• 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: breakfast

breakfast

10 Tuesday Sep 2019

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2019, 7*, blindness, blogging, branches, breakfast, breathing, canopy, coffee, dark, echo, energy, eyes, flash, gooseberry, ground, growth, jam, leaves, life, light, living, monkey, path, reaching, reading, samsara, seeing, shadow, sound, sunlight, toast, trees, walking, way, wind, woodland

                breakfast

                these shadows on a long walk
                through the woodland with only occasional sun

                all there, underneath the undergrowth
                cannot see the ground, the stems that grow from it

                branches reach, leaves envelope everywhere
                from nowhere; weave

                and grow round and entwine each other;
                if I lift the leaves to see my way forward –

                searching for light, searching for life
                to grow, to continue – and if I break the smaller branches to

                make way
                I will scratch my arms, sap will sting my skin, my

                eyes, I cannot see, I cannot see;
                and I won’t see; some trees

                are quicker and older (than me)
                they hold the path and reach wide,

                and creepers make them fat
                and vines hang like curtains of water;

                the canopy above, maximised
                to greatest energy, sent back down through rough wires;

                only when the wind leans
                or a monkey leaps, is there a flash of light, gone by the

                time I’ve looked back down to the path
                blinded, to see where I am

                there must be so much light somewhere
                out there, if only I weren’t stumbling around and bleeding

                … really; I come downstairs
                and breathe coffee and spiced home – made gooseberry jam on home – made toast                           

                while reading my posts … yes,
                a thousand hacks and sap in the dark

                where I cannot see
                and cannot know where I am

                a thousand ‘choks’ deferred
                the undergrowth too dense to echo

 

Bodhisattvacharyavatara chapter VI, verse 12: How can I attain happiness when the causes for happiness are obtained only through great effort and very rarely, and when the seeds­ of pain and sorrow are so prevalent, relentless and multifarious that they are realised easily and without any effort? And yet it is only from suffering that the thought and longing for escape and liberation from the suffering of conditioned existence will come about … therefore, O my deepest mind, hold yourself strong, patient, steadfast!

 

 

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

branches & breathing wormhole: blue sky high
coffee wormhole: green and / luminant / to behold
echo & path & walking wormhole: the Bodhisattva set out / for the Seat of Awakening
eyes & life wormhole: eyes like petals
leaves & living wormhole: everything is caused by something, which / something is caused by something else, nothing / stands alone where all pass as phantoms
light & trees wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – sooner; / and later
reading wormhole: {reading right to left}
samsara & sound wormhole: at Kreukenhof
seeing wormhole: A Solitude by Denise Levertov
shadow wormhole: alabaster balustrade
wind wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – The Valley

 

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The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – The Valley

22 Monday Jul 2019

Posted by m lewis redford in announcements

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

beauty, bedroom, black, blue, bracken, brass, breakfast, brother, brown, clouds, colliery, cows, curtains, evacuation, eyes, faces, farm, fields, freedom, friends, grass, green, grey, hedge, hills, horizon, horses, house, identity, kitchen, London, loneliness, love, Michael J Redford, morning, mother, mountains, passing, ponies, rock, roof, rooks, running, sadness, sheep, sky, sleep, smell, sound, steam, stone, sun, the Boats of Vallisneria, time, travelling, valley, village, Wales, walls, waves, wind, windows, winter, World War, yellow

The Valley

My first memory of Wales is an aural one.   My brother and I were evacuated during the war and arrived late at night in Trelewis, a little mining village by the Rhonda Valley.   It was too dark to see anything of our surroundings, not that we cared much anyway for the winter’s journey had made us far too tired.

It was the sound of rocks that woke me early the following morning.   Having always lived in London, I had rarely heard their raucous tones, certainly not in such great numbers.   I could see from a narrow strip of sky between the curtains that the clouds of the previous day had been swept away.   At first I was undecided as to whether the colour of the sky was grey or a pale, misty blue, but as the minutes ticked by, it became evident that the heavens were clear.   I glanced across at my brother in the next bed.   He was still and fast asleep.   Without moving my head I took in the details of the room that had come to light.   There was a small wooden cross on the wall opposite and behind the door a small cupboard where, presumably, we were to keep our clothes and the few toys we had bought with us.   Beneath the window was a long wooden chest draped with a green satin runner, the secrets of which we were to discover later.   Apart from the two beds in which my brother and I were sleeping, there were no other items of furniture in the room.

