by Anonymous

I was carried away in a green and grey chariot
faster than lightning at the break of dawn, faster
than the years that were to age us. 

[motorising distance into something fluid, two 
hundred miles was mobile, a mere matter
of eight hours or so with stops in-between, it seems
that we lost and shed our smog soaked skin, that day–]

Now, that green and grey chariot is a ramshackle old thing, 
it has taken me away and halfway back again, in my new 
middle ground, equilibrium unexpected. It trundles the miles 

like a time machine, filled and unfilled, dawns and evenings
and sparkling, secret gold spilled over and over and into luscious clear lakes,
and dreams. It felt like freedom, to be mobile, to be 

propelled from painful knowledge that I am known
into the blossom of anonymity and a chance at definition, 
from that moment onwards I told myself I was new. 

my story is one, even now, that I choose to tell backwards:
starting with the future and the dreams of my ideal, 
and ending with that which shaped me, information too

heavy, too monumental for others to know, too important, 
too vulnerable. I guard my secrets fiercely, knowing 
that with secrets comes intimacy, and trust, oh, trust.

The Poor Print

Established in 2013, The Poor Print is the student-run newspaper of Oriel College, Oxford. Written by members of the JCR, MCR, SCR and staff, new issues are published fortnightly during term. Our current Executive Editors are Siddiq Islam and Jerric Chong.

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