the moon, the moon

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                from ground level, then
                when buildings rise the night

                and evening windows
                hold all tired endeavour

                the only thing to do is run
                keeping pace with the

                chain-link fence in search of
                the moon, the moon

 

Detective Comics #391, September 1969; Frank Robbins, Bob Brown – anyone lived in a pretty how town

 

 

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

Batman & moon wormhole: stuck
buildings wormhole: What You Are by Roger McGough
doing wormhole: scintillating to mind’s content
evening wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – both fawn and grey
night wormhole: despite that
searching wormhole: lost the search
windows wormhole: Victorian pipework

 

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Victorian pipework

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                                self-possession
                defferently-aligned and

                                different-sized
                windows accorded to

                                different calls
                of life amid all the winding

                                and ubiquitous
                Victorian pipework

 

 

 

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

architecture wormhole: cool / tiled flooring
Eastbourne wormhole: amniotic avenue
identity wormhole: you
living wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – With Pigs
passing & society wormhole: despite that
Victorian houses wormhole: and ‘naerrgh’ a mention of a seagull’s call
windows wormhole: JANUARY by William Carlos Williams

 

The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – With Pigs

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With Pigs

“Trouble is, you can smell ‘em a mile off.”   This was said not by a townsman as one would expect, but by a countryman.   He was referring to pigs and his observation was indicative of the general opinion and stigma that has surrounded the pig from time immemorial.   “The pig,” said Mrs Grundy, “is a disgusting creature of filthy habits who lives in a dark, odoriferous hovel and wallows in mud.   It is a creature whose appetite can never be satiated and is like a dustbin on four legs that will receive almost anything into its ever-open mouth and will, without a flicker of conscience, steal the last morsel of food from its neighbour.”   There is in fact a remarkable similarity between the pig and many humans.   Perhaps these are strong words, but then the smell of a pig kept in such conditions is even stronger and whose fault is it but that of its keeper.   The pig is essentially a clean animal.   True, it loves to make a mud wallow in the corner of a field on a hot day when the gnats are biting, but one can hardly call this dirty, especially when some females of the human family pay to have it plastered all over their faces and the males of the species come home covered from head to foot after playing games all afternoon in it.   Given plenty of clean straw, a sow will make a comfortable nest for herself and her offspring and will rarely foul her bed with droppings.   She reserves the brightest corner of the sty for this and even the young piglets instinctively use this special corner without any training whatsoever.   Because of this, it has been known for young pigs to be effectively house-trained.   A pig enjoys his food, he takes no pains to disguise the fact, and is usually most grateful for any special tit-bit that comes his way, refusing the offering only when he is ill.   Generally speaking, a hungry pig is a healthy pig.

Pigs are a happy and friendly people.   They are never too preoccupied (except when feeding – and that goes for many humans as well) to pass the time of day, and will chatter away for as long as you care to stay.   All they ask in return for the honour of their presence is a scratch behind the ear or a rub on the belly.   Unlike most people I have pigs at the bottom of my garden – not fairies, and I invariably spend a couple of hours therein each day.   After pottering around for some minutes there steals over me a strong feeling of a presence close at hand watching me with a purposeful eye destined to catch my attention.   I turn and find myself gazing into the friendly face of old Split Ear, a black and white Essex sow who has lived at the piggery now for some six or seven years.   Her name, though not very romantic, is appropriate, for her left ear had been rent asunder in her younger days from a fight with a barbed wire fence, and as the ears of this particular breed droop forward and cover the eyes, Split Ear would gaze quizzically at me through the hole in her ear, head cocked slightly to one side.   In early days when I first made her acquaintance, this feeling of being watched was a little disturbing.   She would stand stock still eyeing me in that cock-eyed manner of hers, noting with precision every move I made.   I mistook her friendly gaze of interest for one of criticism and became so annoyed with her that, early one March morning, I hurled a cabbage stalk at her which bounced off her snout and landed at her feet.   She sniffed at it, turned it over and, as she gazed up at me, I perceived that a delighted smile had spread across her face.   From that moment on we became close friends, and we would pass away many a pleasant moment in each other’s company.   I came to know and respect her many habits and fads and she in turn would confide in me her most intimate secrets.   One fine spring morning she told me that she was twelve weeks gone and had only another three to go.   We counted the days together and as she grew bigger and bigger and the great day approached, she developed a strong desire for sour apples.   I would offer a selection of tasty morsels such as a cabbage leaf, a potato, a carrot and an apple.   Each time she would eat the apple first and only when she realised that no more apples were forthcoming, would she set about devouring the remaining items.   Eventually the great day arrived and she disappeared into the maternity ward.   A week later, when he confinement was over, she proudly paraded her young ones before me for my inspection.   There were fourteen in all and a very even bunch they were too.   Normally a litter contains one or two piglets that are smaller and weaker than the rest, the runts, or cads as they are sometimes called, but old Split Ear’s troupe was so evenly matched, it was impossible to tell them apart.

