the inevitable tock // when we close our eyes

Tags

2022, 20th century, 8*, afternoon, banshee, blood, blue, brown, capitalism, Carol, childhood, dream, eyes, faces, fields, garden, gold, growing, history, landscape, life, maelstrom, measure, mist, object, objectification, orange, plane, production, sapphire, sky, sound, space, storm, summer, sweet, time, whorl, World War I

                                                the inevitable tock

                        this queasy land
                        life out of time, this dreamscape
                        with waist-high mist

and then a uni-prop dhrined straight across the sky one endless summer gardenoon

                        made a whorl
                        brown and bloody fields
                        and jar-sweet marmalade

                        wherein history appeared
                        as proliferated objects
                        space now only a measure

                        the face appears
                        in the eye of the storm
                        tarnished blue and palsy

                        measuring gossamer gold
                        between always-contestable markers
                        from an impossible sapphire cap

                        only retrospectively glimpsed now
                        as screaming banshees
                        back in the maelstrom

when we close our eyes

time by Carol Redford; used with permission – thank you

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

20th century wormhole: the reach turned to love
afternoon & Carol & garden & sky & time wormhole: time
blue & gold & life wormhole: Journey
brown & capitalism wormhole: travel // when I die
childhood wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – An Old Piano
dream wormhole: Candaka
eyes wormhole: Four Noble Truths
faces wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – valley
fields wormhole: ‘and is there homage …’
history wormhole: the simple prayer // the tattered poem // the bitter lament
mist wormhole: taking birth
orange wormhole: nowhere / that can be seen
sound wormhole: long / road
space wormhole: under the blue and blue sky
storm wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Sky
summer wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Rain

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c’mon – keep up

Tags

2019, 6*, acceptance, career, change, CPD, identity, measure, music, Pink Floyd, principle, reputation, system, teaching, wind

                c’mon – keep up

                I was a teacher
                I was sometimes
                very good, I cut edges;

                things changed,
                (they’d never
                 quite coalesced)

                I stuck to
                principle, fatal
                to behold,

                couldn’t shimmy
                with the wind (there
                was never a wall

                that created the
                draft) I was
                still, sometimes,

                very good,
                but things just
                changed –

                                ~ O —

                wazzat I hear,
                music, far away,
                can’t make it out:

                “I don’t need no reputation
                  I don’t need no CPD
                  no starkly standards by which to measure

                  system leave them selfs alone … … …
                  hey, system, leave yourself alone …
                  all in all I’m just another brick in the wall”

 

from Bodhisattvacharyavatara, VI, 90-93: [90] And as for praise and fame and status, these will not necessarily affect my life at all; they will not bring me virtue or recognition, they will not extend my life-span or give me strength or free me from sickness or even make me feel good.   [91] If I truly knew what was of benefit and import to my life, what value would I hold in pursuing such things?   If all I want is some nominal, transient mental entertainment, perhaps I should just indulgently devote myself to gaming and getting high and such.   [92] And yet if, in pursuit of fame, I squander everything I have or even get myself killed for some point of honour, of what use would be the mere sound of words to anyone?   Once I am dead, to whom, of all the people I knew, would they bring satisfaction?   Can you eat words as if they were flesh?   When I am dead, what comes of my honour?   [93] When their mud-houses (and sand-castles) collapse, children spontaneously burst out crying in despair and anguish; and, likewise, when my approbation and renown dry up, my own mind reacts just like a silly child.

 

 

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

acceptance wormhole: the mantra of Maitreya
career & change wormhole: Renunciation
identity wormhole: looking for the right exit
music wormhole: there will be ovations
teaching wormhole: my uncomfortable life
wind wormhole: the old man;

 

What You Are by Roger McGough

Tags

1967, accident, advertising, apple, blood, books, buildings, canal, cat, cattle, children, city, clock, clouds, cuckoo, curtains, dawn, death, depth, derelict, dew, distance, duty, eyes, feet, fish, flesh, flowers, found, frog, glasses, God, goldfish, grass, green, hands, heartbeat, Hiroshima, humanity, innocence, ivy, kiss, leaves, library, love, Lusitania, madness, measure, midnight, mirror, moment, morning, moth, mother, murder, neurosis, peace, petals, plastic, poem, politicians, power, prayer, pride, Roger McGough, rosary, sand, seeds, silence, Spring, stage, station, subconscious, sun, sword, symbol, teacher, tears, teeth, time, torpedo, treason, trees, van Gogh, voices, walls, war, water, waves, wind, windows, winter, womb, world, World War, yellow

