• Bodhisattvacharyavatara
    • Introduction
    • Chapter 1
    • Chapter 2
    • Chapter 3
    • Chapter 4
    • Chapter 5
    • Chapter 6
    • Chapter 7
    • Chapter 8
    • Chapter 9
    • Chapter 10
  • collected works
    • 25th August 1981 – count Up
    • askance From Hell
    • Batman
    • The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford
    • Bob 1995-2012
    • Edward Hopper: Poems at an Exhibition
    • David Bowie Movements in Suite Major
    • Eglinton Hill
    • FLOORBOARDS
    • Granada
    • in and out / the Avebury stones / can’t seem to get / a signal …
    • Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters]
    • Miller’s Batman
    • mum
    • nan
    • Portsmouth – Southsea
    • Spring Warwick breezes / over Bacharach fieldwork and boroughs with / the occasional shift and chirp of David / in the pastel-long morning of the sixties
    • through the crash
  • index
    • #A-E see!
    • F–K, wha’ th’
    • L-P 33 1/3 rpm
    • Q-T pie
    • U-Z together forever
  • me
  • others
    • William Carlos Williams
  • poemics
  • poeviews
  • teaching matters
  • wormholes

mlewisredford

~ may the Supreme and Precious Jewel Bodhichitta take birth where it has not yet done so …

mlewisredford

Tag Archives: apricot

then

24 Monday Jun 2019

Posted by m lewis redford in poems, poeviews

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'scape, 1819, 2019, 6*, anchor, apricot, day, drifting, east, looking, morning, port, reflection, sea, ships, sky, society, spire, sun, sunrise, time, town, water, William Turner

                                                                                earlier,
                before the sun suggested the apricot immensity of coming day
                                fill up the sky and

                                                                                deep within
                glazed waters, the hulls drifted anchored, spindly masts
                                like antennae

                                                                                only port towers
                of decades stood still and reflected, later, jetties of planks and
                                posts tied onto

                                                                                the sea
                like ripples, there were centuries of town and spired symbol, then,
                                to bounder playful sky

 

prologued from S. Giorgio Maggiore, Early Morning, 1819 & Looking east from the Giudecca: Sunrise, 1819 both by William Turner; did you see the sunsets that morning, was anybody else there …?

 

 

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

apricot wormhole: I don’t need to go out / onto the balcony to see behind me / to know what’s going on
looking wormhole: The Atlantic City Convention: 1. THE WAITRESS by William Carlos Williams
morning & reflection & sky & sun & water wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Rain
sea wormhole: slight sneer
society wormhole: quietly in my quiet house
time wormhole: Sujātā

 

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I don’t need to go out / onto the balcony to see behind me / to know what’s going on

30 Monday Jul 2018

Posted by m lewis redford in announcements

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2018, 7*, apartment, apricot, being, birds, blackberry, blue, cream, damson, facade, fruit jellies, future, grey, holiday, island, January, knowing, Lanzarote, lemon, life, light, morning, palms, planes, right angle, sea, seeing, sky, sunset, table, talking, toddlers, voices, volcanic rock, white, wind

                                     I don’t need to go out
                          onto the balcony to see behind me
                               to know what’s going on

                the sea is a damson-blackberry
                fruit-jelly grey in January
                around a volcanic island; the

                cream of apricot née lemon
                awash the staggered faces of
                apartments fades to berry-

                blue along the white facades
                (until the right-angled sides
                 become wholly indifferent in

                 the morning) while palm trees
                blow into the setting sun and
                planes land in the headwind;

                eventually they are broadleaf-
                white under the damson-blackberry
                fruit-jelly grey sky when the

                balcony light flicks on, voices
                talk of the future around the table
                and toddlers shriek like birds landing

 

 

 

