IN THE ‘SCONSET BUS by William Carlos Williams


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                IN THE ‘SCONSET BUS

                      Upon the fallen

                      a gauzy down–
                      And on

                      the nape

                      a mat
                      of yellow hair

                      stuck with

                      not quite

                      matching it

                      two shades

                      at the roots

                      from the ears
                      the hooks

                      piercing the

                      gold and semi-

                      And in her

                      lap the dog

                      his head on

                      the ample
                      shoulder his

                      mouth agape

                      pants restlessly


from POEMS 1932
it was the revelation: that there was of such importance, in the minute observation, with wonder, of the minutest things, with love, and their intersposal with each other, with relationship, quite denuded of any sticky intention, that let’s them so; that has made WCW such an influential poet for me




bus wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 220211
dog wormhole: on / that / day
gold wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Rain
hair & mouth wormhole: The Atlantic City Convention: 1. THE WAITRESS by William Carlos Williams
love wormhole: poessay XI – piquant love
travelling wormhole: nowhere / that can be seen
William Carlos Williams wormhole: POEM by William Carlos Williams
yellow wormhole: travelling,


nowhere / that can be seen


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                late from the evening:
                the second-floor apartment

                the lights are Jacksoned
                all about the hill, some orange

                and insistent, some white with no design
                to the gash of nothing

                of the river; wait, solitary
                headlights work slow down the road

                into town, but’s OK, it is
                Sunday, they sidle idly behind

                tree-silhouettes and get nowhere
                that can be seen


in September we looked after the apartment of our friend in Totnes; we do this from time to time; this time we travelled by train – takes the best part of a day to travel just over 200 miles; we arrived and settled and it was already getting dark; the apartment has a wonderful window, a cathedral window, from the floor apexed into the roof looking out over Totnes settled either side of the river Dart: there’s nothing for it, many evenings, but to turn out the lights and look across the valley at the lights …




doing & black & orange wormhole: travel // when I die
evening wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – I took my camera into the fields
river wormhole: at Kreukenhof
roads wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – sooner; / and later
silhouette wormhole: riders of the night
streetlight wormhole: sometimes
Sunday wormhole: PASTORAL by William Carlos Williams
travelling & white wormhole: travelling,
trees wormhole: on / that / day