                What You Are

                you are the cat’s paw
                among the silence of midnight goldfish

                you are the waves
                which cover my feet like cold eiderdowns

                you are the teddybear (as good as new)
                found beside a road accident

                you are the lost day
                in the life of a child murderer

                you are the underwatertree
                around which fish swirl like leaves

                you are the green
                whose depths I cannot fathom

                you are the clean sword
                that slaughtered the first innocent

                you are the blind mirror
                before the curtains are drawn back

                you are the drop of dew on a petal
                before the clouds weep blood

                you are the sweetfresh grass that goes sour
                and rots beneath children’s feet

                you are the rubber glove
                dreading the surgeon’s brutal hand

                you are the wind caught on barbed wire
                and crying out against war

                you are the moth
                entangled in a crown of thorns

                you are the apple for teacher
                left in a damp cloakroom

                you are the smallpox injection
                glowing on the torchsinger’s arm like a swastika

                you are the litmus leaves
                quivering on the suntan trees

                you are the ivy
                which muffles my walls

                you are the first footprints in the sand
                on bankholiday morning

                you are the suitcase full of limbs
                waiting in a leftluggage office
                to be collected like an orphan

                you are a derelict canal
                where the tincans whistle no tunes

                you are the bleakness of winter before the cuckoo
                catching its feathers on a thornbush
                heralding spring

                you are the stillness of Van Gogh
                before he painted the yellow vortex of his last sun

                you are the still grandeur of the Lusitania
                before she tripped over the torpedo
                and laid a world war of american dead
                at the foot of the blarneystone

                you are the distance
                between Hiroshima and Calvary
                measured in mother’s kisses

                you are the distance
                between the accident and the telephone box
                measured in heartbeats

                you are the distance
                between power and politicians
                measured in half-masts

                you are the distance
                between advertising and neuroses
                measured in phallic symbols

                you are the distance
                between you and me
                measured in tears

                you are the moment
                before the noose clenched its fist
                and the innocent man cried: treason

                you are the moment
                before the warbooks in the public library
                turned into frogs and croaked khaki obscenities

                you are the moment
                before the buildings turned into flesh
                and windows closed their eyes

                you are the moment
                before the railwaystations burst into tears
                and the bookstalls picked their noses

                you are the moment
                before the buspeople turned into teeth
                and chewed the inspector
                for no other reason than he was doing his duty

                you are the moment
                before the flowers turned into plastic and melted
                in the heat of the burning cities

                you are the moment
                before the blindman puts on his dark glasses

                you are the moment
                before the subconscious begged to be left in peace

                you are the moment
                before the world was made flesh

                you are the moment
                before the clouds became locomotives
                and hurtled headlong into the sun

                you are the moment
                before the spotlight moving across the darkened stage
                like a crab finds the singer

                you are the moment
                before the seed nestles in the womb

                you are the moment
                before the clocks had nervous breakdowns
                and refused to keep pace with man’s madness

                you are the moment
                before the cattle were herded together like men

                you are the moment
                before God forgot His lines

                you are the moment of pride
                before the fiftieth bead

                you are the moment
                before the poem passed peacefully away at dawn
                like a monarch

 

from The Mersey Sound, 1967
when I first read this poem in 1978 I was too young to let go associations enough to get the metaphor; after a lifetime of being obligated to associations which stood idly by while I wildly floundered without ground, I can let them go with glee and relish and relish the metaphors to the portrait’s content (… still not sure about the ‘lost day of the child murderer’, however, and I’m still not sure why I’m not sure, but I’m not; but I can’t think McGough just slipped up over one couplet … (and I can’t find any discussion of this line in the pages-that-proliferate-like-spores-wafted-across-their-own-private-amphitheatres))

 

 

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

books & love wormhole: `whappn’d!
buildings wormhole: cowled
city & windows wormhole: moon- // washed
clouds & green & silence & time & wind wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – old George
curtains wormhole: ‘the Bat-Signal …’
dawn wormhole: between
death wormhole: beguiled / desire
eyes wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – With Cows
feet wormhole: ‘oh my girls and muse …’
glasses wormhole: … the underleaves show
hands & water & world wormhole: A Solitude by Denise Levertov
leaves wormhole: sufficiently away
library wormhole: two profiles
mirror wormhole: DANSE RUSSE by William Carlos Williams
morning wormhole: TO A SOLITARY DISCIPLE by William Carlos Williams
mother wormhole: granny
power wormhole: I
Spring & sun wormhole: SPRING STRAINS by William Carlos Williams
trees & voices & yellow wormhole: TREES by William Carlos Williams
walls wormhole: both modern and en-slaved / to life
war wormhole: to arms, then;
waves wormhole: Khandro Tsering Chodron
winter wormhole: where did the silence go

 

PASTORAL by William Carlos Williams

Tags

1917, 6*, age, blue, breathing, colour, compromise, fence, furniture, green, growing, houses, identity, looking, love, measure, poverty, progress, rooftops, society, streets, time, walking, weather, William Carlos Williams, yard

                                PASTORAL

                When I was younger
                it was plain to me
                I must make something of myself.
                Older now
                I walk back streets
                admiring the houses
                of the very poor:
                roof out of line with sides
                the yeards cluttered
                with old chicken wire, ashes,
                furniture gone wrong;
                the fences and outhouses
                built of barrel-staves
                and parts of boxes, all,
                if I am fortunate,
                smeared a bluish green
                that properly weathered
                pleases me best
                of all colors.

