• 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
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mlewisredford

~ may the Supreme and Precious Jewel Bodhichitta take birth where it has not yet done so …

mlewisredford

Tag Archives: fog

‘let them slide off …’

05 Wednesday Jul 2017

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2013, 3*, fog, groundlessness, humour, managerialism, measure, survival, teaching

                let them slide off
                let them shed
                the weights and the measures

                let there be levity
                redundant and quiet
                in groundless fog and cloud

 

 

 

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

fog wormhole: thick thick fog
groundlessness wormhole: beepbeep
managerialism wormhole: just saying, is all VIII: keeping up toxic appearences
teaching wormhole: step

 

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thick thick fog

29 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

2013, awareness, charcoal, dragon, fog, glimpse, grey, letting go, lifetimes, lime, olive, pattern, pollution, searching, sitting, waves

                                                                                 thick thick fog

                                              charcoal grey and, oh, so enveloping …
                                                              … quite interesting, really, but
                                                                                 lifetimes’ thick

                                so
                do I look for where it parts by itself –
                                where an olive or a lime seem to suggest and to beckon and
                                chase them like a barking dragon wherever they may go

                                or
                do I sit here
and watch the billows overlap and pollute in all their pattern and wait
                                for when the gap comes
                                to me

                when I’ll be ready for it?

 

 

 

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

awareness wormhole: Compartment C, Car 193, 1938
fog wormhole: sit
grey & waves wormhole: fine droplets / across the glass
letting go wormhole: a little bit of love / and muffle
lifetimes wormhole: Hotel Room, 1931
lime wormhole: finding my own true nature – Plumstead, Woolwich, 190915
olive wormhole: the edge has come …
searching wormhole: Grizedale College
sitting wormhole: because

 

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sit

20 Tuesday Oct 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2010, abandonment, ageing, Batman, bedroom, being, biography, birthday, books, border, branches, cape, carpet, cars, Catcher in the Rye, childhood, children, comics, compassion, counting, cowl, crying, Dad, divorce, father, flower, fog, fracture, French, green, guru, history, house, identity, image, leaf, life, living room, lyric, marriage, moonlight, Mum, music, night, numbers, parents, pattern, planets, posture, power, Salinger, self-compassion, sentient beings, settee, shadow, sitting, skyline, speech, stone, sunlight, superhero, Superman, surrealism, talking to myself, teaching, wife, world, writing, yin yang

 

 

 

                           I stared at the pattern of the carpet
                           driving my cars behind the settee
                           while my parents said final things
                           to each other; the twirl of the branches

                           a better life, the curl of a flower;
                           you’d better go, the border; and
                           never step back in this house again,
                           the shadow of the leaf is also a

                           darker green; I had never studied
                           the pattern before – never had to,
                           never could – I can work it out now,
                           see how it repeats; I think something

                           is happening with Mum and Dad
                           on the other side of the settee; but
                           this pattern continues around the
                           whole carpet, around the whole room;

                           only later – in bed – is it announced
                           what I had already known, and only
                           then could I ask why does it have to
                           happen to us and cry; only when it

                           was announced, only when it was
                           expressed; I had already known
                           but I could only count the patterns,
                           I could only drive the cars; and

                           as I cried, I was numb – pattern
                           before settee – I could fracture
                           from the world, just find a pattern;
                           you’re the man of the house now,

                           someone said to me, so I studied
                           the pages of comicbooks – patterns
                           of power, solving under cowl,
                           jumping under cape, between the

                           skyline and the world: I shall
                           throw stones high, until they
                           don’t come down; I shall dig so low
                           that no one could follow, no;

                           I shall count all numbers; I shall
                           collect all numbers; I shall
                           discover all planets; I shall adopt
                           the posture of heroes, no; I shall

                           number the histories; I shall weave
                           the texture of music; I shall taste
                           the shock of lyric; I shall smell
                           the books, no; I shall sunlight

                           the chorus; I shall cry the biography;
                           I shall see the image, and write them
                           into existence, yes; I shall follow
                           the curl and the twist and the twirl

                           under moonlight all the night long;
                           then, I shall play catch in the rye;
                           I shall alors les boulevards; I shall
                           yin the old yang; I shall surreal in

