municipal garden

Tags

'scape, 2013, 7*, Bakewell, branches, breath, building, bus, cars, child, clouds, coach, finials, garden, green, grey, hearing, morning, parent, passing, pigeons, pink, roses, speech, traffic, trees, voices

                                municipal garden

                pigeons along the ledge
                below the finials of the municipal building
                heads collapsed down into their shoulders

                the grey clouds convene
                from all across the morning
                the hangdown branches variously shuffle

                the municipal dustcarts and buses –
                      sorry not in service –
                the livestock carriers the plant carriers
                      and the coaches
                make their careful turn across the
                      mini-roundabout
                and all the cars cannot be seen but
                      are heard behind
                the long screen of pink rose bushes
                      constantly

                ‘can we go on the grass?’, ‘no’,
                inevitable as the next breath ‘why?’
                upturn voice ‘because you’re not allowed’ …

                … ‘why is it so green?’ the pigeons
                flock variously down to under the trees
                forming perfect rounds of pecking heads

 

 

 

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

branches wormhole: ssreet chak-chak
breath wormhole: just saying, is all VIII: keeping up toxic appearences
bus wormhole: 1968
cars wormhole: Luton // couldn’t make a poem out of it
child wormhole: ‘quick – she’s gone to pay …’
clouds & garden & green & morning & trees wormhole: garden
grey wormhole: handsome
passing wormhole: walk from Castleton to Hope
pigeons wormhole: embodying
pink wormhole: the skyline
speech wormhole: mother and daughter
voices wormhole: singsong chant

 

stone

Tags

2017, 7*, acceptance, afterlife, barrow, breath, death, girl, hair, life, lost, parent, place, settlement, sky, speech, stone, time, world

courtesy of https://historicengland.org.uk – hope she doesn’t mind

                                there was
                                just out
                                and hunt
                                and gather

                                and then
                                we stopped
                                to keep
                                and found

                the whole world wider than the sky

                                that we
                                got lost
                                to where
                                we were

                                and time
                                which came
                                to late
                                and so we

                                hauled
                                the stones
                                to fix
                                place

                                and dis
                                covered
                                in …
                                and life

                                and death
                                the smell of
                                deepness
                                the breath

                                of stone
                “you know what they were talking about
                                in class …
                                Kirsty …”

                                scampering
                                sideways
                                down the
                                slope untied

                                hair waving
                                all over
                                the place
                “… they were talking about barrows, burial

                                chambers;
                                we’re standing
                                on them
                                now – ”

                                all over
                                the place;
                                I’ve come
                                from the

                                ground I’ll
                                go back to
                                the ground
                                when time

 

perspective; read the whole sequence as it treads sideways down through time: in and out / the Avebury stones / can’t seem to get / a signal …

 

 

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

acceptance wormhole: Prajnaparamita // Maitreya
breath & hair & life wormhole: brown corduroy shirt / and dark redwine tie
death wormhole: where it has taken birth / may it not decrease …
girl wormhole: neither nude nor / descending a staircase
sky wormhole: ssreet chak-chak
speech wormhole: retirement
stone & time & world wormhole: weight

 

1967

Tags

1967, 1970s, 2014, Burt Bacharach, Dionne Warwick, divorce, green, hill, mist, Mum, parent, sound, voices, words

 

 

 

                                                                1967
                                                a holocaust
                                                happened

                                                quietly
                                despite all the ultimatums and final words rising crescendos and                
                                                muffled maybe

                                                                like a settled mist –
                                                houndstooth sound –
                                heavy on her back

                                                from which
                                she slowly rose like a hill dewy and scrub-plant green
                                                both clean
                                                and clear
what she had to do for the next decade

 

(theme from) the Valley of the Dolls: sung: Dionne Warwick, written: Burt Bacharach & Hal David; in 1967 my father left; in 1969 the decree nisi finally came through; somehow my Mum survived and brought us up during the 1970s

 

 

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

[Burt] Bacharach & Dionne Warwick wormhole: 1964
divorce wormhole: 1968
green wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Simon Upon The Downs
mist wormhole: one day / in 1956
Mum wormhole: the policies came to nothing
sound wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] by Mark L. Redford – mmpph’
voices wormhole: constant hummm
words wormhole: Doctor Strange III – the needs of billions

