almost indefatigable and quietly militant naïveté …

my / superpower



my superpower



                I am not implacable like Superman
                                              which is both my own Kryptonite
                                and my own presence

                I am not grim like the Batman
                                              which is both my own Tragedy
                                and my own wisdom

                I am not angry like the Hulk
                                              which is both my own Ignominy
                                and my own stealth

                I am not strange like Stephen
                                              which is both my own Ambiguity
                                and my own naïveté

                I am not a human god like Thor
                                              which is both my own Dilemma
                                and my own ease

                I am not webbed in moral struggle like Spiderman
                                              which is both my own Disempowerment
                                and my own ingenuity

                I am not fore-sighted like Daredevil
                                              which is both my own Prohibition
                                and my own insight

                I am not mellifluent like the Beast
                                              which is both my own Distrust
                                and my own poem



                                my super power
                                is far far greater
                                than all of these





Batman wormhole: early evening
Daredevil wormhole: now, the verticals go down as well as they go up
disempowerment wormhole: tag cloud poem V – draft-ness
Dr Strange wormhole: Doctor Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street
emptiness wormhole: tag cloud poem IX – haiku is awkward / the more that is left in / like uncombed hair
identity wormhole: need
naïveté wormhole: true nature
Superman wormhole: sit
superpower wormhole: exactly equal
Thor wormhole: song of irrelevance


Michael Redford: triptych




                                           Michael Redford

                                           later on
                           he strolled in the garden
                           breathing the night and the plants
                           smoking a fine cigar

                           then he paused
                           and looked back at the armchair
                           where he had been sitting –




                                              sitting room

                                              chest-height handle

                                              smell of sofa-linen
                                              and wood-fire evenings

                                              with company
                                              and dark green wines

                                              cool black boards and
                                              the white patterned carpet

                                              with almost-meeting
                                              crenellated walls

                                              brow-height mantelpiece
                                              on jungle green

                                              and the piano in the
                                              corner with duff bass keys –






                                                                      to my uncle
                                                                      shifting on
                                                                      seat of dining
                                                                      chair – crack –

                                                                      elbow uncomfortable
                                                                      on table-edge
                                                                      carving – creak –
                                                                      to execute a
                                                                      perfect tree

                                                                      on the horizon
                                                                      with just two strokes
                                                                      one brown
                                                                      one green
                                                                      I knew then

                                                                      to put down
                                                                      my compass plans
                                                                      for every detail
                                                                      but only just now
                                                                      doing it


looking for what to publish today, I found my uncle unassumingly proffering the lesson in life that he always gave, even nine years after he died: that you don’t look for life, you notice it; some teachers teach by being rather than saying, so that you don’t realise you are being taught until you know; wherever he is now, I hope he knows what he gave me/us … in fact I dedicate the clean-ity of all I notice to return the gift to my uncle wherever his lives have led him now


Mick and Mark



being & doing wormhole: need
black wormhole: the start of adolescence
brown wormhole: London Hearts – poewieview #4
carpet wormhole: ‘the hour before dinner – / the empire of dusk’ – poewieview #6
doors & garden wormhole: impressionism
evening wormhole: well,
green & talking wormhole: bavardage
horizon & life wormhole: tag cloud poem IX – haiku is awkward / the more that is left in / like uncombed hair
living & night & smell & sound & table & windows & wood wormhole: B le tch l ey P ark
living room wormhole: Woolwich Central – making life better II
piano wormhole: tabla
Ramsden Heath & uncle wormhole: … still waving!
realisation wormhole: dream career // groggy
sitting wormhole: the writing’s on the wall
sitting room wormhole: purple and mauve
trees wormhole: words tumble like / boulders – poewieview #25


B le tch l ey P ark




                                B  le  tch l  ey      P   ark

                                Edwardian fingers pointed
                                from military sleeve the way
                                in and the way through

                                while some knew that a W
                                will never return a W and
                                we will henceforth return

                                to a following possibility of
                                change, the veins in marble
                                cladding and the grain in

                                parquetry floor were no
                                longer décor of legacy but
                                cover for subversion – smiling

                                minds up in front of chimney
                                stacks – no, now, platted
                                and inflexible cable linked

                                lozenges of releasing code
                                in patterns of levered ratchet

                                across European divide; no more
                                the flurry scratch of ink across
                                blotted paper with fortitude

                                and Empire wile, now the
                                erstwhile sturdy tables were
                                anchored by elbow and fallen

                                eye gazed at shifting pattern,
                                now the heat of metal and
                                ribbon made the ink fume

                                like acid; now was the time
                                of proletariat genius as tape
                                connected the diagonals and

                                metal frame softened and
                                bent in constant hold;
                                now the colour was splashed