                           the fog; I shall honour my guru
                           I shall marry my wife; I shall father
                           my children; I shall teach in those classes –
                           but forty two years on, he had still

                           just left; and I still didn’t know how
                           to be the man; time to get out from
                           behind the settee, take a seat with
                           all the others, and
                                                  just
                                                  sit there with them all awhile

 

 

 

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

abandonment & divorce wormhole: … back to the outbreath
Batman wormhole: zok! and pow!
bedroom & Dad wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
being & identity & talking to myself & world & writing wormhole: out!
books wormhole: library: start where you are IV // all the distance I have travelled!
branches wormhole: Exceat to Cuckmere Haven
carpet wormhole: Ashdown Forest / 080213 14:47
cars wormhole: after all?
childhood & music wormhole: fantasia
comics wormhole: Detective Comics #345
compassion wormhole: de Boeddha // of light
father wormhole: sight / seeing
fog wormhole: my life / of others
green wormhole: three musicians
history wormhole: Brugges April 2015 – looking lost
house wormhole: House by the Railroad, 1925
life & speech wormhole: “write, let’s break outta here!”
living room wormhole: Woolwich Central – making life better II
Mum wormhole: dream 230315
night wormhole: mauve / night
posture & sitting & superhero wormhole: exactly equal
power wormhole: the continental stride of trains
shadow & teaching wormhole: … anymore
skyline wormhole: The Louvre in a Thunderstorm, 1909
stone wormhole: Evening Wind, 1921
Superman wormhole: escape from Flat Planet

 

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my life / of others

11 Thursday Jun 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2012, Allen Ginsberg, allowing, America, awkward, being, bittersweet, breathing, community, decades, desert, doing, echo, eyes, family, fog, giving, gravity, horizon, identity, inclusion, ink, life, lifetimes, listening, loneliness, love, management, marble, mauve, meaning, others, planet, pointlessness, purpose, radiation, relationship, secret, silence, sitting, society, talking to myself, time, twilight

 

y’know; sometimes you’ve just got to have a rambling, indulgent, pig-headed, why-is-no-one-listening-to-me, pathetic, awkward (don’t forget the ‘awkward’), poor-me whiiine to realise just how rambling, indulgent, pig-headed, why-is-no-one-listening-to-me-ie, pathetic, and awkward you can be; sigh – but there’s still some poetry in it, so I’ll share the self-pity about (caution: this is quite a high-pitched whiiine; it is strongly urged that you wear ear-protection – or at least stick your fingers in your ear reciting la-la-la – if you undertake to read this; you have been warned)

 

 

                my life
                                of others

                                how long has this been going on
                how long this has been going on

demands in their eyes pull me to them like a planet
                pull on me to contain them
                                pull deep in me through the latest casual orbit

                                I give because I can
                learnt silently over decades
                                              I have lived to allow ever wider
                                in order to include
                                              to neutralise my gravity in order to listen
                and let them breathe enough
                                              to find their own solution –
decades of leaning a hundred awkward ways
                                              to be with others
                                decades of privately finding ways
                to re-collect my own gravity –
                                                              shiny marbles with petrified ink –
                                              and decades having to let them go
                                                              one by one
                                              tearfully
                                eventually

                                              all under the great broad horizon
                                lost before the hills on the great broad horizon
                the beautiful-twilight mauve desert
                                              and the radiation presence of another close planet they
                cannot do the same for me
                                                              they will not do the same for me:

                                the squalls and foreclosures,
                                              they are of my own making
                an audience extends only so far as to conclude that it is all my own awkwardness – all I have to do is fit –
                                              before I have even finished explaining
                usually I don’t bother to finish
                                or even start
                                              the solution is ready-made
                                                              (with a few ‘hmm’s to make it look kindly)
                or just kept to themself
                                echoing loudly behind their eyes

                                              like sharing secrets with the fog
                                                              I find myself alone
                each one of them was the last person I could turn to in the world
                                but they all uncannily agree with each other
                                              they are the Company Man

                                I have done my bit for the family
                                I have done my bit for the team
                                I have done my bit for the community
                                                              all by not being there
                                              all by not getting in the way
                I cried when I was acknowledged once
                                                                                 it never happened again

