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

mlewisredford

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

mlewisredford

Tag Archives: rainbow

travel // when I die

02 Saturday Nov 2019

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2019, 7*, accountability, afterlife, afternoon, architecture, bardo, being, black, brick, brown, buildings, capitalism, century, clouds, crane, data, death, decades, dedication, depth, doing, echo, fields, floating, green, ground, Have, height, horizontal, identity, industry, interdependent origination, iteration, length, lintel, London, magenta, mind, notice, orange, passing, perspective, pillars, presence, purple, rain, rainbow, red, reference, ripple, rooftops, russian vine, samsara, sandstone, sapphire, self-cherishing, self-grasping, silence, sill, sky, sound, speech, Thames, thought, tide, time, train, travelling, trees, Uckfield-London line, utility, walls, white, world, writing

                                                                                travel

                                                                                noticing
                                                                at all is a product of
                                                                shifted perspective
                                                                related to behold;

                                                                when I’ve nothing to write
                                                                I’ve lost any perspective,
                                                                cornered by both these walls
                                                                I’ve walked along

                when I die
                this mind will no longer whorl about this pinchèd self
                in a world of diminished return and profusion of iteration

                                                                cranes atop
                                                                pulling them further up and up
                                                                from the ground on which they
                                                                balance on receding point;

                                                                communities of them
                                                                each taller than the last and the next
                                                                all along the wharfs
                                                                of endless account

                it will be expansive
                high and up in industrial and sandstone sky
                it will fathom all the deep of brown kelp in shifting purple

                                                                kilometres long
                                                                courses of brick
                                                                grimed black and utility-studded
                                                                updown onoff foothold and wire

                                                                ripple along nicely
                                                                across right-angled centuries
                                                                and occasional shot bolts
                                                                of deepest russian vine

                with no sound
                save diminishing echoes of a pleading late self
                having nothing left to refer to and nothing left to here, and

                                                                believe it or not
                                                                a rainbow exponential
                                                                to the white arch of Wembley
                                                                we’ll chase for miles

                                                                orange shimmering to
                                                                magenta through staccato tides
                                                                out and over flat roofs
                                                                on and into the fields

                all data wiped –
                suds off my hands from my shoulders –
                and did I back enough up for some grander vector to reach?

                                                                where trees grow from ground
                                                                shaping over decades
                                                                green-flamed cupolas
                                                                clamped to the sky

                                                                and from perspective passing
                                                                of open field
                                                                turn – creak –
                                                                the whole world

                I may well
                have built pillars of cleverness and thought:
                plinthed, fluted, capitaled and giddyingly architraved …

                                                                and there
                                                                Lancashire red brick
                                                                with high and whitey
                                                                sills stale and lintel

                                                                before washed-out
                                                                sapphire-afternoon of steely sky
                                                                and horizontal fingers of
                                                                scud-rain

                … but they’d just
                floated there upright in space ‘neither use nor ornament’
                straining on the string in my baby-fat hands, I’ve

                                never really
                                made stuff happen
                                and didn’t have to try

                                more than let more and more
                                of stuff happening anyway
                                happen through me

 

train trip; East Sussex to London to Lancaster to Ulverston, Cumbria; where we lived for three years and started a family; stay at Swarthmore Hall; visited Conishead Priory where we lived for 18 months after marriage and graduation; notes and observations on the journey, sense of bridging 32 years of lifetime(s); notes > (maybe) two poems, but two which could nevertheless not be separate, although distinct, like train tracks; three years retired, still processing if I achieved anything in this capitalist and samsaric world …; London centuries old, still processing …; architecture as the stage-scenary of endeavour; the ‘here’ in the 9th stanza is definitely (sic); this is, positive

 

 

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

afternoon & sky wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Sky
architecture & thought wormhole: “And anger it is that lays in ruins / every kind of mental goodness.”
being wormhole: 11/1 by William Carlos Williams
black & sky wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – valley
brown & green & walls wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – The Valley
buildings & crane & rain & red & speech wormhole: riders of the night
capitalism wormhole: `whappn’d!
clouds wormhole: at Kreukenhof
death & identity wormhole: psssssh
doing wormhole: writening
echo & mind & passing & sound & time wormhole: – creak —
Have wormhole: on facing the Have
London wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – An Old Piano
orange wormhole: ‘don’t look at it …’
purple wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – I took my camera into the fields
rooftops wormhole: Great Bridge, Rouen, 1896
samsara & trees wormhole: breakfast
silence wormhole: window
Thames wormhole: London, 1809
train & travelling wormhole: beneath
Uckfield-London line wormhole: early // Minoan & Mycenaean Exhibitions in the British Museum – diptych
white wormhole: 10/22 by William Carlos Williams
world wormhole: none and all
writing wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – sooner; / and later