                            No one
                will believe this
                of vast import to the nation.

 

from Al Que Quiere!, 1917

and he’s right, of course: the ‘import’ of the nation can only progress when it doesn’t have to concern itself with the right and wrong of wealth distribution – but you can’t have progress without competition, otherwise we all just stay where we are; but honouring competition as inviolable is honouring that which is our basest common denominator, surely inequality is less than we could achieve – to try to rise above the process of evolution, the survival of the fittest, is, rather, to surrender to hubris and daydream which doesn’t put bread on the table; but – however; eventually – man up … but to look, and take in, with love and, without scheme, all behind the, dappling cacophany, with which we, mark our height, where we can breathe, without implication, or compromise, free as a glance, single as an ethic, and twice as, selfless

 

 

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

blue wormhole: transferring
breathing wormhole: the turtle and the yoke
compromise wormhole: and ‘naerrgh’ a mention of a seagull’s call
green & identity & time & walking wormhole: fifty-eight // and silent prayers
looking wormhole: perspective
love wormhole: all // are // none
rooftops wormhole: glancing up from the text / searching for ground …
society & streets wormhole: both modern and en-slaved / to life
William Carlos Williams wormhole: and that’s where I are

 

so where have I got:

Tags

2017, 4*, Avebury, being, dynamic, inverse relationship, measure, public service, talking to myself, teaching, travelling, value

                so where have I got: I took
                three threads on this short trip:

                once anything is measured it loses
                all value; value is dynamic and

                integral to the happenstance;
                measure is limited and quantitative;

                there is an inverse relationship
                between measure and value, there

                ought to be balance for there to
                be a public service … in and

                out the Avebury Stones, can’t
                seem to find a sig … nal?

 

see: in and out / the Avebury stones / can’t seem to get / a signal …

 

 

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

being wormhole: polystyrene / boulderscape
talking to myself wormhole: to arms, then;
teaching wormhole: agreed termination without prejudice
travelling wormhole: ‘when travelling astrally …’

 

‘let them slide off …’

Tags

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

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

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

 

 

 

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

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

 

wakeoutofadream

Tags

2013, 6*, career, circular poem, contentment, CPD, defensive, defining, dream, freedom, gap, history, identity, KUE, lesson observation, loneliness, measure, process, professionalism, propaganda, sitting, stillness, struggle, teaching, time, true nature, waking

                                                                                wakeoutofadream
                       both content and free                            where I struggle
                   that is your true self                                         to take the measure
      and inhabit the loneliness                                              of the class I track and train
               and go with neither                                                  brilliant to my design
between define and defend                                                      and told upon inspection
           (nothing to stand on)                                                      I should be engineering them
                        to find the gap                                                   by process
to history or the propaganda                                                and should have been
   moving neither left nor right                                         for years now
                                   keep your seat                            what have I been doing?
                                                              just

 

 

 

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

career & identity wormhole: weight
circular poem: no / thing
dream wormhole: that comicbookshop … // … in dreams
history wormhole: cut while you’re ahead/cut while you’re a thread – poewieview #35
loneliness wormhole: lonely and free
professionalism wormhole: retirement
sitting wormhole: bud
stillness wormhole: still
teaching wormhole: Virginia
time wormhole: Salisbury Cathedral // suspended in everything

 

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 …

Tags

2012, advert, assessment, belief, boredom, bureaucracy, education, education system, educational behaviourism, expectation, identity, learning, measure, process, processor, program, pupils, relevant, slogans, speech, system, targets, teaching, training, uniform, virus, water

 

 

 

                                              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 …

                we process education
                                and pupils get measured
                we condition education
                                and pupils find their selves
                                defined or confused
                we target education
                                and pupils lose their trajectory
                we measure education
                                and pupils believe it
                we make education relevant
                                and pupils get bored
                we sloganise education
                                and pupils wear uniforms
                we teach education
                                and pupils ‘don’t get it’
                we teach learning in education
                                and pupils just remember
                                at best or not
                we train ourselves in education
                                actually we don’t anymore
                we workshop education
                                and pupils fill out forms
                we expect in education
                                and pupils leak like water

                here and there a teacher teaches
                                and a pupil learns
                but that soon stops because everyone
                                is too busy
                we teach, pupils learn … something
                                but there is no
                                education

 