All young animals have an innocence and a charm about them, but young piglets, to my mind, are the most endearing of all.   Their character can be likened to those of mischievous little schoolboys, full of fun and pranks and as happy as the day is long.   Often I would creep up on them unobserved to watch their antics, particularly on those days that invariably crop up from time to time when nothing goes right, and I am soon elevated from the doldrums by their uninhibited gaiety, it is a therapy that never fails.   Approach them silently, enjoy their antics awhile, then step from your hiding place. Instantly they freeze into diminutive statues, poised on the very tips of their dainty toes and, with not a quiver of muscle between them, they peer wickedly at you from the corners of their eyes.   Then suddenly, one of them will utter a staccato bark which is the signal for the tumult to continue.   These little creatures are so keen to be off that despite violent activity from their legs, they make no forward progress for several seconds and in spite of their efforts, remain in the same spot kicking up clouds of dust behind them.   Eventually their feet find a grip and they shoot off in all directions with the speed of bullets.   Owing to the momentum of these little pink projectiles, collisions are common and these frequently lead to fights in which all and sundry take part.   Noisy though it is, the melee rarely produces a serious casualty – a few scratched ears, grazed bellies and nipped tails perhaps, but seldom anything more serious and the cause of dissention is soon forgotten.   The only other occasion on which a difference of opinion is likely to occur is that of the feed time scrum down.   The normal pattern of events here is that one piglet is gradually squeezed off the end of the line until he finds himself out in the cold and teat-less.   With unabated fury, he then hurls himself upon his fellow diners which immediately causes someone else to be pushed off the other end.   This sets up a cycle of events that flags only when the energy begins to fail and the bellies begin to fill, and soon nothing is heard but the song of a bird and the satisfied snoring of pigs.

Likening them once more to schoolchildren, it is surprising how quickly they grow up, how quickly the irrepressible energy of youth is funnelled into mature and profound thoughts that mould the character.   And pigs do think – of this I am convinced.   One has merely to accept them and to treat them as equals to discover their thoughtful looks, their smiles of delight and to understand their many moods which are so very much like our own.

 

read the collected work as it is published: here

 

 

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

eyes & morning & time wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – both fawn and grey
feet wormhole: THURSDAY by William Carlos Williams
field wormhole: THE DESOLATE FIELD by William Carlos Williams
garden wormhole: Sheffield Park Gardens
living wormhole: only
pink wormhole: we held cold hands
smell wormhole: BLUEFLAGS by William Carlos Williams
smile wormhole: A Solitude by Denise Levertov
speech wormhole: despite that

 

stuck

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                           he ran
                like an avenue of
                closed shops at
                midnight under
                the moon, he was

                stuck, he rose
                in the air, pulled
                his cape round
                his cheek like a
                wing and hung

                like a shop sign;
                ‘fight the fear’

 

 

 

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

air wormhole: BLUEFLAGS by William Carlos Williams
Batman & moon wormhole: despite that
shops wormhole: amniotic avenue

 

despite that

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                                despite that

                between the rear fins and
                raised front screen shield

                the case began to settle,
                and the horizontal clouds

                parted to allow the
                Vertical City silhouettes;

                ‘gee, that’s swell,’ said a
                bystander to a witness,

                ‘they have a reason to
                 drive somewhere’, vrrrmm;

                that bowler hats were off
                to work as the moon

                climbed the downpipe
                and, giantly sat over the

                steering wheel the blow
                of resolution struck, the

                apartment lights hung
                unstraight and some fell

                off silently, but really,
                and down the street –

                fin to kerb, kerb to
                bonnet – they were

                getting nowhere fast
                up the staircase

 

 

 

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

Batman & society wormhole: moon- // washed
city wormhole: What You Are by Roger McGough
clouds wormhole: coterminalism – there is nothing happens by itself, / 070118
light & streets wormhole: BLUEFLAGS by William Carlos Williams
moon wormhole: TO A SOLITARY DISCIPLE by William Carlos Williams
night & passing & silence & speech wormhole: only
realisation wormhole: you
silhouette wormhole: that
thinking wormhole: how to teach

 

BLUEFLAGS by William Carlos Williams

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                                BLUEFLAGS

                I stopped the car
                to let the children down
                where the streets end
                in the sun
                at the marsh edge
                and the reeds begin
                and there are small houses
                facing the reeds
                and the blue mist
                in the distance
                with grapevine trellises
                with grape clusters
                small as strawberries
                on the vines
                and ditches
                running springwater
                that continue the gutters
                with willows over them.
                The reeds begin
                like water at a shore
                their pointed petals waving
                dark green and light.
                But blueflags are blossoming
                in the reeds
                which the children pluck
                chattering in the reeds
                high over their heads
                which they part
                with bare arms to appear
                with fists of flowers
                till in the air
                there comes the smell
                of calamus
                from wet, gummy stalks.

