may the supreme and precious jewel bodhichitta … // … take birth where it has not yet done so … // … where it has taken birth may it not decrease … // … but may it increase infinitely

Tags

2013, 8*, being, Bodhichitta, breathing, circular poem, colour, difficulty, distraction, doing, eyes, identity, jewel, letting go, life, lost, meditation, prayer, putting out, seeing, self, singing, sitting, stone, talking to myself, tired, voices, Woodbrooke

                             difficulty comes
                        unfitting perfectly to
                          each situation

may the supreme and precious jewel bodhichitta …

                                                                                    t
                                                                                          i
                                                          a big fat ball                  r
                                         all I see is                       with odd       e
                                    or above it                              spicy bits       d
                                        round it                              fills up
                                        I can’t see                       my being
                                                        closes my eyes

… take birth where it has not yet done so …

                                 the fuzz and static
      drowned out by                                 and the tiny shiny
        before being                                      coloured stones
of determination                                          mixed in and
         sing a voice                                       mostly lost which
             surface and                                 sometimes
                                      work to the

                                                                        is not me
                                                                        is not the self
                                                                        standing sitting or sleeping
                                                            and always always breathing

… where it has taken birth may it not decrease …

                                                                        I can’t put out
                                                            I miss the point or miss the opportunity
                                                                        every time I venture
                                                or hold back

                                                                        I have loads to offer
                                                            but no receptacle
                                                            far better to sit
                                                improve my aim

… but may it increase infinitely

                                                                                    I get so much more
                                                                                    done by just being
                                                                                    without knowing it
                                                                                    without knowing –
                                                                                    even – about it

                                                                                    I think I’ll just
                                                                                    offer my being
                                                                                    from now on
                                                                                    and not try to
                                                                                    do anything to be

 

 

 

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

being & doing & life wormhole: ‘never look up’?
Bodhichitta & eyes & seeing wormhole: so pleased to see you again
breathing & sitting & talking to myself wormhole: breathing out
circular poem wormhole: everwhile
distraction & meditation wormhole: within
identity & stone wormhole: Open – All – Ours
letting go wormhole: comfy
voices wormhole: what wounds have you got?

1967

Tags

1967, 2014, 5*, Burt Bacharach, desert, Dionne Warwick, evening, London, mauve, orange, prayer, purple, rock, sand, smell, sound, white

                                1967

                                one early
                                evening
                                in London
                                amid the
                                fug of
                                cabbage
                                and the
                                clack of
                                cleared
                                plates

                the deep orange sand was turning purple
                and the piled rocks remained white and mauve

                                in the
                                desert

 

reaching both from within, and through: I say a little prayer by Dionne Warwick and Burt Bacharach

 

 

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

Burt Bacharach & Dionne Warwick wormhole: 1964
evening wormhole: beepbeep
London & smell wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Follow Your Nose
mauve wormhole: hello, luvvey, do you want a cup of tea?
orange wormhole: magnificent salad
purple wormhole: the 19th century
sound wormhole: embodying
white wormhole: con / sum / mate

 

let the dreams / become the ghosts they / always were

Tags

2014, attention, authority, doing, dream, effort, ghosts, identity, legacy, living, meaning, prayer, recognition, self, talking to myself, thinking, world

 

 

 

                                   so much of what I do is
                                   only interesting because I
                                   think I am making a gain
                                   or I think I am solidifying

                                   meaningfully, at last; (dreams
                                   of flashlights and applause)
                                   dreams of legacy and authority
                                   dreams of recognition and

                                   belonging, of being loved
                                   (for what I do and think),
                                   with desperate effort to
                                   ensure my self worthy to

                                   the dream and I end up
                                   the ghost of my own
                                   indifference; please may
                                   I act cleanly: let the dreams

                                   become the ghosts they
                                   always were, dissolved
                                   into the vivid objects of
                                   my attention in the world

 

 

 

