• 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: courage

EL HOMBRE by William Carlos Williams

06 Friday Jul 2018

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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1917, courage, identity, stars, sunrise, William Carlos Williams

                      EL HOMBRE

                It’s a strange courage
                you give me ancient star:

                Shine alone in the sunrise
                toward which you lend no part!

 

from Al Que Quiere!, 1917

a ‘strange courage’ because it is unconditional, neither democratic or moral, predicated by time before all wall, fresh as a consciousness that has lost reference; this gave me courage, likewise, to find ancient echo in the least presumptive of circumstance – the birth of writing

 

 

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

identity & William Carlos Williams wormhole: PASTORAL by William Carlos Williams
stars wormhole: the silent night of the Batman

 

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I keep / waiting to be discovered and get lost in anticipation

31 Monday Jul 2017

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2013, 5*, anticipation, belonging, books, cleaning, courage, identity, letting go, living, lost, recognition, sitting, space, voices, waiting, world

                I wanted to clean out the meditation room
                to help clear my sitting of voices

                I wanted to bring my books into the house
                to integrate myself into living

                the snag was, and always is, to think
                that there is space in the world for my voices to belong

                rather than the courage to let them all go: I keep
                waiting to be discovered and get lost in anticipation

 

 

 

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

books wormhole: St. Mark’s flies flagpole upwards / with the forelegs hanging down obscene / reaching some height blindly to connect / out from the long-stalk tri-separating up- / to-seeded rounds of pod like acacia what / is it called “‘hogweed’ I-don’t-know- / what-it’s-called-but-goats-love-it-and- / it-makes-them-burp-a-lot”
identity & sitting wormhole: time
letting go & living wormhole: make your rickety / constructs strong with / unbending grids / of attention and wide- / open grates of let
recognition wormhole: slow enough / to have love
space wormhole: so pleased to see you again
voices wormhole: municipal garden
waiting wormhole: St. Edmund’s / Parish Church / Castleton
world wormhole: stone

 

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beepbeep

31 Monday Oct 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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1960s, 1967, 2016, 7*, abandonment, colour, commentary, courage, crying, Dad, depression, direction, divorce, driving, evening, eyes, feeling sorry for myself, freedom, groundlessness, Have, home, hope, identity, life, light, looking, now, others, passing, people, pointlessness, purpose, renunciation, revolution, sense of self, sex, sign, sound, texture, time, true nature, Victoria & Albert Museum, world

                                did Dad leaving
                                trigger my sense of revolution or
                my sense of depression
that there is no purpose
                                in the world
                that I would eventually have to find the courage
to face those new tremors,
                                but five years on,
                                                there, between the given textures
                already cheap and fraying

                                or did revolution trigger Dad to leave
                                                                and find some other way
                                                                                to find some truer nature?

                -O~~~

                                I didn’t want the headphones, now
                                I didn’t want the commentary
                                                all safely wrapped and bordered
                                                                so I kept my own eyes
                                                                open and saw 50 year old memorabilia
                                                                                strangely mute, now
                                                                                despite the peacock-print

                                                and little in between
                                                                save shuffling overcoats with
                                                                no sense of direction where to go
                                                                                save their right of individual                
                                                                                                                way

                                                                                                ~~~O-

                                I don’t think I want the revolution
                                anymore –
                                                away with your awkward sex! –
                I want to know the innate freedom
                                I trust I have already,
                                                save for my sense of right of way

                                                                I cried for fifty years later that evening
                                                it is hard to lose your way returning home
                                                                cut up and turning in circles
                                                                                hoping for the right lane
                                                                                                lights on and direction to go                
                                                                                                                everywhere
                                                                                                signed
                                                                and passing overhead
                                                                it is hard to arrive
                                                toe to toe
                                                                with a fifty year old overcoat
                                with no face
                                but a blinking eye
and me with no headphones

                                                                beepbeep

 

on 30th October 2016, I visited the Victoria & Albert Museum exhibition @You Say You Want a Revolution’ – Records and Rebels 1966-1970 (a birth day present, thank you, Carol); my Dad left our family on 2nd November 1967, my eighth birthday, and the divorce became final by 1969; I think it was Brigitte Bardot who said something about the ‘tremors’ which were felt in the late 60s, but few who had the ‘courage’ to face them, but I can’t seem to find the quote verbatim; we got a bit lost, at first, driving back from west London

 

 