 

from Sour Grapes, 1921
WCW was good enough to let us into his local so much that we found his family there too; he espoused the search for poetry within your own fingernails, within your local yards and backstreets, within your private moments in front of your own mirror, within the loaned experience which can only be borrowed when you’ve brought up children and shown them the world in which you brought them to their own existence … rather than charging off for it rummaging about Europe’s kulture: he was an icognito prince, old WCW

 

 

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

air wormhole: THURSDAY by William Carlos Williams
blue wormhole: coterminalism – there is nothing happens by itself, / 070118
cars wormhole: ash leaves
green & William Carlos Williams wormhole: SPRING & LINES by William Carlos Williams
light wormhole: A Solitude by Denise Levertov
mist wormhole: that
smell wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – old George
streets wormhole: we held cold hands
sun wormhole: only
voices & water wormhole: What You Are by Roger McGough

 

mlewisredford is seven years old!!!

… one day, in September of 2011, I had newly gone part-time on my job (‘a defector from the petty wars’) and wondering what to do with my life, so I started a blog; seven years later it is still going and I have now retired from active duty, although I’m still wondering what to do with my life; look at how I have silently conquered the world …

… like serving-spooning a great dollop of apricot jam on America and then spreading it across the continents – a piece of fruit getting stuck on the UK – nice and even except central Africa and China: see the progress of indefatigable naivete …

… see the thinning of views in later years but the pectin-consistency of viewers rise; look at the label on the jar …

… contains: naivete (84%), indefatigability (10%), militancy (3%), silence (3%); made with immanently-sourced insights, contemplatively renewable; may contain wisdom; consistency-free; and here are the generals of the velvet coup …

… good soldiers all – long lines of be-ribonned disengenuousness worn proudly across their chests;

thank you to those who keep on returning to figure out what on earth mlr is up to (or about to); who knows, maybe sometime he will make sense … (but that might be the time, then, to close – mlewisredford.wordpress); every visit, like and comment stops me fading-to-back (sic) – thank you

also: my dear mum would have been 85 today; towards the end of her life she was a Jehovah’s Witness and therefore didn’t mark her birthday; now, after her life, I mark her birthday with this blog’s anniversary – you are not forgotten, mum

only

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                                only

                from the point of stand
                the dunes are sharp
                against speechless sky

                in passing they rise
                flatly up and up in
                broad brush of land

                blistering from a distant
                sun, in approach they
                are voluptuous cleft

                and hip – raspberry
                stone in orange – the
                Venusian ring-tone

                doesn’t interrupt the
                commentary skip
                across three languages

                                –O___

                OK, the contrast
                between the profiles
                of lifeless heads of lava
                and the twilight-violet sky
                of no day and no night
                is beautiful

                but I could
                have spent the day
                amid peoples’ peeks
                and primal landscapes
                open for to behold
                instead …

 

excursion to Timanfaya National Park on Lanzarote, Jan 2018

 

 

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

beauty wormhole: good going into / that gentle night
living & talking to myself wormhole: THURSDAY by William Carlos Williams
love wormhole: we held cold hands
night wormhole: TREES by William Carlos Williams
orange wormhole: TO A SOLITARY DISCIPLE by William Carlos Williams
passing & people & speech wormhole: A Solitude by Denise Levertov
silence & sun wormhole: What You Are by Roger McGough
sky wormhole: coterminalism – there is nothing happens by itself, / 070118
sound wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – both fawn and grey
stone wormhole: `whappn’d!
twilight wormhole: letting them go

 

SPRING & LINES by William Carlos Williams

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                                SPRING

                O my grey hairs!
                You are truly white as plum blossoms.

 

 

 

                                LINES

                Leaves are greygreen,
                the glass broken, bright green.

 

from Sour Grapes, 1921
there is a beauty to ageing, there is a crack to glass; which cannot be appreciated until one has shifted at right angles to the time it takes or the import it hasn’t

 

 

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

blossom wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
glass wormhole: behind / glass walls and wan and hooded eye
green & leaves & Spring wormhole: What You Are by Roger McGough
grey wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – both fawn and grey
hair wormhole: fifty-eight // and silent prayers
white wormhole: we held cold hands
William Carlos Williams wormhole: THURSDAY by William Carlos Williams

 

coterminalism – there is nothing happens by itself, / 070118

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                coterminalism – there is nothing happens by itself,
                070118

                when blackberry jam is on the bread for breakfast
                there will be bougainvillea on the roundabout by lunch

                when the walk uphill is steep enough and windy
                the rainfall advances, but stays in the valley

                so that when walking through villas between showers
                there are always sand-blue clouds under deepening olive sky

                when you cook or prepare the vegetables right
                the paella is right the oval dish long

                when creation and study and life happen around the same table, there is                      
                being

 

Bodhisattvacharyavatara VI, 31 – everything is governed by other factors and nothing governs itself; anything which seems to stand out from this as independent is illusory [and usually desparate in some sort of way]

 

 

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

being & sky wormhole: THURSDAY by William Carlos Williams
blue & life & walking wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – both fawn and grey
clouds & holiday wormhole: we held cold hands
hills wormhole: that
olive wormhole: mauve
rain & valley wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – reaping
study wormhole: glancing up from the text / searching for ground …
table wormhole: I don’t need to go out / onto the balcony to see behind me / to know what’s going on
wind wormhole: JANUARY by William Carlos Williams