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

apricot & wind wormhole: transferring
being wormhole: cowled
birds & blue & grey & sky wormhole: SPRING STRAINS by William Carlos Williams
holiday wormhole: green and / luminant / to behold
lemon wormhole: … vague / thunder
life & seeing wormhole: anxiety
light & voices wormhole: moon- // washed
morning wormhole: SUMMER SONG by William Carlos Williams
sea wormhole: and ‘naerrgh’ a mention of a seagull’s call
sunset wormhole: Is There / Life on Mars? – poewieview #32
table wormhole: … the underleaves show
talking wormhole: coagulating
white wormhole: presence

 

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transferring

26 Tuesday Jun 2018

Posted by m lewis redford in poems, poeviews

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1990, 2017, 7*, air, apricot, blue, branches, commentary, connection, corridors, distance, fall, falling, fence, flow, here, humour, iconography, land, microphone, muddy, neon, night, openness, phone, shirt, sky, sound, spark, teeth, telephone lines, thawing, traffic lights, transference, trees, Twin Peaks, voices, water, waterfall, wind, wood

                here

                are the transferring phones
                dialling over waterfalls
                voices in the curly wire

                giving soundtrack and
                commentary through
                all manner of splayed connection

                in the trees, through
                empty corridors – the transformer
                must be off, or something:

                muddy waters to apricot air
                sparks grade, twist and edge teeth
                into lumber … oh, checkshirts;

                the post fence sinks to land
                and distance, there is air
                in a wide-open microphone

                there is neon under a
                dirt blue sky, through all the branches
                a cascading iconography

                of posthumour – fall flow thaw;
                at night the wind
                moves the swinging lights

 

mostly a palimpsest of season 1 from 1990 of Twin Peaks

 

 

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

air wormhole: with all love released
apricot wormhole: 1964
blue wormhole: fifty-eight // and silent prayers
branches wormhole: ash leaves
flow wormhole: Batgirl –
night wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – reaping
openness wormhole: clear as vista
sky wormhole: glancing up from the text / searching for ground …
sound wormhole: sreet
traffic lights wormhole: traffic lights and broad avenue
trees & wood wormhole: … the underleaves show
voices wormhole: the turtle and the yoke
water wormhole: sharpened apex
wind wormhole: lost the search

 

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1964

18 Sunday Feb 2018

Posted by m lewis redford in poems, poeviews

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

1964, 2016, 8*, afternoon, apricot, breeze, childhood, circle, city, comics, culture, docks, eyes, faces, groundlessness, growth, horses, humanity, Journey Into Mystery, life, mouth, Saturday, seeing, skyline, story, Thor, time, vision

                1964

                I found that
                there were circles
                in life turning

                wide and oiled
                around invisible axes above
                darkening city-lines

                the faces of ages
                at the circumference, caverns
                in their mouth

                and vision
                in their eyes that is lost
                in their own story

                which I cannot
                fathom; Saturday afternoons
                fashion

                an apricot balm
                that wingèd horses
                can scarce be seen

                and humankind
                is blinded in its
                multiplying culture:

                the tied piles
                at the docks are creaking
                the eyes, turn,

                down;
                in all the starry cosmos of time
                there is no floor

 

Journey Into Mystery #104, May 1964; Stan Lee, Jack Kirby; I submitted this to a local poetry competition – not even an honorary mention

 

 

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

1964 wormhole: 1964
afternoon wormhole: low afternoon
apricot wormhole: Pilot 125 … // … being excursion in the interludes
breeze wormhole: sweet chestnut
childhood wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 220211
city wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
comics wormhole: Batgirl –
eyes & faces & mouth wormhole: I am not yet ready
groundlessness wormhole: travelling // arrival
life & seeing wormhole: Sheffield Park Gardens
Saturday wormhole: in the Java ‘n’ Jazz
skyline wormhole: two profiles
Thor wormhole: pen and ruler
time wormhole: certainly a Captain, / but not America

 

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Pilot 125 … // … being excursion in the interludes

21 Tuesday Nov 2017

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2015, 6*, adjustment, apricot, closed, coffee, contact, dancing, David Lynch, death, Donna, eyes, face, feeling, fir, girder, happiness, home, life, looking, poetry, relationship, release, shift, story, Twin Peaks, woman, work