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

abandonment & Dad & people wormhole: chartless …
depression wormhole: the both passive and transitive / non-presumptive pre-conceptualist attenuation of being
divorce wormhole: 1967
evening & identity wormhole: sleep now
eyes & life & sound wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – snow
groundlessness & pointlessness wormhole: [once a] dilemminal [always a dilemminal]
Have wormhole: Doctor Strange III – the needs of billions
light wormhole: adjustment
looking wormhole: Clea
others & passing wormhole: passersby
renunciation wormhole: escape from Flat Planet
texture wormhole: zazen
time wormhole: the too big moon
world wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Snow

 

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the both passive and transitive / non-presumptive pre-conceptualist attenuation of being

05 Thursday May 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2014, being, cognisance, conception, courage, creativity, depression, doing, emptiness, equanimity, event, flow, heart, heartbeat, hesitancy, honour, key, life, line, meaning, no big deal, nothing, openness, page, passive, pointlessness, presumption, sitting, striving, suffering, thought, time, transcendent, transitive, words, writing

 

 

 

                                the both passive and transitive
                non-presumptive pre-conceptualist attenuation of being

                                anxiety across the open page unsure,
                perched on the open line

                                ‘what if I put pen to paper and nothing happens?’
                ‘what if there is nothing but empty page and feint line?’ does not trust

                                that I am alive and cognisant to the heart
                of every beat if I had but the courage to face it,

                                all down through the endless steps of line
                whether there are words on the line

                                that I write in flow, or hesitancy, or not
                and whether they make sense or not

                                and whether my sitting was transcendent
                or not, or not done at all

                                and whether I concave at the pointlessness of activity
                or create the key to all strife and striving, or fail, or get depressed

                                I will continue eventful to evenness
                affording honour to is, and ‘no big deal’ to what is not

 

 

 

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

being & doing & life & sitting wormhole: Michael Redford: triptych
creativity & pointlessness wormhole: the writing’s on the wall
depression wormhole: Teaching career: much like Monet’s ‘Impression: soleil levant’ or, in the long run, de Chirico’s ‘The Red Tower’
emptiness wormhole: my / superpower
meaning & thought & time & writing wormhole: B le tch l ey P ark
openness wormhole: dash
words wormhole: words tumble like / boulders – poewieview #25

 

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letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love

16 Tuesday Sep 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

1960s, 1999, 2014, 7*, bedroom, black, books, breathing, child, Christmas, comics, courage, crying, Dad, death, duty, Eglinton Hill, friendship, Genesta Road, heart, hospital, ideas, illness, kitchen, laughing, Lesnes Abbey, letter, life, living, love, morning, mother, Mum, Nan, orange, parent, parenting, Plumstead common, reading, rebirth, roads, sadness, Saturday, sharing, son, speech, streets, Sunday, talking, time, typewriter, white, Woolwich, work, writing, yellow

 

 

 

                                                                                    060399

Dear Mum,

it was a shock to see you in hospital, overstretched just
                                living at home
                                and still I hadn’t admitted just
                                              how ill you are
                                and the meet to make the final arrangements
                for whenever they become and seeing you face up to this yourself
                                              has shown me dealing with icing and marzipan
                                                              and not a lot much courage

                it is almost guaranteed that we will not say goodbye as we would like
                                I’d like to say all the things that a Grand Goodbye at the End of a Life
                                                              should
                                              through the choke and early mourning wisp of times
                                                              we grew together in Genesta Road
                                that will always remain

                                              that you are coming to the end of your life
                                is so definitely sad, you said that
                                              you don’t want us to be too upset
                but I am going to be anyway, and already am
                                I will be losing a dear parent
                                I will be losing a dear friend
                                              and I have to be sad about that
(with Nan I came through the crying by learning the times we spent together
                like a lesson, sharing and doing
                                I wish I had shared this with her)
                                              I will be sad losing you
                but I won’t be sad because I am losing our lives together
                                these things which have already happened
                                              which cannot be lost
                                even when you die
                                even when I die:

                your fight to bring us up after Dad left
                                the sacrifices moving down from Eglington Hill
                                              a posh meal only on Sundays
                you said to me one day that we were only a paper delivery away
                                              from the standard of living as when Dad was there
                                as we crossed a road doing shopping for here and there
                the happy stores we had in for Christmas
                                you having to go to work every day
and making the best of it coming home
                                              to the sparse meal to help with the diet
                                                                                    hundreds of times
                hundreds of times which I cannot remember and never experienced
but stay in my heart
                                              somewhere
                it wasn’t effort in vain
                it wasn’t not noticed
                it wasn’t not valued