Bodhisattvacharyavatara: Chapter VI, Patience – verses 128-132; reflectionary



Bodhisattvacharyavatara by Acharya Śāntideva

Chapter VI– verses 128-132

Transglomeration: [128] For example, acting completely alone, a king’s officer could intimidate and persecute a whole crowd of people, but those in the crowd who are clear-headed would not react even if they had the opportunity.   [129] This is because they know that the officer does not act alone but with the power of the king.   Likewise, I should not make light of or react to even the slightest of these beings who do me even the slightest wrong … [130] for they are backed by the power of both the guardians of hell and the Compassionate Ones.   So I should respect and please each of these beings as I would the officer of that fiery king.   [131] Moreover, what could even such an enraged king unleash upon me comparable to the tortures and agonies of hell which would certainly become my experience from causing the sorrow of beings?   [132] And what possible reward could a gratified king bestow comparable to the realisation of Buddhahood which would certainly be achieved if I was instrumental in bringing benefit and happiness to beings?

~~~ “BCA” ~~~

V. 127 serving beings serves Buddhas, serves my own ends, ending suffering = my Vow & practice
↑ Stitch ↓
V. 128-132 benefitting beings using the analogy of a king’s steward

Reflection: [128] it is best not to retaliate against bullies in power [129] because they have the might of that power protecting them; the full force – the punchline – of these two verses does not come until verse 130; these verses establish clearly (i.e. spells it out over two verses) that you don’t mess with other beings who are well-protected (in this case under the protection of a king: now, the ‘might is right’ is not so openly practised as to provide a useful example; now it is the fear of law (maybe…), social approbation (maybe…), but I can’t think of an example of an ‘untouchable’ outside of the social dynamics of gangsterism … maybe the equivalent is politicians, now, but their conduct has become the policy of repression, and their ‘protection’ is that ‘them’s makes the rules’, the Law), even though they might be one against a whole crowd, a whole populace, of people, because the punishment/retribution/comeback for messing with them would be definite and probably enhanced far beyond what you did; it is the definiteness and the extent of the comeback which would hold you back, and this is the point to be clearly established here using a worldly/political/military illustration, so you just wouldn’t do it, if you’re at all wise; even though the ‘steward’ might be just one against thousands, even though the crowd would be able to tear him limb from limb and eat his liver, even though he might personally be completely uncharismatic or stupid or impetuous in his actions, as long as he bears the king’s insignia, he is untouchable; it’s not saying it is right, it is merely establishing a clear illustration of how you ‘don’t mess’ with some people even if you have the perfect opportunity when you meet this person alone in a dark alley (in a neighbourhood from which the whole local population has been inexplicably moved out for … reasons, so there are no witnesses), and you happen to have a whole workshop of freshly-sharpened disembowelling knives and machetes with you and a spare machine-gun in your back pocket, ‘just in case’, still, this person is protected, don’t mess …); the point is some people are untouchable because someone else has their backs, they are protected by someone else – this is the only point being established in these two verses

Reflection: [131] (Jimmy Cagney voice): ‘… there’s protection on these beings, see; all of them, they’re very special to my dear friends; my friends, you see, they have this ‘special interest’ in all these beings: big plans, big dreams – yes, all of them (I don’t see it myself, still, that’s the way it is, I am loyal to my friends); now, we can do this the easy way – that’s how my friends would prefer it done, hell, they’d even want to include you in, the Family, sheesh – or we can spend some time (heh, quite a lotta time, actually) doing business with my boys, here (and, I’ll be totally frank with you, I’d prefer we didn’t have to use them, `always so much mess to clear up afterwards); so, come on, let’s be reasonable, here, we’re all grown-ups now, aren’t we…?’

Practice: when encountering someone who is against me, quick-as-a-flash, I imagine a hell-demon slavering behind them, newly-leering because I am about to do something which means it will be able to impale me or split me open yet one more time, and then, also quick-as-a-flash, I imagine a Compassionate Being behind them with a look of brows-raised-open-mouth shock at the harm I am about to unleash on them through my anger … that ought to calm me down

Reflection: [131] a king, an enemy with power, could deprive me of my rights, torture me, even kill me, fine, but once I’m dead he couldn’t do anything more to me – that’s the worst a sentient being could do to another; a hellish torment would not end with the exhaustion of my body, my life during that torment would not be short-lived; and this would all result from having harmed other beings in whatever way: they have the ‘protection’ of the hell-demons and the Compassionate Ones, not in the sense that they will stop the harm that we might inflict on others, but that they guarantee that there will be an outcome in terms of causal inevitability (the hell-demons will pay it back) and severity (the harm done will have hurt both the beings directly, and have frustrated the wishes of the Compassionate Ones, we don’t get away from having only hurt sentient beings, we hurt the Compassionate Ones as well – this is no small transgression); do the Compassionate Ones have wishes that we can go against and frustrate – in the sense that they are Enlightened, no, they have attained Enlightenment, but in that their only and natural function once they have achieved Enlightenment is to – by default – respond to those who, un-understandably, are not Enlightened, with compassion (they cannot not be like this, like water cannot not be wet, like water cannot not spread to the edges of that into which it is poured); if we, as deluded sentient beings are actively harming other beings, we are being more than just suffering beings needing help and direction, we are actively frustrating that very help and direction being supplied by the Compassionate Ones … have we no measure of our own blindness?

Reflection: [132] and – of course – this can be flipped (because this isn’t because it’s the ‘rules of some game’, it’s not because ‘Simon says’, it’s because this is the causal and conditioned reality devoid of the illusion of a ‘self’ of oneself or other which makes it seem like ‘all is for the taking’, ‘he who dares wins’, ‘luvvly jubbly’; when there is no self-existent anything, all that is left is the care and welfare of ‘other’ that hasn’t quite got round to realising it all yet, and what a quagmire of suffering they’re stuck in as a result): that if we pleased a ‘king’ (someone in power and influence), if we really got in there and charmed and impressed and proved indispensable to this someone of power, the best they might do would bestow some of that power, influence and maybe wealth back onto us; is that it?: power which could be undermined or equally taken away, influence that is as up to date as fashion, wealth which is only really useful when ‘liquid’ (as Gordon Gekko remarked), none of which would leave me any guarantee even into my old age, let alone my death; is that the best this king could bestow me – an unsteady burden, a shifting sand; and yet Buddhahood (no need of power or influence – no world or self to exercise over; no need of wealth and enjoyment – no need or self to indulge) could just be ours without any of the lifetime-career expended trying to position ourselves right within a loaded game in which we can never win … just by making others happy