 

ashramas

Tags

2012, 6*, ageing, ashramas, awkward, childhood, children, creativity, identity, inauthentic, lesson, life, love, means, outcome-led education, parent, recognition, role, society, study, talking to myself, teaching, time, vague, value-bled education, wisdom, work

                ashramas

     I was a child vague in society
                only noticed the pretty wrappings of society
     as a teenager I was made awkward by society
                didn’t understand how to make the play

     later I sussed how the play was made
                saw it inauthentic and facile
     as a student I studied alternative to society
                found that there was love – wisdom – creativity

     as a parent I got all grown-up with myself –
                ‘make practical use of my studies’ –
     became a teacher to bring up all my children
                play My Part in the society I despaired of, practical and ends-focussed

     made the mistake to Make me Mark [groan] instead in society:
                influence the means to seek engagement
     to find recognition and found myself
                ignored and unnoticed

                Twenty Five Years

     now I must return to myself ‘these things that
                you and I suppressed’
     carry the wounds as lesson to myself
                whether I continue to work or not, as lesson to me

                love – wisdom – creativity

 

An Ashrama (āśrama) in Hinduism is one of four age-based life stages discussed in ancient and medieval era Indian texts. The four asramas are: Brahmacharya (student), Grihastha (householder), Vanaprastha (retired) and Sannyasa (renunciation). The Ashramas system is one facet of the Dharma concept in Hinduism. (from Wikipedia)

‘these things that you and I suppressed’ is from Joni Mitchell‘s ‘Hejira‘

 

 

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

childhood & life & time wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – A Precious Moment
creativity wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – the soft canticle of the gourds:
identity & society wormhole: “Darling” – poewieview #28
love & talking to myself wormhole: with endless love
recognition wormhole: bloogying
teaching wormhole: dry rot
work wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – introdepthion

 

dream 260815

Tags

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

 

 

 

                      dream 260815

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

 

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

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

 

gazing at the night / as my eyes passed the jagged hole / my head disappeared

Tags

2014, anatta, Batman, beach, being, cape, childhood, cowl, doing, emergence, emptiness, eyes, field, haiku, husband, identity, life, night, parent, Plumstead, sitting, sky, skyline, teaching, waves, windows, writing

 

 

 

                                                            gazing at the night
                                         as my eyes passed the jagged hole
                                                my head disappeared

                                                                                            when it all goes wrong
                                                                      and I am not the person I thought I was
                                                                                      again

                                                                (even when I thought
                                I was the person who had understood that I am not the persons
                                                I would like to be)

                                I am left – clean and confused –
on some faraway beach usually (eventually) looking around for
                new clothes to wear but

                                                potentially (fortuitously)
                I could stand       where I am       and wear the clothes I haven’t got with
                                no shame or embarrassment …

… well, I like to write (from the middle of nowhere); I sit (but still working on the still); I wear the cowl, the cape and the skyline of the Batman; I am stuck in the Plumstead of my emergent childhood; I am (constantly) diffident (except when I think to be a leader); I am parent whose field is wider than the sky; I am husband whose picture is more than the point; I am teacher lower than the waves (cannot cope with the splattering in the eyes and the spluttering out the nose) …

                                                                … in the great wash
                                of life I am of no effect but then everything has happened
                                                because of this

 

 

 

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

Batman wormhole: where the real action // always is
beach wormhole: September – silhouette of leaf // the / inside and the / outside
being wormhole: enjoy the activity
childhood & emergence wormhole: H e a v e
doing & identity wormhole: enjoy the activity
emptiness wormhole: un … able
eyes & windows wormhole: oh,
field & sky wormhole: To my Mum
haiku(esque) wormhole: 1972
life & writing wormhole: Trinity Arts
night wormhole: ‘the red and white …’
Plumstead wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 290508 – / the breath of London
sitting wormhole: (another / gulp of air)
skyline wormhole: in desperation and worthless art
teaching wormhole: career came to naught …

 

letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love

Tags

1960s, 1999, 2014, 7*, bedroom, black, books, breathing, child, Christmas, comics, courage, crying, Dad, death, duty, Eglinton Hill, friendship, Genesta Road, heart, hospital, ideas, illness, kitchen, laughing, Lesnes Abbey, letter, life, living, love, morning, mother, Mum, Nan, orange, parent, parenting, Plumstead common, reading, rebirth, roads, sadness, Saturday, sharing, son, speech, streets, Sunday, talking, time, typewriter, white, Woolwich, work, writing, yellow

