• 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: generation

Open – All – Ours

04 Saturday Feb 2017

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2017, 8*, Bodhisattvacharyavatara, brown, buildings, clouds, dedication, echo, generation, identity, land, lifetimes, living, Mahayana, Open All Hours, pocket, punya, rain, Shantideva, sky, smile, stone, tectonic plates, true nature, work

                Open – All – Ours

                out across the vast land
                of all of my many lives

                what started as a stave-
                shack has long-since

                become a stone colossus
                wider than the sky in which

                my own clouds rain,
                with openings measureless

                to man and tectonic plates
                stacked up and arching

                in inconceivable echo;
                that’s where we all work,

                life after life, all by my-selves
                meticulously stocking up

                even anything so small,
                taking whole lifetimes

                sometimes to place a
                single smile in its right

                and proper place because
                you never know when it

                might come in handy;
                well, it’s a living; do you

                like my trusty brown
                overcoat – nice, deep

                pockets – comes with
                the job, been in my

                family now for so many
                generations now … once

                I catch up with myself

 

constructed out of Bodhicharyavatara, chapter three, verse ten, by Shantideva

 

 

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

brown wormhole: monument to vainglory
buildings wormhole: time
clouds wormhole: industrial estate
echo & sky wormhole: so pleased to see you again
identity & lifetimes wormhole: ‘never look up’?
living wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – agricultural show
rain wormhole: ah … // oh … // meanwhile … // … // tha ya ta …
smile wormhole: to allow / passage
stone wormhole: transmuted
work wormhole: neither nude nor / descending a staircase

 

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Doctor Strange III – the needs of billions

30 Saturday Jul 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems, poeviews

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Tags

2012, 5*, black, canyon, Clea, Dormammu, Dr Strange, father, generation, growth, Have, humanity, life, mother, nuclear, power, reaching, society, son, Steely Dan, unstable, veins, walls, words, world, yellow

 

 

 

                                a colossus
strides effortless across canyons and generation
                fed by the needs of billions
                                engorged enough to consume itself nucleic
                                it speaks with flaming head
                                              unstable
                                too much
                                              too much that it will disperse itself even as it reaches,
                the needs of billions
                                              flooded through a world of veins like
                                                                        pumped
                                                                        yellow
                                                                        fat
                                the mother is bound the father is blind
                                              and only all the words of worlds
                                                                        will speak
                                              while Strange and Devotion
                                                                        expand through dimensions
                                grown alarmingly through the stages of their lives
                                              quickly for to get there

                                                                        wanting
                                                                        it      all
                                                                        the son
                                              sits ‘by the blackened wall
                                                                        he does it all, he thinks he’s died        
                                                                                            and gone to heaven’*

 

* from The Royal Scam, The Royal Scam, 1976, Steely Dan

have you seen the second trailer for the coming Doctor Strange movie – you see: it’s coming, expanding through the dimensions –

 

 

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

black wormhole: El Palacio, 1946
Dr Strange & Have & power & society & world wormhole: Doctor Strange II – … things are the same again
father & mother wormhole: Elektra
life wormhole: ‘hope for things to come’
walls & yellow wormhole: what life went on
words wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Olly

 

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The Boats of Vallesneria by Michael J. Redford – Autumn Thoughts

10 Friday Jun 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in announcements

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

1967, Africa, afternoon, air, Apollo, autumn, awakening, beans, bees, beginning, birth, blue, book, bracken, bronze, caterpillar, child, colour, cottage, crickets, dark, death, digging, earth, emerald, end, eyes, face, field, flowers, forest, garden, generation, gold, gorse, grass, hazel, hedgehog, hill, hive, honeysuckle, horse, house martin, ivy, January, journey, joy, lambs, land, lawn, leaves, life, March, memory, migration, mind, moorhen, moorland, morning, mother, nemesia, Norway, oak, plough, poetry, purple, reading, redwing, sadness, seasons, seeds, silence, sitting, sky, skyline, sleep, smell, sound, spiders, starlings, sunlight, the Boats of Vallisneria, thistles, thought, time, transition, trees, uncle, valley, web, wheat, winter, woodlark, work

 

