• 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
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    • William Carlos Williams
  • poemics
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  • teaching matters
  • wormholes

mlewisredford

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

mlewisredford

Tag Archives: markbook

the stance of Buscema // qualitatively

03 Wednesday Jun 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2010, being, breathing, career, doing, identity, John Buscema, learning, life, markbook, marriage, meaning, parenting, poetry, settling, talking to myself, teaching, tragedy, vanity, world, writing

 

 

 

                the stance of Buscema

                                I build the marriage
                                I raise the kids
                                I teach the pupils
                                without much intending to
                from day to day without plan without scope and sometimes, even, badly
                                because that’s all I do
                                when I just breathe

                                I write the poems
                                I create the markbooks
                                I structure the step and tick of learning with plans to rule the world
                but no one gets it and no one notices
                                because it’s all that I do
                                to make sense of the world just
                                for me

                                bah,
                away with the vanity and empty élan
                                              but; no, rather
                                that I should breathe and step the vainglory qualitatively with the
                                              whole sense of being
                                                              that I
                                                              truly am

 

John Buscema (1927 – 2002) drew like a languid opera – his posture for to conjure such stuff as dreams are made from
scn_0004

 

 

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

being & identity & life & settling & talking to myself & writing wormhole: library: start where you are IV // all the distance I have travelled!
breathing & world wormhole: [start where you are III] – delve
career & meaning & teaching wormhole: Totnes
doing wormhole: … back to the outbreath
learning wormhole: the Apple
markbook wormhole: fly
poetry wormhole: start where you are I

 

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fly

29 Wednesday Jan 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2*, 2012, assessment for learning, being, doing, markbook, poetry, publishing, talking to myself, writing

 

 

 

                     locked down
                     into NOTHING
                     no – thing
                     not the markbook
                     not assessment for learning
                     not the old one: exercise
                     not counting things
                     not drawing detail
                     not writing       poetry
                     not publishing anything

                     need just to do something
                     anything freshly and briefly
                     then catch the next fly out of there

 

 

 

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

being & doing wormhole: while
markbook & poetry & publishing & talking to myself & writing wormhole: again

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again

23 Thursday Jan 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

2012, 7*, acceptance, blogging, breathing, compassion, conservatory, dancing, emptiness, fly, identity, lifetimes, living, lost, love, markbook, movement, name, paint, poetry, publishing, realisation, recognition, self-containment, sitting, talking to myself, tea, teaching, thought, wood, writing

 

 

 

                                … ohpe!
                there it goes again
tens of hours of shaping and formatting a piece
                and placing it and checking it
                                no hits

                timely reminder
                                again
that I have rather seeped into publishing of late
                like gloss paint dried into wood-grain
                                making me all used up
                and no air for writing
                                no air for living or sitting

                                again

                same as with markbook
                                years past
                the same as with anything
that can find my way through the anonymity and overlook
                                enough
                to become identified
                                and then flog it
                flog it for all its worth
well why not flog it for all its worth
                                because it puts all my eggs into one basket
                and baskets these days
                                are one among a million

                —o—

interlude

                the fly
that was annoying me in the too hot conservatory is now
                gracefully
                circling
in the pint of peppermint tea I was letting cool
                and was really
                looking forward to

                —o—

                I need to flush
the askance and dance
                                through everything I live
                not just through the poetry
                                but
                I can’t do that
if I am too gravitated in the centre of anything trying
                desperate
                                to Make Me a Star and Saviour!

                … guess
guess what the conclusion is going to be
                                c’mon now
how can I loosen my centre of gravity
                so I can askance and dance freely
                                without being there at all

                                come on now class
                Redford – put your phone away
                                and give it a try
Mark – stop staring out the window
                Lewis – put your hand down
                                give the others a chance
                altogether now:
                                SIT!

                —o—

                …

                … OK, Lewis, tell us why …
well if you sit being aware of the thousand thoughts and movements which are not sitting
                without
                going
with them and just smiling on them sweetly as they pass
                                you create a gap in the centre –

                                no you don’t
                the gap is already there
in fact there is nothing BUT gap
                                there has always only been nothing there   -yes
                alright Mark
let Lewis finish:-

                – you create a gap
in the centre of thought and movement
                through
                which
you find your true self which was never localised in the first place
                                no matter how hard Redford tried –

                oh so
I’ve been wasting my life trying
                alright
                Redford
calm down don’t –

                slam
the door
                go after him will you Mark
tell him he’s been living his wastes all along but that
                                he still needs to find those gaps in the
                                              first
                                place

                —o—

                oh, and Mark, try not to be so insensitive in future

 

 

 