 

 

 

                                                                                    060399

Dear Mum,

it was a shock to see you in hospital, overstretched just
                                living at home
                                and still I hadn’t admitted just
                                              how ill you are
                                and the meet to make the final arrangements
                for whenever they become and seeing you face up to this yourself
                                              has shown me dealing with icing and marzipan
                                                              and not a lot much courage

                it is almost guaranteed that we will not say goodbye as we would like
                                I’d like to say all the things that a Grand Goodbye at the End of a Life
                                                              should
                                              through the choke and early mourning wisp of times
                                                              we grew together in Genesta Road
                                that will always remain

                                              that you are coming to the end of your life
                                is so definitely sad, you said that
                                              you don’t want us to be too upset
                but I am going to be anyway, and already am
                                I will be losing a dear parent
                                I will be losing a dear friend
                                              and I have to be sad about that
(with Nan I came through the crying by learning the times we spent together
                like a lesson, sharing and doing
                                I wish I had shared this with her)
                                              I will be sad losing you
                but I won’t be sad because I am losing our lives together
                                these things which have already happened
                                              which cannot be lost
                                even when you die
                                even when I die:

                your fight to bring us up after Dad left
                                the sacrifices moving down from Eglington Hill
                                              a posh meal only on Sundays
                you said to me one day that we were only a paper delivery away
                                              from the standard of living as when Dad was there
                                as we crossed a road doing shopping for here and there
                the happy stores we had in for Christmas
                                you having to go to work every day
and making the best of it coming home
                                              to the sparse meal to help with the diet
                                                                                    hundreds of times
                hundreds of times which I cannot remember and never experienced
but stay in my heart
                                              somewhere
                it wasn’t effort in vain
                it wasn’t not noticed
                it wasn’t not valued

Thank you.   I was aware

                                from quite early that
                                I was one of very few children
                                whose parent had left them in the 1960s
                your bringing me up is one of the most treasured things in my life
                                              you taught me this
                                although I still haven’t mastered
                or even learnt it very well: carrying on in duty and love
                                you have had much to be bitter about
                                but I have seen you – visibly – emerge
                                like a Phoenix “come on, this is no good …”
                (I am a depressive and a self – indulger and “aren’t you ever going to smile again …?”
                                              that child still does it – far too serious when there is anything to do
                                with him) and I treasure the laughs we had when younger
                                              I will learn to have them in my own family
                because I will miss you when you go
                                and every time I miss you I will have silly time with them
                I remember aching stomach at times
                                I remember you squealing with laughter
                                              I remember Nan’s joy at seeing you laugh so much when you did;
                                I know you hadn’t perfected it yourself
                                I know I only remember the times when it just happened
                                              but it is a valuable lesson
                                                              nevertheless

                the magic of Eglington Hill
                                with its many rooms, its endless floors
                                              become a symbol
of possibilities of life, the ‘scene’ of your providing and care
                the magic of Genesta Road
                                where I grew to learn how to see
                                the bedroom decorated orange and yellow
                                then black and white because you asked us
                with shelves to put my comics and books
                                the kitchen to study with the smell of meal
                                              the lounge to book and write and type …
                                                              flavours of my life
                my development now the space which you clothed me in
                                you are those flavours and
                                as I ‘develop’ into the future
                                you are always here
                                              (you always started from what I was
                                               and letting me do what I needed whether you liked it or not
                I try the same with my own kids
                but only remember when I fail
                                yet another lesson, Mum,
                                you have been so wise
                                              and neither you nor I have
                                              fully appreciated it)

                                the magic of reading:
                                the mere presence of books
                                the unfold of opening paper
                                the rocky uphill of snatched syntax
                the scent of travel the pride of cover
                                I try to have the same for my kids
                so that even if they never read them
                                              they will line their walls with book
                (Joe has satire and sci-fi and atlas
                                Jon has earth and struggle and revolution
                                              Charlotte has stacks and stacks of comic)
                                I will be satisfied with that and I hope you had a similar hope
                                              and yes, Mum, it worked
                                                              and it was valuable
                                                                                    another job well done, I think