Chapter 1

The Wandering Mind

Autumn Thoughts

I sat in the garden one autumn afternoon reading an old poet.   The sky was unblemished, clear and pure as the face of a child and starlings were deep in conversation close by.   I had mown the lawn that morning just before lunch and turned over the plot where the peas had been cleared.   After this exertion and a good meal, I felt no pang of conscience as I turned my back upon the many other chores that cried for attention and took my book into the garden and relaxed in the warm soporific scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass.   After an indeterminable period my thoughts were lifted from the page upon my knee and I drifted across the valley to the hill opposite.   There the grade was steep, too steep for tractor or any other mechanical tool.   A horse therefore was leaning from a plough, moving slowly, almost imperceptively towards the skyline.   The cottage in which I then lived was very old and the hills opposite even older; no doubt at one time they were covered with forest, but many men must have witnessed that same scene before me, many men and many generations.   To them it was a common sight, but to me it was a rare and beautiful sight that spanned the centuries. The scene was timeless.

I felt my head nod forward quite suddenly and I came awake.   The book fell onto the grass and the starlings flew off more in indignation than fright.   In the silence that followed, there filtered through the warmth of the valley the faint jingle of the traces, and as the plough turned upon the headland, a spark of sunlight leapt from the polished harness; it was an impish child of Apollo that danced upon the horse’s back one moment, then without warning, leapt the great expanse of the valley and entered my eye within the same split second.   I realised then that here was a beginning; here, before the old year was done, was another just starting.   Here the earth was being opened up to let in winter’s icy fingers so that she might the better prepare the seed bed for next year’s crop.   Then as the mind’s awareness expanded, I felt that this was not the only beginning taking place, there were many more throughout the changing land.

Visitors were arriving, flowers were blooming, animals were being born.   All about me, as I sat half asleep in the quietude, a great movement of life was in progress, and I thought of another great movement of life that had occurred the previous autumn.   It was an invasion of our fields by the linyphiids or gossamer spiders.   We were drilling wheat at the time and as I crouched low on the footboard of the drill to clear a coulter that had clogged up, I beheld a silken counterpane of gossamer stretched between the faint ridges of the harrowed earth.   The effect, if the eye was held low enough, was that of a thin layer of water shimmering in the early morning sun sending off sparks of individual colour selected at random from all parts of the spectrum.   So taken was I with this scene that all thoughts of clearing the coulters left me as we rattled and jogged across the field, and when harvesting the same field this year, there, as a reminder of that small moment, was a strip bare of swaying gold a hundred yards long and twenty inches wide.

I retrieved the book and placed it on the seat beside me.   The starlings had returned and were even noisier than before and the bees were hurrying to and fro among the nemesia in the hope of collecting and storing that little extra for the months ahead.   Soon they will end their toil; soon they would maim and expel the unfortunate drones and retire to the centre of the hive with the queen in their midst.   The day was magnificent, more like mid-summer than autumn, small wonder indeed that the careless cricket continued to ‘sing’ unaware of the imminent peril of winter.   Many small lives will be lost in the approaching days of darkness yet, through it all, just enough will be saved.   Beneath the apparent calm of autumn is a restlessness; and urgency sweeps through the fields and woodlands as the wiser creatures prepare for flight or lay in stores for sustenance through the long twilight of winter yet to come.

Autumn is a season of transition, a season of intense activity; of flowers flowering and flowers dying, of drilling wheat and cutting beans.   Autumn is a time of birth and death; a time of awakening and a time of going to sleep.   It is a time for the young and a time for the old, a time of both joy and sadness.

This is the time of thistle-down upon the air and goose-grass burrs upon the stockings; when the gorse and broom crackle and pop beneath a March-blue sky and scatter their tiny seeds among the dry stems of the sapless grass.   Now the moors are stained a deeper purple, bracken becomes bronzed and the tree tops dipped in old gold.   In the derries the young caterpillar of the Purple Emperor wraps itself in dead oak leaves and sleeps until the great awakening.   When gossamer fills the air and hazel nuts turn brown the young swallows start on that amazing flight to the shores of Africa, a journey undertaken by their parents a year before who, curiously enough, do not show their offspring the way, but follow on some days later.   How many thousand autumns have witnessed this exodus?   Yet to what blocks of logic and fact can we in all our wisdom attribute this common thing.   The redwing and fieldfare arrive from Norway urging on the lingering house martin.   The woodlark sings, the ivy flowers and the honeysuckle blooms again.   And as the somnolent hedgehog rolls himself in his blanket of leaves, the last brood of moorhen is hatched.   Something sleeps, something awakes; something dies, something is born.