 

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when the rain has settled / the dust

12 Friday Jan 2018

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2018, 6*, air, attachment, Bodhisattvacharyavatara, feet, holiday, Lanzarote, living, rain, rainbow, sound, study, time, volcano, wanting

                so the lay of the day
                sets differently than ago and

                we have to unpack everything
                and decide where it will go

                before we hear naked feet slamp
                on vinyl floor and tile

                before the rainbow hangs
                a curtain between one volcano

                and the next but one, before the
                notes on the text become

                unnecessary-enough to know
                that combustion happens only when

                I-want-things-to-happen and
                when I-do-not-want-things-to-happen

                as before, that new air
                folds through an apartment only

                when the rain has settled
                the dust

 

 

 

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

air wormhole: Cocktails in 1951
feet wormhole: om muni muni maha muniye soha
holiday wormhole: concordance
living wormhole: Sandwich
rain wormhole: for / the first time
sound wormhole: London refugee march – 120915
study wormhole: looking back over the tack / and jibe of my life I / notice there is / a fetch // after all … / but certainly not / where I had planned / or where I thought / I’d been
time wormhole: is this it // all the time

 

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ah … // oh … // meanwhile … // … // tha ya ta …

02 Friday Dec 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2016, 8*, being, breathing, child, clothes, colour, comics, despair, Dorian Gray, emperor, exclamation, exposed, flowers, Granada, hope, identity, inspiration, light, love, mantra, model, phrase, portrait, Prajnaparamita, rain, rainbow, realisation, retirement, secret, seeing, self, self-containment, self-image, speech, step, thread, tragedy, vanity, wandering, words, world

title-ah-oh-meanwhile-tha-ya-ta

 

ah

 
le mot just
the piquant phrase
                                         the simple model rising magnificent
                                         from cavalcades
                                         of stoic tumbling

                                         threads through like
                                         weave which clothes me
                                         presentable to the world …

                                         but no one sees the
                                         emperor’s clothes of
                                         such fine thread it cannot
                                         be seen, no wise child
                                         to point and exclaim
                                         the hang and drape
                                         to put an end to all step –
                                         “look, mummy, that man
                                           is not an emperor!”

 

oh

 
less than naked
I am seen right through
                                         adrift of discourse
                                         I step with stubborn countenance,
                                         all the better to
                                         stare myself into existence,

 

meanwhile

 
awkward and
hidden away in some attic
                                         lest I lose [what I haven’t
                                         got] self-contained in trembling
                                         vanity, secretive in hope
                                         of things to come, desparate
                                         in tragedy that my grimy
                                         portrait might be seen …

 

 
wander, wander
around the flowers, smell
                                         their colour, breathe their
                                         light and let the light rain
                                         fall in shards of rainbow,
                                         cleansing with love –

 

tha-ya-ta

 

 
                      om     ga – te     ga – te
                                      pa – ra – ga – te
                                                      pa – ra – sam – ga – te
                                                                      bo – dhi     so – ha

 

retirement #3 when in Granada … visit the Alhambra, and visit the Generalife gardens … [if you have booked up to three months ahead]; on the walk up to the palaces are trees and shrubs which are plenty-watered by sprinklers, in the morning sun the sprays will often catch a rainbow at their edge; the bordered captions in the poem are comic-conjunctives, there is a beginning, middle and end being told here, folks; the mantra: thaya tha om gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi soha, is the mantra of Prajnaparamita, the Perfection of Wisdom; it can be somewhat semantically translated as “it’s like this: [everything is] gone, gone, completely gone, completely and perfectly gone with no loss, enlightened [dispersed, dispelled] all-right!”; but what’s ‘gone’: “the slings and arrows of outrageous romance” … of one’s self and the whole world positioned awkward to placate its mewling little story, as stolen by Joni Mitchell, who was talking too much at the time, from ‘Willy the Shake’;