Animation: Korey Daunhauer

                Pilot 125 …

                circular saws twist
                and sink to their jagged work

                tattered thighs stagger
                between girders – eyes closed over constant face

                … there was
                a death but the Douglass Firs shifted

                behind counters and
                coffee and Donna just felt … happy

                as all sorts of turns
                adjusted; death is the release of looking

                that is held too long –
                always the Douglass Firs need to shift – looking

                too far ahead
                is the death of contact and relationship –

                the fan revolves
                in the empty stairwell; looking back into the lens

                for existence is everlasting
                and beautiful death; sweat on the plough is

                far bigger than cabin
                and home where only the women have poetry

                plumes rise
                like cold apricot flesh

                cascades spread
                in chapters while everyone learns to dance the Moose Horn

                … being excursion in the interludes

 

… of intial episodes of the first season of Twin Peaks: this reading will require experience of being seen

 

 

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

apricot wormhole: faintly apricot air?
coffee & death wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 220211
dancing wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – A Precious Moment
eyes wormhole: immeasurable love
fir wormhole: fine droplets / across the glass
life wormhole: amid
looking wormhole: Bexhill 140215
poetry wormhole: over-pink cagoule
woman wormhole: the evening
work wormhole: breathing through hypnagogia

 

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faintly apricot air?

04 Wednesday Jan 2017

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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'scape, 2015, 6*, air, apricot, grey, kerb, morning, Plumstead, progress, shadow, Shooters Hill, sky, streetlight, streets, tarmac, trees, walking

                why tarmac the whole street wide
                for one bicycle uphill and one

                careful walker down (hand in pocket
                no necktie), the trimmed-back trees

                planted along the kerb edge marking
                curved progress, marking the ends

                of terrace or maybe containing the
                wide grey sky over Shooters Hill that

                delivers a half past ten morning to the
                Borough; thinks the man by the sole

                streetlight leaning back on his cane
                in the shadow of the faintly apricot air?

 

ennis-road

 

 

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

air wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – intemperance
apricot wormhole: the skyline
grey wormhole: industrial estate
morning wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Follow Your Nose
Plumstead wormhole: like ink – poewieview #23
shadow wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
sky & streets & trees wormhole: open window
streetlight wormhole: passing below
walking wormhole: to allow / passage

 

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the skyline

04 Friday Nov 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems, poeviews

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1964, 2016, 7*, apricot, black, buildings, collosal, Dr Strange, fight, houses, light, Mordo, morning, pink, power, silence, sky, skyline, spell, Stan Lee, statement, Steve Ditko, Strange Tales, world

                the deepening spells must wait
                there is sky to conduct
                and arm to girth the world

                upon a pink apricot morning
                the silent tower was pierced
                oblivious to black boltage of strike;

                protagonist beget defence
                and they grew statemental
                and collosal to dolls’ houses

                they stood on silent levels
                inferred from clamoured storey
                until the light broke

                the skyline

 

from Strange Tales #125, October 1964, “Mordo Must Not Catch Me”, by Lee & Ditko

 

 

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

apricot wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
black & morning & pink & silence wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – snow
buildings wormhole: passersby
Dr Strange wormhole: traffic lights and broad avenue
light wormhole: Prajnaparamita // Maitreya
power wormhole: poessay III: jijimuge
sky wormhole: woven-through
skyline wormhole: did I get old?
world wormhole: beepbeep

 

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1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012

15 Thursday Jan 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

10*, 1959, 1960s, 2012, 2015, 99/1, abandonment, air, airport, America, anxiety, apricot, art deco, avenue, beauty, bedroom, birdsong, blossom, blue, books, branches, breathing, buildings, business, Carol, Central Park, charcoal, childhood, choice, clothes, clouds, coffee, coffee shop, compromise, crane, Dad, divorce, dog, dream, Eglinton Hill, evening, eyebrow, eyes, falling, fashion, floodlights, Ford Anglia, freedom, furniture, ghosts, glamour, Glasgow, green, grey, haiku, hair, Have, history, horizon, hotel, identity, life, lifetimes, light, lilac, living, London, looking, love, magazine, Manhattan, marble, Mini, mist, money, morning, Mum, music, New York, obligation, pastel, people, phone, pink, plane, posture, radar, reaching, reading, roads, sadness, sidewalk, sitting, sky, smile, society, sound, space, sparrows, speech, spotlights, Steely Dan, streetlight, sun, sunlight, talking, taxi, terrace, texting, time, traffic, traffic lights, train, travelling, trees, uniform, waiting, walking, walls, walnut, white, wind, windows, work, years, yellow