There is no real beginning or end to the year.   Even on the first of January the lambs are growing; leaves are forming within the bud and the young wheat carpets the bare fields with emerald.   But for those whose minds cannot accept the existence of that which has no beginning and no end, then let the division between the years be drawn through autumn, for the onset of winter is really the beginning of the year, not the end.   The young year is born into a cold and sometimes frightening world just as the infant child is released from the warm security of the mother’s womb, and like the child, the infant year begins its life before it is born.   It begins in the womb of autumn.   It is here then (if anywhere) that one thing ends and another begins.   It is here In Sese Vertiture Annus.

 

read the collected work as it is published: here

 

 

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

1967 & garden & life & mind & thought & uncle wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Introduction
afternoon wormhole: “walking …”
air & sound & time wormhole: constant hummm
autumn & gold & sky & smell & trees & work wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Contents
blue & reading wormhole: between thoughts
child & sleep wormhole: 1968
death & eyes wormhole: too late:
field & skyline wormhole: impressionism
leaves wormhole: work
morning wormhole: the coming of ‘The Boats of Vallisneria’ by Michael J. Redford
mother wormhole: and that’s where I are
oak wormhole: dog bark
poetry wormhole: after all?
purple wormhole: 1967
silence wormhole: the missing chord // the now-silent seagull
sitting wormhole: zero
winter wormhole: 1963

 

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currency of generations

19 Thursday May 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

2012, buttons, childhood, clothes, colour, cupboard, echo, Eglinton Hill, family, generation, history, identity, lifetimes, living room, marble, marshmallow, morning, Mum, muse, pastel, sound, speech, stairs, taste, tin, transparent

 

 

 

                                currency of generations

                                ‘fetch the tin of buttons’
                                a quest to the cupboard
                                by the stairwell just outside
                                the room we dressed in
                                and spent all morning
                                because it was warm
                                ‘the one with the fruits’
                                different sorts of fruit
                                pastel-coloured and
                                marshmallowy on a tin
                                ‘they’re petit-fours’
                                something to understand
                                later (the taste had been sugary
                                and pasty and although
                                it looked like fruit it stuck
                                in my throat) now has
                                buttons which are cool
                                and swirly when I run
                                my finger through them
                                and marbled-enough
                                to see history and boiled-
                                sweet transparent-enough
                                to see worlds themed in
                                colour and echo from the clothes
                                of real people from family aunts
                                and uncles in the past who
                                I never knew or can’t remember
                                the lineage from which I came
                                contained under tin-bent lid

 

 

0.62

 

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

childhood & Eglinton Hill & morning wormhole: between thoughts
echo & stairs wormhole: no one – poewieview #24
family & lifetimes & sound & speech wormhole: being in love – poewieview #26
history wormhole: B le tch l ey P ark
identity wormhole: too late:
living room wormhole: fine
Mum wormhole: finding my own true nature – Plumstead, Woolwich, 190915
muse wormhole: and that’s where I are

 

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hinged – From Hell ch. V

24 Thursday Mar 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems, poeviews

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Tags

2015, Alan Moore, architecture, awe, birth, black, blood, chimney, dark, diptych, drawing, encounter, From Hell, generation, grey, history, ink, living, morning, pediment, pillars, privacy, sky, society, steeple, sunrise, windows

                                                              somewhere
                                              amid the pediments and private windows
                                              that make such things inevitable
                                a conception was made
                that would wash the steps and pillars with awe and blood
                                              for tens of cascading generations

                                                              all the while
                                              the stations of toilet and repose
                                              are observed with due quotidian solemnity
                                by both the Righteous and the Have Nots
                until their ineluctable encounter through askance
                                              diptych panels

                                                              nevertheless
                                              and always    hinged    conceive
                                              darkness clinging around
                                steeple and chimney like black-hatch etching
                until light feels its way through the sky again making everything a grey
                                              ink-wash

 

askance from chapter five of From Hell by Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell; architecture always ever is so much more than trim, being the solidified air of encounter between Disraeli’s ‘two nations’ that still breathes to this day; I’m sure Victor Hugo said something about this at length in the beginning pages of Hunchback of Notre Dame, but I can never seem to find them

a little snippet from askance From Hell, askance from chapter ten of From Hell by Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell, gwn’n’avvalook

