(Re)Wilding Poems

What is nature?

Is it that which lives at the edges of our society?

Adaptable, hidden in plain sight?

“Not subdued by the will of others”?

Self willed? Wild?

‘Other’?

Land can re-wild itself

If left to its own devices

Clear of human interference

Living outside of this world

Has allowed me to create my own

As an artist

I bring things into creation everyday

So this was no different

It’s taken me a long time to arrive at this point,

And I am still unlearning

I am unlearning through remembering

Remembering who I am

(Re)wilding who I thought I could be.

I walk my dog and I’m not in a rush

She is my guide

I walk at her pace

She’s taught me endless things about the value of thing that we can’t see

The messages and stories

written out of sight

Commitment to unexplained patterns and routine irregularities

Predictably unpredictable

Curiosity embodied

No reason or why she does the things she does

She doesn’t nicely fit into a gender

She gets called a good boy as much as I get called mate and sir

We fit nicely together

Two self willed mis-fits

There’s something about carrying a bag of poo that makes you view the humour in the strangest of situations

You cannot be cool and pick up a poo

She’s my best friend

But not in the way I expected a dog to be

She defies any expectations of what a dog is

Stubbornly refusing to participate in any dog related behaviour

The mystery as to why we would throw some thing and want her to bring it back?

There is one thing for which I am endlessly grateful

Her never ending ability

To return me from my thoughts

into the now

Here there is isolation

But I am not alone 🌿

Here I held the weight of others fears

Of what they did not know

Of curiosity forgotten

Of not having control

Structure and power and oppression

And isolation

I am not sure yet who my community is

I walk my dog

As a point of recognition

To find the common ground

Amongst old ghosts

And Memories of a sometime ago

When I sacrificed myself

At the alter of approval

Not knowing

That it was an impossible labour

And the Earth nearly held me in their arms

For loving another

Loving the ‘other’

They feared the unknown and I held that within me

And it was their fear that nearly killed me

Under the rotting leaves I grew again

‘They did not know I was a seed’

In the dark i came to know myself much closer

the will of others is not mine to hold

I am (re)becoming who I always will be

The hand that grows me is again my own

It’s in the care and trust I now show myself

And through the will of mine and mine along

The grass now grows much longer here

And the wildflowers sow their own

The balance here is returning

And in this way I am (re)wilding.

Endlessly curious

Learning to speak

with the stones from the Earth

and the birds in the garden

I breathe in

History written in the land

Forgotten languages buried in our place names

Who knew every field had a given name?

There's a beauty in imperfection.

A Creativity.

A celebration in being out of focus

A child’s mind is limitless

The future is

An assumption

There is danger in the unknown.

Yet we try to know what is unknowable

Walking the dog

She is in no rush

she lives in a world of unseen

under the hedge and on the corner of walls

a language I cannot know

there is an invisible community in these roads

history, magic, lore together

a language I can’t speak

but understand

Starlings

Iridescence

Golden Green

5 birds in one

whistle and pop above my head

decorate every chimney

their murmurations

capture me

and remain unnoticed by the dog

our stopping causes the sparrows to burst from the hedge

screaming at our incursion

their tiny bodies full of every sound they can muster

To distinguish each sound

from the bird it comes from

I know there’s tiny teaspoons flying through the air

long before I see them

long before I knew their name

Long- tailed tits

Tiny flocks of energy, bouncing from tree to tree

Their peep peep peeps a language I can’t speak

but have come to understand

Expectation

Can be a killer of imagination

When you concentrate so hard on making something fit that you forget there can be other ways to make things happen

The worst thing about being a queer artist is making queer work

The expectation of producing work that is queer and definitively so

The best thing about being queer is that it’s at right angles to what fits

It isn’t what you expect it to be

And so is my work

Definitively infinitive

Defies restriction

Critical reflection

From an outside perspective

Of someone who did all the right things but still couldn’t please others

And still didn’t fit

And still didn’t want to

At right angles to what fits

This work is queer.

how do we relate to our space?

are we kind?

do you invite in empathy?

we are not the only ones who call this space home

centuries of memories are stored in this landscape

ghosts and memories, long forgotten but remembered.

my ancestry is among the soil

which soil I do not know

I am drawn to plants

I am drawn to language

I’m drawn to places I don’t know the location of

I am drawn to share with the trees

I believe my body holds

ancestral knowledge

my relationships with these beings

forgotten but not forgotten

a knowing but a not knowing

relearning

about self

about kinship

about relationship to the land

I wanted some more information

so I called

to my brightest and well ancestors

those healthy and well enough,

healed from trauma

ready to lend wisdom

I wanted to know more,

I wanted to share

they wanted dandelion tea

they’re always here

in my life

in my body

ready to speak to me

ready to share

holding years of wisdom and knowledge

encouraging me to reach out to old friends

ones I once knew but I am remembering

drawn to speak languages

that are similar to the ones they used to speak

dw i'n trio gofio

(I’m trying to remember)

nature as a knowing and a not knowing

our relationship to nature

from nature we can learn about our self

a having and not having

we cannot hold or control

(a human need to control?)

wanting it to be a certain way

we cannot control it

it is wild

we must let go

everything we attempt to preserve is dead

everything we create is in the process of decaying

being drawn to plants

because of an ancestral familiarity

heritage

being called by plants

kinship

ancient connection

ancient magic

knowing without knowing

being drawn to birds

because of an an ancestral relationship

being drawn to trees,

ancient wisdom,

being drawn to soil

connection to the earth

the soil is everything that is dead

but it is the source of life

Dear Nanny,

All the things I am unable to tell you:

I’m worried to share my art work and exhibition with you.

