Hurst Green

Tags

2013, birdsong, echo, feet, fence, girl, muse, phone, portrait, staring, station, time, Uckfield-London line

 

 

 

                                              Hurst Green

                                the girl
                who walked from her Mini with lithe
                step stood by the concrete fence grown its own lichen
                from decades standing with
                                hot veins
                                on the top
                                of her feet

                while birds pheeped and echoed in the long-
                grown copse behind turned
                                her feet
                                sideways –
                                anxious –

                as she leant on the fence to make the phone
                call and chewed the inside of her mouth staring
                at the platform
                                for minutes
                                afterwards

 

0.46

 

 

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

echo & muse wormhole: currency of generations
feet wormhole: Western Motel, 1957
girl wormhole: Shonagh – poewieview #17
time wormhole: the missing chord // the now-silent seagull
Uckfield-London line wormhole: train journey // like a branch

 

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Saturday – poewieview #3

Tags

'scape, 1965, 2016, boundary, Bowie, evening, green, grey, heart, lamp post, light, octave, park, pavement, pointlessness, possibility, red, Saturday, space, station, travelling, waiting, walking

                Saturday

                                green acres with no boundary
                                level with the pavement and
                                octaves of grey lamp posts alongside
                                to walk deepening heart;

                                until the red-wallpaper evening
                                in poor light, when it all seems
                                futile again, waiting to traverse
                                that distance from the cubic planes of the cold station

 

filtered through: That’s Where My Heart Is, 1965; I Want My Baby Back, 1965; Bars of the County Jail, 1965; You’ve Got a Habit of Leaving, 1965; Baby Loves That Way, 1965; I’ll Follow You, 1965; Glad I’ve Got Nobody, 1965; That’s A Promise, 1965; Can’t Help Thinking About Me, 1965

Read the collected movements in David Bowie: Movements in Suite Major

 

 

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

Bowie wormhole: poessay X: soul love
evening & green & walking wormhole: sixty four sixty five
grey & red wormhole: finding my own true nature – Plumstead, Woolwich, 190915
light wormhole: Seven A.M, 1948
park wormhole: “King …”
pointlessness wormhole: New York Movie, 1939
Saturday wormhole: hint
space wormhole: gotcha
travelling wormhole: train journey // like a branch
waiting wormhole: bougainvillea

 

dream 230315

Tags

2015, airport, beach, business, Carol, Charlotte, dream, horizon, identity, leisure, life, lightning, looking, morning, Mum, plane, sea, station, sunshine, talking, time, town, train, walking, windows, Woolwich, work

 

 

 

                                                      dream 230315

                           walking through town in a Woolwich
                           cleaned timeless on a sunny morning

                           into the clinic along Powis Street on time
                           for my eventual appointment in life;

                           the first client amid the beginning-of-day
                           chat, dispersal into action behind screens;

                           she sits on the settee, I sit on the swivel
                           chair; she looks at me       assessing, I feel

                           good in my natty casual clothes; she cannot
                           speak, tries several times, she consults a

                           colleague; they are surprised, the consultation
                           becomes a sit-down party, I, fade from the

                           scene … walking about the seaside town, the
                           preparations for the coming day of all the

                           business and the leisure to be made from it –
                           hand-painted lettering in bleary windows a

                           metal stand is handed down to the beach
                           showing the way to the after-dinner boat

                           trip (where will it moor?); the water is full
                           of junked buoys, slimey and sun-faded; a sea

                           plane passes overhead up the beach – no help –
                           a huge helijet comes in low – gigantic – heading

                           for the airport – airport? – falling, she’s
                           too big for the town, nose-diving, disappears

                           into collapse like a building with plumes
                           of columns and lightning on the horizon;

                           Carol and the kids; I run to where I left them,
                           not at the station, no entry; but here is

                           Charlotte, only 6; train is leaving town,
                           Charlotte has gone, I cannot see Carol;

                           I run down the platform to say goodbye,
                           she turns to face me; she is Mum

 

 

 

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

beach & morning & time wormhole: that comicbookshop in dreams,
Carol & looking wormhole: recline
Charlotte wormhole: ‘my Dot …’
dream & windows & work wormhole: Evening Wind, 1921
horizon wormhole: the / very gradual art of sitting
identity wormhole: it is complete
life wormhole: Detective Comics #345
lightning wormhole: footfall
Mum wormhole: heirloom – break / after heavy shower
sea wormhole: Buddha / Shakyamuni
talking wormhole: you can only smell the candles / when they have been snuffed out
train wormhole: travelling
walking wormhole: earthed
Woolwich wormhole: Jackie’s slight smile

 

Brugges April 2015 – looking lost

Tags

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

                Brugges April 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

 

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

air wormhole: I’ve only just realised / after so many decades / that the smell of neglected land is lilac buddleia
architecture & buildings & girl & identity & passing & people & seeing & sound & time wormhole: sight / seeing
church wormhole: Trinity Arts
compassion wormhole: the dash is magnificent / the shadow grotesque
faces & society wormhole: mass
ghosts wormhole: under silent direction of architecture
gold & speech wormhole: gold wedding band
grey wormhole: Hypnopompia
history wormhole: ha ha ha
lemon & lime wormhole: crumpled / notebooks / at the end of a gentle retreat
letting go & space wormhole: between
lifetimes wormhole: what heavy and cantilevered structure
looking wormhole: bottom of Herbert Road to the / foot of Eglinton Hill dream
oak wormhole: corroboration
posture wormhole: oh,
purple wormhole: the edge has come …
silver wormhole: new year’s eve 2014; train up to London to / walk the bridges across the Thames, and / listen to the voices say it is, and was, like, / but get back home before the fireworks / obliterate it all in the emptying twilight
sky wormhole: gazing at the night / as my eyes passed the jagged hole / my head disappeared
sun & train wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
wood wormhole: the Buddha head in an antique shop