I glanced at the bed beside me once more and again at the curtained window.   How desperate I was to see what lay beyond.   Should I wake my brother or should I let him sleep?   The minutes ticked slowly by.   Then slowly he turned over towards me.   His eyes were open – he too had been looking at the window.   Alan and I had always been very close as brothers, often both doing the same thing simultaneously, each seeming to know what the other is about to do.   Our eyes met for a brief second and without a word being spoken, we slid from our beds and crossed to the window.   Had an observer been looking at the rear of 9 Richards Terrace at seven o’clock that crisp winter’s morn, he would have seen the curtains slowly part and two small faces peer out with large apprehensive eyes.

We were almost on a level with the hills opposite.   In this part of the country the Welsh mountains do not present a dramatic outline to the sky; here, they are soft and rolling, rather like the South Downs on a much larger scale.   The hills were quite bare, void of trees, fields and hedgerows, and only one house stood there, square and lonely.   A paddock surrounded by a dry stone wall contained three ponies that tossed their heads in the early morning sun.   One wall of the paddock continued down into the valley to disappear behind a black, tower-like structure topped by two of the most enormous wheels I had ever seen.   From these, thick black cables ran down into a blackened building at the rear.   Everything was black.   The ground, over which ran a network of miniature railway lines and trucks was black; all buildings, shacks and huts dotted about were black; blackness was heaped everywhere.

Now we were conscious of other noises.   The distant rattle of shunting trucks and a continuous hissing sound of escaping steam.   Then the faint clip-clop of horses’ hooves became noticeable from the High Street below, and there appeared for a brief second between the houses a yellow float laden with clanking milk churns pulled by a big brown horse.   The bare hills, the colliery, the grey slate roofs of the village below and the screech of the rooks above, stirred within us a mixture of emotions, emotions that encompassed apprehension, expectation, excitement, loneliness, sadness; and even today, whenever I hear rooks calling on a winter’s morn, whenever I hear the rattle of the shunter’s yard or the sound of newly-shod hooves upon a hard road, I am back once more in Trelewis.   But no longer does loneliness feature in the memory now for I have many dear friends there.   No more apprehension or sadness, for the Welsh hills have afforded me much happiness and security, and beauty can now be seen in that which at one time appeared ugly.   Now, the memory is warm with affection for those sincere people and there is a longing to be among those stony, fern-covered hills once more.

As we descended the stairs later that morning for breakfast, the smell of polish was evident.   Everything shone.   The lino on the stairs had a shine so deep that I grasped the bannister tightly for support for fear that I should slip, and the brass fender in the living room glowed with the intensity of the sun.   The aroma of breakfast sizzling on the big black hob was wafted through the kitchen door together with the aroma of a hitherto unknown delicacy called a Welsh Cake.

The people in that remote little mining village threw open their doors and welcomed us into their houses.   Such was their nature that we, who could justly be called ‘foreigners’, became in a very short time, part of them and their community.   How many London mothers, I wonder, have cause to be grateful for the care and love lavished on their offspring by strangers in a far-off country.

The countryside behind the village differed from the great hills on the other side of the valley.   Here, there were dairy farms.   Hedgerows bound in small fields and cows grazed to the accompaniment of pure crystal streams that tumbled from the mountains further up the valley.   It is in these surroundings I feel sure, that I first became aware of the beauty around me.   I became conscious of a physical and mental freedom that could not exist in London.   Here, one could be alone, one could run and jump and roll in the grass without fear of reprisal, and high upon Wineberry Mountain on the other side of the valley, one could race the winds for miles before a fence or even a dry stone wall would be encountered.   Here on the heights, one can shout with full voice, yet it will be lost upon the wind.   Only a stray sheep will turn its head and the bracken will dip and ripple to the horizon like waves upon the sea.   Up here the ceaseless wind is the ethereal reincarnation of Dionysus, urging one to drink from him and become drunk with freedom.

