sitting in school watching the breeze move along the bushes
I see it: the universe reaching out –


reaching out as if one of those uncanny days

when the sun & moon occupy the same sky
or the silent red evening when swallows scythe to feel the breeze in the

                                                                                                cutting of the air –


unseen, she drops tender light inside a raindrop,
spectrum trapped, a world sliding down purple bell of foxglove –


I see her song of moments in memories too:

the pale young-lady wrists of my grandmother peeling potatoes
                                                                                                in cool sinkwater –


oh, sweet universe, you’ve spread across the long dawn of forever as thin waves of creation, have become in us
                a child helping his father read,

                guerrilla poets dropping free verse at graffiti bus stops in the rain,

even an old lady up late in moonlit Frome writing to Israel for the  
                                                                                                                   Palestinians –


the leap of the whale, fall of a star

ghost of Segovia ringing thru a guitar

explosion of bloom, the multitude of green,

these songs           sing         wherein universe declares herself –

does so each night under eyes that are closed, gifts us the innate meditate –


we sleep illuminated in the black, in the space between the stars,

breathe soft without knowing

as she breathes thru us cosmos w/graceful touch her waves of nothing –

empties waiting minds that practice the endless from whence we came & go

so that we might ourselves dream instead perhaps hymns of moment,
such as these –





Picture Nick Victor


a nobody & Beat Poet Laureate (England) 2022-23



Moved by A.C. Evans ‘beyond writing’ piece, by way of hoping to counterbalance the view, it’s with pleasure I offer the attached (formatted layout, below, plain text) for consideration as submission to the greatest countercultural publication of our time…all times…?


Flattery probably get me nowhere (knowhere?), but I found love at Sid Rawles’ Forest Fayre here in the Dean in 1992, and have the marks to prove it. Now writing Beat-dharma self reflections and wandering into vipassana, falling down the other side of 50; so please let me know if you accept the following. 


Either way, all the best & keep up the good work.


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