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

attention wormhole: Exceat to Cuckmere Haven
doing & talking to myself wormhole: tobacco pouch
dream wormhole: dream 260815
ghosts wormhole: truly invisible
identity wormhole: we play / the game
living wormhole: “write, let’s break outta here!”
meaning wormhole: New York Movie, 1939
recognition wormhole: block ‘n’ role
thinking wormhole: out!
world wormhole: sit

 

prayer to my self

Tags

2010, adjustment, anger, breath, care, career, dedication, discovery, dream, injustice, legacy, letting go, life, light, listening, moon, others, prayer, reputation, self, space, talking to myself, tragedy, vindication, work

 

 

 

                                prayer to my self

                                I had my stab at life – obdurate and rarefied –
                                I glimpsed the moon and captured its light
                                but nobody wanted it

                                let the tragedy go, let the injustice go
                                let the anger and indignation go
                                they are not the self

                                let the devastating ripostes before whole crowds go
                                let the overlooking and insignificance go
                                they are not the self

                                let the secret work and its Discovery – the Legacy – go
                                let the live-on-with-open-wounds-and-dejection go
                                let the career and the reputation go
                                they are all not the self

                                let there be the space from where all of this came
                                to let go and adjust, let there be the breath for new dreams
                                and the listening to declare, the pause for resolution
                                and the care to let go

 

 

 

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

breath wormhole: the Conqueror
career wormhole: the stance of Buscema // qualitatively
dedication wormhole: dedication
dream wormhole: dream 260713
letting go wormhole: lo
life wormhole: the endless acts of life
light wormhole: of a sudden // all the time
listening & talking to myself wormhole: the / very gradual art of sitting
moon wormhole: up here
others wormhole: good looking
space wormhole: fall
vindication wormhole: multifarious: the Dark Knight Returns (1986)
work wormhole: I do

 

Woolwich Central – making life better II

Tags

2012, city, compassion, fear, identity, life, lifetimes, living room, love, pain, prayer, question, reading, silence, sky, space, superhero, Victorian houses, voices, walls, windows, Woolwich, words

 

 

 

                           Woolwich Central – making life better II

                           passing the gothic Victorian house pointing
                           skywards in all directions partitioned to
                           so many living rooms I know how much

                           I cannot be the superhero to the voice
                           sustained in high-register and edge of fear
                           let alone for the silent voice that sits by the

                           hollow wall under the table; can I rend
                           those walls asunder and pike the onslaught
                           with a single glance deep into the whorl

                           of flinch and recoil of a lifetime of no register?
                           can I scoop up the silence and hold it foetal
                           forever safe from division before the window?

                                          can I?

                                          spell:–

                           may the pain of scream and the silence
                           of numb build the very thirteen floors of
                           open-plan living in the centre of the city that

                           they never quite found when they committed
                           their lives together for life and may all the fear
                           and cower magnify transparent exponential

                           to the tangle that pulls it all tight into its own
                           relief – the space forever at its heart as the
                           space between these words that allows them to be read

                           thank you

 

 

 

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

city wormhole: city twilight
compassion wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
identity wormhole: just words wiped across a line
life & lifetimes & love & reading & sky & space & walls wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
living room wormhole: tag cloud poem VIII – growth
silence wormhole: ‘the walking stick …’
superhero wormhole: amid
Victorian houses & Woolwich wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 290508 – / the breath of London
voices 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
windows wormhole: 1977
words wormhole: career came to naught …

 

letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk

Tags

1970s, 1980s, 1990s, 1998, 2014, afterlife, cancer, change, childhood, crane, death, distance, duty, family, father, history, identity, illness, letter, life, living, London, love, morning, Mum, Nan, prayer, reading, Saturday, son, speech, study, talking, time, walking, Woolwich

 

Mum was diagnosed with cancer in the early summer of 1998, she died the following March 1999; I couldn’t get up to London to see her regularly so I started a correspondence; sixteen years later I realise that our correspondence didn’t just stop with her death, the same as our life together didn’t: our life together was always the response between the words and events …

