the Bodhisattva set out / for the Seat of Awakening


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                so he bathed in the Nairañjanā,
                he ate the food, his strength

                returned, and he began the walk
                toward the Great Tree; he walked

                with easy gait, grounded
                as a mountain, each step gained

                and graceful with no fight, dream
                or idea; the placement pad of a lion,

                the calliper-swing of an elephant,
                a stride that touched not the earth

                but left perfect wheels
                upon the ground, a step that echoed

                across the plateau, a step that
                levelled mountain paths, each step

                that lead to happy lands,
                each step sprung from past lotuses

                of love and stable intention,
                that rendered demons powerless

                that calmed all view, that evanesced
                the darkness and stopped the

                endless endless rounds; his
                walk outshone the distant stars,

                his walk becalmed the rulers;
                the walk spontaneous, the walk

                omniscient, the walk mindful
                of every ancient step, with such a gait

                the Bodhisattva set out
                for the Seat of Awakening


from the Arya Lalita Vistara Nama Mahayana Sutra – the life story of the Buddha – originally using the words from the translation by the Dharmachakra Translation 84000 Committee which is freely available online here (for which thank you, thank you) and then other words once my gaze had settled into the image; the ‘Nairañjanā’ is the river by which the Buddha practised his austerities, the ‘food’ was that given to him by Sujata




Buddha wormhole: Sujātā
echo wormhole: so, how long is, a piece of string?
light wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Sky
path wormhole: alabaster balustrade
power wormhole: in turgid reflection
river wormhole: Great Bridge, Rouen, 1896
stars wormhole: 11/1 by William Carlos Williams
walking wormhole: Valentine’s Day 2019



slight sneer


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                slight sneer

                the weight of working life
                that steps heavy on the heel
                past the terrace

                slight-flicks the head away
                from the dust and building
                netting, but not

                as far as the black-jelly fruit
                sea with salt crystals tinkling
                the horizon under

                curtained cloud





black & clouds & life wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Sky
horizon wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – I took my camera into the fields
passing wormhole: 10/30 by William Carlos Williams
sea wormhole: Valentine’s Day 2019
work wormhole: my uncomfortable life


11/1 by William Carlos Williams


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poetry should strive for nothing else, this vividness alone, per se, for itself. The realization of this has its own internal fire that is “like” nothing. Therefore the bastardy of the smile. That thing, the vividness which is poetry by itself, makes the poem. There is no need to explain or compare. Make it and it is a poem. This is modern, not the saga. There are no sagas–only trees now, animals, engines: There’s that.

11/1     I won’t have to powder my nose tonight `cause Billie’s gonna take me home in his car–

                The moon, the dried weeds
                and the Pleiades–

                Seven feet tall
                the dark, dried weedstalks
                make a part of the night
                a red lace
                on the blue milky sky

                by a small lamp

                the Pleiades are almost
                and the moon is tilted
                and halfgone

                And in runningpants and
                with ecstatic, aesthetic faces
                on the illumined
                signboard are leaping
                over printed hurdles and
                “¼ of their energy comes from bread”

                gigantic highschool boys
                ten feet tall


the billboard credo of William Carlos Williams from The Descent of Winter, 1928 by William Carlos Williams, luminary to my early wonder




being & night wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Sky
blue wormhole: in turgid reflection
faces & red & stars wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – I took my camera into the fields
moon wormhole: Impression of Winter: Carriage on a Country Road, 1872
poetry & writing wormhole: writening
sky wormhole: Great Bridge, Rouen, 1896
speech wormhole: Pont Neuf, Paris, 1902
William Carlos Williams wormhole: 10/30 by William Carlos Williams


Valentine’s Day 2019


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beach wormhole: allowed all gain
Carol wormhole: ‘… and yet I think I am so modest: …’
circular poem wormhole: ‘ouch’
love wormhole: in deed
sea wormhole: Puerto del Carmen
walking wormhole: Cote des Bœufs à l’Hermitage, Pontoise, 1877
water & waves wormhole: mandala offering


