• 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: dancing

Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – I took my camera into the fields

10 Monday Jun 2019

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2019, 7*, birdsong, camera, clouds, corridor, dancing, drifting, elm, evening, faces, fields, focus, forest, gold, grey, hills, horizon, leaves, nebula, nightingale, photography, planet, purple, red, skeleton, sky, space, spire, stars, sun, thinking, trees, words

                                I took my camera into the fields

                but it was only after the
                purple-grey clouds drifted
                across the horizon and the

                wilted leaves had turned
                their face once more to the
                evening sky, when the sun

                broke low across the fields –
                old gold across the treetops –
                that I’d dansed macabre

                with the tripodial skeleton
                before the red hemisphere,
                reclined upon distant hills,

                extinguished like a farce
                and the populace of the
                heavens radiated above me

                and behind, the grates of
                all space between the two
                sentinel elms, it was there, I think,

                I left this planet
                at a tangent (glow of a
                lantern disappearing down the corridor)

                deep, until whole nebulae
                were within my pluck,
                but even before Antares

                had touched the nearby
                spire, the nightingale had
                been deep in construction

                of the following day’s forest façade,
                free free of all possible words and
                zoomed foci

 

read the collected work of ‘Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters]‘ as it is published: here
this is an appliquiary to: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Sky

 

 

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

clouds & evening & gold & grey & hills & horizon & leaves & red & sky & space & stars & sun wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Sky
dancing wormhole: Pilot 125 … // … being excursion in the interludes
faces wormhole: on facing the Have
purple wormhole: SPRING AND ALL I by William Carlos Williams
thinking wormhole: writening
words wormhole: A Corner of the Garden at the Hermitage, 1877

 

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DANSE RUSSE by William Carlos Williams

14 Saturday Jul 2018

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

1917, 5*, acceptance, arms, baby, bedroom, dancing, face, happiness, loneliness, mirror, mist, shoulders, singing, sleep, sun, trees, white, wife, William Carlos Williams, yellow

                                DANSE RUSSE

                If I when my wife is sleeping
                and the baby and Kathleen
                are sleeping
                and the sun is a flame-white-disc
                in silken mists
                above shining trees,–
                if I in my north room
                dance naked, grotesquely
                before my mirror
                waving my shirt round my head
                and singing softly to myself:
                “I am lonelt, lonely.
                I was born to be lonely,
                I am best so!”
                If I admire my arms, flanks, buttocks
                against the yellow drawn shades,–

                Who shall say I am not
                the happy genius of my household?

 

from Al Que Quiere, 1917

Diaghilev, Nijinsky and the Ballets Russes were in New York in 1916, inspiring the abandon of conformity and the discipline of acceptance which were so necessary to the budding 20th Century

 

 

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

acceptance wormhole: without any buffet at all
bedroom wormhole: between thoughts
dancing wormhole: Pilot 125 … // … being excursion in the interludes
loneliness wormhole: Cocktails in 1951
mirror wormhole: … the underleaves show
mist wormhole: mauve
sleep wormhole: after all
sun wormhole: fifty-eight // and silent prayers
trees wormhole: transferring
white wormhole: ‘the Bat-Signal …’
William Carlos Williams wormhole: LOVE SONG by William Carlos Williams
yellow wormhole: abandoned sound mirrors

 

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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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Tags

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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The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – A Precious Moment

02 Saturday Jul 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in announcements

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

1967, 3*, air, answers, beauty, being, bells, black, breath, breeze, brown, bull, cause and effect, childhood, clarity, clouds, cows, curtains, dancing, dawn, dew, doing, dusk, earth, east, Einstein, elm, energy, evening, field, freedom, grass, green, grey, heat, hedge, hills, horizon, identity, Jupiter, leaves, life, light, logic, meadow, mind, moment, months, moon, morning, mother, mouse, nature, night, nightjar, noise, openness, order, owl, questions, quiet, rabbit, rebirth, scarlet, September, silence, silhouette, silver, sky, slow, space, stars, summer, the Boats of Vallisneria, thought, time, truth, ultimate reality, uncle, universe, valley, velvet, white, wind, wings, woodland, words

A Precious Moment

As after the heat of a summer’s day the face glows in the mildness of evening, so the face of the countryside glows in the mildness of early autumn.   The summer months have infused the merest suggestion of brown in the deepening green of the foliage and the face of the earth gives up its warmth to the stars above to see them dance.   It was into this calm that I walked one late September’s eve.   The evening star cast her unblinking eye across the heavenly dome to Jupiter in the darkening east and the nightjar echoed its song above the empty fields.   I stood at the end of the stack-yard and returned the disinterested gaze of a cow in the field beyond.