Thank you.   I was aware

                                from quite early that
                                I was one of very few children
                                whose parent had left them in the 1960s
                your bringing me up is one of the most treasured things in my life
                                              you taught me this
                                although I still haven’t mastered
                or even learnt it very well: carrying on in duty and love
                                you have had much to be bitter about
                                but I have seen you – visibly – emerge
                                like a Phoenix “come on, this is no good …”
                (I am a depressive and a self – indulger and “aren’t you ever going to smile again …?”
                                              that child still does it – far too serious when there is anything to do
                                with him) and I treasure the laughs we had when younger
                                              I will learn to have them in my own family
                because I will miss you when you go
                                and every time I miss you I will have silly time with them
                I remember aching stomach at times
                                I remember you squealing with laughter
                                              I remember Nan’s joy at seeing you laugh so much when you did;
                                I know you hadn’t perfected it yourself
                                I know I only remember the times when it just happened
                                              but it is a valuable lesson
                                                              nevertheless

                the magic of Eglington Hill
                                with its many rooms, its endless floors
                                              become a symbol
of possibilities of life, the ‘scene’ of your providing and care
                the magic of Genesta Road
                                where I grew to learn how to see
                                the bedroom decorated orange and yellow
                                then black and white because you asked us
                with shelves to put my comics and books
                                the kitchen to study with the smell of meal
                                              the lounge to book and write and type …
                                                              flavours of my life
                my development now the space which you clothed me in
                                you are those flavours and
                                as I ‘develop’ into the future
                                you are always here
                                              (you always started from what I was
                                               and letting me do what I needed whether you liked it or not
                I try the same with my own kids
                but only remember when I fail
                                yet another lesson, Mum,
                                you have been so wise
                                              and neither you nor I have
                                              fully appreciated it)

                                the magic of reading:
                                the mere presence of books
                                the unfold of opening paper
                                the rocky uphill of snatched syntax
                the scent of travel the pride of cover
                                I try to have the same for my kids
                so that even if they never read them
                                              they will line their walls with book
                (Joe has satire and sci-fi and atlas
                                Jon has earth and struggle and revolution
                                              Charlotte has stacks and stacks of comic)
                                I will be satisfied with that and I hope you had a similar hope
                                              and yes, Mum, it worked
                                                              and it was valuable
                                                                                    another job well done, I think

                                invigoration of sheets over ourselves and haunting the Common one morning
                putting all the milk bottles from the street on the doorstep of one house a few doors down
                                              planning the front room when you won some money, allowing ourselves gift of ideas on wheels
                letting me go hitch – hiking when I suddenly said I needed to go – I still don’t know how you did that
                                friendship of strolling the park, the ruined Abbey, wandering Woolwich on a Saturday morning
                                                              Mother and Son strolling

                and yes, I can agree with you, you have had a good life
                wherever you go we will meet again in some way
                and these specks of our lives will intrigue us
                                              in some form familiar but unrecognisable
I am very sad to be losing you but comforted with what we have shared
                it is probably only now that I realise how much I love you
                                              and how closely we lived

                I shall miss the Mum who taught me a life
                                but I shall always be breathing the lesson

love from,

 

Mum died 20th March 1999; I wrote this letter but hesitated sending it – a regret of my life; I ‘send’ it now hoping she’ll read it somewhere.   Having marked her would-be 81st birthday the day before yesterday, I thought it high time …

 

 

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

part of the ongoing life and page of … Mum
bedroom wormhole: sitting up in bed s i m u l t a n e o u s l y
black wormhole: capes flying
books wormhole: Tulips by Sylvia Plath – How Far To Step Before You Raise The Other Foot
breathing wormhole: whirlpool
child & Christmas & Dad & Eglinton Hill & Genesta Road & mother & Mum & talking wormhole: letters to Mum IV – healing comes in smiling
comics wormhole: introducing / the stranger
death wormhole: we’re born // to die
kitchen wormhole: sounds // suddenly / stop
life wormhole & writing time: no exit
living wormhole: letters to Mum III – ongoing-term // eventually
love wormhole: a cup of tea, gov
morning & streets wormhole: oh-pen too
Nan & work wormhole: letters to mum II – family // like a grate
orange wormhole: the precision // the gentleness // and / the letting go
reading wormhole: stuck free to move within
roads wormhole: I could step / more open
Saturday wormhole: letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk
speech wormhole: we’re all the same age really
Sunday wormhole: zazen in everyday life
white wormhole: Bat-Shadow
Woolwich wormhole: ‘like a piece of ice on a hot stove / the poem must ride on its own melting’
yellow wormhole: on sitting / in front of / a hedge