 

 

                                                                                    280698

                                Dear Mum

                                been feeling the need for a walk
                                and talk down to Woolwich and
                                around, through the history and
                                possibility of a Saturday morning,
                                arm in arm again, for many decades

                                now, but now there are only seconds
                                between all the thoughts and dramas
                                since you died (even, while you were
                                alive) where so much time has passed;
                                and Woolwich fades into building site

                                and cranes; all I could do then was listen
                                through letter, my life was too ‘detailed’
                                and 40 miles away, I said I could be there
                                in paper … now you are no miles away
                                and lost to all effect like cotton walls

                                we always had so much to talk about,
                                so many miles to cover – new routes
                                and ruins; new words and pasts – all
                                throughout the seventies, that the
                                eighties and nineties yawned us apart

                                in all our observation and resolve
                                until your illness made us embarrassed;
                                I had thought to shoulder my part of it
                                but the decades were against us and I
                                grew into the father I never had

                                I had paused to hear your resolve to fight
                                ‘the Fighter was back!’ brave-facing things
                                down to their shame and dissipation, again
                                and again, through all the crush and
                                nullity, giving your sons their childhood,

                                giving Nan her family, the silent duty
                                offered matter over fact, ‘just one of
                                those things’, until you were fighting
                                for retirement, fighting to allow for
                                all of people in all of their array

                                fighting to walk around London, to
                                read and study each new stretch of reborn
                                morning; I include you in my thoughts
                                these days in the quiet moments between
                                successive acts of my plays and rites and

                                whether the religion is suspect or not
                                the prayers are from your son’s heart
                                we have lost all the time of a world
                                but there are still so many miles to cover
                                still now, much love, mark

 

 

 

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

part of the ongoing life and page of … Mum
childhood & speech & time wormhole: ‘“ruddy crows!” / said my Dad …’
crane wormhole: tag cloud poem IV – C
death wormhole: on sitting / in front of / a hedge
family wormhole: “I think I’ll have a nice sandwich”
father wormhole: Sylvia
history wormhole: clouds
identity wormhole: I will eventually drift tectonic
life & love wormhole: the Buddha head in an antique shop
living wormhole: ‘I come from the brow …’
London wormhole: my life is not your market
morning wormhole: the poppies / of van Gogh
Mum wormhole: someone called Frank
Nan wormhole: dream / 130207
reading wormhole: first a mishap then clear vision
Saturday wormhole: Saturday
talking wormhole: connections
walking wormhole: there
Woolwich wormhole: the declensions of constant possibility throughout times

 

may the supreme and precious jewel bodhichitta … // … take birth where it has not yet done so … // … where it has taken birth may it not decrease … // … but may it increase infinitely

Tags

2013, 8*, being, Bodhichitta, breathing, circular poem, colour, difficulty, distraction, doing, eyes, identity, jewel, letting go, life, lost, meditation, prayer, putting out, seeing, self, singing, sitting, stone, talking to myself, tired, voices, Woodbrooke

                             difficulty comes
                        unfitting perfectly to
                          each situation

may the supreme and precious jewel bodhichitta …

                                                                                    t
                                                                                          i
                                                          a big fat ball                  r
                                         all I see is                       with odd       e
                                    or above it                              spicy bits       d
                                        round it                              fills up
                                        I can’t see                       my being
                                                        closes my eyes

… take birth where it has not yet done so …

                                 the fuzz and static
      drowned out by                                 and the tiny shiny
        before being                                      coloured stones
of determination                                          mixed in and
         sing a voice                                       mostly lost which
             surface and                                 sometimes
                                      work to the

                                                                        is not me
                                                                        is not the self
                                                                        standing sitting or sleeping
                                                            and always always breathing

