Some of my best thoughts take place on trains.
That's not to say I can't think anywhere else.
Words come easier when you're not rooted to one spot.
A harmony with my ever changing mind.
I just saw a tractor going abouts it day.
The tractor doesn't care about what nikes are on the shelf,
but should it?
I'd be more keen to purchase one of it came with a sick pair of trainers attached the bottom,
then again I'm not the target market,
Nor could I afford one.
I was in a park yesterday and heard the wind rushing through the trees.
psithurism.
I had to Google that. I saw it on a tote back once,
Isn't that sad.
That snapshot in time was the most peaceful I'd felt that weekend,
gazing at the murky canal waters only gave me a minor snippet of that feeling.
I passed Stocky P
No one calls it that apparently,
a missed opportunity if you ask me.
Everything is better in life if you make it rhyme.
Not literally everything, especially not crime.
You see?
We're stopping at Crewe now,
I wonder what the charity shops are like.
Books rich with local history or live laugh love pillows,
Either would do at this point.
This train isn't as fun now that's it's stationary,
my thoughts are slowing down.
London Euston inbound,
Suitcase wheels against the ground,
people turning their head around...
I should stop now.
All posts by hamishcraig
May Poetry: the snail and the peg
"How's it holding up" asked the snail.
"Can't you tell?"
"Not really, I'm a snail"
"You don't say"
"I don't like to race to conclusions either"
"Makes sense, guess we're not cut from the same cloth"
"What do you mean?"
"Suppose things are just a bit slower down here"
"Maybe because there's less of a breeze?"
"Yeh, but also I don't constantly feel like I'm hanging on by a thread"
"Must be nice"
"Why'd you say that?" asked the Peg in return.
"Feel like I've always got the weight of the world on my shoulders."
"You don't say, what's the mortgage on that thing anyway?"
"Mortgage?"
"Nevermind. How're things back at home?"
"Alright, just trying to balance it all is getting quite difficult."
"Are you taking the mick?"
"My life does feel like a joke at the moment"
"Feel like you're being hung out to dry?"
"Exactly, not like I've got eyes on the back of my head"
"I hear you."
The two continued to talk for the next few hours, wooden smiles slowly extending across their faces.
April Poetry: A good read
He'd found himself
nestled between the pages
of a book again.
The grand ceilings
and gentle mutterings of which
vibrated through the wooden shelves he was leaning on had always comforted him.
These keeper of books had
existed long before him,
and they'd likely exist long after,
save for a fire...or worse.
At that point he'd become distracted by
the swaying of a summers dress,
carrying embers of the chaos that
existed outside the library walls.
The heat today was somewhat unbearable,
the books and archaic paintings gatekeeping
the cool air that drifted in between these walls.
He looked up from the hem,
her eyes meeting his for a fleeting second,
she seemed too focused for fools like
him,
driven by an inate sense of pride,
or at least that's what he'd told himself.
For all he knew,
quiet book dwellers were
far from her usual type.
Returning to the familiar feel of the crumpled pages,
his heart beat began to calm once more.
Gliding his finger across the wrinkled
edges was as close to physical connection
he'd come across in the past
24 hours.
A book could hardly reject it's reader,
at least not verbally,
an experience he'd hardly want to
live out again.
One was enough embarrassment to last
a lifetime.
If only he'd been as good with words back then
as he was now,
not that it'd matter in the slightest.
He'd have still failed to
squeak out a retort even if he'd
had had an Oxford English Dictionary at hand.
Anyway, it wouldn't have been gentlemanly
to bark back,
he was better than that,
or so he'd told himself during the
late hours of night.
Abandoned Shoe Stories
When browsing the web for more hidden books on footwear, I came across a rather interesting magazine on Onitsuka Tiger. Among the photos in the advertised post was an image that detailed an assortment of shoes all of which had a red piece of string tied to them. Fascinated by this photo, I would soon learn that this was an exhibition created by a Japanese artist called Chiharu Shiota. In her piece called Dialogue from DNA, Chiharu viewed footwear from a perspective I’d never considered before, finding how “objects can contain the air of an absence, about how nothingness often speaks volubly about objects and people.”
