Dear Reader,

I am sorry for this prolonged interlude in uploads.

I have been holed up in my office, nostalgic for a child-like state of consciousness,

where the need to control every facet of life did not exist, because I had not yet been conditioned as such,

where the simple fun of play – the uncomplicated wistfulness of running with reckless abandon – was enough to levitate the heart;

where things could be accomplished with the might of a fleeting whim, the moment it entered the mind,

where there was yet things to be discovered, in an unknowable world.

Now, I know too much and doubt often clouds my mind.

What now, when I am so aware of the self, the exterior body – a world of surfaces?

How do I return to that child-like state?

The time of possibility, that escapes the gravity of our time,

that sees no war nor terror,

no trees collapsing – seeping – into dust,

nor existentialist reminders of the fragility of life.

Oh, to enter that space of consciousness again.

– Body

A spindling mass of intricate fibres,

bundled together to create what resembles “human”.

A creation of beauty in all its robust and unwavering strength.

The shame comes from my audacity to pick, poke and prod at those “unsuitable areas”.

After all, you were not birthed to be looked at, but to enact movement, energy , the very nature of life itself.

You are here to take up space, with arms wide, to run with reckless abandon, disturbing, waking up the planes of this earth.

Agitate the stagnant air with the careless yell of your inner child – listen to them, often.

Expel what does not serve you – everything you need is already within your reach.

Breath in the howls of the North wind and let them come home.

A Wandering in Time

How is it to wander through the inner workings of the universe?

Whom should I ask about the order of time?

Is it the steadfast oak who collects rings of time, 

watching on undeterred by the most violent of storms?

Or perhaps, it is the unrelenting, cyclical flow of water, 

patient in its weathering of entire coastal landscapes – 

It is everywhere and nowhere on this vast earthly expanse,

and never for a second wondering where is home?

Should I take a seat in front of the Mirror Erised demanding a vision of the future, 

simply because I am as fearful and vulnerable as a child, 

whose entire reality rests upon the present moment. 

Or should I become one and the same as the pines, 

who have no choice but to rise with dignity each day,

regardless of humanity’s fate. 

I know this much. 

Aside from arbitrary measurements: day and night, 

Love and loss, months on months, 

when the wandering mind looks upon the starry expanse, 

as many scholars have done before, 

that thing we call time is felt when it ceases to exist altogether.

These Lungs

Holkham National Reserve, UK

A poem written during the pandemic

They keep saying, this won’t last forever,

But the four walls that I inhabit now mark the four corners of my soul. 

Entrapment is at once physical, as it is mental. 

I feel as though I have not exhaled since March,

And yet my lungs have not ruptured. 

These lungs have soared on mountain tops, sharing the eagle’s air. 

These lungs have faltered when you were pushed down, 

                                                                                         down,

                                                                                                   down,

to the depths of the local pool in harmless, childish play.

You should know: 

I reached the surface, 

I inhaled life into limp legs, 

taught myself how to breathe again, 

how to live again. 

When running became the only option, I ran my first 10,000 metres.

When reading became the only option, I lived in my imagination.

When breathing is the only option, we must choose life.

Life is different now, but so am I.

Half the Battle

Now I realise that the poetry would quite happily write itself, 

if only I would open the document, 

unveiling the ego with the shattering luminosity of a blank white page. 

Now I realise that half the battle is pretending that there is no time for indulgence, 

in my thoughts and creativity, 

when it is only ample and abundant, waiting to be expressed. 

I await the battle cry and feel myself sweat with the shame of an anticipatory release. 

But I could never be as great as them,

could I? 

Surely they were possessed by the creative divinity, that escapes the great multitude. 

But what if creativity is simply time?

The desperate and unwavering will to discover what is deeper;

the certain truth that makes you tremble to voice it. 

What if that was the only thing that we dared to speak?