… where it has taken birth may it not decrease …

                                                                        I can’t put out
                                                            I miss the point or miss the opportunity
                                                                        every time I venture
                                                or hold back

                                                                        I have loads to offer
                                                            but no receptacle
                                                            far better to sit
                                                improve my aim

… but may it increase infinitely

                                                                                    I get so much more
                                                                                    done by just being
                                                                                    without knowing it
                                                                                    without knowing –
                                                                                    even – about it

                                                                                    I think I’ll just
                                                                                    offer my being
                                                                                    from now on
                                                                                    and not try to
                                                                                    do anything to be

 

 

 

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

being & breathing & doing wormhole: doing
circular poem wormhole: the Avengers
distraction wormhole: open window
eyes & identity wormhole: vagued
letting go & talking to myself wormhole: multifarious: the Dark Knight Returns (1986)
life wormhole: my life is not your market
meditation wormhole: only
seeing wormhole: heavy load
sitting wormhole: gazing at the night / as my eyes passed the jagged hole / my head disappeared
stone wormhole: quest in brown
voices wormhole: still there // above the / Dallin Road / allotments / looking high over the river and the city

 

practising

Tags

2012, being, doing, openness, posture, practice, prayer, reading, settling, silence, sitting, sound, streets, windows

 

 

 

                                   I can say my prayers
                                   I can read my books
                                   I can sit on my cushion and
                                   endlessly arrange my posture

                                   but only when I
                                   open the window
                                   and let in the sounds
                                   of the silent street

                                   am I practising

 

 

 

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

being & doing wormhole: and
openness wormhole: zazen in everyday life
posture wormhole: snow
practice wormhole: while
reading & sound wormhole: t w e n t y f i r s t c e n t u r y l i f e
settling wormhole: tag cloud poem I – numbers
silence & streets wormhole: … walking down the street
sitting wormhole: as they wish
windows wormhole: … still waving!

 

Woolwich Central – / making life better II

Tags

'scape, 2012, 9*, life, lifetimes, passing, Plumstead, prayer, space, superhero, table, Victorian houses, voices, walls, windows, Woolwich, words, writing

 

 

 

                Woolwich Central –
                making life better II

                outside the sectioned late-Victorian gothic house
                I know how much I cannot be the superhero
                to the voice sustained in high-register vengeance and edge of fear
                let alone the silent voice that sits by the hollow dividing wall
                under the table

                can I rend those walls asunder
                and pike the onslaught with a single glance
                deep into the whorl of flinch and recoil
                of a lifetime?

                can I scoop up the silence and hold it foetal
                forever safe from the division and board
                before the window?

                                can I

                may the pain of scream and the silence of numb
                build the very thirteen floors of open-plan living
                in the centre of the city that they never quite found
                when they first committed their lives together
                for life

                and may all the fear and cower magnify transparent
                exponential to the tangle that pulls it all tight
                into its own relief – the space forever at its heart
                as the space between these words
                that allows them to be read

                thank you

 

 

 

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

life wormhole: Notre Dame
lifetimes wormhole: calm down
passing wormhole: there
Plumstead & walls wormholes: Bonus Books
space & Woolwich wormhole: Woolwich Central – / making life better
superhero wormhole: HA!
table wormhole: table
Victorian houses wormhole: Victorian / houses / uphill / Brighton
voices wormhole: varnish
windows wormhole: ruddy pink
words wormhole: poessay III: jijimuge
writing wormhole: write / in / g

 

‘”… during all of my lives …”‘

Tags

'scape, 1988, 4*, daughter, faces, ghat, portrait, prayer, smoke

 

 

 

                           “…during all of my lives
                           may I become a protector
                           for those who are protector-less…”

                           the ageing daughter
                           strokes her mother’s face

                           the smoke
                                     rises
                           slowly from the ghat

 

 

 

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

daughter wormhole: St. Mary Magdalene’s / ground
faces wormhole: stranger
smoke wormhole: ‘the blue misty hills …’