 

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my fidgety self

22 Thursday May 2014

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2013, 4*, courage, discomfort, doing, dream, identity, life, love, searching, self, sitting, sleep, smothering

 

 

 

                                              never
                had the courage to sit
                                down with my uncomfortable self
                                with myself uncomfortable in the world

                                              too busy
                twisting and turning arms out feet in pillow
                                down to get some sleep perhaps
                                to dream and fall in love a little

                                              as if
                I’d find myself hidden to behold
                                all the while smothering
                                my fidgety self

 

 

 

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

doing & sitting wormhole: poessay VII: // true revolution
dream wormhole; tag cloud poem V – draft-ness
identity & life & love wormhole: old age
searching wormhole: the declensions of constant possibility throughout times
sleep wormhole: moon

 

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the en-gentled / end of a wan / writing retreat

20 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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'scape, 2014, 6*, ambition, avoidance, awareness, being, birds, birdsong, branches, comfort, courage, ground, groundlessness, growth, honesty, identity, letting go, passing, reading, retreat, roots, sitting, trees, wind, Woodbrooke, writing

 

 

 

                                              the en-gentled
                                              end of a wan
                                              writing retreat

                                              OK
                                I didn’t write anything
I could write (because I think I’m clever with words and could wave and flurry about in leans and reaches quite beautifully
                but saying nothing
                really in the end)

                                              but
                                there is something I’m not facing
something that would root me deep in the ground that I reach from that all the movement would strengthen
                to grow and
                eventually flower

                                              it is
                                the plan to write (and read and sit)
because I have travelled miles to be and committed space to see which has blown the idea
                clean like a branch
                crooked to the landscape

                                              when I
                                become awkward with sitting
(wafted with reading, empty when writing) I know (if I am honest) I have lost the courage
                to own the mismatch of
                my comfort and growth

                                              I could
                                write amidst the wind and lurch
perched cross-toed and angled to the branch gloriously noting gusts of word and thought
                and singing oblivious
                for all to see     maybe

 

 

 

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

awareness wormhole: what to do
being wormhole: ‘til death do us part
birds wormhole: multifarious: the Dark Knight Returns (1986)
branches wormhole: the edges of my reach
groundlessness wormhole: 1966
identity & letting go & sitting wormhole: may the supreme and precious jewel bodhichitta … // … take birth where it has not yet done so … // … where it has taken birth may it not decrease … // … but may it increase infinitely
passing & trees wormhole: prologue
reading wormhole: “I think I’ll have a nice sandwich”
wind wormhole: … sshhh
writing wormhole: doing

 

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the empty page:

26 Wednesday Feb 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2012, 5*, being, courage, letting go, no thought, openness, sitting, writing

 

 

 

                           the empty page:
                           primal blind and clean

                           fearsome as the miss and lost
                           of sitting just with sitting

                           the courage of making writing emerge
                           when I haven’t already got a thought

                           and letting the writing flow
                           despite its coalescence

 

 

 

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

being wormhole: tag cloud poem III – the journey to BEING and back again
letting go & sitting wormhole: transition
openness wormhole: mlewisredford introductory complete life audit confessional
writing wormhole: tired

 

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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 …

  • under the blue and blue sky
  • sweet chestnut
  • ‘she shook the sweets …’
  • YOUNG WOMAN AT A WINDOW by William Carlos Williams
  • meanwhile
  • a far grander / Sangha
  • Bodhisattvacharyavatara: Chapter VII, Joyous Effort – verse 8; reflectionary
  • Bodhisattvacharyavatara: Chapter VII, Joyous Effort – verse 7; reflectionary
  • Bodhisattvacharyavatara: Chapter VII, Joyous Effort – verse 6; reflectionary & verses 3-6 embroidery
  • silence

Uncanny Tops

  • Moebius strip
  • me
  • YOUNG WOMAN AT A WINDOW by William Carlos Williams
  • 'I can write ...'
  • meanwhile
  • like butterflies on / buddleia
  • covert being
  • 'hello old friend ...'
  • To my Mum
  • start where you are I

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Inspiration on the Vajrayana Path (if words too small, set browser to magnify to 125%)

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Snapshots of remarkably unremarkable things and other discoveries.

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