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

acceptance wormhole: Woodbrooke labyrinth / affirmations
breathing wormhole: too
compassion wormhole: Beresford Square: // it’s alright it’s alright
conservatory wormhole: dream / 130207
dancing wormhole: slow slow / quick quick / slo / w
emptiness wormhole: ‘set the controls / for the heart of the sun’
identity & tea & writing wormhole: through the window
lifetimes worhole: gravity
living & sitting wormhole: while
love wormhole: 32 years
markbook wormhole: pep talk
poetry wormhole; chores to do – diptych
publishing wormhole: successive scenes in the autobiopera / conflict and resolution in each episode // credits: me me me me me
realisation wormhole: adversely / mistaking the finger for the moon / again
recognition & teaching wormhole: :just wondering …
talking to myself wormhole: practise what you doing / give what you having / breathe what you remember
thought wormhole: the ocean
wood wormhole: Michael Redford: // someone missing

 

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pep talk

21 Tuesday May 2013

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

2011, 5*, AfL, being, breakdown, career, dancing, doing, identity, lesson planning, markbook, performance management, play, poetry, recognition, talking to myself, teaching

 

 

 

            pep talk

            use the markbook
            construct the lessons
                but not solely
                not all the time
                not relentlessly
                not as a speciality
            make lessons up as I walk into the room
                plan lessons and abandon them
                           change
                           your
                           mind
                                     be the teacher
                                              you want to be
                mercurial suggestive seed-planting messy unpredictable unreliable
            be the teacher
                that knows nothing about teaching
            and when anyone tells you you are good
                do not trust them
            create your art through teaching little occasional poems
                scattered here and there across lessons and minds
            be changeable variable multiple
                creatively suggestively peeringly wonderingly

            all that allow me to teach using my natural powers
            not confined in desperation to be recognised
            not confined within a Managed Performance

 

 

 

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

being & career & markbook & teaching wormhole: for the good of all
breakdown & doing & play & dancing wormhole: a bit painful this
identity wormhole: is Koestler important // ?
performance management wormhole: really?
poetry wormhole: ‘I wanted to write a poem’
recognition wormhole: brilliance
talking to myself wormhole: the / pyrrhic / play

 

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for the good of all

19 Sunday May 2013

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2011, 3*, AfL, being, career, giving, markbook, self-containment, teaching

 

 

 

                                at some points in time
                                I made a markbook
                                I conceived levelled-lessons and learning
                                but then I expected there to be an
                                inevitable way to their propagation
                                for the good of all (for the Good of All)
                                but all that actually happened
                                was I used my markbook
                                I taught my lessons
                                and in these ways I worked
                                the good of all
                                moment after moment
                                no glory no flag just
                                the noble tumbleweed

 

 

 

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

being wormhole: the / pyrrhic / play
career & teaching wormhole: wriving
giving wormhole: brilliance
markbook wormhole: covert being

 

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covert being

19 Tuesday Mar 2013

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

2011, 5*, acceptance, assessment for learning, being, divorce, friends, growth, identity, love, markbook, striving, talking to myself, writing

 

 

 

not heard
when Dad left not heard
when friends talked about stuff not heard
when I wrote my thoughts not heard
when I argued an essay not heard
when I floated a ‘why not’ not heard
when I constructed markbook not heard
when I integrated AfL not heard
whenever I reach

and yet

cared for when Dad left
valued for my constancy
referred to for my phrasing
recognised for my approach
relied on for my accommodation
trusted for the field I fence
respected for the freedom I release
loved whenever I just am

don’t strive to be heard but trust
in covert being

 

 

 

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

acceptance & talking to myself wormhole: the discovery of / leaving no trace
assessment for learning wormhole: the ghost with open wound
being wormhole: possible
divorce wormhole: the spectre
identity wormhole: have got // can do
love wormhole: Leicester
markbook wormhole: the Mark Redford problem
striving wormhole: walking
writing wormhole: poets do neither report nor / walk around enrapt in transport but / ’tis when in writing their worlds are wrought

 

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the Mark Redford Problem

12 Wednesday Dec 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2011, 4*, breakdown, career, hierarchy of learning, markbook, teaching, voices

 

 

 

                                      the Mark Redford Problem

                                      a teacher who is
                                      respected innovative
                                      creative productive

                                      urged from the wings with
                                      mummy in the front row
                                      is ‘… not now boy’

                                      but personalised interactive feedb ‘-usy’
                                      but cognitive hierarchy of learn ‘-ot needed’

                                                                    ‘WHAT IS THIS CHILD DOING HERE?’
                      ‘uh, he’s one of the extras, sir, we need him there’

 

 

 