It is during these slow hours when the pace of the day has declined, that the smaller noises of the land become apparent.   The bull, who was tethered a full two hundred yards away in the next field could be heard to rattle his chain and blow down his nose at a particularly juicy clump of grass he has found.   Behind me in the ‘maternity’ box, a freshly calved heifer mooed huskily yet very softly as its offspring raised its head suddenly at a strange sound.   Perhaps it was the sound of ancient timbers creaking under the weight of centuries, or that of the leaves above whispering to the bowed stems in the hay meadow below.   Or maybe it was the very silence that enshrouded these small sounds that attracted its attention, for silence is so startling in its rarity and its beauty.   Dusk gave way to night and I became aware of the immense depths of space, the dizzy height of the mackerel sky, and although it was the clouds that moved, it seemed they were stationary against the clear black silhouettes of the elms and that it was the motion of the gibbous moon behind the clouds that alternately blackened and silver-plated the night.   Even at the tender and romantic age of sixteen I was aware of this quietude, and in one enlightened moment jotted down these few words on an old envelope:

         Soft, soft, the bell that tolls the evensong
         Across full summer’s empty fields serene.
         And slowly draws the scarlet cloak, the hem’s
         Black velvet, diamond specked, communes me with
         The white barn owl, who with his noiseless wings
         Doth glide and swoop upon the luckless mouse.
         Selene set within the lap of dusk
         Transmutes the living green to silver plate,
         Enshrouds my world with immobility.
         And with a quietude that frees the mind
         Of bondage from the peering eyes of day,
         I fain become the earth, the sky, the all.

But it wasn’t until my late teens that I realised there are two times during the twenty four hour cycle when such a quietude exists. One is just before the dusk and the other just before dawn.   Although both seem to be divisions between day and night, the prelude to dawn seems to me to be the more startling and more satisfying to experience.   In the evening the mind is released into a reverie bound by personal conscious thought, but during the morning pause one experiences a freedom and profundity of thought that is rarely to be found in any other part of time.

It is barely half past five in the morning when I start milking, but often I arrive at the cowshed half an hour before in order to experience this precious moment.   Although at this hour the ‘Stone that puts the stars to flight’ has yet to be flung, I can sense the great spaciousness of the valley before me.   Again the trees move softly and the long grass in the hay meadow sifts the breath of night, and I wait.   I wait for that incorporeal beauty that is the union of soul and nature.   It begins where the breezes end and the rustling leaves are stilled.   A serene stillness envelopes the woods and meadows and even I am not conscious of breathing.   I am drawn into the quietude and become part of it; become part of the very earth on which I stand; part of the universe through which I move.   I have become part of each blade of grass in the valley before me, part of every hill.   I feel myself part of the earth, feel its very movement through space.   Unfortunately mere words can no longer be the conveyance of the emotions involved (and I use the word ‘emotions’ for want of a better noun) for they become so expansive and so personal.   No longer can mere words impress the reader’s soul with such profundity of emotion that this experience releases within me.   Each must go his own way, search alone and experience it first hand and with an open mind.

A thought is born and from that thought comes two more.   The two are made four and the four made eight, a self-multiplying chain reaction of thoughts has been set in motion that flows with great haste through the mind; in fact a torrent of thoughts in one brief second, and yet each one is startlingly clear and leads the mind one step nearer the truth.   The heavenly dome is vast above the valley and the stars, thrown into their mythological patterns by the great cosmic hand, impress their presence on the mind with unusual brilliance and time is no more.   Now the mental hosts are converging, and step by step I am racing towards that vertex which is the ultimate truth.   The questions are being answered at an ever increasing rate, the startling, brutal logic disclosing the result of a preceding reaction which itself, reveals a cause.   So through to the highest plane the mind soars upon an ever accelerating reversal of the law of causation. But the pace is too much.   The mind flags and begins to flounder.   At this juncture the mind can be likened to a water skier who, while the pace is kept up skims along the surface in the sun, but immediately he slows down he begins to sink, until at length he finds himself floundering with no forward movement.   Now the mind has become weak and cannot comprehend the unfathomable thought.   But I have brushed the grey curtain; I have seen a light faint though it may be and both my physical and spiritual selves have been revitalised and my cup runneth over.

For most of our lives we are lost beings out of tune with life around us.   Only during such precious moments as these do we fit into the great harmonious chord; all things round and above have their special place in it, from the fat brown rabbit throbbing in the cornfields to the fleecy pieces of golden cloud that sail upon the pale green skies of dusk.   Worries, anxieties, tensions, all are reduced to their proper size in relation to life, and as the imperceptible ‘Left hand of dawn’ lifts the veil on the eastern horizon, we are cleansed and reborn with the stripling day.

