MSc Early Intervention in Psychosis, Institute of Psychiatry, Psychology and Neuroscience
New Year Moon
The luminous New Year moon Ascends in empty moorlands instead of the red and gold splendour of Banquet halls eight hours forward or in the ice-white lights of my grandparents’ home, their table cramped with bewitching dishes, stuffed chairs, Neen Gou, Lo Baak Gou, wizened smiles springing with pride but too blurry to gaze upon and they at last rip out an intolerable Wail I cannot suppress, as this stay was meant to be brief. therefore this is a Liminal place I’m not meant to be in - I Declare, and my hoarse cry stomps against my sternum then chains any chance to weave myself into your geography where grey air is scarcely humid, where sunbeams scarcely drizzle down but Here dense swathes of sky clouded with pepper spray no longer seize my flesh, yet the knotted veins of my heart shoot & sink into coastal wetlands, a branching organ of Mangrove trees - swept across a city fragrant with the ghostly sting of tear gas clinging to the saltwater of the Harbour we’ve
fledmoved from, and we flock - We flock to white planes, each Flight the 3rd exoduswave of a stifling force wedged between the Snap-quick shift from crown, to party, both imperial, but one Let go and watched the other dismantle bit by damn bit, so we leave just to Breathe. and in the clear air of the moorlands I topple onto my back, fingers stretched towards a crawling moon bereft of joy, waxing shut once again. yet its saccharine glow lingers as I fail to grip its damp cheeks, and I confess at last: “I can never return.”
Neen Gou – New Year Cake （年糕） Lo Baak Gou – Radish cake（蘿白糕）
PhD in English, Arts & Humanities
i. After seeds the squirrel develops a taste for plastic a Book you carry but don’t read a freehold sky blue metres squared it’s tempting to make a comparison to hemispheres Sussex coast a sleeping giant growing numbers settled state there never was any space it leads there the Green Chapel stroke of New Year leaf fall presaged the wounded keel in the direction of their wounds “I love football.”
Author’s note: the above is an extract from a work-in-progress, a long poem that haunts pastoral and narrative epic in a meditation on intertwined crises of fascism, climate disaster and social reproduction in the UK today. ‘Brut’ refers to medieval chronicles that recount the founding myths of Britain.