the silent night of the Batman

Tags

1970, 7*, attention, Batman, black, blue, Christmas, city, dawn, east, fear, glass, green, guilt, ink, light, Neal Adams, night, purple, quiet, river, rooftops, rose, shadow, shops, sky, skyline, smile, sound, south, stars, streetlamp, vista, windows, writing

                the silent night of the Batman

                even while they carried their
                gift-wrapped parcels and looked
                to each other with smiles of belief

                the shop signs hummed dark
                against the marbled frontage
                while above, the quiet floors

                of stone windows looked east
                looked south in the ink-black sky
                enough to write a novel in a

                single sitting, enough to hold
                a fleet of stars above the skyline
                stacking slowly; when the sky

                is ink-green the rooftop
                gathers ink-blue attention
                and leaps without step or

                swing through the glass and
                ledges of city vista, the lingering
                thought to shadow the guilt,

                the alley divide to streetlamp
                the fear, and over the river the rose
                cast high and wide to the stars until

                marzipan fingers reach across the
                ink-purple sky and marshmallow lights
                go out

 

 

I am so pleased to say that this is the sixth time I have posted this poem, mostly always on Christmas Eve: the poem in which my hero-ego – Batman – doesn’t appear and yet everthing is done by his having been there all along; Batman doesn’t swing across the rooftops, it’s just that we sometimes find the space to change our minds; who is the Santa Claus for the 21st century – Batman (termsandconditionsapply:discussionaboutexistenceis … irrelevant); sculpted out of “The Silent Night of the Batman” in Batman #219 by Gary Friedrich and Neal Adams

 

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

attention wormhole: interim
Batman wormhole: the too big moon
black & skyline wormhole: the skyline
blue & sky & streetlight & windows & writing wormhole: passing below
Christmas wormhole: 1967
city wormhole: 1966
dawn wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – A Precious Moment
glass wormhole: time
green & sound wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – intemperance
light wormhole: ah … // oh … // meanwhile … // … // tha ya ta …
night wormhole: “The Lady from Nowhere”
purple wormhole: 1967
river wormhole: pen and ruler
rooftops wormhole: passersby
shadow wormhole: Prajnaparamita // Maitreya
shops wormhole: ‘hope for things to come’
smile wormhole: comfy
stars wormhole: Clea

 

the too big moon

Tags

2013, 5*, autumn, avenue, Batman, blue, chimney stacks, city, falling, glance, gold, height, infrastructure, ink, leaves, moon, rain, river, sky, time, up

                it is only in Autumn
                that leaves will fall to pensive infrastructure,
                that is the time when the

                Bat-figure crouches, up
                there somewhere and glanced-askance, in the
                dark sky-contemplative

                between brick stacks and
                background avenues of downtown uprise while
                below the city spreads

                about the busy bays rain-
                and gold-spattered by blue waters and ink
                under the too big moon

 

 

 

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

autumn & gold & leaves & sky wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – … as the new town marches in
Batman & moon wormhole: was there a moon / on the alleyway wall / confused in front of / the city skyline?
blue wormhole: the 19th century
city wormhole: returning home handsome
rain wormhole: fresh destiny
river wormhole: Quiver of / Tiffany – poewieview #20
time wormhole: did I get old?

 

B le tch l ey P ark

Tags

1960s, 1980s, 2016, 20th century, Bletchley Park, blink, cable, change, children, chimney, colour, communication, culture, data, Edwardian, elbow, ethic, Europe, eyes, grain, Have, history, hotel, ink, knowledge, legacy, living, Luton, marble, meaning, metal, militarism, mind, night, pattern, poem, point, politics, possibility, power, railtrack, rhythm, smell, smile, society, sound, story, subversion, table, the British Empire, thought, time, timetable, typewriter, veins, windows, wood, World War, writing

 

 

 

                                B  le  tch l  ey      P   ark

                                Edwardian fingers pointed
                                from military sleeve the way
                                in and the way through

                                while some knew that a W
                                will never return a W and
                                we will henceforth return

                                to a following possibility of
                                change, the veins in marble
                                cladding and the grain in

                                parquetry floor were no
                                longer décor of legacy but
                                cover for subversion – smiling

                                minds up in front of chimney
                                stacks – no, now, platted
                                and inflexible cable linked