                                and the ethic was learned
                                and the story is told to the
                                schoolchildren who – blink


visit, 260416, pages of scribbled notes; the poem sifted and shifted until a pattern formed and simultaneously dispersed, across time; in the hotel room in Luton right next to the rail-line which slingshot-ricochet’d passing trainsnotstopping in the window one side, out the window the other, all night and all of the day, in timetable but not necessarily rhythm




20th century wormhole: impressionism
change wormhole: Doctor Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street
chimney wormhole: hinged – From Hell ch. V
communication wormhole: Nostalgia for Samsara – poewieview #16
eyes & Have & history & hotel & time wormhole: tag cloud poem IX – haiku is awkward / the more that is left in / like uncombed hair
knowledge wormhole: 1963
living wormhole: need
meaning wormhole: quite … / … yet – poewieview #12
mind wormhole: becoming
night & society wormhole: no one – poewieview #24
power wormhole: top table
politics wormhole: dear clown’s face
smell wormhole: when writing // stay
smile & thought wormhole: while walking
sound wormhole: 1965
table wormhole: 1964
windows wormhole: mauve
wood wormhole: quick inventory after coffee
writing wormhole: words tumble like / boulders – poewieview #25


words tumble like / boulders – poewieview #25




                           lying still enough in the quiet of bedclothes
                           you can hear the pops in the sky as the
                           clouds settle and the resolve of form as

                           the trees are passed, all big-flared steps
                           through the park like the coming cartoons,
                           into the suburbs, (across the globe), but

                           always back to the room above the shops
                           under height of building pipework and the
                           block of flats, where the brick and grime

                           ignore the swirling litter … but then later,
                           among strumming, the words tumble like
                           boulders, each to their own defining clunk


settled throughout: Holy Holy, 1971; Oh! You Pretty Things, 1971; Fill Your Heart, 1971; How Lucky You Are (Miss Peculiar), 1971; Hang On To Yourself, 1971, after the dust




1971 wormhole: 1971
Bowie & buildings & wind wormhole: no one – poewieview #24
clouds wormhole: b / r / e / a / t / h / i / n / g
guitar wormhole: 08:55
music wormhole: well,
park & trees wormhole: 1963
passing & silence wormhole: 1965
shops wormhole: crease and score of silver-morning sky
sky wormhole: 1968
words wormhole: my // shell – poewieview #19
world wormhole: tong len / the inauguration of another – timely – butter fly effect / taking and giving
writing wormhole: need


tag cloud poem IX – haiku is awkward / the more that is left in / like uncombed hair




                                                     haiku   is awkward

   the more that is left in

     like uncombed  hair



                                                                                                                                                                            the hands that Have   are

                                                    small and gnarly that hedge a                
                                                        fund and close their eyes;

                                                my sight formed along
                                          rooflines of
Herbert Road edged
                                                           above the distant

                                beyond the river
from terraced steppes along the
     declining line of

 Hillbut then

                  my sights folded inwards at

                                                                   Hillsidepages of

 history that had

                                lost its own horizon, from

                                                                                                            hotel to house in

                              the bay windows of
                              London where
                                                                              is stuck in all time


‘aitches’ touch on quite a few boat-ties to my past: ‘Herbert Road’ was the local shopping high street where I lived in London until I was 19; it is in Plumstead which spreads south over the crest of ‘Shooters Hill’ and merges into Woolwich down to the river Thames; ‘Hillside’ is one of a little cluster of houses where I settled to raise a family and grow a career in Crowborough in the late 1980s – that same 80s that, mean-and-all-the-while, Thatcher was creaking open that casket (‘can’t read the label – “–ora’s Box”?’) which left me alien to my own background and lost in my own riverbank mist, save for the miraculous peek of haiku and the deadened gaze of bay window …

`haven’t published a tag cloud poem in a while: they’re made up of the larger tags of my work built up over the years – this one emerged into a series of haiku[esque] pieces of work – almost inevitably; this one was particularly difficult to form, the tag-words didn’t run off each other smoothly – I must admit I left a few words out; the green links are to those respective tags, the different sized fonts determined by the number of ‘topics’ that pertain to that tab … nerk!




Crowborough wormhole: portrait: / two pigeons
economics wormhole: 1959
emptiness wormhole: need
eyes wormhole: bavardage
haiku[esque] wormhole: ‘green plum jam on rye …’
hair wormhole: impressionism
hands & humanity wormhole: Doctor Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street
Have wormhole: Nostalgia for Samsara – poewieview #16
hedge wormhole: where the goblins leered – poewieview #14
Herbert Road wormhole: bottom of Herbert Road to the / foot of Eglinton Hill dream
hills wormhole: life [‘n’ death] / legerdemain – poewieview #15
Hillside wormhole: Charlotte
history & horizon wormhole: a theremin note – poewieview #21
hotel wormhole: Hotel Room, 1931
house wormhole: first Spring storm
life & society wormhole: no one – poewieview #24
London & rooftops & Thames wormhole: up on the hill
tag cloud poem wormhole: tag cloud poem VIII – growth
time wormhole: 1968







