Day 30 - 30th Jan
SCHWAY
There is a proper way to drink champagne
And you don't know it
Flutes
Rules
Magnums
There are weak points in the neck
Pop them off
with saber.
Thick white napkin
Shall be wrapped around shoulders as
Cashmere will wrap around the Kennedys
Not divined by you
Success is a private party
To which you will never receive an invite.
So says that dull and insistent soothsayer
Such is his introjection
On and on.
So ensconced
In commandeered watchtower.
"Play is for children
And spoilt men."
He has them always
He has them then
Deep within a compound
Of ancient design
No access
No sightlines.
Feel, don't think
I say.
It's easier this day
Over that day
But what amazes me
is there is always a way.
A small and pathetic way
It's only when they are brought to their knees
Do they see the loose floorboard of entry.
"He's wisened, never seems to tire, so surely he must be right?"
Might must mean right?
Surely now, Might must sometimes mean righ-
“Cowshite”.
I say , “Has a sweet smell
Until you are right
Up against it
And then the methane tank is an abyss
That will knock you out
And drown your whole family”.
Might does not mean right.
"He doesn't like your silliness,"
They'll say
Doesn't like play
Overdrives at nighttime
Cruises in the day.
"He naps in the day,"
For he's young enough to nap sometimes
When he's had a big day.
Incredulous.
I deliver the clout
"Yes, after a big day when he's really tuckered out,"
He sleeps.
Sometimes for hours
"I get a lot done."
Of course - you power through five courses
And then he wakes,
Catches you in degustation
And rages and rages and rages
For he lives in utter privation
At this perennial post.
This awful station.
No more than a child.
They are listening now not as students to me
But as ally.
As guilty superpower.
So late to their responsibility.
But solemn in its atonement.
"From this watchtower, not citadel,"
That looms over the city
The turning point is us sending up
The feeling (not the thought)
Of pity.
True pity rinsed of all.
Pure in its thrall
And what a squall! In his heart now.
Boy king
But boy
And boys would rather be mad than sad
And then the tower speaks darkness and sadness and woe across the city.
Stay steadfast
Don't complain
You ushered in this pity
And his squall is not a hurricane
If you let it blow through
Condensing down the alleyways
There's nothing you can do.
But stay indoors
For a time.
And emerge one early morning
To the crispy realisation
Of his utter devastation.
But sometimes shitholes
Look better the morning after.
After the hurricane.
The belt is cleared
The good buildings untouched.
You can build shoddily upon it again
You probably will
Until you learn his lesson
His lesson.
But while others pick through for knick-knacks amongst the bricks and sticks and stones.
Walk away now
Don't look back
Walk straight up to the watchtower now
Guards all off at home.
And up to him
Sleeping and hurt boy.
This is his elaborate invitation.
As the bigger human, you can mount his back, take care of him now.
Lock up his shoulders,
And say
"Shway shway" (شوي شوي)
As the Arabs do.
When you must go slowly now
You are done.
He has nothing to do.
Take him away
Totally away.
Airlift.
No integration
No retribution.
Child soldier
An orphaned aide de camp
Left to his own devices.
Needs no job
Doesn't know what he needs
Needs a lot.
Look in the back of the helicopter. At sleeping child.
“He's tuckered out”, you say through headphones.
"Roger that, Maverick,"
Says the silly goose.
Niall Campbell
This poem is not inspired by a random passage from a book, as my recent works have been, but emerged from a dream I had about the elaborate opening of a bottle of champagne. While the specifics of the dream aren't important, it brought to mind a common truth about dreams—they aren't an exact science, at least not to anyone but the most eccentric of interpreters.
I don’t consult tarot cards or pretend to understand my dreams—or anyone else’s for that matter. The most honest stance I can take is one of uncertainty: I don’t know. I truly don’t. And frankly, anyone who claims definitive knowledge about dreams—be they an expert or a self-proclaimed guru—is someone to take with a grain of salt. Dreams remain a mystery, and that mystery is part of their beauty.
What I have observed, however, is that the emotional essence of dreams—their affect—seems to hold steady, even when their imagery or timelines are chaotic. In my work with clients, I often ask them not to overanalyse the details but to focus instead on the emotional thread: "How did you feel in the dream? Inadequate, embarrassed, nervous, or...?" That emotional tone often reveals more than the dream’s imagery.
I work with a specific subset of people: creatives, the “worried well,” those who are frustrated but striving. These are not the people who wake up from dreams feeling strong, and fantastic. Such people exist, I’m sure—waving at the postman, going on holidays, blissfully content. Maybe they’re unicorns. Maybe they’re real. I like to think they are.
The emotional thread of my dream was inadequacy—a familiar feeling of being an outsider among the elite. This is a recurring theme for me and for many of my clients. As I wrote about this, I realised that the “author” of my dream was a boy—a frightened boy. This boy, I imagine, is like an accidental fascist, a child soldier who rose to power and now rules a fragile, defensive kingdom within me. His tactics are fearmongering and self-criticism, and his reign is driven by fear rather than wisdom.
This boy isn’t unique to me. Many of us have such an “inner tyrant,” a reactive, immature part of ourselves that took control long ago in a moment of crisis. It’s a child-like part, ill-equipped for leadership yet tasked with protecting us. This internal struggle mirrors real-world scenarios: coups, power struggles, transitions fraught with resistance.
The process of addressing this inner tyrant is delicate. It reminds me of stories like the one Jocko Willink told, where a soldier de-escalated a volatile situation by disarming a frightened man and calmly saying “schway schway” (easy, easy in arabic). The tenderness in that act—a masculine power used to restore peace rather than inflame conflict—is the energy required to soothe the frightened boy within.
This dynamic shows up in creative therapy, too. The initial resistance clients feel when confronting these parts is immense. Through countless experiences, I’ve learned that I can’t take myself too seriously in these moments. Often, my role is to be the silly sidekick, the one who disarms with humour or unconventional methods, creating a safe space for them to face their inner struggles. It’s not about me. I’m merely a foreign envoy, invited into a war-torn psyche to help facilitate peace.
The metaphor often feels like a war movie scene: the team strategising at dawn outside a danger zone, planning to neutralise the sniper in the bell tower. But the twist is that the sniper is not a villain—it’s a scared child who was forced into this role. The key to resolution isn’t force but understanding and compassion.
In the Internal Family Systems (IFS) model, which I frequently use, these parentified parts of the psyche are often exhausted from years of holding roles they were never meant to. The first step is to allow them to rest, much like rehabilitating child soldiers. It’s a slow, sensitive process, but when they’re ready, these parts can take on new roles. The same energy that once suppressed creativity can become its fiercest defender.
A formerly oppressive inner critic might transform into an advocate for the artist, The charisma that once instilled fear can evolve into a magnetism that uplifts others. It’s a profound redistribution of energy, and it begins with recognising the humanity within these parts.
Men’s circles often embody this transformation. The façade of strength falls away, revealing the tender vulnerability beneath. Men discover that they don’t have to shoulder everything alone—that together, they can go far. It’s a powerful process, and laughter often plays a pivotal role in creating the safety needed for these breakthroughs.
If I must play the fool, I choose to be a holy one. Laughter and silliness can open doors that brute strength never will. So says a silly goose.