ah … // oh … // meanwhile … // … // tha ya ta …


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,




le mot just
the piquant phrase
                                         the simple model rising magnificent
                                         from cavalcades
                                         of stoic tumbling

                                         threads through like
                                         weave which clothes me
                                         presentable to the world …

                                         but no one sees the
                                         emperor’s clothes of
                                         such fine thread it cannot
                                         be seen, no wise child
                                         to point and exclaim
                                         the hang and drape
                                         to put an end to all step –
                                         “look, mummy, that man
                                           is not an emperor!”



less than naked
I am seen right through
                                         adrift of discourse
                                         I step with stubborn countenance,
                                         all the better to
                                         stare myself into existence,



awkward and
hidden away in some attic
                                         lest I lose [what I haven’t
                                         got] self-contained in trembling
                                         vanity, secretive in hope
                                         of things to come, desparate
                                         in tragedy that my grimy
                                         portrait might be seen …


wander, wander
around the flowers, smell
                                         their colour, breathe their
                                         light and let the light rain
                                         fall in shards of rainbow,
                                         cleansing with love –




                      om     ga – te     ga – te
                                      pa – ra – ga – te
                                                      pa – ra – sam – ga – te
                                                                      bo – dhi     so – ha


retirement #3 when in Granada … visit the Alhambra, and visit the Generalife gardens … [if you have booked up to three months ahead]; on the walk up to the palaces are trees and shrubs which are plenty-watered by sprinklers, in the morning sun the sprays will often catch a rainbow at their edge; the bordered captions in the poem are comic-conjunctives, there is a beginning, middle and end being told here, folks; the mantra: thaya tha om gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi soha, is the mantra of Prajnaparamita, the Perfection of Wisdom; it can be somewhat semantically translated as “it’s like this: [everything is] gone, gone, completely gone, completely and perfectly gone with no loss, enlightened [dispersed, dispelled] all-right!”; but what’s ‘gone’: “the slings and arrows of outrageous romance” … of one’s self and the whole world positioned awkward to placate its mewling little story, as stolen by Joni Mitchell, who was talking too much at the time, from ‘Willy the Shake’;




being wormhole: pocket
breathing wormhole: within
child & light wormhole: this aching // and spacious dichotomy
comics wormhole: chartless …
identity wormhole: not / the Catcher
love wormhole: love and precision
rain wormhole: monument to vainglory
realisation wormhole: passing below
seeing wormhole: con / sum / mate
speech wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – snow
words wormhole: just saying, is all VI: // accountable / for my own outbreath / …
world wormhole: the skyline




, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

                constant éclat and smack
                from spout of god or shell

                of cherub avec fraças and
                badinage of flowing passersby

                who pause in declaratory
                language among nodding

                pigeons, lap outwards to
                swell the trough, embodying

                under plinth and pillar
                of warm carved stone





passing wormhole: passing below
people & walking wormhole: this sodden land
pigeons wormhole: portrait: / two pigeons
sound wormhole: balance
stone wormhole: b / r / e / a / t / h / i / n / g
talking wormhole: just saying, is all VI: // accountable / for my own outbreath / …
water wormhole: happen//ing




, , , , , , , , , , , ,


                the giant grasshoppers
                and rubbed their hind legs

                two years later steel & glass
                pedestals swayed slightly





buildings wormhole: the skyline
crane wormhole: 1965
glass wormhole: poessay III: jijimuge
London wormhole: lonely and free
Thames wormhole: tag cloud poem IX – haiku is awkward / the more that is left in / like uncombed hair
time wormhole: pen and ruler
wind wormhole: monument to vainglory


this sodden land


, , , , , , , , ,

                people arguing cutting
                across each other
                wilful to the others’ needs

                that once were met
                that brought them together
                mire me deeper into

                this sodden land

                stuck where I cannot walk
                doubtful all the time of
                all the purpose of walking





people wormhole: beepbeep
pointlessness wormhole: Prajnaparamita // Maitreya
society wormhole: cut while you’re ahead/cut while you’re a thread – poewieview #35
walking wormhole: 1964




