney accumulation of / wisdom – 41 hits, entered a Poem of the Month competition – didn’t win
my life / of others – 38 hits, surprised, because its a long bugger
Shine On Award – 34 hits
Bob 1995-2012 – 33 hits, sweet cat
I offered you ignored – 33 hits
“I / am Spartacus” – 31 hits
“don’t move / just die / over and over … / be true to / yourself / and don’t move” / – Suzuki Roshi – 30 hits
‘like a piece of ice on a hot stove / the poem must ride on its own melting’ – 29 hits
‘I can write …’ – 29 hits
the early morning of the sixties – 29 hits
‘I am a secret / superhero …’ – 28 hits …

and so on; I’m often surprised which pieces are more popular, and often disappointed with the response to others which I am really excited about; and most of these top hits are old posts anyway …

And, as ever, on this day also, my dear Mum would have been 81 today.

no exit




no exit

                it’s because I accede
to the davidbowiemusiccamebackafternineyears
                that it stays in my head
                like a soundtrack

                it is because I accede
                to the replay of the meeting
where I should have come back with the line that scythes all possible points silent with a single swathe
                that it keeps repeating
                soap opera-variable
                like an omnibus

                                that I find great difficulty
                                              finding the end of this sentence





Bowie wormhole: aladdin sane
life wormhole: we’re born // to die
music wormhole: tune up // baton taptaptap
samsara wormhole: sunny day
teaching wormhole: poessay IX – … just saying, is all II
time wormhole: we’re all the same age really
writing wormhole: oh-pen too



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