“One of Shiota’s favorite works is an assortment of used shoes that she collected from various people in her neighborhood in Osaka. “I asked them to write out little histories attached to the shoes, and the result was extraordinary,” she says. “I got messages about how a woman wore a particular pair of black pumps on the day of her husband’s funeral, about a girl who had worn a pair of sneakers on the occasion of a break-up with her boyfriend. Some of the shoes were battered and had holes, others were crushed and looked like cabbages; others were practically new but a little sinister-looking.” Shiota displayed the shoes in such a way that they looked as though their owners had just left them there temporarily, and would soon be back to wear them and stride out the door.” – Page 50 Onitsuka Tiger 60th Made Of Japan. (Words by Kaori Shoji. Photo by Sunhi Mang.)
I recognised this view myself, having photographed abandoned footwear since my trip to Peru back in 2022. I think what sparked it was when I spotted a sandal being ingeniuously used as a door hinge. At that point, the object had transformed into something I had never realised it could be. During the time it made me chuckle, but since I have taken it to be a revelatory moment.
Since moving to the Big Smoke I have found myself taking photos of any discarded shoes that I have come by, all in the hope that I can one day include them in my book on shoes. Giving people a multi-layered approach to the vast world that is the objects that go on our feet.
To a certain degree, shoes are the only item of clothing left that truly reveals who we are, at least when it comes to the Western world and the generation born in the 90s upwards. Similar to what Yohji Yamamoto was saying in Wim Wenders’ documentary about him, the days when you could tell someone’s profession by what they wore are long gone. A shoe says a lot about someone, even more so when they are not being worn by said person. Whether someone is shy or confident, how they walk, their beliefs, their ability to dance the night away, their priorities and their insecurities are all tied onto that person’s foot at the start of the day.
However tempted I have been to pick up these discarded trainers or sandals, I realise that it would not be practical in the slightest, especially because I already own more shoes than the average person. So having considered the moral and even hygienic aspects of taking all these objects, regardless of if I end up hosting what could be a similar exhibition to Shiota’s Dialogue from DNA, I have decided it best to stick to a digital perspective (…at least for now).
Where Shiota has asked the person who donated their shoes to add a storied note, I will have to stick to a combination of simple facts as well as a sprinkling of artistic license. Where I found the shoe, the type of day it was, what mood I was in, what brand and year the shoe is from are all questions which first spring to mind.
If you do know of any picturesque pieces of footwear that have been thrown away on the streets of London, then by all means drop me a message or better yet, send in a shot that you took yourself!
Big Ben and a Pint of Guinness
Since moving to London, part of the proverbial dream has been to enjoy a cold pint of Guinness while taking in the bongs of Big Ben. It may seem silly to some, one not even worth having according to others, however, I look past this just as you should. Of course, it is not the dream, the one that keeps me up at night (perhaps it did on one occasion), those are somewhat more personal.
As I was heading home after hoovering down the tastiest of lunches in what I was told to believe, was the only Costa Rican restaurant in London, I suddenly realised how close I was to Elizabeth Tower. Having stopped at Westminster, I checked my watch and knew it would only be fifteen minutes until Big Ben’s hourly chime. I impulsively got off, narrowly avoiding the closing doors. I felt like I was the star in an action film, like if Jason Bourne was trying to maniacally hear the sound of a clock. Perhaps a plot suggestion for the kids version if they ever fancy rebranding.
Stepping out of the station, I spotted a pub, a mere hundred metres under the gaze of the Golden Tower. With less than fifteen minutes to settle myself and grab a pint of Guinness, time was of the essence (pardon the pun). £6.95 later and I was sat on the nearest seat possible, giving myself the best view of the historic building. Next to me sat a tourist couple feasting on a portion of fish and chips, an apt detail given the overall context.
