the map is not the territory

I should have guessed:
the map is not the territory -
what can't be known must be felt,
must be lived in vivid shades.

but what of this darkness?
it must be faced blind and
raw as a red baby, it must
be touched by skinned hands
and mortal years.

do all of us go by the same road?
for all our armour, do we sleep
with equal innocence, and fight
for our small corners
with the same animal surety?

pain travels under so many names:
a universal unknowable - it
cannot be borne, cannot be
translated, carried each to each,
across all those human borders.

preda tory years

I found a notebook from my second year of university. I went through all the notes I'd made and scrawled over in angry pencil marks.

Here are some lines I found. At the time I thought they were ideas that didn't go anywhere but now I think I can let them stand alone.

.......................

Stand back.

I don’t want your

blood on my hands.

………….

I don't sleep for fear

I will wake too soon.

...........

I shall fight a war for independence &

my weapons shall be words.

................

Cards down. Lights out. All in.

Darlin'.

............

On the coldest night of my life

we woke up to find

England, dressed in white.

..............

In times to come we will laugh about all this.

No defeat is so final that we cannot rebuild.

You said you feel like a post-war city, grey,

all weakness burned away.