Hurst Green

Tags

2013, birdsong, echo, feet, fence, girl, muse, phone, portrait, staring, station, time, Uckfield-London line

 

 

 

                                              Hurst Green

                                the girl
                who walked from her Mini with lithe
                step stood by the concrete fence grown its own lichen
                from decades standing with
                                hot veins
                                on the top
                                of her feet

                while birds pheeped and echoed in the long-
                grown copse behind turned
                                her feet
                                sideways –
                                anxious –

                as she leant on the fence to make the phone
                call and chewed the inside of her mouth staring
                at the platform
                                for minutes
                                afterwards

 

0.46

 

 

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

echo & muse wormhole: currency of generations
feet wormhole: Western Motel, 1957
girl wormhole: Shonagh – poewieview #17
time wormhole: the missing chord // the now-silent seagull
Uckfield-London line wormhole: train journey // like a branch

 

new garden

Tags

1971, 2011, black, cat, childhood, eyes, fence, future, garden, Genesta Road, glasses, John, light, Nan, thinking, trees

 

 

 

                                              new garden

                wire fencing held up
                by sticks and weeds
                between gardens
                and gentle light

                from between the trees
                plays full on my Nan’s face who has
                taken off her glasses for awhile
                closed her eyes thinking of the future

                and sideways across
                my brother’s face who
                holds a black kitten intent
                not to let it drop

 

 

 

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

1971 wormhole: 1971
black & light wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
cat wormhole: tag cloud poem IV – C
childhood wormhole: 50 mph
eyes wormhole: Chop Suey, 1929
garden wormhole: all along the blue sky
Genesta Road & Nan wormhole: dream 260815
glasses wormhole: is that so!
thinking wormhole: if left alone
trees wormhole: 1963

 

Plumstead – Woolwich 121114

Tags

1970s, 2014, anxiety, architecture, art deco, ash tree, bay window, bench, Beresford Square, blue, breathing, brown, buddleia, buildings, Canary Wharf, cars, change, clothes, clouds, communication, compassion, Dallin Road, demolition, dream, Eglinton Hill, empire, Europe, eyes, feet, fence, Genesta Road, ghosts, glass, glasses, grass, growth, handshake, head, house, identity, iron, keys, language, leaves, library, light, living, London, looking, love, music, passing, pavement, people, petrol, piano, pigeons, plane, plastic, Plumstead, purple, rain, rainbow, roads, rooftops, school, schoolgirl, shadow, Shard, singing, sky, smile, sound, speech, step, streetlight, streets, sun, swifts, talking, tarmac, Thames, time, travelling, trees, tv, vow, walking, walls, windows, Woolwich, yellow

 

{Every year and a while I travel 40 miles up to Woolwich, where I grew up, to check that the journey I make started off in the write direction (HA!); while wandering I write, leaning on peoples’ front walls and making a coffee last in a cafe (and every once in a while I treat myself to an afternoon bench); I haven’t been up there for awhile, certainly since the echoing tragedy of Lee Rigby’s death on 22nd May last year; I wrote snatches of life as usual and came home; I realised that the snatches patch-worked together and worked them into a whole landscape which they had ever were in the first place; I know it’s a long piece but please pursue it for the sake of Woolwich; I realise now that my previous visits’ writings need some rendering due-ly …}

 

 

                      Plumstead – Woolwich 121114

                      all fractured now, slightly misshapen, still
                      holding together, the grubby art deco window that
                      coloured the stairwells bracing two rooms
                      maybe three now, don’t know why they used coloured

                      glass, the bay windows still looking up the street looking
                      down, occasional five-finger buddleias like Empire
                      plaques on the wall above top floor windows
                      scud clouds above the coping

                      then flights of step up and up and straddling and down
                      the storeys of irregular variegated plastic cladding
                      upwards upwards for to breathe free and live while people
                      pass on the wet street with small steps and quiet slippers

                      I had a dream once something anxious and dreadful
                      followed me going into and out of Polytechnic Street
                      from Wellington along by the stacked flanks of seventies
                      double-glaze all screened and blinded from the street

                      cannot see in cannot see out, people walk awkward
                      on the tiles flexing metatarsals under the slight over
                      hang of the library from the colding rain while, look,
                      a rainbow arches hidden down the side-street turning

                      the bricks and glazing purple, no one looks up
                      arranging bank loans, arranging brunch, after noon
                      the sun divides streets in half, the buildings too
                      dark to see the shop fronts too dazzled to walk into

                      the sun favours ambitious plants between torn-down
                      building and upright support, plays along the side
                      of preserved plots – flanged shadow from pipework and
                      signage across circular windows – eye to the sky – under

                      hand-brow, too bright even for tinted glasses;
                      so many of my people generations poor in the sun
                      from Empires and Union under the Royal Arsenal
                      Gatehouse; each passing step collapsed and proud knot