It is only during such periods that nature can be reduced to anything approaching order, and that there is an order I am in no doubt.   Einstein’s inquiring mind was working on the universal equation when the workings of that very same equation stilled his physical being; perhaps now he has solved it, we in this life never shall.   The perpetual motion of nature is the perfect machine and we are part of that machine.   It is complete within itself, recreating its own new parts from the debris of the old.   No energy is wasted or lost, just charged in form.   Nature permits us a marginal tolerance within which we may make one or two adjustments to suit our needs and requirements, but beyond this we dare not go for we merely create more problems than we solve.

         So does she pass, the gentle night,
         Slow seeps the dawn upon the scene.
         Dew sparkling in the first light of
         The new day shows where she has been.
         The eyes of day now open on
         The dewy sward and gossamer
         Bows low beneath its pearly load,
         And hedgerows faintly scent the air
         With green along the unused road.
         And I am born once more and see
         The day as I once first beheld –
         A child within his mother’s arms,
         Another, within its mother’s arms.

 

read the collected work as it is published: here

 

 

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

air & field & morning wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – autumn
beauty wormhole: the policies came to nothing
being wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Introduction
black & wind wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – A Bowl of Gourds
breath wormhole: inbreath
breeze wormhole: and that’s where I are
brown wormhole: Michael Redford: triptych
childhood wormhole: 1964
clouds wormhole: reaching branch
evening & silhouette wormhole: tired
green & space & uncle wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – the soft canticle of the gourds:
grey & horizon wormhole: being in love – poewieview #26
hedge & hills & life & light wormhole: tag cloud poem IX – haiku is awkward / the more that is left in / like uncombed hair
identity wormhole: with endless love
leaves & mother wormhole: The Boats of Vallesneria by Michael J. Redford – Autumn Thoughts
moon wormhole: don’t look / at her eyes – poewieview #18
night & silence & sky wormhole: a crack of lightning / in the dark of night
openness wormhole: ‘on second thought …’ – poewieview #27
quiet wormhole: Jericho
silver wormhole: Jon
thought & time wormhole: inbreath
white wormhole: mauve
words wormhole: bloogying

 

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gentle

08 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2014, being, blindness, breathing, dancing, gentleness, letting go, life, perception, precision, seeing, uncertainty

 

 

 

                           I should be gentle
                           when I alight through life

                           I should see with precision
                           and then dance around it all

                           to cloud the experience
                           of doubt and uncertainty

                           and leave me blind
                           and unable to breathe

 

 

 

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

being & life wormhole: spit / spot
breathing wormhole: when writing // stay
dancing wormhole: I can say / that I do all sorts of dance
letting go wormhole: suddenly fly off again
seeing wormhole: the MagOO Effect Effect

 

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I can say / that I do all sorts of dance

11 Tuesday Aug 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2012, blink, Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, dancing, identity, living, notice, rejoinder, tea, youth

 

 

 

                                                              I can say
                                              that I do all sorts of dance

                                but actually
                I just sit round the edge
                                              and wish I wasn’t there at all
                                collecting juxtapositions

                you asked me to dance*
                                but I only really know to dance
with a twist of notice
                                              and a blink of linger …

                                as I wandered
                through the days thinking of rejoinder
                                I stirred a cup of tea
                                              the bag twirled
                                and clung to the spoon
                                but I kept on
                stirring more slowly about the edge
                                and the bag
just spun at first then trailed
                                even after I lifted out the spoon
                and added milk

Student: Is it that hope and fear have to fade away before the –
Trungpa Rinpoche: before the dance can take place. Yes, definitely.
Student: What you’re saying is that you have to take the first step …
Trungpa Rinpoche: Yes, you have to be pushed into it …
Student: Are you pushing?
Trungpa Rinpoche: I think so**

 

* I started writing this with Sarah Jane Jacobson who used to run a blog on WordPress; I kept on demurring that she was too young and energetic for me, so it came to nothing; I’ve just re-found my parts and doodled with them bittersweetly
** selected exchanges between Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche and students during the Crazy Wisdom Seminar at Jackson Hole, Wyoming, December 1972 (compiled into ‘Crazy Wisdom‘, Shambhala, 1991, page 35)

 

 

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

Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche wormhole: first a mishap then clear vision
dancing wormhole: sight / seeing
identity wormhole: Detective Comics #345
living wormhole: the endless acts of life
tea wormhole: dawn

 

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sight / seeing

18 Saturday Apr 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2015, architecture, awareness, Brugges, buildings, carillon, connection, dancing, father, girl, hair, identity, mind, mother, passing, people, rooftops, seeing, silence, sound, talking to myself, time, walking, windows