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

breakdown wormhole: when things fall apart
career & teaching wormhole: Are You Being Served?
markbook wormhole: the ghost with open wound
voices wormhole: Woolwich Central – / making life better II

 

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the ghost with open wound

11 Sunday Nov 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

2010, 2012, 8*, Allen Ginsberg, assessment for learning, career, CPD, criteria, Howl, learning, madness, management, managerialism, markbook, performance, performance management, professionalism, resource, society, targets, teaching, teaching art, teaching craft, UPS

edited and reposted from the ghost with / open wound, 6th January 2012

 

 

 

the ghost with open wound

I

                      I grieve for my stillborn children
                      the markbook the yinyang learning
                      delivered and left in the theatre
                ‘how beautiful those babies are!’ said the people in the gallery
                      but the surgeon had left the room
                talking urgently with his staff about something else
                      much more important

        I grieve for the upbringing I gave to them anyway
        all of my mother’s thought and striving
        all of the creativity I put into them
                lesson after lesson
        for only adventitious and unexpected gain
                like a mother from the wrong minority in the wrong neighbourhood
                raising her children to have pride and dignity
                to have their place in this fair and equal society

                                     not openly condemned
                                ‘for we are a righteous, civil profession’
                           but silence’d awkward-ed false-smile’d
                                ‘it-must-be-so-difficult’ed
                           ‘if-there-is-anything-I-can-do’ed
                                ‘how-are-your-children-getting-on’ed
                      while all the newspapers and televisions ask and debate
                                openly, transparently and so very fairly
                      what exactly these minorities contribute to our fine society
                           which aspires to be an Outstanding society
                      to stand proud in posterity …

II

                      … I am Rosa Parks
        tired of having to give way
                                even though I am sitting on the right seat
                in Montgomery I am Steve Biko still
chanting with my bloodied lip
                                     face down on the cell floor
                           in Port Elizabeth I am Solzhenitsyn blowing
        warmth onto my hands
                      far far across the Archipelago I am the
                Chilean mother with pictures
                      of my sons tied around my neck
        in Santiago I am a Vietnamese family
                                split up and adrift
                      on several boats in the South China seas I am a silent
        Thich Quang Duc sitting
                by the Austin Westminster I am an ex-monk
                           on a tour around the restored Jokhang in Lhasa
        China I am a
                                ‘best minds of my generation’
                succumbed to madness

                           and I howl silently
                      against the society that put me in this cell
                      but told me I am free
                           I am tired but push on
                                even pick up the pace a little although
                I forget: I am weak
                      no one cheers me on
                      others only notice
                           when I stumble

III

                twenty five years ago I was scurrying about
                      trying to pick up the pieces of a dream
                but the wind kept blowing them out of my reach
                      as I kept bumping into fences and walls
                ‘stop the wind!’ I complained in longer and longer documents
                      although no one would hear me
                      through the noise of the machines

        ten years ago I offered up a lightweight
                latticed bin with which to tidy up the yard
        ‘what is he carrying that bin around for
                while we are trying to push the leaves into one corner’
        they shouted to each other from their walls and towers
                ‘I wish he’d get out of the way?’
                      ‘but the bin’ I said
                           something whole integrative dialectical webbed adjustable

                clamour excitement
                      I could hear the crowd grow to a roar as I ascended the steps
                the torch held high I lit the beacon and …
                      … absolutely nothing.
        No beacon no crowd no stadium no roar
                the tumult had built and built and
whmmph! –
        not even an echo remained

IV

                           Where am I?
                           Was I in that stadium
                           did I run those steps
                           was I going to light
                           that whole stadium?

                           Surely I didn’t imagine it all!
                           Surely there were steps
                           the stadium the beacon
                           all those people.
                           Surely all those things
                           were there!   Why else
                           was I carrying the torch?

                The torch I kept.   I kept it burning.
                I burnt it more and more efficiently
                      – clean, pure, bright.
                I fashioned a lamp to keep it in.
                It sent out light beyond itself and
                I wandered around this bardo.