, , , , , ,


                                sitting wherever I am
                                while searching for
                                wherever I want to be,
                                both before and after,

                                I’ll never find it, and yet

                                while looking around
                                for some other title
                                or signpost, is so much
                                more comfortable than






anxiety wormhole: Prajnaparamita // Maitreya
being wormhole: passing below
searching wormhole: 1964
sitting wormhole: woven-through


passing below


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

                what do I want in life
                what shall I write

                but I gaze out the window
                across the streetlights hanging

                in the blue blue sky and
                realise I cannot keep the thought

                I already have in mind and
                need to take notice of the traffic

                passing below





awareness & writing wormhole: con / sum / mate
being & thought wormhole: within
blue & sky & talking to myself wormhole: love and precision
life wormhole: not / the Catcher
passing wormhole: balance
realisation wormhole: traffic lights and broad avenue
streetlight wormhole: sleep now
windows wormhole: this aching // and spacious dichotomy




, , , , , , , ,

                                better at meditation
                isn’t a matter of having less thoughts –
                                distracting or otherwise –
                                                or even
a matter of being seduced by them and following them deadened wherever they go
                                                or not

                                                it is
                                about the space
                to breathe within
                every fibre of their being
                                whether they are frantic
                                                or calm
                                                or not





being wormhole: not / the Catcher
breathing wormhole: just saying, is all VI: // accountable / for my own outbreath / …
distraction wormhole: because
letting go wormhole: Prajnaparamita // Maitreya
meditation wormhole: out!
space wormhole: con / sum / mate
thought wormhole: passersby


not / the Catcher


, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

                and I never wanted
                to be visible from
                the beginning

                always knew that
                was not where I
                act, but in the

                shift that lets
                momentum spend
                but steers

                way before the edge; not
                the Catcher here – much
                much more patient than that


retirement #2; having caught my breath a little, there is time, perhaps, to take the despondancy and meld (sic) into it, on an atomic level, what really was lost during all that time?




being wormhole: ‘field of corn …’
doing wormhole: matter
identity & retirement wormhole: monument to vainglory
life wormhole: Prajnaparamita // Maitreya
recognition wormhole: just saying, is all VI: // accountable / for my own outbreath / …


pen and ruler


, , , , , , , , , , ,

                stepped to the earth
                a god stood like a man

                brooded on the docks
                by the pillars while a

                city grew and festered
                about the river in the

                twenty third century
                pen and ruler


possibly a poeview of ‘thru these architect’s eyes by David Bowie without my even realising it at the time




city wormhole: 1964
river wormhole: industrial estate
Thor wormhole: my / superpower
time wormhole: just saying, is all VI: // accountable / for my own outbreath / …


monument to vainglory


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

                     where am I
                     cast free here

                     where the wind resolves
                     horizontal and

                     implacable between
                     the necessary institution

                     I held on

                     long as I could
                     way after I’d turned

                     glorious yellow
                     wet, brown and pasted

                     to the bifurcating
                     branch, tensile to every gust;

                     I was tired of any

                     direction at all;
                     to the ground with me,

                     stability and whimsical reach were

                     never my natural element,
                     open out to minute


                     into a revolving planet and
                     leave (ha!) myself

                     mulched to branch
                     monument to vainglory


retirement #1: a significant passage in life which doesn’t have a particular rite, religious or otherwise; I have retired since the beginning of this academic year – I had a flurry of written response when I holidayed in Granada, but since then, nothing; I have not been writing much, I have been cast adrift (the end of my career was what was left after my ability to keep going in to teach at school, eventually dissolved … fizzled) …




abandonment wormhole: beepbeep
autumn wormhole: 1964
branches wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Snow
breakdown wormhole: dry rot
brown wormhole: magnificent salad
career & teaching wormhole: just saying, is all VI: // accountable / for my own outbreath / …
identity & work wormhole: matter
leaves wormhole: Prajnaparamita // Maitreya
rain wormhole: balance
retirement wormhole: Granada holiday …
wind wormhole: 1964
yellow wormhole: … swap round