 

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

Tags

2014, anxiety, architecture, being, bench, birch, blue, Bob Hoskins, bridge, buddleia, buildings, Carol, change, crane, dark, doing, education, emptiness, experience, faces, field, fireworks, frost, glass, glasses, green, grey, Have, horizontal, houses, hyperbole, identity, impermanence, journey, life, lifetimes, light, listening, London, love, mouth, not knowing, openness, orange, others, passing, pastel, phone, pink, poetry, pointlessness, politics, red, scaffolding, silver, sky, speech, St. Paul's, station, staying, study, sun, table, talking to myself, Thames, thinking, thought, time, tired, train, travelling, trees, twilight, Uckfield-London line, voices, walking, white, windows, work

                                   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

                                   look out for the throwing up of hands and
                                   the want-only doing it anyway without thought
                                   or fibre thinking you deserve the better after
                                   all the point and anxiety of thinking; rather
                                   stay with the pastel openness of not knowing

                                   what to do; “it’s like they’re doing this to wind
                                   me up” all the mouth-open listening and loud
                                   hyperbole of their being, all app’d and down-
                                   loaded they, obbviously haven’t finished studying
                                   or whatever it is they’ve been bought into

                                   college to do these days; their time’ll come;
                                   frost covers the passing fields and trees, equally;
                                   “t’b’fair-r-rr, I’m not gen–you–in–lee concerned;
                                   I think, if you always stay in the same en–vie–
                                   rhon–meant …” gaze-mouth open … “I think,

                                   you need to have new ex–peer–re:–NCs
                                   nyoopeople nyooplaces” stopping waiting
                                   starting ten-ta-tively slow gliding, while another
                                   train shifts approaching the same station priority
                                   passes for a long time; then on another train,

                                   “it’s like we’re on another train”; frost thawing
                                   equally on the waste grounds between lines,
                                   green and horizontals return, except for the
                                   bare silver birch; so they no longer store parcels
                                   at London stations look how much they’ve

                                   brightly opened them up no more dingy offices
                                   and partitions where people lived their long
                                   and working life; on the stepped bench by the
                                   river across from the Poetry Library somewhere
                                   in the Southbank Centre I struggle with the

                                   vacuous way things have to change but forget
                                   the dark silt accumulated in unused yards
                                   where not even the buddleia grow, as St. Paul’s
                                   becomes dwarfed by glass and leaning building;
                                   all the sun across the riverside architecture –

                                   depth from finial cupola and scaffolding except
                                   the red cranes up into the grey-blue-blue-grey
                                   sky concrete counter-weight and lifting-hods
                                   catching light despite orange lights clean atop each
                                   arm and elbow; crowds walking the bridge under

                                   suspension ties leaning towards the last pillar; tired
                                   now we travel home under neon light on exasperated
                                   faces with no expression past turning houses and
                                   raised embankments, a passenger stands suddenly
                                   to leave, “oh, he’s dropped a tooth” quips Carol out

                                   loud, “I’m joking; it was a mint imperial” rolled
                                   under the table, look, the man with pink-frame
                                   glasses chuckles into his phone like Bob Hoskins,
                                   love him; “this is coach number five of twelve”
                                   we need to make sure we are travelling in the

                                   correct part of the train otherwise we cannot alight;
                                   “please mind the gap”; I cannot retain things that
                                   have passed (I can’t help it: “that are past”) no matter
                                   how much they may chime with the time in
                                   retrospect, during the last leg of “whatever” journey

                                   home looking for more to add to the poem greedy
                                   through the darkening windows, ah, but it’s too late
                                   now, the arc has already formed the spine, all the
                                   particulars falling in fitted pattern like feathers giving
                                   the illusion of lift and flight amid pervasive dissolution

 

 

 

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

anxiety & identity & time wormhole: re lax // me
architecture & bench & buddleia & glasses wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
being & doing & houses & openness & sky & sun & windows wormhole: lobby
birch wormhole: Eridge Station
blue & glass & green wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
bridge & trees wormhole: Kirby’s landscapes
buildings & Have & speech wormhole: great underbelly to the rooftops
Carol & pink & politics wormhole: Luisenplatz
change wormhole: the Last Day of Morecambe Illuminations
crane & grey & light & London & mouth & red & walking wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 290508 – / the breath of London
education wormhole: poessay IX – … just saying, is all II
emptiness & pontlessness wormhole: never there
faces wormhole: – sigh! –
field wormhole: tag cloud poem VII – form new freedom:
life & others wormhole: career came to naught …
lifetimes wormhole: transition
listening wormhole: there are patient listeners
love & poetry wormhole: sometimes
orange wormhole: Christmas
passing & travelling wormhole: dawn
silver wormhole: across the room / through the patio doors / through the conservatory windows / at the bottom of the garden / the still bifurcated trunk of / the oak / before the let-grown hair and fringes / of the fir tree / blown every lifetime in a while by the winter sun // actually
study wormhole: letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk
talking to myself wormhole: yet another sprain / of ‘Jingle Bells’ straining / to propagate yet another / tired Christmas spirit – … / ‘sanner clawsis coming t’ taunn – yeah’ in a / coffee shop with condensation / running off the snowflake transfers / and the iphone at the next table / talking how 50 means 900 a month – not worth / the drive (left his scarf behind – / collateral) … about my age
Thames wormhole: 1967
thinking wormhole: thinking wide enough
thought wormhole: breathe it all / in
train wormhole: is she / looking at me?
twilight wormhole: dream / 301197 // home
Uckfield-London line wormhole: Hever
voices wormhole: ‘green post …’
white wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
work wormhole: corroboration