                                     But most of it is gloom:
                                     odd voices odd shadows
                                     strange noises and chants –

                           seepeedee                youpee-ess
        ay-yeffell                      arr-aygee                      geetoo-ohpe
                      errf-ormanst                      argits-cry
                                     tear-eearrrr

                      From time to time I could see
                      people calling me to account
                      I moved between them, I held up my lamp
                      but they couldn’t see me, couldn’t hear me.
                      And then they’d turn and talk to me
                      they’d look me in the eye and tell me
                           – so that I understood clearly
                           that this was urgent –
                      what society needed now
                      how deficiency was related
                           directly
                      to what I – face fixed
                           eye-contact name at the top
                           of the document   You!   Me?   Now!   Already?   Criteria!
                           But…?   Proe-fesh-shun-all –
                      did and what I did not do

                      and then they would Team me
                      three more heads turn and fix me
                      six heads – heartbeat self-conscious
                           ‘I’m noticed at last I’m here’ –
                      advance towards me
                           ‘I can act again’
                      bear down on me
                           ‘I know I’ll…’
                      and walk right through me –
                           whuphh, mphhwaphhwumpp, phblphbdphbdph…
                      … agghh!

                      held up the lamp
                           almost blew the wick out
                      quick turn it down turn away under my coat
                           shield it keep it alive
                           hide it

                      I am alone again
                           just the noises
                      keep it alive hide it
                           keepitalive hideit
                      keepitalive hideit

                           I – am – keeping – it – alive – !

                                space all
                                around
                                no echo
                                no denial
                                no light
                                madness

        I saw the ghostly stadium the neon beacon
                (‘bulb needs changing. A flame would be much better)
        people blurring past and through me
                I held up my lamp but it lighted up nothing
        people ran through it –
                almost put the flame out

                                          I died a living
                                          active yet muffled
                                          for ten years then
                                          twenty not sure
                                          how long and
                                          every so often
                                                                                              I go mad

V

                I have been in, but not part of, the stadium all this time.
                It is here, all about and above creaking and flapping
                      I had thought it didn’t exist at all.
                It is cardboard and canvas standing up
                against the inevitable winds and snow.

                So much construction, so little structure, so little warmth.
                It is cold here in this wasteland.

                I am still cold but I sit to one side now –
                      out of the way –
                and try to stuff my ears to the noises the voices.
                I still have a lamp.   I try to keep warm by it.

                I can’t see them – out in the night and cold –
                but are there other souls wandering lost
                      feeling their way?
                Is there anybody else out there?
                Please come and join me over here.
                If we sit together I can get quite a lot of heat
                from this lamp.   It is powered by …
                      fire.
                Let’s see – what wounds have you got?

 

 

 

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

(hidden) Allen Ginsberg & career & teaching wormhole: my life / of others
assessment for learning & markbook wormhole: ‘let everything go …’
learning & targets wormhole: aghh – we’ve been infected / it’s spreading through the system / we’re losing our files … / it’s taken out the processor … / I, I can’t open with this program anymore … / it’s scanning me – / I’ve got to buy a Virus Protection Program from it …
management & managerialism & performance & teaching art & teaching craft wormhole: through a cracked glass greenly
performance management wormhole: Failure
professionalism wormhole: Struck
resource wormhole: dry rot
society wormhole: lobby

 

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‘let everything go …’

13 Friday Jul 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

2011, 4*, assessment for learning, children, giving, growth, identity, letting go, markbook, parent, teaching

 

 

 

                           let everything go
                           create beautiful things
                           but let them go

                           the markbook that writes its own reports –
                                   let it go let someone else
                                   work it

                           the cognition which learns itself –
                                   let it go let someone else
                                   think it

                           I reared them – let them go
                                   to find their own vocation
                                   their own family their own place to live

                           do not live their life for them

 

 

 

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

giving & teaching wormhole: communication / ing
identity wormhole: Have
letting go wormhole: tan / … gl / … ed

 

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the ghost with / open wound

06 Friday Jan 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2010, 8*, Allen Ginsberg, assessment for learning, CPD, criteria, Howl, learning, madness, management, managerialism, markbook, performance, performance management, professionalism, resource, society, targets, teaching, teaching craft, UPS

 

 

 

                      the ghost with
                      open wound

I grieve for my stillborn children – the markbook the yinyang learning –
       which were delivered but left in the theatre – ‘how beautiful those
       babies are!’ said the people in the gallery, but the midwife had left
       the room and taken his staff with him

I grieve for the upbringing I gave to them anyway all the thought and
       striving and creativity I put into them lesson after lesson for only
       adventitious and unexpected gain
like a mother from the wrong minority in the wrong neighbourhood
       raising her children to have pride and dignity to have their place in
       this fair and equal society

not openly condemned – ‘for we are a righteous, civil profession’ – but
       silence’d, awkward-ed, false-smile’d, ‘it-must-be-so-difficult’ed, ‘if-
       there-is-anything-I-can-do’ed, ‘how-are-your-children-getting-
       on’ed
while all the newspapers and televisions ask and debate – openly,
       transparently and so very fairly – what exactly these minorities
       contribute to this fine society – which aspires to be an Outstanding
       society, to stand proud in posterity –