                                lozenges of releasing code
                                (no-longer-just-location)
                                in patterns of levered ratchet

                                across European divide; no more
                                the flurry scratch of ink across
                                blotted paper with fortitude

                                and Empire wile, now the
                                erstwhile sturdy tables were
                                anchored by elbow and fallen

                                eye gazed at shifting pattern,
                                now the heat of metal and
                                ribbon made the ink fume

                                like acid; now was the time
                                of proletariat genius as tape
                                connected the diagonals and

                                metal frame softened and
                                bent in constant hold;
                                now the colour was splashed

                                and the ethic was learned
                                and the story is told to the
                                schoolchildren who – blink

 

visit, 260416, pages of scribbled notes; the poem sifted and shifted until a pattern formed and simultaneously dispersed, across time; in the hotel room in Luton right next to the rail-line which slingshot-ricochet’d passing trainsnotstopping in the window one side, out the window the other, all night and all of the day, in timetable but not necessarily rhythm

 

 

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

20th century wormhole: impressionism
change wormhole: Doctor Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street
chimney wormhole: hinged – From Hell ch. V
communication wormhole: Nostalgia for Samsara – poewieview #16
eyes & Have & history & hotel & time wormhole: tag cloud poem IX – haiku is awkward / the more that is left in / like uncombed hair
knowledge wormhole: 1963
living wormhole: need
meaning wormhole: quite … / … yet – poewieview #12
mind wormhole: becoming
night & society wormhole: no one – poewieview #24
power wormhole: top table
politics wormhole: dear clown’s face
smell wormhole: when writing // stay
smile & thought wormhole: while walking
sound wormhole: 1965
table wormhole: 1964
windows wormhole: mauve
wood wormhole: quick inventory after coffee
writing wormhole: words tumble like / boulders – poewieview #25

 

like ink – poewieview #23

Tags

1970, 2016, being, Bowie, brain, branches, city, dark, earth, edge, emergence, floating, ink, light, orange, passing, Plumstead, red, Shrewsbury Park, sky, streetlight, thinking, trees, turning, writing

                                passing by the edge of the park under
                                occasional orange lamp, the dark trees
                                turn unable to contain the floating
                                brain of revolving redness in the branches

                                ah, but the city lights, spread about like
                                dust reassure that there is darken sky
                                without passion that moves free and sudden
                                over only orb and lonely branch like ink

 

oh, God, I should be dead: She Shook Me Cold, 1970; pack a pack-horse up and step-up here, on Black Country Rock, 1970

Read the collected movements in David Bowie: Movements in Suite Major

 

 

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

being wormhole: rhymed
Bowie wormhole: miss / ad / venture – poewieview #22
branches wormhole: train journey // like a branch
city wormhole: Quiver of / Tiffany – poewieview #20
emergence & orange & Plumstead & streetlight & writing wormhole: up on the hill
light wormhole: 1964
passing wormhole: tabla
red wormhole: the start of adolescence
sky & trees wormhole: Jon
thinking wormhole: tong len / the inauguration of another – timely – butter fly effect / taking and giving

 

first Spring storm

Tags

1985, air, blue, childhood, electric, house, identity, ink, lightning, rain, red, sense of self, Spring, storm, wind, writing

 

 

 

                first Spring storm

                                red-ink air

                                              and
                                              as the rain
                                              blows against the house

                                                              electric blue

 

 

 

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

air & blue & red & writing wormhole: red ink
childhood wormhole: a theremin note – poewieview #21
house & rain wormhole: always
identity wormhole: miss / ad / venture – poewieview #22
lightning wormhole: dream 230315
Spring wormhole: opening
storm wormhole: The Louvre in a Thunderstorm, 1909
wind wormhole: and that’s where I are

 

red ink

Tags

'scape, 1985, air, blue, image, ink, mauve, pears, red, trees, writing

 

 

 

                      red ink in the air

                                   mauve
                                   pears

                                   on the old blue tree

 

 

 

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

air & blue wormhole: b / r / e / a / t / h / i / n / g
mauve wormhole: ‘went up to London and what did I see; …’ – poewieview #7
red wormhole: tong len / the inauguration of another – timely – butter fly effect / taking and giving
trees & writing wormhole: and that’s where I are