                                          1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012

                                straight out from school to Heathrow on the M25
                                a network of lonely roads going nowhere, then;
                                waiting, studying coffee highlights in the green
                                lobby with blue spotlights and pillared space for

                                phones to pace up and down and talk it still is,
                                loudly; at the next hotel we wait with more spot-
                                lights in our eyes no matter where we sit; furniture
                                deco-curved and just off right-angle, held together,

                                material to wood, for decades with check-
                                pattern and slight stain; there is a locked-in-
                                ness in our world on all sides which only our
                                future eyes – that never look directly – betray

                                in their gaze; early flight tomorrow; in the
                                morning-effect light shifting, the mist hanging
                                around the base of the sky, land spread with
                                low buildings always on the horizon, flat and

                                matt, before the sun flanks their edges into 3D,
                                radar-spinning, floodlights turn off, arms of
                                cranes hold their reach, and … the control
                                tower; 3567 miles and I didn’t bring enough

                                books (you can never bring enough books);
                                I travelled for lifetimes to arrive in New York,
                                still the same person: roads scraped and pock-
                                marked, trees still reach and lean in front of the

                                sky, people still live city life breathing in and
                                out the power of my money, lights still go on
                                in the evening and in between traffic shoals
                                the sparrows bicker in the trees; in room 506

                                over Central Park, already I am familiar with
                                the lore of the branch, the places-to-go apricot
                                street lights, the white path lights, the traffic
                                lights and the ‘cheeps’ bounced off building wall

                                between the lmmmdmda-lmmmdmda – laersssh
                                through the rain-dusty windows, under grey-sky
                                steel-clouds and the slowly shifting charcoal; but
                                then there is always the next day, the ever-waiting

                                gulp-open and blue-chip sorry of impressionistic
                                sidewalk, the walnut marble frontages walking
                                south up into downtown in cold air between
                                buildings and didn’t bring enough clothes (I never

                                know what clothes to bring) – by Radio City ‘with a
                                transistor and a large sum of money to spend’;
                                everything created for living beyond subsistence
                                everything produced at cost through labour

                                everything earned through labour if you can get it
                                everything obtained at price and compromise
                                everything experienced at cost through trademark
                                everything Had, but no one left to have it …

                                everything that is uneasy in the modern day
                                was manufactured behind the half-closed blinds
                                of America – home of the Potential and Slave –
                                and yet … it is so sad-beautiful: the space sculpted

                                by façades of apartment blocks giant arm-widths
                                apart, communities of single window – italicised
                                nib–scratches – stepped upwards and backwards
                                the Avenues of Uprise reaching higher and

                                lower again and again and again; America has
                                so much condensed history since it braved the
                                conceit and responsibility, of choice: cleansed
                                by ethnically assimilating, pledged by conforming

                                allegiance; Someone had to make a stand against
                                all this equivocation and by God Almighty We
                                Made   that   Stand; `made continental infrastructure
                                out of it, far bigger far more reaching even than

                                law and democracy … … but there is such
                                width in your sadness – lilac blossom before
                                marble façade; such height in your sadness –
                                giddy out on the balconies looking eight floors more

                                above; such blank in your sadness – when you
                                skip my English joke and call ‘you’re welcome’
                                from the till; such sadness when you ask for
                                change outside Starbucks; even the trees through

                                the hotel window, even the wide sidewalk cleaned
                                for strolling and not curbing, even the smiling
                                doorman in brown suit … all Had; all kept
                                in place by gigantitude, everything kept in place

