• 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: tide

travel // when I die

02 Saturday Nov 2019

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

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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allowed all gain

20 Saturday Oct 2018

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2018, 7*, beach, Bodhichitta, Bodhisattvacharyavatara, concentration, currents, distance, fetch, floor, karma, kitchen, light, mother sentient beings, movement, others, prayer, quiet, recitation, sitting, tide, waves

                every time the
                supreme and precious Jewel
                Bodhichitta prayer was
                recited, quiet and

                somewhat quirky,
                on flattened cushions and
                neon-lit in kitchens
                only the

                breaking waves
                and tides were noticed,
                occasionally, on the beaches
                but all the while

                the waves were
                swelling and fetching over
                distance and the currents
                pursued their

                unique and necessary
                paths, while the concentration all about the wide and holding floor supported                
                all movement and
                allowed all gain

 

all 913 verses in ten chapters of the Bodhisattvacharyavatara can be encapsulated in the Bodhichitta prayer: “May the supreme and precious Jewel Bodhichitta take birth where it has not done so, where it has taken birth may it not decrease, but may it increase infinitely”.

 

 

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

beach & waves wormhole: we held cold hands
kitchen wormhole: and // do your ears burn red?
light wormhole: THE GREAT FIGURE by William Carlos Williams
others wormhole: cinnamon / milkshake
quiet wormhole: raised brow
sitting wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Trees

 

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holiday

27 Monday Feb 2017

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2015, 5*, career, Herstmonceux Castle, holiday, identity, meaning, public service, talking to myself, teaching, tide, work, writing

                holiday

                OK, pal, you’re on holiday
                you’re supposed to be a sense-r
                making write of the world

                which tends like a tide
                to declare all need made manifest
                through all manner of glossy

                pamphlet and prestige position,
                brokering career by meeting it –
                more or less, more for less –

                you’ve no time to lose at work
                made stupid by my very placement
                and awkward to the very service

                I practise; go on with you, find the sense
                sat there at the tea shop table with
                the plastic tablecloth in the wind

 

first of a four-part triptych – you’ll have to read them all to figure how that works; all set within Herstmonceux Castle in East Sussex; while I was still working as a teacher and wondering when I could have the weight of my own communication; I will publish the rest sequentially but not necessarily daily

 

 

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

career wormhole: while
holiday wormhole: magnificent salad
identity & talking to myself wormhole: 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
meaning wormhole: AT-tennnnnnnn – waitfrit waitfrit – SHUN!
teaching wormhole: reading // unstirred
work wormhole: Open – All – Ours
writing wormhole: breathing out

 

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Totnes

29 Friday May 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2015, arrival, being, career, communication, dandelions, dog, drawing, feet, identity, lifetimes, living, looking, meaning, muse, others, passing, pattern, pink, pointlessness, portrait, ripple, river, society, sound, talking, teaching, tide, Totnes, travelling, value-bled education, value-led education, values, work

 

 

 

                                                              Totnes

                                talk
the 250 miles long about the work and the communication done –
                done – thud! – with balls on the table –
                                and working with value
                                              and never the twain shall meet
                                                              with all the crack of void amid

                                hah!
                I tried to navigate between value-bled and value-led teaching
and can only work part time now –
                                splintered work from life

                                but
                you have to stick to the A roads
                                whether they are by-passed or not
                                              and eventually you have
                                                              to arrive
                and watch the dandelion stems by the river
                                is it out or coming in …?

                                I think
                                I learnt
to let lives be and not disturb the ripples
                                but all along
                I didn’t realise the ripples have no pattern –
dogs on the quay wag one end pant the other
                look up river look down
                                then sit
                                panting

                                I thought
                to read the ripples, tell their hidden story
                                for all the world to see
                                              (for all the world to flow)
                but I didn’t realise all the while the ripples have no pattern
like the heh-heh-hrr-hr conversations
                                from the spreading terrace of the
                                              Steam Packet Inn