 

read the collected work as it is published: here

 

 

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

beauty & clouds & grey & hedge & passing & smell & valley wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Rain
bedroom wormhole: LIGHT HEARTED WILLIAM by William Carlos Williams
black & horizon wormhole: slight sneer
blue & faces wormhole: 11/1 by William Carlos Williams
brown wormhole: The Diligence at Louveciennes, 1870
curtains wormhole: ‘… plane is upright …’
eyes & love wormhole: light of all interaction
green wormhole: 10/22 by William Carlos Williams
hills wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – I took my camera into the fields
house wormhole: quietly in my quiet house
identity & wind wormhole: c’mon – keep up
kitchen wormhole: 10/28 ‘On hot days …’ by William Carlos Williams
London wormhole: {reading right to left}
morning & sky wormhole: then
mother wormhole: in deed
roof & windows wormhole: THE ATTIC WHICH IS DESIRE: by William Carlos Williams
sleep & time wormhole: looking for the right exit
sound wormhole: window
stone & sun wormhole: boiled spangle with soft centre
travelling wormhole: travelling / back
walls wormhole: “And anger it is that lays in ruins / every kind of mental goodness.”
waves wormhole: Valentine’s Day 2019
yellow wormhole: 10/28 ‘in this strong light …’ by William Carlos Williams

 

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coterminalism – there is nothing happens by itself, / 070118

11 Tuesday Sep 2018

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2018, 7*, being, blackberry, blue, Bodhisattvacharyavatara, bougainvillea, bread, breakfast, clouds, cooking, creation, hills, holiday, jam, Lanzarote, life, lunch, olive, rain, roundabout, sand, sky, study, table, valley, vegetables, villas, walking, wind

                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

 

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breakfast

31 Thursday May 2018

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

2017, 3*, breakfast, buildings, leaves, Nottingham, roof, rooftops, streets, sun, travelling, vista, windows

                breakfast
                on the first floor before

                the rising backs of
                buildings above the roofline

                where there is yet not sun
                save on the

                tree leaves from below
                and the roof window from across the street

 

 

 

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

blue wormhole: Bridgnorth
buildings & sun wormhole: mauve
leaves & streets wormhole: lost the search
roof wormhole: … vague / thunder
rooftops wormhole: perspective
travelling wormhole: so where have I got:
windows wormhole: oh, alright then

 

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dream 260713

11 Wednesday Mar 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2013, alley, black, breakfast, Carol, cars, chips, coffee, dark, dream, eating, iron, kitchen, life, lunch, pancake, pink, pupils, searching, sky, snow, Spring, streets, talking, walking, water

 

 

 

                      dream 260713

                      I went for breakfast
                      away doing something
                      in some town somewhere

                      in a small restaurant serving
                      a traditional breakfast but
                      I didn’t know what to expect

                      I was served a thin pancake
                      size of a plate and coffee poured
                      onto a black galvanised iron plate

                      which flowed down onto another
                      plate then flowed down to the floor
                      spreading wide and diluting in the

                      clean water from the kitchen and
                      washing down a drainage hole
                      like a shower but I don’t remember

                      eating; I was joined by Carol for
                      lunch, chopped vegetable salad in
                      thin pancakes but I can’t remember

                      eating; we talked about something
                      with a little tension; we were given
                      wedge chips with a white sauce and

                      we left to walk the pedestrian streets
                      a light snow-dusting was all around
                      under an early Spring sky; I offered

                      a summary to the discussion to
                      break the silence but she turned off
                      into a dark alley and wandered off

                      before I finished talking; I realise
                      we hadn’t paid in the restaurant and
                      wandered the streets trying to find it

                      I couldn’t, but pupils who I didn’t know
                      gave me a friendly hello and climbed
                      into the boot of a waiting pink car

 

 

 