Three police motorbikes would race past at 16:56, their sirens only adding to the anticipation, a piercing noise that risked swallowing up the moment I was here to witness. Luckily, things quietened down in the minute lead-up, an understanding among the crowd of people that they too were about to hear the oldest sound of London itself.
The chimes rang loud and clear, a noise that captured the attention of those below it, a feat it had proudly carried out for over a century. Caught up in capturing the video, I lost the magic of the first set of chimes, allowing myself to fully appreciate the deeper bongs that had long been a part of British culture. Whether it was on the BBC news at 6 PM or one of the many BBC archive documentaries, it was the first time I could remember hearing its magnificent chimes in person – a memory I shall never forget.
Now I can neither confirm nor deny that this is the exact pint glass I photographed alongside Big Ben. All I can say is that this particular glass of squash tasted a lot more refreshing than usual. Make of that what you will…
March Poetry: We Exist
We exist on the periphery.
The road less travelled,
where the sheep tend to sleep,
and the cows will always graze.
The sun still shines here
like a cheap jacket,
warm but not fulfilling.
We exist on the edge.
Where shadows are cast,
the wind still blows here
its face unseen
but always felt.
I exist on the last ledge of mankind.
Where one step would see me drift off
into a black abyss,
flying past stars that only exist
in blurry photos,
ones printed in big textbooks
where people try and understand
the painted world around them,
moments before the artist
swaps the canvas,
and we all must start again.
We exist on the periphery.
Footwear Grails: The Nike Mercurial Moc
A few years ago during the first lockdown, I spotted a cool photo of England forward Emile Heskey. Now while the ex-Liverpool striker is an icon in the world of football, his off-pitch dress sense was not something he was known for. Either way, in the photo shown below, Heskey is seen posted up with three other England teammates in their rest day attire. All of them are rocking a form of Moc hybrid, however, the main man steals the show with his murdered-out pair of Nike Mercurial Slides.
Having acknowledged the Mercurial line as a legendary football boot during my younger years, this Hyrbid Moc was definitely a piece of footwear I was eager to get my hands on. Since March 2020 I kept my eye out for them, searching far and wide, only coming across the occasional UK6 at a hefty price point. Naturally, my hopes began to fade, this was until four years later when an impromptu lunchtime Vinted-browse finally had me stumbling across them. Frantically messaging the seller for more photos and a size confirmation, I managed to secure them for just under £30.
Granted they did look a little worn, but nothing I couldn’t brush past with a fine comb and a can-do attitude. Collecting them from the local In-Post locker a few days later, anticipation was so high that I ended up ripping apart the packaging and waving them in the air like that toilet paper scene out of Stepbrothers (if you don’t do this every time you buy a 12 Pack then get in the mix).
As soon as I made it back home they went straight on feet, envisaging myself enjoying a day off from the National Team’s training in a full Umbro tracksuit … oh and also as Emile Heskey (the latter of which was harder to imagine). The mood took a slight hit once I found out that the left foot smelt of cigarettes, a risk any Vinted warrior has to endure from time to time, needless to say the top-down view was worth marvelling at.
Waking up the next day and checking up on how the “freshening up” process was going, I was also hit with the fact that they were a size UK11 and not UK12. A detail not too upsetting had it not been for me asking the seller to double check if the sizing was correct but alas, I would still be able to prance around the house feeling like an off-duty Heskey so not all was lost.
In hopes of lifting my spirits, I trekked down to the Thames to snap a photo of my new favourite Mocs in front of Tower Bridge. A questionable act, yet one that made sense in my head. Finally hunting down a grail which admittedly smelt of a forty-pack and was one size too small felt good, so to celebrate the achievement I decided it necessary to photograph them in front of the symbolically powerful Tower Bridge. For any of you still trying to hunt down that elusive item, dreams can come true!