Practice: don’t play the game, it’s always loaded; let the focus always be ‘benefit towards others’



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                an accord of yellow cranes
                pointing all in the direction passed

                golf greens flat and patchwork
                before fields of pylons on the horizon

                pointing awry in the sky yielding
                to cooling towers spuming in the direction passed

                into the sky until the white wind
                turbines underline the blue and grey afternoon


travelling north through the midlands to Cumbria back through 32 years of time …




afternoon & passing & sky & train & travelling & white wormhole: travel // when I die
blue & grey wormhole: blue sky high
crane wormhole: poessay XI – piquant love
horizon & yellow wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – valley


despite all / depiction


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                so, lowing
                and looking east
                from all the crumbling musculature
                of past empire,
                chewing cud

                ninety nine percent
                of all and ever species have become extinct and I
                cannot deconstruct
                the categories-
                enough to read

                the lines and mass
                of stijl, reminds me
                that I try to be far too clever trying to read
                despite all


mused from a visit ot the Museum at Darmstadt attending the celebration of Jon and Sara’s wedding




architecture wormhole: travel // when I die
history wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – An Old Piano
life wormhole: poessay XI – piquant love
reality wormhole: SPRING AND ALL XXII by William Carlos Williams
thinking wormhole: riders of the night


Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – tenderness


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                                lost candle holders
                mother of pearl flower centres

                                upright for £6
                polished, tuned just before the war

                                new chords,
                putting the cat up on the keyboard

                                humming interior,
                green-felt arpeggios rising to apogee –

                                sitar strings –
                it cannot last much longer now,

                                turned to the
                walnut altar: evenings of war in London

                                the ceiling
                fell on it more than once with



read the collected work of ‘Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters]‘ as it is published: here
this is an appliquiary to: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – An Old Piano




cat wormhole: POEM by William Carlos Williams
green & London wormhole: travel // when I die
piano wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – An Old Piano


POEM by William Carlos Williams


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                As the cat
                climbed over
                the top of

                the jamcloset
                first the right

                then the hind
                stepped down

                into the pit of
                the empty


from Poems, 1930-1931: the care; and bother; to be so; meticulous; about no; thing in; particular; that it; becomes; everything; worthwhile; noticing




cat wormhole: ‘… and yet I think I am so modest: …’
kitchen wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – The Valley
William Carlos Williams wormhole: THE ATTIC WHICH IS DESIRE: by William Carlos Williams


on / that / day


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                when the breeze was high in the trees and the sunlight
                occasional across pebble paviours

                when the harps cried ‘hallelujah!’
                and the puppy’s brows drew ears to attention of

                when the cake was spread before the salad as only Krishna would have liked                
                and families multiplied like fanned serviettes

                and friends came together like classmates
                and peoples’ feet jumped one way, their arms waving the other,

                Jon and Sara pulled the bread and divined pinecones and elderflowers
                when things really had
                                come together beautifully


Jon and Sara married a couple of weeks earlier, but we celebrated later all together




breeze wormhole: at Kreukenhof
dog wormhole: 10/22 by William Carlos Williams
family wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – An Old Piano
feet wormhole: waiting to be heard
Jon wormhole: early // Minoan & Mycenaean Exhibitions in the British Museum – diptych
people wormhole: boiled spangle with soft centre
trees wormhole: travel // when I die


poessay XI – piquant love


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poessay XI –

                lookitallathisabouttheplace –
                both the obscuration and the opportunity difficult
                either to see or to take:

                                I don’t know what to do –
                                inject into causality
                                project over condition (whatever

                                I’m sure that’s not the way to do) –
                                I can only know what I intuit
                                usually de-spite “I don’t know

                                but will step in line
                                if you let me join the gang”
                                best served unnoticeable

                                but not really
                                me no matter how deep the cover;
                                so back to the hunch –

                                crane reaching from the crumbling arch –
                                written up on giddy foolscap
                                (given half the chance, or notice)

                                but this is not me either
                                just a more clever ‘I don’t know’;
                                than all the others who don’t know at all

                                or know by some rote too lazy
                                or compromised to know (what I
                                might know) or those who

                                say they know holding me deficient
                                that I don’t behave as they know
                                (compromised to behold), or then

                                there are those who seem to know
                                despite the prevalence and norm all about
                                from whom I absorb

                                through my very xylem
                                and then heavy-shadow them all about
                                but they don’t know either

                                just more mystically or glamorously so
                                until the scandal;
                                so don’t try to know at all

                                because any of this knowing
                                is just a whorl somewhere
                                within cascading causality

                                making sure my specious self;
                                just let the self go
                this knower, this knower so much better and deeper than anyone else who does not even know what is to be known,                

                                let it all go
                                and sit with the not-knowing,
