to rescue something

Tags

2017, 20th century, 7*, anxiety, blue, chair, childhood, Dad, depression, dining room, divorce, Eglinton Hill, family, feeling, Genesta Road, great aunt Mary, life, purpose, talking, Thames, visit, windows, World War

                Mary came to visit one year,
                I think before Dad left, sense

                of anxiety and visitation to
                get things right; we gathered

                in the dining room, she sat
                regal in one of those blue

                wing-back chairs to one side
                of the fireplace; they talked

                of things and the way things
                were while the war built up

                and the way things are now,
                we crawled about under the

                legs of the chairs while they
                talked, through the tunnels

                to rescue something with
                several teddies in tow; we

                kept one of those blue chairs
                when we moved, I remember

                sitting in it feeling the coarse
                knap and the horsehair stuffing

                in the lonely bedroom with
                my back to the high windows

                anxious about the purpose
                to do with my life … is

 

quite naturally, but unforseeably, this was written quite considerably, and apocryphally, after: green-wine, but then everything knits together eventually

 

 

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

20th century wormhole: ‘hope for things to come’
anxiety wormhole: ‘never look up’?
blue wormhole: occa / s / i // o / n / a // l // l // y
childhood & Dad & divorce & Thames wormhole: south horizon
depression wormhole: what wounds have you got?
Eglinton Hill wormhole: alighted
family wormhole: familiasyncopation
Genesta Road wormhole: work
life wormhole: darkness
talking wormhole: embodying
windows wormhole: that comicbookshop … // … in dreams

 

work

Tags

1978, contemplation, dressing gown, garden, Genesta Road, leaves, lifetimes, morning, Nan, night, patchwork, seasons, self-effacement, selflessness, sun, tea, time, work

 

 

 

                           my grandmother’s
                           multi-coloured patchwork gown;

                           she climbed the garden steps
                           at night and stood

                           contemplating
                           work done work to be done

                           in the morning
                           the sun was on the leaves

                           and glinted off the mug of tea
                           she’d been drinking

 

my ‘grandmother’ was Gladys Charlotte Conlay who lived a life of work for all her families, without guile or motive, between 1906 and 1989; the garden was in ‘Genesta Road’ – her last home which she made with her divorced daughter and her two grandsons

 

 

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

garden & night wormhole: Michael Redford: triptych
Genesta Road wormhole: new garden
leaves wormhole: dog bark
lifetimes wormhole: a theremin note – poewieview #21
morning wormhole: nothing to say
Nan wormhole: finding my own true nature – Plumstead, Woolwich, 190915
sun wormhole: b / r / e / a / t / h / i / n / g
tea wormhole: Automat, 1927 – held
time wormhole: the both passive and transitive / non-presumptive pre-conceptualist attenuation of being
work wormhole: Teaching career: much like Monet’s ‘Impression: soleil levant’ or, in the long run, de Chirico’s ‘The Red Tower’

 

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

 

dream 260815

Tags

2015, balcony, buildings, Carol, cellar, child, dream, Genesta Road, glass, grey, hills, home, identity, kiss, life, living, looking, love, Nan, parent, path, Plumstead, promenade, purple, schoolgirls, shoes, teenagers, Thames, thinking, wandering, windows, wood, Woolwich

 

 

 

                      dream 260815

wandering about the promenade, the schoolgirls¹ urge, again, with
girly concern, for their friend, (‘am I old, should I listen to them?’),
I should speak to her, in Spanish – learn the sounds, (‘what does it
mean?’): ‘let me enclose you’; this time I will; I have demurred too long

I have said it; I find myself, returned to Genesta Road²; the frontage
rebuilt, even a storey higher, central stairwell – vertical purple glass –
where houses join, art deco³, Edinburgh rock cladding, balconies for
viewing, windows for seeing, stylish; (‘what’s happened to my home?’)

Nan⁴ opens the door, she is younger, smart, she has energy, things to
do; government grant, upgrade houses; (‘how have the rooms changed,
what is their view now?’); story: a skeleton found, (‘where?’), in her 40s
when she died, drunk, unfound, (‘in a cellar?’), (‘we haven’t got a cellar’),

(‘have we got a cellar?’); so we drive around Plumstead, Woolwich⁵, we
boat on the river; new buildings, coffee and cream block pattern, new
woodland on the hills, straight paths; I am looking after the child,
(‘Joseph?’)⁶, I love this child, I will look after him, at the swimming pool,

he jumps into a pool, it is deep, he goes under, arms asplay, I jump in,
save him, no panic, hold his soft body; we make to the paddling pool,
teenage boys sit around, various grey jackets with label design, sullen,
defiant, looking; they sit on the edge, put on their shoes, water has

drained: platforms, winkle-pickers, creepers, suede, chains; mud on the
tiles; I make the stand¹, I hold my child, they should not do this: they leave,
slowly, I am now marked; I hand the child back to his parents, I kiss his
head, I’ll see him again; we are coming home now, Carol⁷ smiles at my love

 

1. I am a teacher
2. my teenage home
3. there are somewhat famous examples of art deco terraces further up the road at 85-91, designed by Berthold Lubetkin
4. my grandmother (1906-1989), helped bring me up as a teen
5. SE London, where I grew up
6. my eldest son
7. my lovely wife

 

 