Great Bridge, Rouen, 1896


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                                   Great Bridge,          Rouen, 1896

                                                   to span       the river

                                   is to ride the banks            with quarter and delve inland

with vascular street and hood-eyed blocks         of storey looking down

            under receding ateliers of desire          under oblivious

                                                      plumes      of sky


spanning the reach of the Great Bridge, Rouen, 1896 by Camille Pissarro, the eternal dialectic between nature and industry




bridge wormhole: Pont Neuf, Paris, 1902
buildings wormhole: Puerto del Carmen
river wormhole: Sujātā
rooftops wormhole: Vue de Pontoise, 1873
sky wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – I took my camera into the fields
smoke wormhole: La Route, Effet d’Hiver, 1872
streets wormhole: {reading right to left}


Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – I took my camera into the fields


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                                I took my camera into the fields

                but it was only after the
                purple-grey clouds drifted
                across the horizon and the

                wilted leaves had turned
                their face once more to the
                evening sky, when the sun

                broke low across the fields –
                old gold across the treetops –
                that I’d dansed macabre

                with the tripodial skeleton
                before the red hemisphere,
                reclined upon distant hills,

                extinguished like a farce
                and the populace of the
                heavens radiated above me

                and behind, the grates of
                all space between the two
                sentinel elms, it was there, I think,

                I left this planet
                at a tangent (glow of a
                lantern disappearing down the corridor)

                deep, until whole nebulae
                were within my pluck,
                but even before Antares

                had touched the nearby
                spire, the nightingale had
                been deep in construction

                of the following day’s forest façade,
                free free of all possible words and
                zoomed foci


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 – Sky




clouds & evening & gold & grey & hills & horizon & leaves & red & sky & space & stars & sun wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Sky
dancing wormhole: Pilot 125 … // … being excursion in the interludes
faces wormhole: on facing the Have
purple wormhole: SPRING AND ALL I by William Carlos Williams
thinking wormhole: writening
words wormhole: A Corner of the Garden at the Hermitage, 1877




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                I like to find what I think
                in kinaesthetic metaphor
                and surprise myself;

                nothing more, not trying
                to be the best, or visionary
                or even to write poetry –

                it just happens; I have
                taken to sharing it – nice
                of you – but, also,

                attached to how it is received –
                not nice, a little ugly;
                I should just do it naturally –

                wash ‘n’ go, shake ‘n’ vac –
                just discover, let it fall
                and spill all over the page,

                not to write the Body
                of Work to blithely leave
                to posterity …


the penultimate of my 2018 pieces of work … and they’ve not been coming thick and fast during 2019 either … well’s drying up!




doing wormhole: Renunciation
identity wormhole : The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Sky
poetry wormhole: SPRING AND ALL XXII by William Carlos Williams
publishing wormhole: scintillating to mind’s content
thinking & writing wormhole: The Atlantic City Convention: 1. THE WAITRESS by William Carlos Williams