                                invigoration of sheets over ourselves and haunting the Common one morning
                putting all the milk bottles from the street on the doorstep of one house a few doors down
                                              planning the front room when you won some money, allowing ourselves gift of ideas on wheels
                letting me go hitch – hiking when I suddenly said I needed to go – I still don’t know how you did that
                                friendship of strolling the park, the ruined Abbey, wandering Woolwich on a Saturday morning
                                                              Mother and Son strolling

                and yes, I can agree with you, you have had a good life
                wherever you go we will meet again in some way
                and these specks of our lives will intrigue us
                                              in some form familiar but unrecognisable
I am very sad to be losing you but comforted with what we have shared
                it is probably only now that I realise how much I love you
                                              and how closely we lived

                I shall miss the Mum who taught me a life
                                but I shall always be breathing the lesson

love from,

 

Mum died 20th March 1999; I wrote this letter but hesitated sending it – a regret of my life; I ‘send’ it now hoping she’ll read it somewhere.   Having marked her would-be 81st birthday the day before yesterday, I thought it high time …

 

 

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

part of the ongoing life and page of … Mum
bedroom wormhole: sitting up in bed s i m u l t a n e o u s l y
black wormhole: capes flying
books wormhole: Tulips by Sylvia Plath – How Far To Step Before You Raise The Other Foot
breathing wormhole: whirlpool
child & Christmas & Dad & Eglinton Hill & Genesta Road & mother & Mum & talking wormhole: letters to Mum IV – healing comes in smiling
comics wormhole: introducing / the stranger
death wormhole: we’re born // to die
kitchen wormhole: sounds // suddenly / stop
life wormhole & writing time: no exit
living wormhole: letters to Mum III – ongoing-term // eventually
love wormhole: a cup of tea, gov
morning & streets wormhole: oh-pen too
Nan & work wormhole: letters to mum II – family // like a grate
orange wormhole: the precision // the gentleness // and / the letting go
reading wormhole: stuck free to move within
roads wormhole: I could step / more open
Saturday wormhole: letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk
speech wormhole: we’re all the same age really
Sunday wormhole: zazen in everyday life
white wormhole: Bat-Shadow
Woolwich wormhole: ‘like a piece of ice on a hot stove / the poem must ride on its own melting’
yellow wormhole: on sitting / in front of / a hedge

 

letters to Mum IV – healing comes in smiling

Tags

1970s, 1998, 2014, 5*, abandonment, cancer, chemo, child, Christmas, Dad, dream, Eglinton Hill, Genesta Road, Hakuin, honesty, Joseph, letter, love, mother, Mum, Oscar Wilde, pain, parent, smile, talking, time, Zen

 

 

 

                                                                                              261298

                Dear Mum,

                                good to talk with you over Christmas
                                              honest and open
                                              I love that even when we don’t meet
                                              we can say we haven’t met to each other
                                                              when needed; we had

                                              a good holiday
                                              set everything up and
                                              let it all happen
                                              by itself
                                some of it was boring
                                some of it was tinsel-ly
                                Joe* called it ‘Winterval’
                I call it the gift to see like a child; recent dreams

                                of Eglinton Hill**
                still coming to terms with Dad leaving
                                after all these years … we had all been left
                                              we all had to survive, we all had to move down
                                              from Eglinton Hill to terraced Genesta Road*** –
                                              environment of survival – with the silly talk
                                              and crazy plans of becoming through the 70s

                                healing comes in smiling on the pain we carry
                                              befriending dis-order to help the heal
                                                              with the benign mind it ensues (it is
                                not the perfect but the imperfect that
                                                                      is in need of our love said our Oscar****)

                                              you might have
                                              good years left

                                              not cured but
                                              checking the

                                              cancer with
                                              little giggle and

                                              slight hysteric
                                              and you are right:

                                              bugger the dignity
                                              bugger the unfairness and
                                              bugger the chemo

                                Zen Master Hakuin was accused
                                of fathering the child – ‘is that so!’
                                he took care of the child – just so
                                the mother confessed, the parents
                                apologised and in yielding back the
                                child – ‘is that so!’

                much love, mark

 

