pine // gladioli // [&] wisteria

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                           pine

            crafted
bourough of uprise through decades
of averted event

                           gladioli

            what are the stories:
chilled petals of lilac from velveted purple
            morning buttercurls from
medicine burgundy?

                           wisteria

            networks
of unconnecting junction
necessary for combed and horizontal trail of olive and green flurry from which to hang the            
            requisite white and tinted
lilac

 

while strolling through the garden one day … at the National Trust house of Standen; I know this is a bit more summery than present-posting, but I just found the piece in a notebook and forgotten I’d written it, so, there …

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

burgundy wormhole: clouds
communication wormhole: comfy
green & white wormhole: occa / s / i // o / n / a // l // l // y
lilac wormhole: 1968
morning wormhole: that comicbookshop … // … in dreams
olive wormhole: 1967
purple wormhole: south horizon
time wormhole: darkness

 

to rescue something

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mary-louise-woodhouse

                Mary came to visit one year,
                I think before Dad left, sense

                of anxiety and visitation to
                get things right; we gathered

                in the dining room, she sat
                regal in one of those blue

                wing-back chairs to one side
                of the fireplace; they talked

                of things and the way things
                were while the war built up

                and the way things are now,
                we crawled about under the

                legs of the chairs while they
                talked, through the tunnels

                to rescue something with
                several teddies in tow; we

                kept one of those blue chairs
                when we moved, I remember

                sitting in it feeling the coarse
                knap and the horsehair stuffing

                in the lonely bedroom with
                my back to the high windows

                anxious about the purpose
                to do with my life … is

 

quite naturally, but unforseeably, this was written quite considerably, and apocryphally, after: green-wine, but then everything knits together eventually

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

20th century wormhole: ‘hope for things to come’
anxiety wormhole: ‘never look up’?
blue wormhole: occa / s / i // o / n / a // l // l // y
childhood & Dad & divorce & Thames wormhole: south horizon
depression wormhole: what wounds have you got?
Eglinton Hill wormhole: alighted
family wormhole: familiasyncopation
Genesta Road wormhole: work
life wormhole: darkness
talking wormhole: embodying
windows wormhole: that comicbookshop … // … in dreams

 

child

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                     child

                     magnificent beings stepped
                     between the trees and undergrowth

                     time and again with beautiful
                     robes and hems of rare design

                     calling for lost ones to come gather
                     but I remained hidden, sure

                     I could remember the way
                     to them catch up later and

                     surprise them all tadaa … when
                     I can move from this

                     hollow tree I excitedly found … and
                     have become

 

Bodhisattvacharyavatara, III 13-14

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

Buddha wormhole: out!
child wormhole: ah … // oh … // meanwhile … // … // tha ya ta …
samsara wormhole: the purple mist between
trees wormhole: faintly apricot air?

 

reading // unstirred

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reading

haven’t got the energy to study anymore
university and teaching knocked that out of me
feels unwholesome now
over-eating
over-chewing

                far better now
                to read without trace without
                wholesale shopping and let the worlds*
                flavour my mind homoeopathically the way
                I would always have preferred but that now
                I can just let dissolve like cordial in water

                                                                                 unstirred

 

* sic

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

letting go wormhole: may the supreme and precious jewel bodhichitta … // … take birth where it has not yet done so … // … where it has taken birth may it not decrease … // … but may it increase infinitely
reading wormhole: Granada and other poems … continued
study wormhole: ashramas
teaching wormhole: while
university wormhole: Grizedale College
words & world wormhole: south horizon

 

darkness

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                the darkness
is always gathering, the light
                only picks edge and selected texture

                it is hard
to tell the age we are in – scarcity
                of perspective, rolled-up eyes – it is

                the sudden
violence releases it, throws
                absorbing stasis to scatter

                but why bother
for when light is digested complete
                it shines through all the click-construction

                and neon
nevertheless; it has been millennia digesting
                and it

                                                will …
                                be …
                con
sumed; the world cannot let light just be,
                sleep now is just

                darkness

 

a little snippet from askance From Hell, askance from chapter ten of From Hell by Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell, gwn’n’avvalook

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

Alan Moore wormhole: hinged – From Hell ch. V
eyes & life wormhole: may the supreme and precious jewel bodhichitta … // … take birth where it has not yet done so … // … where it has taken birth may it not decrease … // … but may it increase infinitely
light wormhole: south horizon
sleep wormhole: sleep now
society wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – agricultural show
time wormhole: breathing out

 

occa / s / i // o / n / a // l // l // y

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                from
brown-soft echo hawthorn-green & white
                out to
wide wheat-field herringbone-parted fizz-greenie heads on forest-blue stalk all
                under
charcoal-blue clouds spitting
                occa s                  i
o                    n               a
                           l
                l                                             y

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

blue wormhole: vastly
brown & clouds & echo & rain wormhole: Open – All – Ours
field wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – The Agricultural Show
green wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
passing & walking wormhole: Luton // couldn’t make a poem out of it
white wormhole: 1967

 

south horizon

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                south horizon

                out on the river
                the purple is shifting

                but in the evening-bulb light
                the world-shaping words

                of grown ups
                is shifting uncontrollably

                but,          no; it’s OK          look
                there is rhythm, there is

                a saxophone, a hi-hat – shflpt
                in the crack there

                where words sift
                where worlds shift

 