                                watching all the fluidity with

                                                                                                piquant love





compromise wormhole: looking for the right exit
crane & doing & identity & thought & writing wormhole: travel // when I die
knowledge wormhole: Dulwich College, London, 1871
letting go wormhole: at Kreukenhof
life wormhole: psssssh
love wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – The Valley
others wormhole: quietly in my quiet house
shadow wormhole: breakfast
sitting wormhole: – creak —


travel // when I die


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                                                                at all is a product of
                                                                shifted perspective
                                                                related to behold;

                                                                when I’ve nothing to write
                                                                I’ve lost any perspective,
                                                                cornered by both these walls
                                                                I’ve walked along

                when I die
                this mind will no longer whorl about this pinchèd self
                in a world of diminished return and profusion of iteration

                                                                cranes atop
                                                                pulling them further up and up
                                                                from the ground on which they
                                                                balance on receding point;

                                                                communities of them
                                                                each taller than the last and the next
                                                                all along the wharfs
                                                                of endless account

                it will be expansive
                high and up in industrial and sandstone sky
                it will fathom all the deep of brown kelp in shifting purple

                                                                kilometres long
                                                                courses of brick
                                                                grimed black and utility-studded
                                                                updown onoff foothold and wire

                                                                ripple along nicely
                                                                across right-angled centuries
                                                                and occasional shot bolts
                                                                of deepest russian vine

                with no sound
                save diminishing echoes of a pleading late self
                having nothing left to refer to and nothing left to here, and

                                                                believe it or not
                                                                a rainbow exponential
                                                                to the white arch of Wembley
                                                                we’ll chase for miles

                                                                orange shimmering to
                                                                magenta through staccato tides
                                                                out and over flat roofs
                                                                on and into the fields

                all data wiped –
                suds off my hands from my shoulders –
                and did I back enough up for some grander vector to reach?

                                                                where trees grow from ground
                                                                shaping over decades
                                                                green-flamed cupolas
                                                                clamped to the sky

                                                                and from perspective passing
                                                                of open field
                                                                turn – creak
                                                                the whole world

                I may well
                have built pillars of cleverness and thought:
                plinthed, fluted, capitaled and giddyingly architraved …

                                                                and there
                                                                Lancashire red brick
                                                                with high and whitey
                                                                sills stale and lintel

                                                                before washed-out
                                                                sapphire-afternoon of steely sky
                                                                and horizontal fingers of

                … but they’d just
                floated there upright in space ‘neither use nor ornament’
                straining on the string in my baby-fat hands, I’ve

                                never really
                                made stuff happen
                                and didn’t have to try

                                more than let more and more
                                of stuff happening anyway
                                happen through me


train trip; East Sussex to London to Lancaster to Ulverston, Cumbria; where we lived for three years and started a family; stay at Swarthmore Hall; visited Conishead Priory where we lived for 18 months after marriage and graduation; notes and observations on the journey, sense of bridging 32 years of lifetime(s); notes > (maybe) two poems, but two which could nevertheless not be separate, although distinct, like train tracks; three years retired, still processing if I achieved anything in this capitalist and samsaric world …; London centuries old, still processing …; architecture as the stage-scenary of endeavour; the ‘here’ in the 9th stanza is definitely (sic); this is, positive




afternoon & sky wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Sky
architecture & thought wormhole: “And anger it is that lays in ruins / every kind of mental goodness.”
being wormhole: 11/1 by William Carlos Williams
black & sky wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – valley
brown & green & walls wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – The Valley
buildings & crane & rain & red & speech wormhole: riders of the night
capitalism wormhole: `whappn’d!
clouds wormhole: at Kreukenhof
death & identity wormhole: psssssh
doing wormhole: writening
echo & mind & passing & sound & time wormhole: – creak —
Have wormhole: on facing the Have
London wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – An Old Piano
orange wormhole: ‘don’t look at it …’
purple wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – I took my camera into the fields
rooftops wormhole: Great Bridge, Rouen, 1896
samsara & trees wormhole: breakfast
silence wormhole: window
Thames wormhole: London, 1809
train & travelling wormhole: beneath
Uckfield-London line wormhole: early // Minoan & Mycenaean Exhibitions in the British Museum – diptych
white wormhole: 10/22 by William Carlos Williams
world wormhole: none and all
writing wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – sooner; / and later