It hurts when you call my girlfriend my ‘friend’

and when you spoke carelessly about transgendered people without really understanding what it means

I am transgender.

I am not a girl.

I’m non-binary

I don’t want to be a woman. (or a man)

I’m terrified of you coming to my exhibition, although you might say you don’t understand it, I’m scared of sharing it with you

I love being in your garden with you, it’s so lovely sharing that space and your love for the plants.

It breaks my heart when you talk about what work needs doing when it’s beautiful in it’s own wild way.

I feel like I’ve disappointed you, sometimes.

When mom talks about how grandad would have felt about me being gay, it makes me really sad.

I hope you’re proud of who I am

I hope you know your kindness lives in me as well

I love your tough but gentle spirit

Thank you for all your love, and care throughout my life.

I love you lots

Emma

I’d love to make a scary atmospheric film about

The countryside as it has a lot of potential to be a very scary place

Amongst the perfect hanging baskets and neat lawns it’s sometimes hard to imagine

But if I’m honest it’s the ‘lack’ that’s truly scary

The absence

The turned faces when you walk past them,

The absence of recognition or smile when there was just one there

The silence that lingers when you arrive at the bus stop

It’s the lack of reply when we ask if we can also sit at the picnic bench at the park

Or the parents pulling their children away from ours

The empty park after there was just playing children, their parents deciding moving away from us wasn’t enough

The absence of a hello when you greet the shop keeper

Or when the bus driver says nothing after you thank him - maybe because your voice surprised him and he thought you were a man who knows

The owners and their dogs crossing over when they see you coming down the road

The silence from them as they walk past stone faced

The empty seat next to me on the bus, I always put my bag on the floor

On the train people go to sit down and see me and move on

I’m not imagining this

I experienced it a lot differently before I shaved my hair and pierced my nose

Before I had a girlfriend with tattoos and a child.

I don’t even go to the pub anymore

Sometimes the silence is worse than the questions.

The ‘lack’ means there’s something missing.

It goes deeper than words

Why am I collecting seeds?

Am I terrified that summer will never come again and that nothing will ever grow

That the wet earth with rotting leaves will be the only thing left forever

Am I scared spring will never come

Or do I want to be safe in the knowledge that when the last frost is over

I’ll be able to start that cycle again

Are those your bones?

Finger bones lying on the ground?

My mistake they’re sessile oak branches

All lying in a row.

I collect them up

In my hand

They could be your bones

When your flesh had fallen away

Into the land

To grow the tree

From the acorn

The lay of the land

The map of my skin

The path I am treading

Open within

Ways are unfolding

After uncertainty ruled

I followed my heart

After not knowing the truth

The lay of the land

Wrinkles through time

Past present and future

All present in me

Circular path

I’m present again

From whom have I come

To who will I be

The past is unknown

The future’s in me

Beginning again

Spiral around

Learning once more

So I can move on

The map I am making

As I move though my way

Beginning in circles

Uncertainty’s ok

Sometimes not knowing

Is a beautiful thing

There’s more I can learn

And the future can bring

Recording on the way to the bus stop (transcript)

I wish I could capture everything I see with my eyes on video

that would make a really nice film

But i can’t

you won’t see the bluetit that I just saw

and you won’t see the rose I just walked past

and the starlings that are on the roof of somebodies house

I can still hear the bluetit

it’s flying around by itself

but it won’t really be the same

if i’d recorded it on my phone

you won’t be able to hear it as well as I can

it’s a shame

because he sounds really sweet

I can hear the starlings

they’re all on someone’s chimney

on the aerial

and there’s more

on the next house

*car goes past*

starlings are so beautiful

they have iridescent feathers

and their song sounds like lots of birds are sat there

sometimes it’s just one bird

I wish you could smell the lavender that I’m smelling

I wish you could

because it smells really good

*bike free- wheels past*

I can smell it even when I walk the dog in the morning

and I’m on the other side of the road

it always calls me

as I walk past

*van drives past*

always brings me back to where I am

reminds me that it’s time to relax

or something

it’s funny because lavender is associated with relaxation but it’s also associated with er psychic abilities

so that’s an interesting contradiction I guess

I’m nearly at the bus stop

there’s more starlings flying above my hear

more roses i’m walking past

red ones, orange ones, pink ones, different type of pink

there’s a tree- it’s the same tree- split at the base

half of it’s leaves are orange and half of them are still green

*bluetit calls*

I see orange berries on a bush

and one tree has orange leaves in the middle - I think it’s a lime tree,

hawthorn tree - it’s only a baby

and mountain ash - what’s mountain ash called? rowan

hawthorn is a magical tree

very old knowledge in hawthorn trees

and rowan trees

very old, old knowledge

hawthorn trees there’s a lot of mythology and folklore surrounding them

apparently if you bring a branch in with flowers on in spring -imbolc I think it is?