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

buildings & glass & Thames wormhole: that comicbookshop in dreams,
Carol & dream & life & looking & Woolwich wormhole: dream 230315
child wormhole: … back to the outbreath
Genesta Road wormhole: Jackie’s slight smile
grey wormhole: Ashdown Forest / 080213 14:47
hills wormhole: Exceat to Cuckmere Haven
identity wormhole: The Godfather III: // AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHH …
living wormhole: I can say / that I do all sorts of dance
love wormhole: I do
Nan wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
Plumstead wormhole: corner of Plum Lane / Eglinton Hill and / Shrewsbury Lane
promenade wormhole: the Last Day of Morecambe Illuminations
purple wormhole: Brugges April 2015 – looking lost
thinking wormhole: dedication
windows wormhole: House by the Railroad, 1925

 

Jackie’s slight smile

Tags

1978, eyes, Genesta Road, Jackie, light, mist, open, portrait, smile, sound, Thames, walls, white, windows, wine, Woolwich

 

 

 

too much wine

the light from the lamp
spilt across the wall too quick
to notice

Jackie’s slight smile

the boats on the river
the white mist wafted
through the back of her eyes

 

 

 

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

eyes & sound & windows wormhole: [start where you are III] – delve
Genesta Road & white wormhole: hot summer / morning
light wormhole: heirloom – break / after heavy shower
mist wormhole: thar she perched
open wormhole: after the storm
smile wormhole: really old
Thames & Woolwich wormhole: To my Mum
walls wormhole: prologue-ing

 

hot summer / morning

Tags

1981, Carol, clouds, dark, faces, Genesta Road, legs, morning, pink, portrait, summer, thunder, trees, white, wind

 

 

 

                                   hot summer
                                   morning

                                   it quickly
                                   clouded over

                                   the wind blew
                                   the trees
                                   the thunder
                                   rumbled

                                   in a dark corner
                                   Carol sat –

                                   her suntanned
                                   legs in white
                                   socks and pink
                                   dressing gown –

                                   pulling faces

 

 

 

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

Carol wormhole: “King …”
clouds wormhole: on the raised patio reading Plath
faces wormhole: [start where you are III] – delve
Genesta Road wormhole: 1977
morning & trees wormhole: thar she perched
pink wormhole: Trinity Arts
white wormhole: I’ve only just realised / after so many decades / that the smell of neglected land is lilac buddleia
wind wormhole: prologue-ing

 

1977

Tags

1977, 2010, death, Elvis Presley, Genesta Road, morning, newspaper, night, rain, roads, windows, years

 

 

 

                                                              1977

                     rain falling
                     heavy made
                     circular ripples
                     in the sheet of water
                     already spread across the road

                     in the morning the paper said the King is Dead

 

 

 

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

death wormhole: silence
Genesta Road wormhole: tag cloud poem VIII – growth
morning & night wormhole: ‘the walking stick …’
rain wormhole: great underbelly to the rooftops
roads & windows wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
years wormhole: 1967

 

tag cloud poem VIII – growth

Tags

2014, Allen Ginsberg, childhood, doors, dream, earth, Eglinton Hill, emergence, emptiness, finding, floorboards, garden, Genesta Road, ghosts, girl, giving, glass, gold, grass, green, grey, groundlessness, growth, living room, looking, mist, moon, morning, night, open, space, tag cloud poem, time, windows, writing

 

 

 

                                it was in the garden where it all started
                                it is always in the garden where it all

                                starts (… save the living room at night
                                tracking the movement of the moon,

                                of course); the brick and clay of
                                Genesta Road*, earth to the ghosts

                                of Eglinton Hill*: the floorboards echo
                                with open doors where Ginsberg once

                                visited in a dream to exorcise the
                                emptiness, with all due and sober

                                consideration, clearing the morning
                                mist better to glimpse the girl who

                                suggests the secret (following the line
                                of her unknowing stare) giving the

                                clues to the green space found between
                                cracks in the glass (still holding plane

                                with no attendant shatter) where it
                                is rumoured the gold is to be found

                                between the edges of the blades of
                                grass that once were grey from the

                                groundlessness out from which
                                they had sought their growth

 

* Genesta Road, Eglinton Hill – childhood houses

 

 

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

[Allen] Ginsberg & emptiness & time & writing wormhole: living mystery / murder theatre
childhood wormhole: Christmas
doors wormhole: Dr Strange IV – ellipses
dream wormhole: ‘anyway / is it all just / a dream?’
Eglinton Hill & garden wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 290508 – / the breath of London
emergence & night wormhole: dawn
Genesta Road & looking wormhole: glass
ghosts wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
girl wormhole: knees
giving wormhole: career came to naught …
glass & green & grey wormhole: new year’s eve 2014; train up to London to / walk the bridges across the Thames, and / listen to the voices say it is, and was, like, / but get back home before the fireworks / obliterate it all in the emptying twilight
gold wormhole: Kirby’s landscapes
grass wormhole: bass and piano
groundlessness wormhole: 1963
living room wormhole: great underbelly to the rooftops
mist wormhole: born again
moon wormhole: moon
morning wormhole: lobby
open wormhole: 1967
space wormhole: Batman#175
tag cloud poem wormhole: tag cloud poem VII – form new freedom:
windows wormhole: Buddha Amitabha

 

glass

Tags

'scape, 1979, bathroom, buildings, childhood, emergence, Genesta Road, moonlight, night, silence, windows

 

 

 

                                              the moonlight
                                on the side of the building
                through the frosted glass window quietly
                                              exploded

 

 

 

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

bathroom wormhole: ‘mint toothpaste …’
buildings & Genesta Road wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
childhood & windows wormhole: 1967
emergence wormhole: tag cloud poem VI – anyone’s eyes
night wormhole: footfall
silence wormhole: no cars / no planes

 

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