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