                                I suppose
                                it’s just
                                              they need to keep from shattering in a thousand pieces
                they need to hold the whole damn thing together
so I give because I can
                                because it is right
                                                              but cannot expect return
                                                              they cannot give
                                                              what they expect
                                                              in return
                                for sure things are done things may be organised
                                                              (sometimes even when I want them)
                                              but for some greater good
                                                              for some greater career
                                                              for some greater legacy
                                                                                 not mine
                                              certainly not mine (‘America I have given you all
                                                              and now I am nothing’)

                                              when I work it is all about them
                when I stop it is all about how they performed
                                all that I do and don’t do
                                              is how it sits as support or burden
                                                              to them
                                conclusion: it is only them who do the work
                                              the thinking the organising
                                                              I seem to do nothing
                                                              really
                and do it annoyingly and awkwardly and thinkingly – roll of eyes – I
                                have to be managed to be of any competence
                                              (that’s meant affectionately) I
                                              am just the recipient of their
                                                              good work
                                                              (what do they call them these days – ‘clients’)
                                              my value
                                              my contribution
                                              what I am
                                                              are the price I pay to receive

                so I don’t say anything much – what’s the point?
                                I’ll put a few things out
                                              tentatively
                                (where I might be patronised at best – if I’m lucky,
                                                                                 if the planets are lined up right)
                                                              told it’s cute
                                              or individual
                                or much too clever to understand
                or it’s not what was needed
                                              or sorry, Mark, did you say something
                                                              and the audience will move deftly on
                                to what it wanted to talk about anyway
                or what it wanted to be doing
                                              all along

                                I mostly keep it to myself
                                                              here
                                              in the place I claim
                                              each day – time to myself bittersweet
                                                              (at siege from service and compliance)
                to ‘indulge’ myself ‘stay up too late’ ‘contemplate my navel’
                                                              otherwise I get ‘grumpy’
                                              I talk to
                                              myself
                                                              I am not the Company Man
                                                                                 no one
                                                                                 to share
                                                                                 me with
                no one beyond the managed obliged corporate return
                                              oh yes I return to myself
                                                              find my own meaningpurposeaudiencelove
                                              safe in the fifty year relationship
                                which is good for only one

                                decades whittled away
                                              here and there
                                                              chips and shavings on the floor
                                leaving a petrified face
                eyes wide mouth open
                                              bas-relief out from being

 

 

 

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

Allen Ginsberg & giving wormhole: tag cloud poem VIII – growth
allowing & loneliness wormhole: letters to Mum VI – Years / after you have gone. Still.
being & breathing & sitting wormhole: the art of sit and follow
doing & identity wormhole: my beauty
echo wormhole: library: start where you are IV // all the distance I have travelled!
eyes & time wormhole: ambling around / the garden centre
family wormhole: sometimes
fog homework: tag cloud poem VII – form new freedom:
horizon wormhole: To my Mum
life & love wormhole: I love with all the history and lack of perfections at our command
lifetimes & others & pointlessness & society wormhole: Totnes
listening wormhole: before // writing?
management wormhole: poessay VIII: / educational behaviourism
mauve wormhole: ‘green post …’
meaning & talking to myself wormhole: the stance of Buscema // qualitatively
twilight wormhole: the four whores of the apocalypse

 

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tag cloud poem VII – form new freedom:

05 Sunday Oct 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2014, 4*, 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

 

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0.42

25 Friday Jan 2013

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2013, 7*, being, breathing, distraction, fog, growth, posture, settling, sitting, voices

 

 

 

                                          0.42

                                once the bum hits the seat
                                and the posture is settled
                                and the breathing is found
                                                      now where did I put it

                                and the hundred voices of a hundred
                                plots and appendices appear out of
                                the fog on a trail and have already stayed for
                                wasted hours beyond their welcome

                                there is no end to sitting down
                                into their texture and staining
                                and there is no end to sitting back
                                into the fog from which they came

 

 

 

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

being & breathing & posture & sitting & voices wormhole: chrysalissing
distraction wormhole: meditation session
fog wormhole: backseat

 

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backseat

15 Saturday Dec 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

'scape, 1976, 2011, 6*, arrival, bus, departure, fog, growth, hill, lemon, river, sun, turquoise, windows