                      in kneed of any support, thank you: their shadows reach me
                      down the Square’s access channel long before their pain
                      walks by: I don’t know any of you now with your plastic ID
                      badges with your back-pat handshakes and bent-heads

                      sincere-talk, grouped and scattered by the public toilets
                      your drunk over-emphases your ways like pigeons – where are
                      all the pigeons? – and your beautiful language aged as
                      public benches; dark clothes to wear, light clothes to buy

                      and you don’t know me – lost son haunting the streets – but
                      I love you all constant as the windows proud above roofline
                      between turrets looking onto the Square; I long ago made
                      my vow to you at a time when borders seemed important
                      I know, I know I am slow but I return again and again to see you
                      and you break my heart each time I learn to smile again

                      out towards Plumstead on the lower road (I cannot find
                      the tree I found before through all my travelling) new trees
                      and tapered posts with lights for the road and lights for the
                      pavement and posts just waiting, reaching into the blue blue sky

                      you have been done up many times, Genesta*, so
                      I only notice now what hasn’t changed, for the first time:
                      unassuming tapered pillars between the windows and bays
                      of my youth that reflect the blue sky now (yellow leaves

                      highlight the paving and tarmac wet like petrol) only noticed
                      when a swift skeeks across one pane, not the other;
                      up Dallin Road, she’s got through another day
                      she’s survived the juddering divided walls of ‘have to’

                      the way things are these days, with music in hand
                      she makes rewarded way along the steely street where
                      the sun has slipped below the higher roofline, singing her
                      do-do-do’s to the endless chorus ‘why do we do it;

                      how do we do it?’, and looking for her house keys
                      under metal clouds; the long grass grows rosettes around
                      yellow leaves, brown leaves, by the leaning iron fence the
                      steep tarmac cracks and the shorter grass takes over; past the

                      bronze age tumulus it’s clear, London’s grown up a lot
                      since I watched Francis Chichester sail up the river
                      from the window up on Eglinton Hill – something he did –
                      now there are Shards and Wharfs and stacking planes

                      and significant lights denoting all manner of whey and access but
                      still my nose is running and I need to have a wee; I suppose
                      I need to get home now the light is fading slow and fast
                      at 52 – the ash has only lost its upper leaves by the roof

                      at 48 there is afternoon tv after electric piano practise is done
                      at 44 – the estate agent climbs awkward into her clean soft-top with
                      high clip heels; at 36 – a lantern shines arched in the porch while
                      sirens circle the borough and there’s nothing left here now outside 46

 

 

 

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

bench wormhole: the bench / on the fourth sister from / Birling Gap before the / wind-brushed scrub and gorse / and the grey-blue sky / smoothed through the / fishtank-blue horizon to / grey-green sea
blue & leaves & sun wormhole: Jean Miller kissed Salinger
breathing wormhole: born again
brown wormhole: on sitting / in front of / a hedge
buddleia wormhole: (Little by Little)
buildings & travelling wormhole: I could step / more open
cars & roads wormhole: the long road
change & time wormhole: Dr Strange II – … things are the same again
clouds wormhole: the utter beauty of giving when receiving
communication wormhole: Maidstone
compassion & feet & love & speech & talking wormhole: there are patient listeners
dream wormhole: we’re born // to die
Eglinton Hill & Woolwich & yellow wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
eyes & looking & shadow wormhole: a maturity
Genesta Road & rooftops wormhole: corroboration
ghosts wormhole: only the Batman realises that he is dead
glass & light & streetlight wormhole: oh-pen
glasses wormhole: first a mishap then clear vision
house wormhole: day off
identity wormhole: that
living wormhole: scattered
London wormhole: letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk
music wormhole: no exit
passing & sound & walking & windows wormhole: Matildenplatz / & Luisen
people & rain & sky wormhole: Luisenplatz
piano wormhole: … walking down the street
pigeons wormhole: tune up // baton taptaptap
purple wormhole: consturnation …? // consternation
school wormhole: tag cloud poem VI – anyone’s eyes
smile wormhole: irretrievable / breakdown / of marriage
streets & trees wormhole: Dr Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street
Thames wormhole: letters to mum II – family // like a grate
tv wormhole: multifarious: the Dark Knight Returns (1986)
walls wormhole: stuck free to move within

 

tag cloud poem VII – form new freedom:

Tags

2014, faces, faith, fall, family, fate, fence, field, film, flagpole, floodlights, floorboards, flow, flowers, flying, fog, Folkestone, footsteps, forest, form, freedom, friendship, frustration, funding, furniture, future, life, tag cloud poem, trees

 

 

 

faces of all faith
                           fall like a family

                           the fate of a father in fear
                           feeling the fence around the field

                           the film, finding fir, lingers over treetops
                           the fire takes the flagpole; the floodlights take the floorboards;

                           flow often  flowers when flying through fog
                           while Folkestone listens to footsteps of distant forest

                                                      form new freedom:

