The Atlantic City Convention: 1. THE WAITRESS by William Carlos Williams

Tags

1928, 6*, arms, Atlantic City, beauty, being, black, blue, candle, cheek, city, colour, communication, daisies, dress, ears, eyes, fingers, glass, green, grey, hair, hands, hips, knuckles, lips, looking, matches, mirror, mouth, movement, open, orange, others, portrait, poverty, red, reflection, ring, ruby, sea, seagull, silence, skin, sound, speech, temptation, thinking, walking, waves, white, William Carlos Williams, windows, woman, wrists, writing

                            1. THE WAITRESS

                No wit (and none needed) but
    the silence of her ways, grey eyes in
    a depth of black lashes–
    The eyes look and the look falls.

    There is no way, no way. So close
    one may feel the warmth of the cheek and yet there is
    no way.

    The benefits of poverty are a roughened skin
    of the hands, the broken
    knuckles, the stained wrists.

                Serious. Not as the others.
    All the rest are liars, all but you.
                                        Wait on us.
    Wait on us, the hair held back practically
    by a net, close behind the ears, at the sides of
    the head. But the eyes–
                            but the mouth, lightly (quickly)
    touched with rouge.

    The black dress makes the hair dark, strangely
    enough, and the white dress makes it light.
    There is a mole under the jaw, low under
    thr right ear–

                And what arms!

                                        The glassruby ring
    on the fourth finger of the left hand.

                                        –and the movements
under the scant dress as the weight of the tray
    makes the hips shift forward slightly in lifting
    and beginning to walk–

    The Nominating Committee presents the following
    resolutions, etc. etc. etc. All those
    in favor signify by saying, Aye. Contrariminded,
    No.
      Carried.
                And aye, and aye, and aye!

    And the way the bell-hop runs downstairs:
          ta tuck a
                ta tuck a
                      ta tuck a
                            ta tuck a
                                  ta tuck a
    and the gulls in the open window screaming over the slow
    break of the cold waves–

                O unlit candle with the soft white
    plume, Sunbeam Finest Safety Matches all together in
    a little box–

                And the reflections of both in
    the mirror and the reflection of the hand, writing
    writing–
                Speak to me of her!-

                –and nobody else and nothing else
    in the whole city, not an electric sign of shifting
    colors, fourfoot daisies and acanthus fronds going from
    red to orange, green to blue–forty feet across–

                                        Wait on us, wait
    on us with your momentary beauty to be enjoyed by
    none of us. Neither by you, certainly,
                                                nor by me.

 

with love from Poems, 1928

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

beauty & speech wormhole: ‘… and yet I think I am so modest: …’
being wormhole: so, how long is, a piece of string?
black wormhole: Impression of Winter: Carriage on a Country Road, 1872
blue & grey & writing wormhole: Hastings: neither all or nothing
city & William Carlos Williams wormhole: prose piece 2 from POEMS 1927 by William Carlos Williams
communication wormhole: agreed termination without prejudice
eyes wormhole: between
glass & red wormhole: travelling / back
green & woman wormhole: on facing the Have
hair wormhole: SPRING & LINES by William Carlos Williams
hands wormhole: THE LONELY STREET by William Carlos Williams
looking wormhole: waiting to be heard
mirror wormhole: What You Are by Roger McGough
mouth wormhole: glamour of saṃsāra
open wormhole: animus rises – powieview #37
orange & others & walking wormhole: Rain, Steam and Speed – the / Great Western Railway, 1844
reflection wormhole: I
sea & seagull & waves wormhole: Staffa Fingal’s Cave, 1832
silence & sound wormhole: Vue de Pontoise, 1873
thinking wormhole: there will be ovations
white wormhole: alabaster balustrade
windows wormhole: birth in the world

 

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‘… and yet I think I am so modest: …’