 

 

 

                                                      backseat

                                          lemon-
                                   turquoise wafts
                                   from a front window
                                          fog shifting
                                   river somewhere

                                          bus waits
                                   looking downhill
                                          indicating

                                          pull out
                                          nose down
                                   back up
                                   patchwork of wires
                                          overhead

                                          sun
                                   catches the hand bars
                                   on the back of each seat
                                          glides
                                   like a community
                                   left to right

                                          here
                                   I have arrived
                                          it is
                                   here I get off

 

 

 

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

1976 wormhole: 1976
bus wormhole: the end
fog wormhole: my life / of others
lemon wormhole: 1967
river wormhole: late morning / Saturday
sun wormhole: so lonely
windows wormhole: zen against / the window

 

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my life / of others

06 Tuesday Nov 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

2012, 8*, acceptance, Allen Ginsberg, being, breathing, career, Company Man, eyes, fog, gravity, growth, horizon, life, lifetimes, mauve, others, planets, society, teaching, work

I hesitate before publishing stuff like this – it looks like I’m whining for sympathy – I am not; but if writing cannot be candid – warts and all – it is already damned, so I will publish AND be damned

 

 

 

                                my lives
                                of others

                                how long has this been going on
                how long this has been going on

demands in their eyes pulling me to them like a planet
                pulling on me to contain them
                                pulling deep in me through the latest orbit

                                I give because I can
                learnt silently in the decades
                                I have lived to allow
                yet ever wider in order to include
                                              to neutralise my gravity in order to listen
                                and let them breathe enough
                                              to find their own solution
                decades of leaning a hundred ways
                                                              to be with others
                                decades of privately finding ways
                to rebuild my own gravity
                                                              shiny marbles with petrified ink
                                              then having to let them go
                                tearfully each time
                                                              eventually

                                              all under the great broad horizon
                                lost before the hills on the great broad horizon
                the beautiful twilight-mauve desert
                                and the radiation presence of the close planet
                they cannot do the same for me
                                they will not do the same for me:

                                the stalls and foreclosures are my own making
                my audience extends only as far to conclude
                                that it is all about my awkwardness
                                                              all I have to do is fit in
                                              before I have even finished explaining
                usually I don’t bother to finish
                                or even start
                                              the solution is ready-made
                                                              with a few ‘hmm’s to make it look kindly
                or it is kept to themself
                                echoing loudly in their brains through their eyes

                                              like sharing secrets with the fog
                                                              I find myself alone
                each of them was the last person I could turn to in the world
                                but they all agree with each other
                                              they are the Company Man

                                I have done my bit for the family
                                I have done my bit for the team
                                I have done my bit for the community
                                                                      all by not being there
                                              all by not getting in the way
                I cried when I was acknowledged once
                                                                      it never happened again

                                it’s just
                                              they need to keep from shattering in a thousand pieces
                they need to hold the whole damn thing together
so I give because I can
                                              because it is right
                                                                      but I cannot expect the return
                                                              they cannot give
                                what they expect in return
                for sure things are done
                                              things may be organised
                                                                      sometimes even when I want them
                                              but they are done for some greater good
                for the greater good of a career
                                                              for the greater good of legacy
                                              not mine
                                certainly not mine
                                                              (‘America I have given you all
                                                                      and now I am nothing’)
                                              when I work it is all about them
                when I stop it is all about how they performed
                                all that I do and don’t do
                                              is how it sits as support or burden
                                                              to them
                                conclusion: it is only them who do the work
                                              the thinking the organising
                                                                      I seem to do nothing really
                and do it annoyingly and awkwardly and thinkingly – roll eyes exasperation
                                I have to be managed to be of any competence
                                                              that’s meant affectionately
I am just the recipient of their good work
                                                              what do they call them these days – ‘clients’
                                              my value my contribution what I am
                                                                                 are the price I pay to receive

                so I don’t say anything – what’s the point?
                                I’ll put a few things out
                                              tentatively
                                but I would be patronised at best     if I’m lucky
                                                                                 if the planets are lined up right
                                                              told it’s cute
                or individual
                                              or much too clever to understand
                                                                      or it’s not what was needed
                                              or sorry, Mark, did you say something
                                                              and the audience will move swiftly on
                                to what it wanted to talk about anyway
                                                              or what it wanted to be doing all along
I mostly keep it to myself