The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Sky


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One evening about two years ago, there was, in my part of the country, one of the most magnificent sunsets that I have ever been privileged to witness.   Being a keen photographer (although not a very good one, for other peoples’ photographs always seem better than mine), I took my camera into the fields to capture the scene in colour.   It all began when the grey broken clouds, the ‘left overs’ of a stormy day, drifted slowly across the horizon, taking with them the tumult of the heavens.   It had been a somewhat dismal day with an atmosphere that clung like a warm damp blanket, enveloping all with an oppressive heat that made even the unconscious act of breathing an effort.   The day thus sulked its way through the hours, stifling the energy of life and suffocating the songs of birds until at long last, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, the sky, no longer able to contain its pent up emotions, savaged the countryside with a violent storm.   In fact three storms had tumbled into the valley that afternoon that gave rise to a continuous end-of-the-world -like thunder that reverberated about us for an hour and a half.   Fearful though the storms were, the rain felt good, the soil quenched its thirst and the air became cool, and when the storm had flung its final volley of anger contemptuously at us, I saw that the wilted leaves had renewed vigour and had turned their faces once more to the sky.   Suddenly, the late evening sun broke loose and shone low across the fields, igniting the treetops with a blaze of old gold and adorning the scene with the tint of an old master’s painting. Screwing tripod to camera, I raised it to my eye and squinted through the view-finder.   For some moments I indulged in a danse macabre around the field with the tripodial skeleton stiff within my embrace, searching for the most artistic composition to enter the field of view.   By now the sun was an enormous dull-red hemisphere reclining upon the distant hills, infusing the undersides of the remaining clouds above with a heavy mauve the deepened perceptively as I gazed.   The solar chord became shorter and shorter until finally the perimeter of the disc was extinguished suddenly by the horizon as one snuffs out the flame of a candle.   Then, in a most abrupt and startling manner, the populace of the heavens turned to fire.   The clouds appeared to radiate from a point somewhere below the horizon in the vicinity of the sun and spread out above and behind me, plumbing the very depths of space itself.   It was as if Earth had entered the tail of a super comet that had passed close by on its elliptical orbit about the sun.   Hurriedly I set the tripod firmly on the ground and framed the sunset between the jet-black silhouettes of two sentinel elms.

After taking the photograph, I packed the equipment in its case, stood up and looked once more through the elms.   My gaze passed by the silent trees, through the sunset and beyond into space, leaving the great orb of this planet at a tangent.   The moment developed into one of those rare intervals in time when an overwhelming consciousness of the beauty about one descends and becalms the mind.   Although my gaze flew past the elms at incomprehensible speed, I was aware of their crisp outlines against the sky, and as it passed on through the sky into the depths of space, I could see the fire shrinking before me like the glow of a lantern disappearing down a long, dark corridor.   My eyes were now being lifted by a power exterior to my own being.   Up, up they went until I was craning my neck and gazing out into the zenith of space.   I had always been conscious of the great depths of space about me, but could not help regarding the heavens as anything but a dome viewed from a central point, the stars being spattered over the surface of this invisible hemisphere, all equidistant from me.   But on this particular occasion, I became aware of the three dimensionality of space, each planet, star and nebula standing out in such relief from each other, that I felt I could lift my hand and pluck them from their ethereal settings.   Immediately above my right shoulder the crooked W of Cassiopeia pierced the depths with startling clarity and midway between this and the great square of Pegasus, there glowed faintly the spiral nebula of Andromeda, so far flung into the void as to make the magnificent gold and blue binary system of Gamma Andromeda appear but ten steps distant.

Becoming dizzy from the depths above me I turned and cast my eyes down to the eastern horizon.   The Pleiades had just shown itself above the distant trees and was discernible only by averted vision, but its presence was sufficient to tell me that within the hour Aldebaran, the red eye of Taurus, would begin its journey above the horizon to dissolve overhead in the light of tomorrow’s dawn.   But even before Antares had touched the distant church spire in the darkening west, the night air became chill and with a shudder I headed for home.

Some days later when I had the film processed, I discovered much to my dismay, that I had become so involved with the scene before me that I had forgotten to remove the dust-cap from the lens, consequently I have no visual proof to offer my friends of the glory I have witnessed.   Often I am accused of exaggeration when describing a scene that has made an impression on me, yet I experience difficulty in finding adjectives of sufficient depth, colour or subtlety to use in such instances.   How can one convey to others the emotions that rise to greet the song of a nightingale, or to what depths the heart yearns to fly with the swift and embrace all three dimensions.   How can one possibly convey through the medium of the written or spoken word the sight of an evening sky washed with the faint mauve streaks that herald a sunset, or describe the background tint of the sky that is somewhere between a shade of jade and turquoise?