              I am Rosa Parks, tired of having to give way although I am
                     sitting on the right seat in Montgomery
              I am Steve Biko still chanting with my bloodied lip face down
                     on the cell floor in Port Elizabeth
              I am Solzhenitsyn blowing warmth onto my hands far far across
                     the Archipelago
              I am the Chilean mother with pictures of my sons tied around
                     my neck in Santiago
              I am a Vietnamese family split up and adrift on several boats in
                     the South China seas
              I am a silent Thich Quang Duc sitting by the Austin
                     Westminster
              I am an ex-monk on a tour around the restored Jokhang in
                     Lhasa,              China
              I am a ‘best minds of my generation’ succumbed to madness

and I howl silently against the society that put me in this cell but told me
       I am free, I am tired but push on, ‘even pick up the pace a little
       although, I forget: I am weak, no one cheers me on, others only
       notice when I stumble

twenty years ago I was scurrying around trying to pick up the pieces of
       a dream, but the wind kept blowing them out of my reach as I kept
       bumping into fences and walls ‘stop the wind!’ I complained in
       longer and longer documents although no one would hear me
       through the noise of the machines

ten years ago I offered up a lightweight, latticed bin with which to begin
       tidying up the yard ‘what is he carrying that bin around for while
       we are trying to push all the leaves into one corner,’ they shouted to
       each other from their walls and towers, ‘I wish he’d get out of the
       way?’

‘but the bin’ I said, something whole integrative dialectical webbed
       adjustable –
                      clamour excitement I could hear the crowd grow to a roar
                      as I ascended the steps, the torch held high I lit the beacon
                            and …
… absolutely nothing. No beacon no crowd no stadium
                      the great roar, the tumult had built and built and –
                            whmmph! –
                      not even an echo remained

Where am I? Was I in that stadium, did I run those steps, was I going to
       light that whole stadium?
Surely I didn’t imagine it all! Surely there were steps, the stadium,
       the beacon, all those people. Surely all those things were there!
       Why else was I carrying the torch?

The torch I kept.   I kept it burning.   I burnt it more and more efficiently
       – clean, pure, bright.   I fashioned a lamp to keep it in.   It sent out
       light beyond itself and I wandered around this bardo.   But most of
       it is gloom: odd voices, odd shadows, strange noises and chants –
       seepeedee, youpee-ess, ay-yeffell, arr-aygee, geetoo-ohpe, errf-
       ormanst, argits-cry, tear-eear.
From time to time I could see people, calling me, to account – I moved
       between them, I held up my lamp – but they couldn’t see me,
       couldn’t hear me.   Then they turned and talked to me they looked
       me
in the eye and told me – so that I understood clearly this was urgent –
       what society needed now, how deficiency was directly related to
       what I –
face fixed eye-contact name at the top of the document   You!   Me?   
       Now!   Already?   Criteria!   But…?   Proe-fesh-shun-all – did and
       what I did not do
and then they would Team me, three more heads turn and fix me, six
       heads – heartbeat, self-conscious ‘I’m noticed at last I’m here’ –
       advance towards me, ‘I can act again’ bear down on me, ‘I know
       I’ll…’ and walk right through me – whuphh, mphhwaphhwumpp,
       phblphbdphbdph…
… agghh!, ‘held up the lamp, almost blew the wick out quick turn it
       down turn away under my coat shield it keep it alive hide it
I am alone again, just the noises, keep it alive hide it keepitalive hideit
       keepitalive hideit

                      I – am – keeping – it – alive – !

space all around no echo no denial no light madness

I saw the ghostly stadium, the neon beacon (‘bulb needs changing.   A
       flame would be much better), people blurring past and through
       me.   I held up my lamp but it lighted up nothing.   People ran
       through it – almost put the flame out.

                                            I died a living
                                            active yet muffled
                                            for ten years twenty
                                            not sure how long
                                            and every so often
                                            I go mad

I have been in, but not part of, the stadium all this time.   It is here, all
       about and above, creaking and flapping, I had thought it didn’t
       exist at all.   It is cardboard and canvas standing up against the
       inevitable winds and snow.   So much construction, so little
       structure, so little warmth.   It is cold here in this wasteland.

I am still cold but I sit to one side now – out of the way – and try to stuff
       my ears to the noises the voices.   I still have a lamp.   I try to keep
       warm by it.

I can’t see them – out in the night and cold – but are there other souls
       wandering, lost, feeling their way?   Is there anybody else out
       there?

Please come and join me, over here.   If we sit together I can get quite a
       lot of heat from this lamp.   It is powered by … fire.   Let’s see –
       what wounds have you got?

 

 

 

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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
    • mum
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    • 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
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