 

 

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

architecture & windows wormhole: openingAlan Moore wormhole: what heavy and cantilevered structure
black wormhole: ‘the hour before dinner – / the empire of dusk’ – poewieview #6
chimney wormhole: crease and score of silver-morning sky
grey & sky wormhole: b / r / e / a / t / h / i / n / g
history wormhole: the sounds of 1969 // [would have] seemed that way – poewieview #13
living wormhole: quite … / … yet – poewieview #12
morning wormhole: quick inventory after coffee
society wormhole: just saying, is all IV: // lost

 

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Exceat to Cuckmere Haven

14 Sunday Jun 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

1800s, 1930s, 2015, afternoon, attention, banjo, bass, being, blues, branches, breeze, canopy, chalk, clouds, crow, Cuckmere Haven, distance, Eastbourne, echo, elderflower, exposure, eyebrow, eyes, family, forget-me-not, future, garden, generation, grass, haiku, hair, hills, identity, jazz, karma, listening, mind, moss, music, party, river, sky, sound, stone, talking, time, trees, trumpet, voices, walking, walls, white, wind, writing

 

 

 

                                          Exceat to Cuckmere Haven

                                          enough attention to what is here all
                                          around creates event enough for all
                                          the mournful and background lines

                                          and interjections of a single head to
                                          fill and echo enough to be slightly
                                          embarrassed and self-conscious

                                                      —O¬

                                          uphill first, treeline to the left tends
                                          to the right, to the right to the left:
                                          stonewall gate; then downhill over

                                          the moss on a stone-capped wall
                                          trying blankly to describe the full
                                          and close distance of all the trees

                                          down the hill some trad jazz blues
                                          starts up somewhere from below
                                          (from someone’s garden party);

                                          upsweep of trumpet plnkplnkplnk
                                          of banjo, discussing whether saving
                                          bugs one by one from the foraged

                                          elderflower or just plonking them
                                          all in the boiling water is good for
                                          your karma or not bdjmm-dmtsh;

                                                  dry white silt track with
                                             strolling by double bass line
                                               islands of sparse grass;

                                          aggh; band stops river widens – Île
                                          de la Cité – eyes to the canopy
                                          watching the breeze listening to

                                          the fall, the bug on my forehead
                                          stops stepping between the hairs
                                          of my eyebrows – ahh; band sings

                                          out of earshot, breeze plays at the
                                          edge of the copse; must get to know
                                          these (forget-me-nots) by the fallen

                                          branch; along by the full Cuckmere
                                          ebbing back to the afternoon of the
                                          1930s, (1800s Big Country clouds to

                                          the right), in front the high sky out
                                          to the, as yet, unformed future; the
                                          different ways families talk between

                                          generations down the beach:
                                          declarative conciliatory emolliative
                                          echoing along the outflow wall

                                          crow walks awkwardly on the stones
                                          down the beach, the following
                                          wind raising its back feathers

                                                      ¬O—

                                          turning back: chalk clouds in the
                                          hillside, elderflower fronds cruise
                                          past in fleets of aligned skim

 

 

 

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

afternoon wormhole: Hypnopompia
attention & wind wormhole: before // writing?
being & echo & eyes & family & identity & listening & time wormhole: my life / of others
branches & breeze wormhole: out side of the writing / lodge
clouds & garden wormhole: ambling around / the garden centre
crow wormhole: tune up // baton taptaptap
Eastbourne wormhole: gold wedding band
haiku(esque) wormhole: ‘discution poli / d’orage …’
hair & walking wormhole: I love with all the history and lack of perfections at our command
hills wormhole: [start where you are III] – delve
mind & sound & writing wormhole: the art of sit and follow
music wormhole: “King …”
river wormhole: Totnes
sky & walls wormhole: up here
stone & voices wormhole: 1963
talking wormhole: library: start where you are IV // all the distance I have travelled!
trees wormhole: hot summer / morning
white wormhole: 1959

 

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hinged

17 Tuesday Feb 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems, poeviews

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

2015, 6*, Alan Moore, awe, birth, blood, buildings, dark, doing, Eddie Campbell, From Hell, generation, grey, ideas, light, others, sky, society, time, windows