I published this a while ago and no one noticed it – it probably went in to most peoples’ spam box; as I go through my haemorrhage from school some of these pieces will re-surface, I’m afraid … wait ’til you see ghosts with opened wounds again – it’s coming, can’t you hear it rattle; ‘well no, that’s the whole point!’ …

 

 

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

education wormhole: Dear Sir/Madam,
identity wormhole: my / superpower
learning wormhole: the stance of Buscema // qualitatively
speech wormhole: impressionism
targets wormhole: just saying, is all – III
teaching wormhole: dream career // groggy
water wormhole: clouds

 

the ancient tree

Tags

2012, birds, branches, crows, education, educational behaviourism, magpies, measure, performance management, time, trunk, value-bled education

 

 

 

                      once upon a quarter century
                      the beat and heart of teaching
                           thousands of birds
                           through all time
                           come to the ancient tree
                      was quantified immeasurably
                      inverse to a fading quality
                           generations now of
                           magpies and crows
                           who bring dispute
                           and change and sit
                           in the tree making
                           loud noises
                      all the better to make the numbers rise and fall my dear
                      consistency and behaviour to within an inch of its life
                           droppings in the branches
                           droppings down the trunk

 

 

 

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

birds wormhole: Jon
branches wormhole: like ink – poewieview #23
crows wormhole: ‘in the midst of winter …’
education 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
performance management wormhole: the MagOO Effect Effect
time wormhole: Doctor Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street

 

Brugges April 2015 – looking lost

Tags

2015, air, archaeology, architecture, brass, Brugges, buildings, calves, carillon, church, compassion, faces, finding, ghosts, girl, gold, grey, happiness, history, identity, infrastructure, lemon, letting go, lifetimes, lime, looking, lost, mantra, measure, nuns, oak, passing, people, portrait, posture, purple, saints, scaffolding, seeing, silver, simplicity, sky, society, sound, space, speech, station, step, sun, time, train, wheel, wood

                Brugges April 2015

                looking to find myself at the international train station – all
                the people passing – I’ll feel stone-faced and unmoved until
                I let their faces pass with all manner of their step ‘n’ roll
                looking to find themselves at the international train station –

                looking is found when letting is seen – lost     the civic
                detail of architecture in spikey scaffolding       turning; the
                bite in the sunny air before the grey girder holding     everything –
                the tracks and posts of infrastructure turned by brick-weight

                and wooden wheel found archaeological, built space high
                into the sky with threefold holy design – life spent and time-
                worn in silent healing sitting collected and still in a lifetime
                of ghostly movement before brick pillars clear as history

                makes them; “time is just a measurement” said John right,
                before he died “happiness is very simple” said Ediccia;
                the purple skirt was settled then the lime shirt veined lemon
                with om mani padme hum threads was procured and the slipper

                slipped from the waitress’ heel as she used her fine calves
                to find free tables; golden saints on pinnacles languidly
                show something that the 7 year old strutting before the
                Open Light Brass Band cannot as oak twigs bud in the sky;

                the dark-carved wood gilt with silver effulgence to a higher
                record than the fine-branched brass scales that measure
                the herbs porcelain to the touch while the carillon plays
                dissimilar tunes discordantly to forgotten time and history

 

I am very pleased to present the above, cultured from a short stay in Brugges at the beginning of this month; we travelled by Eurostar leaving from St. Pancras station and passed through Brussels, then out to Brugges; there is no newer building in the centre of the town, the spires and towers still rise down side streets no matter where you walk (Spire of the Church of Our Lady); there is a large photograph of nuns dedicated to life healing at the exhibition in Sint-Janshospitaal and an exhibition ‘Right, Before I Die’ by Andrew George of photographs of people towards the ends of their life and the words they have to say; we visited the old apothecary back at Sint-Janshospitaal; there was a music festival happening but we only saw the Open Light Brass Band play …

 

 

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

air wormhole: I’ve only just realised / after so many decades / that the smell of neglected land is lilac buddleia
architecture & buildings & girl & identity & passing & people & seeing & sound & time wormhole: sight / seeing
church wormhole: Trinity Arts
compassion wormhole: the dash is magnificent / the shadow grotesque
faces & society wormhole: mass
ghosts wormhole: under silent direction of architecture
gold & speech wormhole: gold wedding band
grey wormhole: Hypnopompia
history wormhole: ha ha ha
lemon & lime wormhole: crumpled / notebooks / at the end of a gentle retreat
letting go & space wormhole: between
lifetimes wormhole: what heavy and cantilevered structure
looking wormhole: bottom of Herbert Road to the / foot of Eglinton Hill dream
oak wormhole: corroboration
posture wormhole: oh,
purple wormhole: the edge has come …
silver 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
sky wormhole: gazing at the night / as my eyes passed the jagged hole / my head disappeared
sun & train wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
wood wormhole: the Buddha head in an antique shop