                                              ~O~~~

                                now
                there’s a dude with tattoos, vest (and
                                is that a joint?) finished work, she takes a call nahh!
                                              lays down
                and the most beautiful pink
                                soles ‘n’ toes
                                suns rise
                behind topless dandelions
                                              (in the next life
                                               she will sit up and sketch intricately
                                               to the right and just below centre of the next page
                                               of her notebook)

 

(short break from work over a bank holiday, to Totnes in Devon with Carol to see Elizabeth – the medicine of travel)

 

 

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

being & feet & travelling wormhole: [start where you are III] – delve
career & talking wormhole: Trinity Arts
dog wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
identity & looking & others wormhole: lifetime
living wormhole: (another / gulp of air)
meaning wormhole: addicted / compulsive / identity
muse wormhole: ambling around / the garden centre
passing wormhole: prologue-ing
ponk wormhole: hot summer / morning
pointlessness wormhole: mass
river wormhole: the 20th century
society wormhole: up here
sound wormhole: 1963
teaching wormhole: gazing at the night / as my eyes passed the jagged hole / my head disappeared
value-led education wormhole: poessay IX – … just saying, is all II
values wormhole: breathe it all / in
work wormhole: To my Mum

 

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I need to keep my eyes open / in meditation

29 Saturday Nov 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

2013, 6*, awareness, being, blogging, eyes, film, identity, letting go, life, meditation, mind, music, reading, swim, tide, world, writing

 

 

 

                                              I need to keep my eyes open
                                                              in meditation

                                could it be
that the majority of my noble pastimes
                the reading writing blogging music film
                                              all of them
                are great wide comforting pools to slip into        and
                                              submerge myself
                                away from the awkward fit of
                                                              my
                                                              mi
                                                              nd’
                                                              s s
                                                              elf
                                              in the whole of the world
                                where nothing fits together        like concrete rip-rap

                wouldn’t it be better
                                to climb out of those
                                              amniotic pools and swim
                                instead
                                              through the thousand awkward angles
                (that define me defeated
                                and adversarial to them all)
                                and start standing
                                              o n
                                              m y
                                              own
                                              two
                                              feet
                                with each incoming tide?

 

 

 

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

awareness & reading wormhole: a light rosé
being & eyes & identity wormhole: Dr Strange IV – ellipses
film wormhole: four-colour pulp into cinematic di[gital]pix[el][live ac]tion so easily makes for semantic palava (if you read what I mean) … the foredreading of Dr Strange
letting go wormhole: thinking wide enough
life & world wormhole: Dr Strange III – the needs of billions
meditation wormhole: – sigh! –
mind wormhole: prologue
music wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
writing wormhole: poised patiently for / hours

 

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first a mishap then clear vision

10 Tuesday Jun 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

'scape, 2014, 6*, age, being, career, centrifugal, centripetal, Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, circular poem, detail, distraction, doing, elemental, form, glasses, hope, identity, injustice, journey, letting go, life, looking, lost, moment, name, pointlessness, reading, realisation, role, society, tide, time, vague, vulnerable, waves, world, writing

first a mishap then clear vision

                        face it
  let yourself                 there is
 but never                       no point
known it                           no victory
     always                       no justice
  and you’ve                 there never
                          was

                                                        all the effort
                                   again using                           of reading
                        willing to build                                     writing and
                 for the way back                                              accumulation
                 around hopeful                                                   creating hope
                     and looking                                                      of a salvific
                         I am lost                                                       point but it
                        accept that                                                   plateaus ever
                       and I finally                                               as it is made
                             is stumbled                                       and takes in
                                  before a trip                           miles of amble
                                                          and wander

                                                              but

                                              the natural plain of this life’s journey
                                                              is to gaze un
                                attached past the complication and
                                              across the complexity
                                              to see clearly all the detail
                                                              and form in itself
                content to look unfocused and elemental
                                until my age and career
                                required glasses
                                              so that now
                                I react centripetal to the world
                                              that calls my name in shower and wave
                                and I become
                                centrifugal and solidified
                                (vagued and vulnerable) to
                an identity I can never find
                                while the world keeps leaking
                                              and escaping like gas