                here
                                                                      in the place I claim each day
                                              time to myself bittersweet
                                                                                 at siege from service and compliance
                                to ‘indulge’ myself ‘stay up too late’ ‘contemplate my navel’
                                                              otherwise I get ‘grumpy’
                                              I talk to myself
                                                                      I am not the Company Man
                                                              no one
                                                              to share
                                                              me with
                no one interested beyond the managed
                                obliged
                                              corporate return
                                oh yes I return to myself
                                                              find my own meaning purpose audience love
                                                              safe in the fifty year relationship
                                              which is good for only one

                                the weekends holidays and days off get whittled away
                                                              here and there
                                                                      chips and shavings on the floor
                                              leaving a petrified face
                eyes wide mouth open
                                                              a bas-relief out from being

 

 

 

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

acceptance wormhole: Big Mind
(hidden) Allen Ginsberg & life wormhole: guileless naïveté – / a biographical / manifest -oh!
being & breathing wormhole: honest
career wormhole: sit. / In. / g …
eyes wormhole: awayday / update
horizon wormhole: poessay IV
fog wormhole: my struggle
lifetimes & mauve wormhole: the spectre
society wormhole: 20th century
teaching wormhole: there is
work wormhole: song

 

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my struggle

14 Sunday Oct 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

2012, 5*, ambition, fog, ghosts, growth, Have, identity, society

 

 

 

                                my struggle
                                with ambition
                                just the little more
                                just the habit more
                                to site my self
                                in the wafting fog

                                is a struggle in a
                                whole world in a
                                whole whorl of
                                ambition where
                                lost selfs waft and
                                spin in the
                                maelstrom
                                like ghosts

 

 

 

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

fog wormhole: 1964 – open window
Have wormhole: There Will Be Blood (2007)
identity wormhole: stamina
society wormhole: ‘I am the Riddler …’

 

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1964 – open window

09 Wednesday May 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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'scape, 1964, 2009, 4*, cars, childhood, fog, grey, open, sea, windows, years

 

 

 

                           1964 – open window

                           so foggy and
                           wet that there were
                           water runs down
                           the windscreen
                           driving along by
                           the sea – a firm
                           grey cushion

 

 

 

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

1964 wormhole: 1964
cars & grey wormhole: ‘small town busy …’
childhood wormhole: lifetime
fog wormhole: shifting
open wormhole: winter / weeks
sea wormhole: sunshine
windows wormhole: ‘stomping home from school …’
years wormhole: 1971

 

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'scape 2* 3* 4* 5* 6* 7* 8* 20th century 1967 1979 1980 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019 acceptance afternoon air Allen Ginsberg anxiety architecture arm in arm attention awareness Batman beach beauty bedroom being birds birdsong black blue Bodhisattvacharyavatara books Bowie branches breakdown breathing breeze brown Buddha buildings career Carol cars change child childhood children city clouds coffee shop colour combe end comics communication compassion compromise crane creativity curtains dancing dark death distraction divorce doing doors dream Dr Strange earth echo Edward Hopper Eglinton Hill emergence emptiness evening eyes faces family father feet field floorboards garden Genesta Road girl giving glass gold grass green grey growth haiku hair hands Have hedge hill hills history holiday hope horizon house houses identity kitchen leaf leaves lemon letting go life lifetimes light lime listening living London looking lost love management managerialism mauve meaning mind mist moon morning mother mouth movement Mum muse music night notice open openness orange others park passing pavement people performance management pink Plumstead poetry pointlessness politics portrait posture power practice professionalism purple purpose quiet rain reaching reading realisation reality red requires chewing river roads roof rooftops samsara sea searching seeing settling shadow shops silence silhouette silver sitting sky skyline sleep smell smile snow society sound space speech step stone streetlight streets sun sunlight superhero table talking talking to myself teaching teaching craft Thames thinking thought time train travelling trees true nature university voices walking walls water waves white William Carlos Williams wind windows wood Woolwich words work world writing years yellow zazen

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