 

 

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

being wormhole: pocket
breathing wormhole: within
child & light wormhole: this aching // and spacious dichotomy
comics wormhole: chartless …
identity wormhole: not / the Catcher
love wormhole: love and precision
rain wormhole: monument to vainglory
realisation wormhole: passing below
seeing wormhole: con / sum / mate
speech wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – snow
words wormhole: just saying, is all VI: // accountable / for my own outbreath / …
world wormhole: the skyline

 

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com- / mute

16 Monday Nov 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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'scape, 2013, blue, books, bridge, buildings, clouds, coffee, communication, crane, East Croydon, Euston, eyes, horizon, houses, light, London, London Bridge, marble, movement, music, others, passing, people, piano, rainbow, reading, shadow, sky, sleep, sound, sun, train, travelling, trees, Uckfield-London line, windows, winter, woman

 

 

 

                                com-
                                mute

                      low cloud
                      covering the sun in blue sky
                      keeping pace with the train over
                      commuterland people waiting

                      to start their day in houses
                      casting variously rhomboid
                      from the sun as the clouds drift I
                      close my eyes from the sun

                      intense flick through membrane
                      colouring the whole spectrum some
                      tie-dyed and contrasted
                      through bare trees

                      at East Croydon tower-blocks
                      distance-high stand
                      still on various unknown horizons flanked
                      with light and shadow

                      the train fills some stand
                      still and yawn by the door all look
                      down unless asleep
                      one sits next to me reading a book for women

                      leading people at London Bridge
                      I lose the thread amid marble frontage
                      and high filigree window and cranes
                      at Euston a court of coffee

                      and circular chords
                      suggesting upward spirals
                      at the bridge and occasional
                      piano plinks            possibly

 

 

 

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

blue wormhole: hungry for a thread or two
books & music wormhole: sit
bridge wormhole: Le Pont des Arts, 1907
buildings & passing & sky & sun wormhole: 2 pm
clouds & trees wormhole: all along the blue sky
coffee wormhole: ‘filtered coffee …’
communication & shadow wormhole: Western Motel, 1957
crane wormhole: … back to the outbreath
eyes wormhole: mauve / night
horizon wormhole: sooner or later
houses wormhole: Sunday afternoon
light & London & sound & windowswormhole: south horizon
others wormhole: [s]
people wormhole: New York Movie, 1939
piano wormhole: bass and piano
reading wormhole: like butterflies on / buddleia
sleep wormhole: Morning in a City, 1944
train wormhole: the continental stride of trains
travelling wormhole: training the mind
Uckfield-London line wormhole: Eridge – Cowden
winter wormhole: ‘in the midst of winter …’

 

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heirloom – break / after heavy shower

06 Wednesday May 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

2014, conservatory, flying, glass, light, Mum, rain, rainbow, seagull, silver, sun, vase, windows

 

 

 

                                     heirloom – break
                                     after heavy shower

                                     is that a silver seagull
                                     that reached a height then

                                     dropped and swooped
                                     muted and salt-downed

                                     or did it just catch rainbow-
                                     glints from my mother’s

                                     cut-glass vase on the table
                                     in the conservatory windows?

 

 

 

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

conservatory & rain & windows wormhole: prologue-ing
glass wormhole: ‘a spark from the empty light socket …’
light wormhole: Trinity Arts
Mum wormhole: letters to Mum VI – Years / after you have gone. Still.
seagull wormhole: we’re born // to die
silver wormhole: Brugges April 2015 – looking lost
sun wormhole: “King …”

 

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1972

29 Sunday Mar 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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1972, 2012, evening, haiku, light, petrol, rain, rainbow, shops, streets, tarmac, years

 

 

 

                                   1972

                                 rain-sprinkled tarmac
                      evening shop lights petrol rainbow
                           in the gutter

 

 

 

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

1972 wormhole: 1972
evening & rain & streets wormhole: To my Mum
haiku(esque) wormhole: after the storm
light wormhole: thar she perched
shops wormhole: I’ve only just realised / after so many decades / that the smell of neglected land is lilac buddleia
years wormhole: 1962

 