                                              sight
                                              seeing

                        I will write of people and architecture

                eleven o’clock rings involved and particular
                from a whole neighbourhood up the tower
                while people pass with step and difference
                from whole vistas behind their eyes

                        but you don’t look for what to see
                        that you need to be alert and open
                        for to connect the compulse too distinct

                the girl tests the chosen cobbles with pirouette
                the mother looks up to phone the father in the
                exhibition; the carillon rings down the steps
                of gables and dissolve across the tidal rooftops

                        waking the mind which
                        allows the connection always there
                        but that identity made it otherwise

                the pause is settled        before the girl rides fast past
                the windows only the architecture of hair adjusting

 

stayed at Brugges in Belgium for a few days – a change is as good as a rest to a blind horse

 

 

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

architecture & silence wormhole: under silent direction of architecture
awareness wormhole: gently straighten
buildings wormhole: Dionne Warwick
dancing wormhole: ‘the dining room …’
father wormhole: Dr Strange III – the needs of billions
girl & hair & passing & walking wormhole: oh,
identity & windows wormhole: gazing at the night / as my eyes passed the jagged hole / my head disappeared
mind wormhole: I am a solid block of stone
mother wormhole: Desolation Angels
people wormhole: the lines are not that straight / after all
rooftops wormhole: the streets just fill with business
seeing wormhole: just words wiped across a line
sound wormhole: after the storm
talking to myself wormhole: enjoy the activity
time wormhole: Trinity Arts

 

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‘the dining room …’

17 Tuesday Mar 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

1980, blue, dancing, dining room, empty, furniture, mouse, puppet, spotlights, tears, windows

 

 

 

                           the dining room
                           clear of furniture
                           the blue marionette
                           in bright dinner jacket
                           performed a stiff
                           arabesque under the
                           window-spotlight

                           cheeky satisfaction
                           running down his face
                           he tip-toed over to his
                           top hat, tapped it twice
                           and disappeared
                           a mouse in the corner
                           ate his shoes

 

 

 

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

blue wormhole: the edge has come …
dancing wormhole: ‘in the centre of the bare room …’
spotlights wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
tears wormhole: 32 years
windows wormhole: To my Mum

 

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‘in the centre of the bare room …’

08 Sunday Mar 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

1980, dancing, floorboards, light, puppet, red, room, wine, wineglass

 

 

 

                      in the centre of the bare room
                      a glass
                      filled with redwine

                      through the redlight a marionette
                      feet nailed to the floor
                      dancing

 

 

 

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

dancing wormhole: tag cloud poem V – draft-ness
light wormhole: what heavy and cantilevered structure
red wormhole: silence

 

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tag cloud poem V – draft-ness

22 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

1960s, 1970s, 2*, 2014, abandonment, America, being, Dad, dancing, Daredevil, dark, daughter, dawn, death, dedication, defeat, democracy, depression, desert, dialectic, discipline, disempowerment, distraction, divorce, dog, doing, doors, doubt, dream, dress, drips, dust, dwelling, identity, individualism, love, politics, poverty, tag cloud poem, wind, world

 

 

 

                                                                                                                Dad dancing daredevil
                                                                                                dark daughter dawn
                                                                                                                           DC death dedication

 

                                                                                 defeat democracy depression
                                                                                 desert dialectic discipline
                           disempowerment distraction divorce

 

dog doing        doors
                                                                              doubt dream dress
                                                                                              drips dust dwelling

 

 

 

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

abandonment & Dad wormhole: the sounds the difficulty and the long long strands of liquorice
being & identity & wind wormhole: the en-gentled / end of a wan / writing retreat
dancing wormhole: Do Nothing Usually / Take Everything Regularly / Consider It All Clearly / And Step Aside It Waltzingly
Daredvil wormhole: Daredevil: Born Again (1987)
daughter wormhole: t w e n t y f i r s t c e n t u r y l i f e
dawn wormhole: the library, / you know …
dedication wormhole: let
depression wormhole: really
disempowerment wormhole: I don’t think I could do it anymore
distraction 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
divorce wormhole: what to do
dog wormhole: … still waving!
doing wormhole: ‘til death do us part
doors wormhole: multifarious: the Dark Knight Returns (1986)
doubt wormhole: transition
dream wormhole: the edges of my reach
love & politics wormhole: just saying, is all – III
tag cloud poem wormhole: tag cloud poem IV – C
world wormhole: my life is not your market

 

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

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  • me
  • Moebius strip
  • YOUNG WOMAN AT A WINDOW by William Carlos Williams
  • 'the practice ...'
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  • like butterflies on / buddleia
  • meanwhile
  • 'hello old friend ...'
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  • sweet chestnut

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