                                by gigantitude, (when I was young an image
                                of a building so many floors high pinnacling to a
                                turret roof on the pink cover on the blue cover
                                of the insurance policies that my Mum kept;

                                my mother is now dead the policies came to
                                nothing); 99: “for all the freedom and choice to
                                be Had, life is hard when you pay with your work
                                and no time left and no money to choose

                                leaves you tired with no sense of humour”;
                                1: “for all the freedom and choice to be Had
                                life is anxiety where you pay for with your
                                history and obligation, never stopped still-

                                enough to choose, leaves you always with
                                dyed hair; look, only on the fifth floor of the
                                Eldorado, a man at the window canary short-
                                sleeve shirt turns back into the room, traffic light

                                booms out on a long arm swinging slightly taxis
                                u-turn as the sun comes up from behind; women’s
                                magazines, waiting for Mum at the hairdresser’s
                                in the mid-sixties, illustrations, young tree avenues,

                                blossoming handbags, little dogs on leash, promise
                                of love, promise of life, promise of man’s jaw in
                                boardroom where cologne cinches the deal, slight
                                smile signs the papers: maybe later some chinos

                                and open collar on the terrace; there was a calendar
                                brought home from work (“not needed … we work
                                in London”) – buildings of Manhattan, can decorate
                                my room, make my world, all the stepped down

                                walls of windows up which b-e-y-o-n-d myself
                                giddy and beautiful, I cannot look up or down but
                                keep them high on the wall; going out in the
                                evening Daddy ‘have to’ ‘to do with work’ ‘can’t be

                                helped’ white shirt bow-tie, clean-cut neck cologne
                                ‘good for contacts’ ‘if I can, just’ ‘business’; there
                                was a new white Mini, a new white Anglia parked
                                outside on the hill over London, Matchbox models

                                to match for the boys, going into ‘business’ ‘make
                                a go’ Dennis & Dennis, home, evening drinks, meet
                                the family, the boys play Dennis G and Dennis P
                                for years after; ‘… Daddy is leaving, he will not be

                                coming back’; I had thought it was all pastel-blue-
                                and-grey beautiful but the glamour got to him first
                                and now I dream of falling off balconies and ledges,
                                (do I fall up or down); evening: ghouls from the

                                subway gaining and pushing but the top trees-only
                                gently leaning, hybrids swashing yellow down the
                                tarmac in schools while the thunder of a plane
                                descends; morning: eyebrows raise like coving, the

                                reggae lingers      then kicks in; a neat rhombus of
                                sunlight unconcerned across her cheek, a blind rolls
                                down, ‘I’ll just read a chapter’-fixed lashes, the
                                rhombus travelling now across collar bones between

                                her white collars; Carol reads far better than me,
                                she reads history as it happens, she is the ‘captain-
                                speaking’, she knows what time it is      in other
                                countries, she knows there is no airport in Glasgow

                                (she also bullshits when cornered); now I miss all of
                                this, I see only peoples’ posture contrary to their
                                eyes, and little else; I came to Manhattan and saw
                                your avenues of strange displacement your streets

                                of darkness and morning-side; I found I was there
                                a lifetime ago, but you left me and I have moved on
                                now and I shall not be back, there is no need;
                                I shall celebrate your strange beauty from afar;

                                Newark Airport: everybody here / is talking all
                                the time to / someone somewhere else; the control
                                room sits            overhanging on the concrete stem,
                                fingers of cloud float nonchalantly by, with no delays

                                today, two girls study magazines, swap articles,
                                a third texts constantly with fixed smirk; but you,
                                you are so beautiful with hennaed hair braided
                                neatly back because you are in uniform, you are

                                taking a break, ID and equipment around your
                                neck, clear dark skin, grey shirt and St. John’s
                                badge eating a bag     of crisps with eyebrows sharp
                                and eyes so white looking, not talking     looking

 

 

 