                                                              somewhere
                                              amid the pediments and private windows
                                              that make such things inevitable
                                a conception was made
                that would wash the steps and pillars with awe and blood
                                              for tens of cascading generations

                                                              all the while
                                              the stations of toilet and repose
                                              are observed with due quotidian solemnity
                                by the Righteous and the Have Nots
                until their ineluctable encounter through askance
                                              diptych panels

                                                              nevertheless
                                              and always    hinged    conceive
                                              darkness clinging around
                                steeple and chimney like black-hatch etching
                until light feels its way through the sky again making everything a grey
                                              ink-wash

 

askance from chapter five of From Hell by Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell

a little snippet from askance From Hell, askance from chapter ten of From Hell by Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell, gwn’n’avvalook

 

 

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

Alan Moore & buildings & sky wormhole: ha ha ha
doing & time & windows wormhole: purpose
grey & light wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
others wormhole: September – silhouette of leaf // the / inside and the / outside
society wormhole: the four whores of the apocalypse

 

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Dr Strange III – the needs of billions

18 Tuesday Nov 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems, poeviews

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

2012, 6*, Clea, consumerism, Dormammu, Dr Strange, father, Gene Colan, generation, Have, head, humanity, life, mother, society, son, Steely Dan, Steve Englehart, time, words, world, yellow

 

sequel to Dr Strange II – … things are the same again and Dr Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street respectively; Dr Strange appears in this episode, but at a receding measure of size rather than distance; what ever is ‘strange’ about the character is that he plays an infinitesimal part in the build-up of events, but is nonetheless the essential hinge in the whole business for the events to not matter: an ersatz-ordinary human in an en-maddening world who is nevertheless the only sanity in the whole experience when he sees through his own ersatz

 

 

                                              a colossus
                strides effortlessly across canyons and generation
                                fed by the needs of billions
                                              engorged enough to consume
                                              itself nucleic
                                it speaks with flaming head
unstable
                                too much
                                                              too much that
                                              it will disperse itself even as it reaches,
                the needs of billions
                                              flooded through a world of veins
                                                              like pumped yellow fat
                the mother is bound the father is blind
                                              and only all the words of worlds
                                                                                 will speak
                                                              all while Strange and Devotion
                                              expand through dimensions
                grown alarmingly through the stages of their lives
                                              quick for to get there

                                                              wanting
                                                              it      all
                                                              the son
                                sits ‘by the blackened wall
                                              he does it all, he thinks he’s died
                                                              and gone to heaven’*

 

askance from: Dr Strange #6-13 (Feb 1975-April 1976); Marvel; writer: Steve Englehart; artist: Gene Colan
* Steely Dan, The Royal Scam, The Royal Scam, 1976

 

 

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

Dr Strange & Gene Colan & society & world wormhole: Dr Strange II – … things are the same again
father wormhole: letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk
Have & life wormhole: Matildenplatz / & Luisen
mother wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
time & yellow wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
words wormhole: letters to mum II – family // like a grate

 

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Michael Redford: // someone missing

12 Thursday Sep 2013

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

'scape, 2013, 6*, adults, breathing, childhood, death, emergence, floorboards, generation, glow, iron, lifetimes, mourning, piano, portrait, pub, uncle, wood

 

 

 

                                              Michael Redford:

                                the pub had wall-wide sideboards
                and deep sills with iron scales and metal pots and long rusted hinges
                                that used to hold it all together all
                                wondrous to a child’s eye when navigating
                                              the ways of adults

                                but there was someone missing
                                making all the paragraphs and passages rhyme
                                and follow-on to craft mysterious a generation
                of wood-grain and burnish-glow and printed-hang and floorboard-creak
                                which I wouldn’t wholly breathe together
                                for many a decade yet

                                              at the piano which
                                              wasn’t there anymore

 

 

 

* my late uncle who spent times in his life popping across the road to the Nag’s Head and sat at the piano with a held-smile, as if the cigar shaking and smoking in the ashtray on the keyboard ledge were still in his mouth, played

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

breathing wormhole: what?
childhood & emergence & floorboards wormhole: the early morning of the sixties
death wormhole: 1971
lifetimes wormhole: clouds
piano wormhole: beep
uncle wormhole: bombs on / Catford
wood wormhole: objective intimacy

 

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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
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recent leaks …

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Uncanny Tops

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