A Moment of Calm in the Midst of Chaos: Poetry from Recovery
Patrick Long’s poem for Project 52 for 26 is a quiet, unflinching snapshot of a moment both ordinary and extraordinary. Penned a few months into recovery, it captures the fragile space between fear and relief, between anxiety and an almost accidental serenity.
It’s Liverpool, but not in the usual landmarks of heritage or nightlife. This is Liverpool ONE, outside the changing rooms of Primark, a place of waiting and mundane commerce. And yet, within that mundane frame, Long discovers something remarkable: a sudden, almost miraculous wash of peace, a momentary escape from the weight of a troubled mind.
The poem doesn’t romanticise the experience, nor does it pretend that the peace lasts. It fades. It comes and goes, like the glimpses of calm that punctuate recovery itself. But it is the clarity of that brief respite that Long holds on to, and that is what the poem preserves. The ordinary setting amplifies the intensity. Here is a city centre, here is a shopping trip, here is anxiety softened for a heartbeat by something ineffable.
Long’s voice is rooted in the textures of life he loves and observes: Tranmere Rovers, skateboarding, 90s WWF, Brookside, the odd sartorial flourish of a grandad collar or a cagoule. These details, familiar and affectionate, situate him in a Liverpool that is specific, lived-in, and personal.
Born in Birkenhead in 1985, he writes from experience, balancing humour, memory, and honesty. His poetry is part diary, part observation, part experiment in keeping going, one day at a time.
In this poem, Patrick Long shows us that moments of peace are not always grand or lasting. Sometimes they are small, fleeting, found outside a changing room in the middle of the city. And sometimes, those fleeting moments are enough to remind you that recovery, however fragile, is possible.
I found my true home, my true belonging.
Finally I felt comfortable in
my own skin. 01.05.2024, 12 minutes
past 3, on a corner couch in Primark,
just to the right of the changing rooms.
A burial ground for men of a certain
age. Sweat soaked brows, clammy
hands and the ripe stench of an under
carriage. But a place of sheer comfort
and bliss. Hidden away from the sea of
materialistic beasts, that roam the very
floors of this unsteady ship. Sunken into
a clearance couch. Shite Wi-Fi can’t
even dampen this exotic mood that’s
taken me. This is it…
PATRICK LONG