                                                                                  so

                                                                          (let them all …
                             and no hope of identity                     disperse
                           with no need of hope                              clean into the scene)
 as the energy fans awry and around                                    like a ‘scape until
                                  and slip-slide                                        the next moment
                                                  only                                    which
        and the shift and chirrups of élan                              moves
                                                          just                       both slight and extra
                                            to the roles and tides

 

 

 

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

being & doing & identity wormhole: ‘I come from the brow …’
career wormhole: what I am about to say is true / what I just said was a lie
Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche wormhole: 25% scaffolding & rope
circular poem wormhole: 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
distraction wormhole: tag cloud poem V – draft-ness
glasses wormhole: all the while / the flagpole rope / occasionally flaps / the breeze
letting go wormhole: sounds // suddenly / stop
life & society wormhole: they find their life growing together –
looking wormhole: the retriever the daughter and the mother
pointlessness wormhole: letter 080514
reading & realisation & time wormhole: only the Batman realises that he is dead
waves wormhole: gazing at the night / as my eyes passed the jagged hole / my head disappeared
world wormhole: the declensions of constant possibility throughout times
writing wormhole: too cold to sit outside / and write flowers of / individual poems

 

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… Mark; remember …

"... 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

pages coagulating like yogurt

  • Bodhisattvacharyavatara
    • Chapter 1
    • Chapter 10
    • Chapter 2
    • Chapter 3
    • Chapter 4
    • Chapter 5
    • Chapter 6
    • Chapter 7
    • Chapter 8
    • Chapter 9
    • Introduction
  • collected works
    • 25th August 1981 – count Up
    • askance From Hell
    • Batman
    • Bob 1995-2012
    • David Bowie Movements in Suite Major
    • Edward Hopper: Poems at an Exhibition
    • 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
    • The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford
    • 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
  • poemics
  • poeviews
  • teaching matters
  • William Carlos Williams
  • wormholes

recent leaks …

  • “…and may the great elements…”
  • paisley // implicitly
  • this pocketed being
  • the inevitable tock // when we close our eyes
  • time
  • the simple prayer // the tattered poem // the bitter lament
  • taking birth
  • mirror
  • long / road
  • ‘in my car I pass…’

Uncanny Tops

  • me
  • Moebius strip
  • YOUNG WOMAN AT A WINDOW by William Carlos Williams
  • 'in my car I pass...'
  • 'the practice ...'
  • 'I can write ...'
  • like butterflies on / buddleia
  • meanwhile
  • 'hello old friend ...'
  • under the blue and blue sky

category sky

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tag skyline

'scape 2* 3* 4* 5* 6* 7* 8* 20th century 1967 1979 1980 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019 acceptance afternoon air Allen Ginsberg anxiety architecture arm in arm attention awareness Batman beach beauty bedroom being birds birdsong black blue Bodhisattvacharyavatara books Bowie branches breakdown breathing breeze brown Buddha buildings career Carol cars change child childhood children city clouds coffee shop colour combe end comics communication compassion compromise crane creativity curtains dancing dark death distraction divorce doing doors dream Dr Strange earth echo Edward Hopper Eglinton Hill emergence emptiness evening eyes faces family father feet field floorboards garden Genesta Road girl giving glass gold grass green grey growth haiku hair hands Have hedge hill hills history holiday hope horizon house houses identity kitchen leaf leaves lemon letting go life lifetimes light lime listening living London looking lost love management managerialism mauve meaning mind mist moon morning mother mouth movement Mum muse music night notice open openness orange others park passing pavement people performance management pink Plumstead poetry pointlessness politics portrait posture power practice professionalism purple purpose quiet rain reaching reading realisation reality red requires chewing river roads roof rooftops samsara sea searching seeing settling shadow shops silence silhouette silver sitting sky skyline sleep smell smile snow society sound space speech step stone streetlight streets sun sunlight superhero table talking talking to myself teaching teaching craft Thames thinking thought time train travelling trees true nature university voices walking walls water waves white William Carlos Williams wind windows wood Woolwich words work world writing years yellow zazen

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