Tags

2018, 8*, achievement, anger, ants, arrogance, beauty, Big Issue, Bodhisattvacharyavatara, books, buying, Carol, cat, cause and effect, chrome, comics, conception, conditioned existence, dark, doing, evening, eyes, giving, glass, Hulk, human, identity, insight, isolation, kids, life, lightning, marbles, mind, modesty, night, offering, patience, perfect human rebirth, quality, shrine, standing, strangers, talking to myself, teaching, teeth, time, tin, white

                … and yet I think I am so modest:
                      I think I have gathered such quality and beauty in life,

                      all the coloured glass and marbles I offer to the shrine,
                all the Big Issues I generously buy

                all the time given to Carol and the kids,
                      to abandoned strangers, all the vistas I gave at school,

                      all the insights from comics and books, I think I
                know what’s what; I stand colossal

                      on the paving slab, so much more and in so many ways
                than the ants that circle across it,

                so much more, even, than the cat
                      that comes and uselessly rubs about my legs, I stand

                      human to the height of all achievement; all of this
                I have already destroyed

                      a thousand times over in a thousand different ways
                with even the most slight

                      annoyance (and the thing is I am always annoyed), let alone
                the hulked, mindblanked and white-eyed

                teeth and howls; when this dent,
                      this sudden crease in what looks like flimsy tin (from

                this axe from some other side) that
                      holds the calm and flow of all the cause and conditionality,

                      everything bent sharp over a refusal, that creates me adverse
                and isolated; I won’t

                      become human again for so long I’ll need
                another, far-future,

                flash of lightning
                      in the darkest of darkest nights before I’ll

                ever get another chance
                      to even conceive what’s happening to me; let’s

                ease out all these creases, let’s
                      polish all that chrome, before evening comes again

 

Bodhisattvacharyavatara, Chapter VI, beginning verses

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

beauty & books & identity wormhole: ‘a blacknight fitted perfectly …’
Carol wormhole: we held cold hands
cat wormhole: What You Are by Roger McGough
comics wormhole: letting them go
doing wormhole: the moon, the moon
evening & eyes & white wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Trees
giving wormhole: both modern and en-slaved / to life
glass & life & mind & time wormhole: early // Minoan & Mycenaean Exhibitions in the British Museum – diptych
lightning wormhole: ‘… plane is upright …’
night wormhole: THE GREAT FIGURE by William Carlos Williams
talking to myself wormhole: blister on me thumb
teaching wormhole: how to teach

 

‘a blacknight fitted perfectly …’

Tags

1967, 2018, 7*, arrival, Batgirl, Batman, beauty, black, books, eyes, glasses, identity, ink, knowledge, looking, mask, night, silhouette, skyline, talking

                a blacknight fitted perfectly
                over the local skyline like spilt ink

                as masks and blindfolds
                drove through the light to where

                silhouettes can talk
                in strictest identity and all the books

                can lean to the right where eyes beautiful look
                over rectangular glasses

 

Detective Comics #363, May 1967, Gardner Fox, Carmine Infantino: oh the rhymes we wend and the bends we play

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

Batman & skyline wormhole: space for probing thought
beauty wormhole: only
black wormhole: TREES by William Carlos Williams
books womrhole: What You Are by Roger McGough
eyes wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – With Pigs
glasses wormhole: we held cold hands
identity wormhole: Victorian pipework
knowledge wormhole: singsong chant
looking wormhole: LIGHT HEARTED WILLIAM by William Carlos Williams
night wormhole: the moon, the moon
silhouette wormhole: despite that
talking wormhole: I don’t need to go out / onto the balcony to see behind me / to know what’s going on

 

only

Tags

2018, 7*, beauty, commentary, contrast, day, heat, land, landscape, language, lava, living, love, night, orange, passing, people, perspective, phone, profile, raspberry, sand, silence, sky, sound, speech, stone, sun, talking to myself, twilight, violet, voluptuous

                                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

 

good going into / that gentle night

Tags

2014, 6*, beauty, being, death, evening, kitchen, letter, life, light, Mum, night, sky, sleep, tea, time, twilight, windows

                good going into
                that gentle night

                I’d have a cup of tea
                except it’s evening
                and I wouldn’t sleep
                so I just went ahead
                and did the dishes

                the light was fading
                so I cleaned them
                there in the twilight
                and by the time
                they were done,
                the dishes the sky
                the kitchen window
                and the woman in
                the hospital bed 16
                years ago were all
                of the same nature