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

black wormhole: purpose
Carol wormhole: start where you are I
cars wormhole: dawn
coffee & pink wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
dark wormhole: darkness
dream wormhole: bottom of Herbert Road to the / foot of Eglinton Hill dream
kitchen wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
life wormhole: ‘a spark from the empty light socket …’
searching wormhole: this is not my poem / although I found it nevertheless
sky wormhole: the streets just fill with business
snow wormhole: Christmas
Spring wormhole: Dr Strange V – all the words of all the times of all the worlds speak
streets wormhole: the lines are not that straight / after all
talking wormhole: gold wedding band
walking wormhole: what heavy and cantilevered structure
water wormhole: St. Ludwigskirche

 

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dawn

24 Wednesday Dec 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

1980, 5*, abandonment, breakfast, cars, dawn, eggs, emergence, fir, motorway, night, passing, radio, sound, streetlight, tea, travelling

 

 

 

                                dawn

                                the cabin-loggy

                                ===============
                               !! bacon-burger bar !!
                                ===============

                                blumbered from the crackly radio

                flat fried eggs blupped onto the bonnet from the tree-lamps
                                down the middle of the motorway

                and as the spikey-fine fir trees flinked some white silliness
                                into my piping-hot tea –

                “Whappo” said the tatty tyres slapping the tarmac
                                over the hills and far away

 

 

 

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

abandonment wormhole: ‘“Never,” said the Sandman; / he blinked …’
cars & passing wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 290508 – / the breath of London
dawn & night & sound & streetlight wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
emergence wormhole: glass
fir wormhole: sounds // suddenly / stop
motorway wormhole: we // walk
radio wormhole: King of the World
tea wormhole: smiling
travelling wormhole: sometimes

 

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!

18 Monday Aug 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2014, 5*, breakfast, chrome, Gran Canaria, horizon, hotel, looking, morning, palms, sea, seeing, sitting, sound, sun

 

 

 

                                              !

                                              sitting
                at the breakfast table
                                on the terrace thinking
                                              to practise
                                              taking in
                                the view rather than going out
                                              to arrange it: the palms near and far
                above chrome railings
                                              the hotels peripheral
                                sun-blinded and perched
                                              over the bay

                                              when
                                from deep out the horizon
                                              flying low and camouflaged
                                grunged a
                                              Lan
                                              cas
                                              ter
                                              bom
                                              ber
                                bulbous-nosed and wing fins

                bbbjjjjjjjjjjjdjdjdjdjdjeeyyhhwwwwwwoooooouuuuuuu

                                              maybe
                                I was trying too hard

 

 

 

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

horizon & sea wormhole: I will eventually drift tectonic
hotel wormhole: the poppies / of van Gogh
looking wormhole: our life
morning wormhole: g’morning
seeing wormhole: the precision // the gentleness // and / the letting go
sitting wormhole: waiting room
sound wormhole: sniff
sun wormhole: Tulips by Sylvia Plath – How Far To Step Before You Raise The Other Foot

 

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father figure – triptych

16 Monday Dec 2013

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

2007, 2012, breakfast, dream, eating, family, Geshe Kelsang, growth, guru, house, identity, Manjushri, morning, speech

 

 

 

                           dream 290307

                           I am visiting Manjushri Institute* with my family
                           we come to a room and I realise I am joining
                           Geshe Kelsang** for dinner

                           I should not be here sharing dinner with Geshe-la
                           I cannot meet his look
                           but he is very host-like and gracious
                           he bears no resentment
                           it is just myself
                           giving myself
                           a hard time

 

—–~“O”~—–

 

                dream
                310307

     I am at a gathering
     in someone’s house
     some sort of teaching event happening
     sitting in the lounge I notice
     that the picture on the wall is different
     it is a large sketch of Geshe Kelsang**
     drawn from above ‘comic book’ realistic
     later in the morning I join a group for breakfast
     I am following a figure onto the balcony
     in fact I am that figure
     then I am seeing from that figure’s perspective
     like a documentary
     the figure is Geshe Kelsang and then
     I am myself again
     and Geshe-la is joining us for breakfast
     honoured to have him join us
     he is jovial and light-humoured
     he takes one mouthful of something –
     was it avocado – and quips ‘I am better now’
     putting down his knife and fork

     all my fathers of this life
     I don’t get on with them that well
     I seem to find myself in a position
     I cannot talk with them
     I expect an impossible ideal of them
     I see them fall short and then
     I sulk
     …