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Plumstead – Woolwich 121114

15 Saturday Nov 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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1970s, 2014, 8*, anxiety, architecture, art deco, ash tree, bay window, bench, Beresford Square, blue, breathing, brown, buddleia, buildings, Canary Wharf, cars, change, clothes, clouds, communication, compassion, Dallin Road, demolition, dream, Eglinton Hill, empire, Europe, eyes, feet, fence, Genesta Road, ghosts, glass, glasses, grass, growth, handshake, head, house, identity, iron, keys, language, leaves, library, light, living, London, looking, love, music, passing, pavement, people, petrol, piano, pigeons, plane, plastic, Plumstead, purple, rain, rainbow, roads, rooftops, school, schoolgirl, shadow, Shard, singing, sky, smile, sound, speech, step, streetlight, streets, sun, swifts, talking, tarmac, Thames, time, travelling, trees, tv, vow, walking, walls, windows, Woolwich, yellow

 

{Every year and a while I travel 40 miles up to Woolwich, where I grew up, to check that the journey I make started off in the write direction (HA!); while wandering I write, leaning on peoples’ front walls and making a coffee last in a cafe (and every once in a while I treat myself to an afternoon bench); I haven’t been up there for awhile, certainly since the echoing tragedy of Lee Rigby’s death on 22nd May last year; I wrote snatches of life as usual and came home; I realised that the snatches patch-worked together and worked them into a whole landscape which they had ever were in the first place; I know it’s a long piece but please pursue it for the sake of Woolwich; I realise now that my previous visits’ writings need some rendering due-ly …}

 

 

                      Plumstead – Woolwich 121114

                      all fractured now, slightly misshapen, still
                      holding together, the grubby art deco window that
                      coloured the stairwells bracing two rooms
                      maybe three now, don’t know why they used coloured

                      glass, the bay windows still looking up the street looking
                      down, occasional five-finger buddleias like Empire
                      plaques on the wall above top floor windows
                      scud clouds above the coping

                      then flights of step up and up and straddling and down
                      the storeys of irregular variegated plastic cladding
                      upwards upwards for to breathe free and live while people
                      pass on the wet street with small steps and quiet slippers

                      I had a dream once something anxious and dreadful
                      followed me going into and out of Polytechnic Street
                      from Wellington along by the stacked flanks of seventies
                      double-glaze all screened and blinded from the street

                      cannot see in cannot see out, people walk awkward
                      on the tiles flexing metatarsals under the slight over
                      hang of the library from the colding rain while, look,
                      a rainbow arches hidden down the side-street turning

                      the bricks and glazing purple, no one looks up
                      arranging bank loans, arranging brunch, after noon
                      the sun divides streets in half, the buildings too
                      dark to see the shop fronts too dazzled to walk into

                      the sun favours ambitious plants between torn-down
                      building and upright support, plays along the side
                      of preserved plots – flanged shadow from pipework and
                      signage across circular windows – eye to the sky – under

                      hand-brow, too bright even for tinted glasses;
                      so many of my people generations poor in the sun
                      from Empires and Union under the Royal Arsenal
                      Gatehouse; each passing step collapsed and proud knot

                      in kneed of any support, thank you: their shadows reach me
                      down the Square’s access channel long before their pain
                      walks by: I don’t know any of you now with your plastic ID
                      badges with your back-pat handshakes and bent-heads

                      sincere-talk, grouped and scattered by the public toilets
                      your drunk over-emphases your ways like pigeons – where are
                      all the pigeons? – and your beautiful language aged as
                      public benches; dark clothes to wear, light clothes to buy

                      and you don’t know me – lost son haunting the streets – but
                      I love you all constant as the windows proud above roofline
                      between turrets looking onto the Square; I long ago made
                      my vow to you at a time when borders seemed important
                      I know, I know I am slow but I return again and again to see you
                      and you break my heart each time I learn to smile again

                      out towards Plumstead on the lower road (I cannot find
                      the tree I found before through all my travelling) new trees
                      and tapered posts with lights for the road and lights for the
                      pavement and posts just waiting, reaching into the blue blue sky

                      you have been done up many times, Genesta*, so
                      I only notice now what hasn’t changed, for the first time:
                      unassuming tapered pillars between the windows and bays
                      of my youth that reflect the blue sky now (yellow leaves