I submitted this to an online magazine; they didn’t want it; I’ll publish it here again with the copy that supported it:

about the poem: on my eighth birthday (in 1967) my Dad arrived home late from work; my parents had one of their last arguments; my Dad left home that night; I couldn’t remember much of what happened that night – what was said, how much I heard, how much I understood – but I realised that worlds could change quite quickly that night; years later, in 1993, David Bowie recorded ‘south horizon’ on his ‘Buddha of Suburbia’ album, but I didn’t really get to know the piece until 2011; hearing it etched that experience back into my memory – bevelled it up, almost – but it also supplied textures and chord changes to the memory that allowed me a perspective that held me from being just angry or hurt; (‘the river’ is the river Thames; we lived on Shooters Hill in SE London from where we could hear and breathe the river)

author bio: Mark Redford was born in 1959 and grew up in South East London until he bolted to university (like a bat out of hell) in 1979, hot from Margaret Thatcher’s election victory; London was never the same every time he returned back; his mother, who had brought him up with her mother (his Grandmother), died in 1999; since then he has travelled back to London frequently to find the previous 40 years, but only seems to find them when he writes down what he saw; you can see what he sees (possibly better than he can) at: https://mlewisredford.wordpress.com/; if you bump into him there, give him some directions would you?

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

abandonment wormhole: monument to vainglory
Bowie wormhole: new-found love – poewieview #36
childhood & Thames wormhole: that comicbookshop … // … in dreams
Dad & divorce wormhole: beepbeep
evening wormhole: alighted
horozon wormhole: 1966
light wormhole: so pleased to see you again
London wormhole: 1967
Mum wormhole: 1967
Nan wormhole: work
purple & river wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
travelling wormhole: traffic lights and broad avenue
words wormhole: breathing out
world wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – agricultural show

 

may the supreme and precious jewel bodhichitta … // … take birth where it has not yet done so … // … where it has taken birth may it not decrease … // … but may it increase infinitely

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                             difficulty comes
                        unfitting perfectly to
                          each situation

may the supreme and precious jewel bodhichitta …

                                                                                    t
                                                                                          i
                                                          a big fat ball                  r
                                         all I see is                       with odd       e
                                    or above it                              spicy bits       d
                                        round it                              fills up
                                        I can’t see                       my being
                                                        closes my eyes

… take birth where it has not yet done so …

                                 the fuzz and static
      drowned out by                                 and the tiny shiny
        before being                                      coloured stones
of determination                                          mixed in and
         sing a voice                                       mostly lost which
             surface and                                 sometimes
                                      work to the

                                                                        is not me
                                                                        is not the self
                                                                        standing sitting or sleeping
                                                            and always always breathing

… where it has taken birth may it not decrease …

                                                                        I can’t put out
                                                            I miss the point or miss the opportunity
                                                                        every time I venture
                                                or hold back

                                                                        I have loads to offer
                                                            but no receptacle
                                                            far better to sit
                                                improve my aim

… but may it increase infinitely

                                                                                    I get so much more
                                                                                    done by just being
                                                                                    without knowing it
                                                                                    without knowing –
                                                                                    even – about it

                                                                                    I think I’ll just
                                                                                    offer my being
                                                                                    from now on
                                                                                    and not try to
                                                                                    do anything to be

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

being & doing & life wormhole: ‘never look up’?
Bodhichitta & eyes & seeing wormhole: so pleased to see you again
breathing & sitting & talking to myself wormhole: breathing out
circular poem wormhole: everwhile
distraction & meditation wormhole: within
identity & stone wormhole: Open – All – Ours
letting go wormhole: comfy
voices wormhole: what wounds have you got?

vastly

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                high high
                mist-grey

                slowly
                turns the

                cold blue
                grey

                exhaust
                from the

                central
                heating

twists and furls up the side of the house and then
completely

                and                                vastly
                disappears

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

blue wormhole: open window
grey wormhole: that comicbookshop … // … in dreams
mist wormhole: 1968 – orange sand and mauve mist
sky wormhole: Open – All – Ours

 

Open – All – Ours

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                Open – All – Ours

                out across the vast land
                of all of my many lives

                what started as a stave-
                shack has long-since

                become a stone colossus
                wider than the sky in which

                my own clouds rain,
                with openings measureless

                to man and tectonic plates
                stacked up and arching

                in inconceivable echo;
                that’s where we all work,

                life after life, all by my-selves
                meticulously stocking up

                even anything so small,
                taking whole lifetimes

                sometimes to place a
                single smile in its right

                and proper place because
                you never know when it

                might come in handy;
                well, it’s a living; do you

                like my trusty brown
                overcoat – nice, deep

                pockets – comes with
                the job, been in my

                family now for so many
                generations now … once

                I catch up with myself

 

constructed out of Bodhicharyavatara, chapter three, verse ten, by Shantideva

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

brown wormhole: monument to vainglory
buildings wormhole: time
clouds wormhole: industrial estate
echo & sky wormhole: so pleased to see you again
identity & lifetimes wormhole: ‘never look up’?
living wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – agricultural show
rain wormhole: ah … // oh … // meanwhile … // … // tha ya ta …
smile wormhole: to allow / passage
stone wormhole: transmuted
work wormhole: neither nude nor / descending a staircase