Big Ben and Stewed Eels
My sudden thirst to hear the historical chimes of Big Ben was somewhat quenched over the weekend. Hearing its quarter bell ring certainly had its effect on me, however as we moved closer to its grand presence, the mood was soured due to an unfortunate Deliveroo driver accident. My want for historical vibrations had dampened after seeing another human being lying unconscious on Westminster Bridge, an apt metaphor for the times in which we currently live (he was okay in the end). Nevertheless, the goal of hearing Big Ben sing out with a Guinness in hand is very much still alive. I’m sure a sunny day in Spring should do the trick.
Saturday would carry on the London-centric theme, another day to embrace the rich culture that formed some of Big Smoke’s various plumes. Heading to Mile End, it was but a short walk to G. Kelly’s, an institution that had been beating away since 1939. Throughout the decades, Kelly’s would have served many an East Londoner, all of whom I suspect left with bellies full and a smile upon their face. Arriving just after three with the market outside beginning to peter out, the five of us nestled ourselves in amongst the booths.
2 Pie, 1 Mash is what I ordered along with a portion of Stewed Eels. After seeing a marvellous BBC Archives video on Jellied Eels the week before, I was adamant on trying a few of the wriggly sea creatures, however, one glance at them left me a little hesitant. Afraid of missing out, I opted for a Stewed Bowl instead.
The pies and mash went down a treat, helped by Kelly’s selection of chilli-infused vinegar oil that gave them an extra kick. Ten minutes later, the bowl of Eels had made its way onto the table, “watch out for the bones” warned the man. I took my first bite, the ’70s market stool owner’s cockney accent replaying in my ears, I hoped he’d be proud. As you might be able to tell, I’m not all too well-versed with food reviews, so I’ll just say they were hearty. Not as fishy as the tomatoed sardines I’d had the night before, but fishy nonetheless. The questionably green liquor helped ease them down, and a few minutes later they had met the same fate as the two pies before it.
A short stroll led us to a corner pub, the red-tiled exterior and dimly lit features had all the markings of a great local. A couple of Guinness would swiftly follow, coupled with a solid assortment of London-based chat. All in all, a great weekend and wholesome evening. London aye.
January Poetry: Wooden Smiles
Smiles across the table
felt different,
more lines to count
between the ripples in the bark.
They had once grown tall
reaching for the sun,
realising it was not heat they were after
but warmth.
One found low down on the Forrest floor
where leaves had
began to wither and
yellow.
Light breaking
through the canopy,
beams more beautiful
to acknowledge
than the walls of light above.
Their smiles would speak of stories
most of which were the
ones they told before,
more and more unaware
that the remaining few that were so much
harder to share.
Their walls like the canopy
would grow thick and dense,
blocking out the light that was
always there.
From then on we let the beams through
and warmth with it,
allowing that which lay down below
the best chance to grow.
Buying Shoes in Return To Seoul
I finally watched Return To Seoul the other day. It will stay with me for a long time. As if this was Ji-Min Park’s debut acting appearance.
Similar to a scene in Paris, Texas by Wim Wenders where the protagonist has a line of shoes sat on a wall after having polished them because of his insomnia.
This scene involves the main character’s (Freddie) father offering to buy her a pair of shoes from the village market from his childhood. There’s a deep connection when buying someone footwear, especially when it comes to your child.
Here, the father takes the opportunity to protect his daughter’s feet, a role he would have enjoyed filling if he had not regrettably given her up for adoption decades ago. His longing for connection is a feeling we encounter throughout the film’s runtime, achieved here in a minor way through this simple act.
Growing up in a catholic school, you would often hear about Jesus washing the feet of his disciples. A symbolic act, this idea was referred to many a time, its meaning something I still have yet to fully appreciate to this day.
The symbolism in this scene can go amiss, it’s only fleeting afterall – yet its moments like this where director Davy Chou has gradually painted a portrait which feels so very real.
If I ever create a book about footwear then best believe this moment will be printed in amongst the pages.
Couldn’t recommend this film more, especially if you’re in your mid 20s.
Sidenote – I do actually rate Ballet shoes
wear shoes, write poems 