My attempts at describing this beautiful sunset to a friend met with very little response.   Emotion is a very personal thing and that which gives rise to emotion in one, may leave another completely cold.   Even so, I was completely taken aback when my friend said, “what sunset?”


read the collected work as it is published: here




afternoon & grey & rain & red & sky wormhole: Pont Neuf, Paris, 1902
air & silence & trees wormhole: 10/30 by William Carlos Williams
beauty wormhole: The Atlantic City Convention: 1. THE WAITRESS by William Carlos Williams
being & black wormhole: in deed
breathing wormhole: there will be ovations
church & silhouette wormhole: Vue de Pontoise, 1873
clouds wormhole: Cote des Bœufs à l’Hermitage, Pontoise, 1877
dawn & storm wormhole: birth in the world
evening & life wormhole: threshold to behold
eyes wormhole: mandala offering
gold wormhole: Entry to the Village of Voisins, Yvelines, 1872
hills wormhole: Puerto del Carmen
horizon & sunset wormhole: in turgid reflection
identity wormhole: quietly in my quiet house
leaves wormhole: 10/28 ‘in this strong light …’ by William Carlos Williams
light & sun wormhole: Cours La Reine, Rouen, 1890
mauve wormhole: travelling / back
mind wormhole: so, how long is, a piece of string?
night wormhole: Boulevarde Montmartre, Evening Sun, 1879 // Boulevarde Montmartre at Night, 1879
space wormhole: the reach turned to love
stars wormhole: TREES by William Carlos Williams
valley wormhole: coterminalism – there is nothing happens by itself, / 070118


quietly in my quiet house


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                look at this one sitting to one side

                why does it sit there seething about
                it it it, while others

                get on doing stuff making
                a world-wide society of life

                with all of its crowns and repeated
                acts of shame

                look at their talent, their love,
                their art, their smile

                look at it, indulge in it; in fact,
                step into the pool and hold up your hair

                under the fountain for all to share
                glue-like to the society in which I sit

                quietly in my quiet house


drenched from under Bodhisattvacharyavatara VI, 76-77: [76] If someone is attuned enough to spiritual things to find delight and joy in recognising the appearance of excellent qualities and worth in another and praising them as a good person, and if this makes them happy and draws people close together, why then, oh (sulky) mind, don’t you join in with the recognition as well; why are you not rejoicing too and taking the same delight too? [77] (But isn’t feeling joy and delight an attachment, and therefore bad?) But this pleasure, this delight cultivated through praise of another’s virtue, is an entirely virtuous activity, a spring, a fountain, of joy, which is not prohibited, but, even, a precept, taught by those of Ultimate Quality and Worth, an excellent way to bring people together of which one should take full advantage.




house wormhole: Cote des Bœufs à l’Hermitage, Pontoise, 1877
identity & society wormhole: Renunciation
others wormhole: The Atlantic City Convention: 1. THE WAITRESS by William Carlos Williams
quiet wormhole: A Corner of the Garden at the Hermitage, 1877
sitting wormhole: Sujātā


10/30 by William Carlos Williams


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                To freight cars in the air

                all the slow
                    clank, clank
                    clank, clank
                moving above the treetops

                    wha,     wha
                of the hoarse whistle

                    pah,      pah,      pah
                    pah, pah, pah, pah, pah

                    piece and piece
                    piece and piece
                moving still trippingly
                through the morningmist

                long after the engine
                has fought by
                                          and disappeared

                in silence
                                   to the left


obviously, the sound, echoingly, the sound, only, the sound; from the Descent of Winter, 1928 by William Carlos Williams




air wormhole: Female Peasant Carding, 1875
mist & morning wormhole: Puerto del Carmen
passing wormhole: Sujātā
silence wormhole: The Atlantic City Convention: 1. THE WAITRESS by William Carlos Williams
sound & trees wormhole: “And anger it is that lays in ruins / every kind of mental goodness.”
train wormhole: Rain, Steam and Speed – the / Great Western Railway, 1844
William Carlos Williams wormhole: 10/28 ‘in this strong light …’ by William Carlos Williams