                … and now I’m back
                to say how beautiful
                the evening is …

 

originally posted in the comments section to https://mlewisredford.wordpress.com/2014/08/08/letters-to-mum-iii-ongoing-term-eventually/ in response to – and using – Jana Smith’s lovely comments, 150814

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

beauty wormhole: reating & wriding
being wormhole: circuitry
death & kitchen wormhole: lesson from watching two crane flies work the evening / skating across the panes flying and pushing legs grappling / the glass crossing repulsive over themselves and clinging akimbo / for a rest until lifeless just to get their stickly bodies through to the light
evening wormhole: the evening
letter wormhole: duty free // chastened
life wormhole: concordance
light & sky wormhole: between
Mum wormhole: south horizon
night wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
sleep wormhole: lime crocs
tea wormhole: hello, luvvey, do you want a cup of tea?
time wormhole: clear as vista
twilight wormhole: twilight / and parasols down / within minutes
windows wormhole: slightly / uphill

 

reating & wriding

Tags

2014, 5*, beauty, being, boy, breathing, girl, grass, irony, Lewes, listening, phone, reading, talking, words, writing

                                reating & wriding

                                in
                through the words to the being
                out from the being between
                                words

                                why
                isn’t there beauty that can talk
                in locus and suffusion
                un-trapped in seem and word

                                even

                                even this
                has never existed

                                because
                the girl sat on the lawn and
                made her soliloquy
                                whatever

                                to the boy
                (who had the boxers who had the phone
                 and the tattoos and was not afraid
                 to sit on the grass and use them) who listened
                to every meaningful judder of her low cut top

 

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

beauty wormhole: weight
being wormhole: the sitting room
breathing wormhole: breathing through hypnagogia
girl wormhole: and I lose sight of her into memory
Lewes wormhole: Mark & Jon at the coffee shop IV: right angles
listening wormhole: just saying, is all VII: // `spolitical
reading wormhole: singsong chant
talking wormhole: … vague / thunder
words wormhole: Mark & Jon at the coffee shop II
writing wormhole: Mark & Jon at the coffee shop I

 

weight

Tags

2017, 8*, anatta, April, beauty, breeze, career, circle, clouds, countryside, identity, lesson planning, right angle, seeing, stone, stone circles, teaching, thought, time, view, work, world

                                                              April clouds are stone
                                              foreboding over the countryside
                                                                                   placed in circles across the land
                                                                                              over millennia

 

 

                I had wanted
                to follow thought and view

                at right-angle
                to all the world

                to find it beautiful
                in all its stark

                to lose my weight
                in perfect shifting breeze

                but had to work
                and plan the bend

                and case the sight
                and lost my sight

                (and gained some weight)
                I … had to work

 

retirement #8: when you slip out of a career and look back on what was achieved, there is only a quiet and drifting cloud to contemplate although the experience of working through it was of unworkable stone which you knew all the time shouldn’t be the case, but it was, it was; read the whole sequence as it drifts across the skies: in and out / the Avebury stones / can’t seem to get / a signal …

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

beauty wormhole: Sylvia
breeze wormhole: 1968
career & identity wormhole: strain
clouds wormhole: the // orange rose
seeing wormhole: Day Out
stone wormhole: reprieve
teaching wormhole: seen but not heard
thought wormhole: handsome
time wormhole: time travel
work wormhole: holiday
world wormhole: reading // unstirred

 

Sylvia

Tags

2015, 3*, beauty, faces, Picasso, portrait, Sylvia Plath, writing

                                  Sylvia

                ugly as a Picasso
                in all her beauty

 

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

beauty wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – gull circling out at sea
faces wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – snow
Sylvia Plath wormhole: too late:
writing wormhole: woven-through

 

Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – gull circling out at sea

Tags

2016, 5*, air, beauty, beech, blue, branches, detachment, eyes, finches, gaze, leaf, meadow, morning, mouse, seagull, sky, solitude, South Downs, walking

                           when I first walked the
                           slippery grass of the Downs
                           I remained at a distance
                           not wishing to intrude

                           during those mornings
                           when each leaf is etched
                           against the motionless air
                           of such blue that his eyes

                           ached to the far edge of
                           the meadow, the furthest
                           he had ever been by himself –
                           new lands of stubble and

                           bale; a cloud of finches
                           rose from the ground at the
                           touch of his material gaze:
                           beauty enriched by solitude;

                           along the headland he saw
                           a tiny mouse disappear as he
                           looked for it, then he rolled
                           on his back, looked through

                           the branches of a beech tree
                           to the depth above, tracing
                           the boughs with his fingers,
                           touch of urgency and echo –

                           gull circling out at sea

 

* that switch of pronouns in stanza two is definitely (sic)
read the collected work as it is published: here
this is an appliquiary to: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Simon Upon The Downs

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

air & beauty & blue & branches & eyes & morning & seagull & sky & walking wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Simon Upon The Downs

 

The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Simon Upon The Downs

Tags

'scape, 1967, air, autumn, beauty, beech, blue, branches, breeze, brown, butterfly, child, clouds, countryside, cows, echo, eyes, field, finches, friends, green, hedge, hill, horizon, lark, leaf, leaves, life, meadow, Michael J Redford, morning, mouse, October, orange, parents, red, sea, seagull, sky, solitude, South Downs, space, sun, the Boats of Vallisneria, thought, trees, village, walking, white, wind, windows, yellow

While staying with some friends at their South Downs home one autumn, I espied their six year old son Simon making off across the meadow at the foot of the hill.   Having been asked to keep an eye on their offspring while they went into town, I took up my walking stick and opened the back door.   As I stepped into the sun, I recalled those beautiful hours many years ago when I first walked the slippery grass of the Downs alone and first became aware of their warmth and their beauty.   For this reason I remained at a discreet distance and kept well out of sight, not wishing to intrude upon the boy’s apparent solitude.   I relived those distant moments with this young child, wondering if his thoughts were parallel with mine.

It was a mid October morning, one of those rare mornings when each distant leaf and twig is etched with startling clarity against the pure motionless air.   A faint haze of cloud occupied the northern sky, yet immediately above, the heavens were of such a blue that, even as he gazed, young Simon’s eyes ached at the brilliance of it.

The hedgerows were beginning to thin a little so that he could just make out the faded stubble beyond.   Haw berries were in profusion and were difficult to distinguish from the leaves, many of which had turned a deep russet brown.   He climbed to the brow of the hill, crossed to the stile in the far corner of the meadow and paused.   This was the furthest he had ever been by himself.   He knew this meadow fairly well for he could see it from his bedroom window.   This is where the big brown cows file slowly by in the drowsy summer afternoons and where, if you are lucky, you can see the rabbits scurrying about in the hollow down by the thicket.

He turned and peered over the stile into a new land, a land of sharp prickly stubble and straw bales stacked in towers across the field like an army marching down upon the red roofed village below.   A cloud of finches rose from the ground, as if the boy’s sweeping gaze was of material substance, touching the birds and startling them from their gleaning.   The land sloped gently away to the village and there levelled out to the broad patchwork weald cradled within the gentle curve of the downs upon which he stood.

Never had the young boy seen such a view, its beauty being enriched by his apparent solitude.   Here, high upon the downs, he was a giant surveying his kingdom and strode the browning fields to the horizon counting them as he went.   He came to love the scene dearly as the years went by, often returning later in life to relax in the spaciousness of it; to release his mind, his very soul, to soar high above, around and within and become part of this spacious beauty.