                      highlight the paving and tarmac wet like petrol) only noticed
                      when a swift skeeks across one pane, not the other;
                      up Dallin Road, she’s got through another day
                      she’s survived the juddering divided walls of ‘have to’

                      the way things are these days, with music in hand
                      she makes rewarded way along the steely street where
                      the sun has slipped below the higher roofline, singing her
                      do-do-do’s to the endless chorus ‘why do we do it;

                      how do we do it?’, and looking for her house keys
                      under metal clouds; the long grass grows rosettes around
                      yellow leaves, brown leaves, by the leaning iron fence the
                      steep tarmac cracks and the shorter grass takes over; past the

                      bronze age tumulus it’s clear, London’s grown up a lot
                      since I watched Francis Chichester sail up the river
                      from the window up on Eglinton Hill – something he did –
                      now there are Shards and Wharfs and stacking planes

                      and significant lights denoting all manner of whey and access but
                      still my nose is running and I need to have a wee; I suppose
                      I need to get home now the light is fading slow and fast
                      at 52 – the ash has only lost its upper leaves by the roof

                      at 48 there is afternoon tv after electric piano practise is done
                      at 44 – the estate agent climbs awkward into her clean soft-top with
                      high clip heels; at 36 – a lantern shines arched in the porch while
                      sirens circle the borough and there’s nothing left here now outside 46

 

 

 

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

architecture wormhole: Batman#175
bench wormhole: the bench / on the fourth sister from / Birling Gap before the / wind-brushed scrub and gorse / and the grey-blue sky / smoothed through the / fishtank-blue horizon to / grey-green sea
blue & leaves & sun wormhole: Jean Miller kissed Salinger
breathing wormhole: born again
brown wormhole: on sitting / in front of / a hedge
buddleia wormhole: (Little by Little)
buildings & travelling wormhole: I could step / more open
cars & roads wormhole: the long road
change & time wormhole: Dr Strange II – … things are the same again
clouds wormhole: the utter beauty of giving when receiving
communication wormhole: Maidstone
compassion & feet & love & speech & talking wormhole: there are patient listeners
dream wormhole: we’re born // to die
Eglinton Hill & Woolwich & yellow wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
eyes & looking & shadow wormhole: a maturity
Genesta Road & rooftops wormhole: corroboration
ghosts wormhole: only the Batman realises that he is dead
glass & light & streetlight wormhole: oh-pen
glasses wormhole: first a mishap then clear vision
house wormhole: day off
identity wormhole: that
living wormhole: scattered
London wormhole: letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk
music wormhole: no exit
passing & sound & walking & windows wormhole: Matildenplatz / & Luisen
people & rain & sky wormhole: Luisenplatz
piano wormhole: … walking down the street
pigeons wormhole: tune up // baton taptaptap
purple wormhole: consturnation …? // consternation
school wormhole: tag cloud poem VI – anyone’s eyes
smile wormhole: irretrievable / breakdown / of marriage
streets & trees wormhole: Dr Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street
Thames wormhole: letters to mum II – family // like a grate
tv wormhole: multifarious: the Dark Knight Returns (1986)
walls wormhole: stuck free to move within

 

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rainbow

01 Wednesday Oct 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2013, 5*, being, emptiness, haiku, looking, rainbow

 

 

 

                                rainbow

                                                if you stare at it
                                it begins to disappear
                if you glance away …

 

 

 

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

being wormhole: breathe it all / in
emptiness wormhole: tag cloud poem VI – anyone’s eyes
haiku(esque) wormhole: Vajrapani
looking wormhole: is she / looking at me?

 

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I glimpse above the rooftops

06 Thursday Mar 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

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

 

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the class

23 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

1993, 4*, buildings, rain, rainbow, school, silence, teaching, windows

 

 

 

                                     the class

                     disappears
                     down the corridor

                     rain drops across
                     each window

                     a shadow cuts
                     across the building

                     opposite there
                     must be a rainbow

                     somewhere

 

 

 

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

buildings wormhole: comicbook morning
rain wormhole: ‘dressed in black smiling …’
silence wormhole: ‘the quiet boy …’
teaching wormhole: Failure
windows wormhole: ‘standing astride …’

 

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"... 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

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