     * eldest son; Mum was a Jehovah’s Witness and abstained from celebrating Christmas even though she loved the season when she was younger; Joe’s comment somewhat echoed the argument that Christmas had been hijacked
    ** large, semi-detached, Victorian 4-bedroom house where we (my Mum, my brother, my Grandmother and myself) lived up until 1971; no longer able to keep hold of it we had to move down the hill to …
  *** … Genesta Road, terraced, 3-bedroom, someone else’s wallpaper on the walls until we could change it ourselves
**** we shared a love of Oscar Wilde’s wit

 

 

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

part of the ongoing life and page of … Mum
abandonment wormhole: amid
child & time wormhole: I could step / more open
Christmas wormhole: on
Dad wormhole: ‘“ruddy crows!” / said my Dad …’
dream wormhole: my fidgety self
Eglinton Hill wormhole: tag cloud poem VI – anyone’s eyes
Genesta Road wormhole: letters to mum II – family // like a grate
Joseph wormhole: dream / 140603
love wormhole: happy birthday, my love
mother wormhole: the retriever the daughter and the mother
Mum wormhole: letters to Mum III – ongoing-term // eventually
smile wormhole: Tulips by Sylvia Plath – How Far To Step Before You Raise The Other Foot
talking wormhole: city-centre-coffee-shop / talk

 

I glimpse above the rooftops

Tags

2012, 5*, buildings, dream, grey, hill, life, looking, parent, rainbow, reality, rooftops, sleep, streets, town, train, valley, walking

 

 

 

                                   with determination to juxtapose
                                   grey formica reality with

                                   raindrop rainbow joy
                                   I went to bed and slept a dream

                                   travelling with my young family
                                   by train to a town in the north

                                   we walk uphill the high street
                                   I look down the side streets

                                   I glimpse above the rooftops
                                   something towering behind

                                   we reach the top turn left my chance
                                   to see the tower – glance – light grey brick

                                   circular base granite-like construct
                                   like a wasp’s nest atop must be

                                   several hundred feet tall attend to children
                                   making our way across the road

                                   glance back the tower is built across
                                   a whole hill the other side of a broad vale

                                   so huge it seems near it must be
                                   several thousand feet tall … I cannot look

                                   what if the granite top
                                   is living?

 

prequel to the edges of my reach

 

 

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

buildings wormhole: tag cloud poem III – the journey to BEING and back again
dream wormhole: and
grey wormhole: 220712
hills wormhole: King of the World
life wormhole: Do Nothing Usually / Take Everything Regularly / Consider It All Clearly / And Step Aside It Waltzingly
looking wormhole: the sounds the difficulty and the long long strands of liquorice
reality wormhole: 20th century
rooftops wormhole: wha’
sleep wormhole: tired
streets wormhole: practising
train wormhole: Eridge Station
walking wormhole: … walking down the street

 

the early morning of the sixties

Tags

1960s, 2013, 20th century, 7*, abandonment, adults, boundary, breakdown, ceiling, childhood, divorce, doors, echo, emergence, floorboards, groundlessness, morning, parent, politics, relationship, scandal, society, Sylvia Plath, talking, walls, war

 

 

 

                                do I remember
                the talk of scandal and abandonment
                that made the adults talk low and aspirated
                                that tipped them
                                              slightly panicked

                to reaffirm the basic boundaries leaving echoes
                                in floorboard creaks
                                and door creaks as they swung open
                                                              to a halt
                fear of the groundlessness beyond the edges
                                the wallnessless
                                the ceilingnessless were they

                talking about the suicide of Sylvia Plath
or the breakdown of relationships in the early morning of the sixties
                                              or my own parents’ breakdown
                                or assassinations
                                or executions
                                or scandals

                or did I just impute that all into a young mind?

 

 

 

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

20^th century & society wormhole: 20^th century
abandonment wormhole: “write, let’s break / outta here!”
breakdown wormhole: there was a call and far from no response
childhood wormhole: alien / and awkward
divorce wormhole: 2nd November 2011
doors & Sylvia Plath wormhole: swifts test the chasm of sky
echo wormhole: afternoon 290613
emergence wormhole: 1965
floorboards wormhole: 1964
morning wormhole: ‘spilled out of the nurses’ / quarters …’
politics wormhole: Apologia
talking wormhole: you don’t talk to me
walls wormhole: the sun / in a clean / industrial / sky
war wormhole: 32 years