He clambered over the stile and made his way along the headland.   He liked walking upon stubble because it crackled and popped beneath his feet and trapped air burst forth from the hollow stems.   The day seemed a little warmer now and somewhere high above, a lark sprinkled the field with song.   Then a rustling in the hedgerow close by brought Simon’s gaze to rest upon the tiniest mouse he had ever seen.   It was the little creature’s white waistcoat that gave him away, for his yellow-orange jacket blended so with the coloured leaves about him, yet, even as he looked, the twinkling eyes and quivering nose disappeared.   He dropped to his knees and squinted between the leaves.   One leaf in particular caught his eye.   It was noticeable by the fact that one side of the central rib was of a deep chocolate brown colour while the other side remained green, and on the underside of the brown half each tiny artery and vein was etched clearly in red.   Plucking the leaf, the boy rolled over onto his back and looked up through the overhang of the hedge and on up through the branches of a great beech tree to the sky beyond.

At the zenith the azure had deepened and was of great and wonderful contrast to the coloured leaves about him.   He was conscious of the great depth above him yet lifted his arms to touch it, his fingers tracing the graceful boughs above.   And there, framed within his outstretched arms, within that riot of dazzling colour, he became aware of life, all life, from the very earth upon which he lay to the cosmic depths his fingertips caressed.   He became aware of its vitality, its beauty and its warmth.   And the young boy gazed in awe and wondered.

He loved the countryside and the old cottage where he lived with his kindly parents and he looked forward to the walks and picnics they took together.   But here was a new experience.   For the first time in his young life, Simon was away from home and alone.   The great hill and reared itself between him and the little cottage cutting off all visual contact with things familiar.   Suddenly, it was as if the countryside belonged to him, it became as intimate and close as his own loving parents.   As he gazed above with half closed eyes, the blue sky poured down its warmth upon him; the mild breeze lifted his fair hair and tickled his forehead and the Red Admiral butterfly danced for him and him alone.   This was indeed his land.   He rolled over and hugged the earth close to him, clutching handfuls of dried leaves.   Tomorrow he would discover a new land beyond the shoulder of the downs and perhaps one day he would even reach that distant ring of trees.   But not now, for there was a touch of urgency in the falling leaves and the echo of a gull circling far out above the sea, filtered through the wind to tell him it was time he was on his way.   So, with a twig of deep red leaves for his mother’s vase clasped tightly in his small fist, the boy arose and turned once more to the hill.

How sad thought I, is the cry of a gull, or was it merely the mood I was in that made it appear so, for echoes of the past, no matter how happy, are always tinted with sadness.   Following the young explorer I thought up these few lines:

                Hark to the seagull’s urgent cry
                Which faster leaps than body flies,
                Leaps from the soul, bounds o’er the tree –
                Crowned beasts alone above the sea.
                Then down upon the ewe-cropped sward,
                Through rabbit’s hollow, shaded run,
                Along the white and winding track
                And up once more into the sun.
                And on the salty wind that sighs,
                The fading cry looks o’er the sea
                To see its birthplace glistening white
                And wheeling, circling, ever free.

 

read the collected work as it is published: here

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

air & blue & eyes & green & sky wormhole: weight of high sash windows – poewieview #33
autumn wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] by Mark L. Redford – autumn
beauty wormhole: Doctor Strange II – … things are the same again
branches & leaves wormhole: Is There / Life on Mars? – poewieview #32
breeze & clouds & horizon & trees wormhole: carpet worn / to the backing – poewieview #30
brown & space wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] by Mark L. Redford – moment
child wormhole: The Boats of Vallesneria by Michael J. Redford – Autumn Thoughts
echo & field & thought wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] by Mark L. Redford – from arm to nature, doing nothing
hedge & morning wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Olly
life wormhole: even / a second
orange wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] by Mark L. Redford – the soft canticle of the gourds:
red & walking wormhole: my seat // now
sea wormhole: Le Pont des Arts, 1907
seagull wormhole: the missing chord // the now-silent seagull
sun wormhole: trellis / and wisteria – poewieview #29
white wormhole: ‘hope for things to come’
wind wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – A Precious Moment
windows wormhole: magnetic field
yellow wormhole: Doctor Strange III – the needs of billions