it’s supposed to keep spirits away from your house (note: evil spirits)

not sure - I”ll have to check

there’s a big crow just landed very gracefully on top of the church roof

*car drives past*

there’s another one

he’s very big

*bird’s alarm call in background*

is that a bluetit or a robin? can’t work out

the bus should be here soon

(re)wilding is coming back to nature

it’s finding yourself within the landscape

it’s feeling the earth in your fingers

everything is real and it’s right here

(re)wilding is losing myself in the magic of the everyday

and not being afraid to get struck by awe

even by the the oft’ overlooked

(re)wilding is about finding myself

is about becoming self- willed

unlearning how I was previously subdued by society

here in this landscape

sharing my queer everyday

is a counter to the narrative of the rural environment being a heterosexual space

I grew up not knowing I could be anything other than straight

yet here I am, queering the landscape

(re)wilding

I am part of an ancient practice

practiced by those who came before

the practice of looking and of seeing

listening quietly to the land.

(hearing the language of the land.)

hearing the whispers in the wind

the voices of those who came before

working slowly with cycles

listening quietly to the land

the practice of looking and of seeing

clear knowing of what isn’t told

looking up into the night

hearing the language of the land

a timeless universal tongue

The birds come to me in my dreams

Befriending the birds with food

Jackdaw, crow and dunnocks

Long tailed tits, magpies

The plants talk to me there too

Fennel, rosemary

Dog roses

Wild roses

Wild, willed, self willed

re wilding in the only way you know how

listening to your body

listening when the wind calls your name

and the trees reach out for you

returning your earthly body to the land it needs

the plants have missed you all this time

calling your name ever since you left

the trees knew you had to leave

and you’d return once you were ready

and now you’re back with eyes wide open

open to the things you can’t see

it’s clear knowing in an ancient language

language you can’t speak but understand

now you’re part of an ancient practice

an ancient practice upon the land

you know it deep inside your body

you’re not even sure how

but inside you carry ancient wisdom

ancient wisdom from the land

and you’re gradually (re)wilding

learning slowly what you once knew

the old ways might be gone for now

but they’re rewilding slowly inside you

I am part of an ancient practice

practiced by those who came before

the practice of hearing and of seeing

clear knowing upon the land.

Spiralic

(Re)turning

Returning

To your body

(Re)wilding

Coming home

(Co) creating your self

With the landscape

Coming back to the spaces

Coming back to the land

(Re)finding our way

Returning home

Here with nature

And the soil

When we have nothing

We always have something

consider your own perception of identity

consider your experience of your world

your experience of place

finding your way

( your way )

finding your place

( your place )

the experience of place

( of space )

far from what you know

( from what you think you know)

what others see in you

( see of you )

in a place you once knew

once called home

and you had to run

( away )

from the whispers and the stares

( the voices of others)

to find who you were

to experience your self

( your identity )

undefined by place

( by space )

undefined by the landscape

now you know

who you are

you’re stronger

but here you stand

ready to make this place you used to know

into your home

the ghosts of encounters and memories

are still here

but so are new voices

ready to begin again

to find yourself

amongst the brambles

shielded by thorns

covered by leaves

your return to the land

to the soil

to the dirt

amongst the decay

a new life begins

the cycle is restarting

(re)wilding

Daughter

Mother

Crone

Maiden

She who brings life

old, wise, death

3 faced deity

virgo, carer,

autumn, september

End of the summer

life coming to an end.

flowers die.

But within the crumpled head-

a seed. New life

Dropped to the soil

Frozen. Reborn

in the spring,

Brìd, exhaulted one

Birthes the new year

The soil warms and the plant grows again

within me I hold

daughter, mother, crone

creation, destruction-

rebirth

those who have come before me

live in the land

their winds whisper to me

Leaves, plants,

Spirits, trees

Their names in my mind,

but not on my tongue

An ageless language

spoken by few

heard by some

old knowledge

returned to the land,

the air,

the water

reborn.

The cycle never ends.

Bríd, Briggit, Bridget

Exalted one, bringer of life, of spring

Coming back from the dark

From the earth we were born

From the earth we shall return

Made from soil, creation of soul

We will return our bodies to earth

To live on again

In another form, another life

Child of this land

Mothered, grown by this land

And to the arms of the land I will return

I want to film the birds

But I cannot

Because everytime I go outside

The birds fly away from me