                           the traffic
                     the cars and the blocks of trucks with their air-breaks and axels pass
                           and recede

                     over the bridge on the way past the docks and cranes save for
                           the line

                           on the radio
                     which ends ‘instead …’ and doesn’t resolve until ‘… of me’ to
                           change down gear


Are You There (With Another Girl): Dionne Warwick, Burt Bacharach, Hal David




bridge wormhole: Compartment C, Car 193, 1938
cars wormhole: always
crane & traffic wormhole: finding my own true nature – Plumstead, Woolwich, 190915
morning wormhole: 1964
music & voices wormhole: well,
passing & sunlight & years wormhole: 1968
radio wormhole: any answers
silence wormhole: and that’s where I are
sound wormhole: impressionism






                                                    I need to accept
                                               this emptiness
                                          not become it

                                I need to allow
                           this defeat
                      not fight it

                      I need to find my beauty and hide it
                      let it be seen and found as it will or not
                      but not because I have proffered it or

                                          worn it or
                                          dressed it
                                          in syllables





acceptance wormhole: because
allowing wormhole: opening
beauty & being & doing & identity & writing wormhole: the writing’s on the wall
career wormhole: bavardage
emptiness wormhole: no one – poewieview #24
living wormhole: 1968


the writing’s on the wall




                                the writing’s on the wall

                                I can be becoming lost for weeks
                                unable to release, foiled in creativity
                                even by my breath; unable to waltz

                                or twirl about as I promise myself
                                held by the very wall that materialises
                                precisely where I thought to move

                                again; because there is something
                                closer than my retinas which I cannot see,
                I cannot see

                                because I am hanging on to a
                                last shred of dignity that makes me
                                blind that I cannot see the walls

                                at my toe before I swing my
                                foot to kick and I cannot see the walls
                                in my cranium before I blink


                                to stumble over, stood in inertia
                                no matter how busy I become
                                no matter how much I do

                                without looking; (it’s the writing
                                (no it’s the tidal lunge for vindication,
                                 (no it’s the reminder, the reinforcement

                                  that I am powerless))) in a pointless universe
                                in which I still want to be the hero
                                brandishing the latest sheaf of sublimity

                                (even if not on the rooftops waving
                                 my genitals – see, see) so what do I do,
                                do I stop it all now and snap out of it

                                do I make myself sit for hours of
                                balming penance, do I slap my wrists
                                for wanting to publish; no, Mark,

                                              here’s a pen and
                                              here’s the line and
                                              here’s the wall to write on





beauty & being & doing wormhole: while walking
breath wormhole: miss / ad / venture – poewieview #22
creativity & walls wormhole: and that’s where I are
groundlessness wormhole: Dear Sir/Madam,
identity wormhole: 1968
letting go wormhole: tong len / the inauguration of another – timely – butter fly effect / taking and giving
looking & writing wormhole: impressionism
pointlessness wormhole: development
publishing wormhole: time proceeds
seeing wormhole: Doctor Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street
sitting wormhole: well,
superhero wormhole: no point
talking to myself wormhole: dream career // groggy
vindication woormhole: thy will be done


while walking




                                              while walking

                and breathe the beauty
                and smile at the thought


“Six Persimmons”, Mu Qi (Fa-Chang); Ink painting, 13th Century on paper




awareness wormhole: tong len / the inauguration of another – timely – butter fly effect / taking and giving
beauty wormhole: 1964
being wormhole: 1968
breathing wormhole: dear clown’s face
doing wormhole: dash
smile wormhole: a little bit of love / and muffle
thought wormhole: my // shell – poewieview #19
walking wormhole: Doctor Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street







                      child living at rate: three months per hour
                      sat under lilac viscous sky and watched
                      the vermilion slicks form and pass; the

                      Way Things Are through which I had come
                      was no longer living with us; what I had
                      felt – under my fingernails – might not be

                      true (like the facades of towns erected
                      for a holiday) now had reference, I felt
                      no feeling, all Absolutes were off, all

                      interaction doubtful.   The child slept for
                      a week, is now stretching and yawning, a
                      new day ahead shining through curtains





1968 wormhole: quite … / … yet – poewieview #12
abandonment wormhole: 1963
being & passing & living wormhole: impressionism
child wormhole: and that’s where I are
childhood & sky wormhole: 1963
curtains wormhole: Quiver of / Tiffany – poewieview #20
divorce wormhole: sit
father wormhole: Jon
holiday wormhole: nothing to write
identity wormhole: no one – poewieview #24
lilac wormhole: I’ve only just realised / after so many decades / that the smell of neglected land is lilac buddleia
sleep wormhole: com- / mute
time wormhole: what I am about to say is true / what I just said was a lie
vermillion wormhole: 1967
years wormhole: 1964


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