 

—–~“O”~—–

 

                                                                                    dream
                                                                                    151007

                                                                                    at the table
                                                                                    at the feast
                                                                                    Geshe-la**
                                                                                    sees me reach
                                                                                    for the food
                                                                                    chastises me
                                                                                    for wanting
                                                                                    to eat too
                                                                                    soon

 

 

* Conishead Priory, known as Manjushri Institute, in Cumbria on the shores of Morecambe Bay.   A Buddhist college; lived there 1983-1984.
** Geshe-la – affectionate honorific used for the teacher, Geshe Kelsang Gyatso.   I moved from the Priory to begin my career twenty years previous to these dreams.

 

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

dream & family & house & identity & speech wormhole: dream / 130207
Geshe Kelsang wormhole: dream / 010397
morning wormhole: dream / 190599

 

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breakfast in bed

16 Wednesday May 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

'scape, 2009, 4*, bedroom, birds, breakfast, combe end, conservatory, garden, life, morning, open, rain, roof, trees, windows

 

 

 

                                 breakfast in bed

                     “I need to settle
                       in
                       to life”

                     rain

                     suddenly
                     falls on the
                     conservatory roof and yet

                     there is still birdsong
                     high in the trees

 

 

 

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

bedroom wormhole: almost-Escher
birds wormhole: 19 words / 7 paragraphs / 9 lines
combe end & morning & open & rain & trees & windows wormhole: when
conservatory wormhole: winter / weeks
garden wormhole: dream 290697
life wormhole: ‘my main job in life …’
roof wormhole: oh

 

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comicbook morning

21 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

'scape, 1994, 5*, bird, black, blue, breakfast, buildings, curtains, Genesta Road, hill, Hillside, house, lemon, lime, morning, music, radio, red, roof, sky, sun, windows

 

 

 

                                              comicbook morning

                           the open curtain the
                           blue sky smeared with
                           red-like brick dust

                           it’s going to be hot
                           like lemon

                           sun on the window frames
                           of the house opposite

                           the solitary bird perched
                           on the roof

                           looking

                           the open window the
                           pneumatic drill
                           has started the
                           business down
                           in the estate and

                           lopping from side to side
                           the newspaper boy pushing
                           the lime-bag trolley
                           followed later
                           up the gentle hill
                           by the black-shorted jogger

                           the open door another
                                     crap
                           sound on the radio
                           sounds sunny anyway then

 

                           breakfast bowls!

 

 

 

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

black wormhole: N. …
bird & morning wormholes: chirp / through the window
blue sky wormhole: ‘light blue …’
buildings wormhole: “WHOOOOOOOOOP!!!”
curtains & lemon wormhole: condensation
Genesta Road wormhole: ‘the open window …’:
hills & music & radio & windows wormhole: Indian music / on the radio
Hillside wormhole: ironing in the sun
house wormhole: loud music
lime wormhole: junk
red wormhole: ‘red ink in the air …’
roof wormhole: quietly
sky wormhole: ‘gnashing …’
sun wormhole: table

 

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… Mark; remember …

"... the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful; it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe to find ashes." ~ Annie Dillard

pages coagulating like yogurt

  • Bodhisattvacharyavatara
    • Chapter 1
    • Chapter 10
    • Chapter 2
    • Chapter 3
    • Chapter 4
    • Chapter 5
    • Chapter 6
    • Chapter 7
    • Chapter 8
    • Chapter 9
    • Introduction
  • collected works
    • 25th August 1981 – count Up
    • askance From Hell
    • Batman
    • Bob 1995-2012
    • David Bowie Movements in Suite Major
    • Edward Hopper: Poems at an Exhibition
    • 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
    • The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford
    • 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
  • poemics
  • poeviews
  • teaching matters
  • William Carlos Williams
  • wormholes

recent leaks …

  • time
  • the simple prayer // the tattered poem // the bitter lament
  • taking birth
  • mirror
  • long / road
  • ‘in my car I pass…’
  • Journey
  • ‘the practice …’
  • under the blue and blue sky
  • sweet chestnut

Uncanny Tops

  • me
  • Moebius strip
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