                                                                                 friendship out from frustration
                                                                                 funding all the furniture of future life

 

 

 

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

faces wormhole: I could step / more open
family wormhole: Tulips by Sylvia Plath – How Far To Step Before You Raise The Other Foot
father wormhole: Sylvia
film wormhole: the fingers
fir wormhole: the straight line of stones marking the geometry / of death / settle all their own levels over time to make / a new rhythm
flow wormhole: no quota too empty / no fate to fulfil
fog wormhole: 0.42
life wormhole: breathe it all / in
tag cloud poem wormhole: tag cloud poem VI – anyone’s eyes
trees wormhole: sunny morning

 

the straight line of stones marking the geometry / of death / settle all their own levels over time to make / a new rhythm

Tags

'scape, 2013, Castleton, death, fence, fir, grass, hills, iron, leaning, rhythm, rust, stone, time

 

 

 

              the straight line of stones marking the geometry
                   of death
              settle all their own levels over time to make
                   a new rhythm

              the iron fenced ones –
                   the rust of ages past –
              as the grasses reach up through them like
                   an array of grasses

              the stone-cross ones mottled-old like skin
                   ready to sag
              and the upright stones leaning forward to their various degrees
                   and backward like a child’s forest

              the huge upstart fir tree leans too
                   at a good 70º
              but by the flowing hills behind
                   it doesn’t seem so odd

 

 

 

                                       the church graveyard of St. Edmund’s, Castleton, Derbyshire

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

Castleton wormhole: tag cloud poem IV – C
death wormhole: tag cloud poem V – draft-ness
fir wormhole: across the room / through the patio doors / through the conservatory windows / at the bottom of the garden / the still bifurcated trunk of / the oak / before the let-grown hair and fringes / of the fir tree / blown every lifetime in a while by the winter sun // actually
grass wormhole: the edges of my reach
hills wormhole: emerged
stone 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
time wormhole: b / l / u / e / s / at a right-angle

 

new garden

Tags

'scape, 1971, 2011, 5*, black, cat, emergence, eyes, fence, garden, Genesta Road, glasses, John, life, Nan, sunlight, thinking, trees

 

 

 

                                                      new garden

                           wire fencing held up
                           by sticks and weeds
                           between gardens
                           and gentle light

                           from between the trees
                           plays full on my Nan’s face who has
                           taken off her glasses for awhile
                           closed her eyes thinking of the future

                           and sideways across
                           my brother’s face who
                           holds a black kitten intent
                           not to let it drop

 

 

 

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

1971 wormhole: 1971
black & emergence wormholes: 1974
cat wormhole: twenty five / year career
eyes wormhole: poetry
faces wormhole: August / Adventure
garden & trees wormhole: afternoon 290613
Genesta Road wormhole: 1974
glasses wormhole: a few reflections on / keeping your cow / in a large meadow / while walking round / the streets of Horsham
life wormhole: alien / and awkward
Nan wormhole: London
thinking wormhole: the / pyrrhic / play

 

indignantly

Tags

2011, 4*, child, fence, Have, identity, pavement, portrait, streets, talking

 

 

 

                      Have stands shifted
                                   slightly onto rear foot
                      shoulders held
                                   an inch upwards
                      looking down waiting
                                   for the latest sentence
                                   of his friend’s child
                                   to complete

                      but it doesn’t and he laughs
                                   and talks with his friend awhile
                                   and the child
                      breaks away weaving down the pavement
                                   and turns face
                                   into the fence
                      and stays there some seconds
                                   then kicks the fence

                                   indignantly

 

 

 

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

child wormhole: Allen Ginsberg’s // child
Have wormhole: poessay VI: // truth
identity wormhole: Have
pavement wormhole: Boy
streets & talking wormhole: street

 

Boy

Tags

'scape, 2011, 3*, bicycle, boy, Brighton, buddleia, faces, fence, hair, Have, pavement, portrait, red, rust, walls

 

 

 

                                          Boy

                           down the long featureless
                                          pavement
                           red brick wall rusty fence
                                          buddleia
                           the pinched face wide head
                                          spikey hair boy
                           cycles shell-suit top billowing
                                          building to a jump

                                          over nothing

 

                                          once

 

 

 

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

Brighton wormhole: relief
buddleia wormhole: William Carlos Williams
faces wormhole: Eglinton Hill
hair wormhole: portrait … // … reading
Have wormhole: Have
pavement wormhole: demolition
red wormhole: school uniform
walls wormhole: as

 

‘under the orange streetlamp the…’

Tags

'scape, 1999, 4*, fence, orange, pine, streetlight

 

 

 

                           under the orange streetlamp the
                           fenced corner of wasteland

                           but opposite
                           by the wall
                           has grown

                           a pine

 

 

 

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

orange wormhole: altogether
pine wormhole: ‘walking up Whitehill Road …’
streetlight wormhole: room 506 / Central Park