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

abandonment & streetlight wormhole: dawn
air wormhole: just
anxiety & Carol & crane & Have & lifetimes & London & love & pink & sky & train & travelling & white & work wormhole: new year’s eve 2014; train up to London to / walk the bridges across the Thames, and / listen to the voices say it is, and was, like, / but get back home before the fireworks / obliterate it all in the emptying twilight
apricot wormhole: only
beauty wormhole: smiling
bedroom wormhole: sunny morning
blossom & branches & waiting wormhole: I could step / more open
blue & grey & mist & trees & walking wormhole: right to be
books wormhole: a light rosé
breathing & life & speech wormhole: living mystery / murder theatre
buildings & identity & society & space & windows wormhole: where the real action // always is
childhood & dream & Eglinton Hill & ghosts & green & looking & morning & time wormhole: tag cloud poem VIII – growth
clouds & light & posture wormhole: Buddha Amitabha
coffee wormhole: poised patiently for / hours
coffee shop wormhole: yet another sprain / of ‘Jingle Bells’ straining / to propagate yet another / tired Christmas spirit – … / ‘sanner clawsis coming t’ taunn – yeah’ in a / coffee shop with condensation / running off the snowflake transfers / and the iphone at the next table / talking how 50 means 900 a month – not worth / the drive (left his scarf behind – / collateral) … about my age
compromise wormhole: Dr Strange V – all the words of all the times of all the worlds speak
Dad & traffic lights & yellow wormhole: ‘“Never,” said the Sandman; / he blinked …’
dog wormhole: silence
evening wormhole: lobby
eyes wormhole: great underbelly to the rooftops
haiku(esque) & hair & Manhattan & people & roads wormhole: Kirby’s landscapes
history wormhole: 20th century / schzoid man
horizon wormhole: Dr Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street
hotel wormhole: the Last Day of Morecambe Illuminations
lilac wormhole: Herbert Road diptych
living & sitting & sound & sun wormhole: crumpled / notebooks / at the end of a gentle retreat
money wormhole: The Future of Teaching: performance or capability (‘oh, not ‘teaching’ then?’)
Mum wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
music & reading wormhole: sometimes
obligation wormhole: scattered
smile wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
sparrows wormhole: zazen in everyday life
spotlights wormhole: ‘the dining room …’
talking wormhole: – sigh! –
walls wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
wind wormhole: Christmas

 

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only

21 Friday Sep 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2012, 4*, apricot, Batman, blue, buildings, chimney, city, grey, Infantino, moon, night, pink, portrait, seeing, sky

 

 

 

                                          it was

                                only

                      because the Batman
                      stood high on the cornice
                      by the blackened chimney
                      looking over the city
                      deep grey shrouded in
                      fathomless dark blue

                                … only

                      that the sky was deep pink
                      behind the apricot moon

 

 

 

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

apricot wormhole: HA!
Batman wormhole: holiday
blue wormhole: there
buildings wormhole: Plumstead Common / Road
chimney wormhole: crows on the / chimneys / of 40/38
city wormhole: Notre Dame
grey wormhole: the Eiffel Tower
Infantino wormhole: biography
night wormhole: “bring in as many / different kinds of leaf / as you can find”
pink wormhole: ruddy pink
moon wormhole: Bonus Books
seeing wormhole: I will teach everything / I will write everything / I will say everything / I will read everything
sky wormhole: demolition

 

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HA!

09 Monday Jul 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

2011, 4*, apricot, blue, bridge, emergence, night, sky, superhero, Woolwich

 

 

 

                HA!

                you thought you had me
                with your tiny patches
                           of dirty ground
                your broken fences your
                           dirty blue cardboard doors

                but I found true apricot
                           skies night-time
                           bridges and
                SUPERHEROES right in
                           your midst

 

 

 

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

apricot wormhole: 1976
blue wormhole: ‘thinking things through …’
bridge wormhole: 1968
emergence wormhole: ‘the smell of gloss paint …’
night wormhole: 11:50 pm
sky wormhole: lost cape
superhero wormhole: zero
Woolwich wormhole: Bonus Books

 

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