 

hinged – From Hell ch. V

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_________________________________|—–

Alan 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
windows wormhole: opening

 

the silent night of the Batman

Tags

'scape, 1970, 2011, alley, attention, Batman, belief, black, blue, buildings, city, cornice, dark, east, fear, glass, green, guilt, ink, leap, light, marble, marzipan, night, purple, river, rooftops, rose, shadow, shopping, shops, silence, sky, skyline, smile, sound, south, stars, stone, streetlight, thought, vista, windows, writing, years

 

 

 

                     the silent night of the Batman

                     even while they carried their
                     gift-wrapped parcels and looked
                     to each other with smiles of belief

                     the shop signs hummed dark
                     against the marbled frontage
                     while above the quiet floors

                     of stone-framed window looked east
                     looked south all the same in ink-black sky
                     enough to write a novel in a single sitting

                     enough to hold a fleet of stars
                     above the skyline stacking slowly;
                     when the sky turns ink-green the rooftop

                     gathers ink-blue attention and leaps
                     without step or swing through the
                     glass and cornice of city vista and

                     lingering thought to shadow the guilt
                     to alley the share to streetlamp the fear
                     and river the rose cast high and wide to the stars

                     until marzipan fingers reach across the
                     ink-purple sky and marshmallow lights
                     go out

 

cf. “The Silent Night of the Batman” by Mike Friedrich, Neal Adams and Dick Giordano, published in Batman #219, February 1970

 

 

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

attention wormhole: left alone
Batman wormhole: we play / the game
black & blue & green & sky wormhole: clouds
buildings & shops wormhole: Christmas lights / around the lamp post
city & light & windows & years wormhole: 1967
glass wormhole: dream 260815
night wormhole: Hotel Room, 1931
purple & rooftops wormhole: purple and mauve
river wormhole: row boat
shadow wormhole: com- / mute
silence wormhole: de Boeddha // of light
skyline & stone wormhole: sit
sound wormhole: plop!
streetlight wormhole: portrait: / two pigeons
thought wormhole: Automat, 1927 – held
writing wormhole: when writing // stay

 

my life / of others

Tags

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

 

the silent night of the Batman

Tags

2011, aircraft, attention, Batman, belief, black, blue, Christmas, city, dawn, east, fear, glass, green, guilt, ink, movement, night, others, purple, river, rooftops, roses, shadow, shops, silence, sky, skyline, smile, sound, south, stars, stone, streetlight, windows, writing

 

 

 

                                the silent night of the Batman

                                even while they carried their
                                gift-wrapped parcels and looked
                                to each other with smiles of belief

                                the shop signs hummed dark
                                against the marbled frontage
                                while above the quiet floors

                                of stone-framed window looked east
                                looked south all the same in ink-black sky
                                enough to write a novel in a single sitting

                                enough to hold a fleet of stars
                                above the skyline stacking slowly
                                when the sky turns ink-green the rooftop

                                gathers ink-blue attention and leaps
                                without step or swing through the
                                glass and cornice of city vistas and

                                lingering thought to shadow the guilt
                                to alley the share to streetlamp the fear
                                and river the rose cast high and wide to the stars

                                until marzipan fingers reach across the
                                ink-purple sky and marshmallow lights
                                go out

 

‘The Silent Night of the Batman‘ in Batman #219, Feb 1970; writer: Mike Friedrich; art: Neal Adams; inks: Dick Giordano

 

 

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

attention & glass wormhole: a light rosé
Batman & streetlight wormhole: Christmas
black wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
blue & purple wormhole: ‘anyway / is it all just / a dream?’
Christmas & green wormhole: ‘green post …’
city wormhole: multifarious: the Dark Knight Returns (1986)
dawn wormhole: tag cloud poem V – draft-ness
night wormhole: glass
others wormhole: Dr Strange V – all the words of all the times of all the worlds speak
river & rooftops & shadow & sky & stone wormhole: Kirby’s landscapes
shops wormhole: Matildenplatz / & Luisen
silence wormhole: bass and piano
skyline wormhole: Dr Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street
smile wormhole: tong // len
sound wormhole: ‘the blues shifted …’
stars wormhole: oh-pen
windows wormhole: the Last Day of Morecambe Illuminations
writing wormhole: sometimes