The Josh Lynott Project

Location: New York, New York

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Location: Melbourne, Australia

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Location: Melbourne, Australia

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Location: Melbourne, Australia

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Location: Melbourne, Australia

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Poem:

I thought I knew what running felt like:
fast heart, flushed red cheeks,

Legs heavy with an acid they call — “lactic”.
Left hip tender, right knee tight,
hamstrings twitching, two calves scared with fright.
Hunched over, hands on my knees,

Trying to make friends with oxygen/
Puffing, Heaving,

I asked the people around me? Am I a runner yet?
Coach gave me spreadsheets,
and a heart-rate strap.
Above one seventy five on Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday

Below one thirty, on the days your legs don’t feel like talking.

Follow your feet, follow the signs,
Follow the roads, follow the tree-lines.

Just don’t follow the people on your screens.
What they’re selling isn’t a feeling,
it’s a pdf wrapped up in pretty colours,

Trying to sell you some kind of self-healing. 

And if you see straight through it, 

You’ll go back to the start.
Running way too hard, stress-fracturing
wanting more of your racing heart.
This isn’t running.
No, this is an output.
A byproduct of a curious mind,

An interpretation of something divine.
So what am I feeling? - A tall man stops me in my tracks.
He says “I’ve been doing this fifteen years”
l look him up, I look him down,

Supposedly, he’s running this town.
He’s got bright yellow laces,
and a hat I’d like to wear.
Shorts that go from Copenhagen to Berlin,
An agenda he wants to tear.
I’ve been in this game as long as you,
I’ve had my heart broken,
and my hands too,
yet after all these kilometres, I’ve left something unspoken. 

So I’ll tell you what it feels like… Mr man.

Running is a movement that rips me apart,

But never leaves me lonely.
Running is a place I pray,

But it’s not my religion.
Running is my place of clarity
but it’s not my ocean.
It’s the home I choose to return to,

When the walls of the world shake.
It takes me to the people,

Who dare to hold a heart, my heart.
It shows me the way through, 

When the signal drops out.
But that’s not it.
I go back to the streets,
back to the red walls, and my red cheeks.
I follow the white lines,
I paint the white words.
and one feeling comes up.
Running feels like something true,
a rebellion against the world I knew.
If I had to choose one word to save,
Mr man, the word I know,

Is brave.

Recorded: Tuesday 22nd September, 2026

Location: Berlin, Germany

Sponsor: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Notes Running⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠

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Poem:

Everyone tells me to be brave,

But I want to be brilliant,

and they don't understand.

How scary it is.

To put yourself out there.

To be kind when the world is cruel.

To keep going when they copy.

To show up tired.

They think bravery is a light switch.

ON. OFF. ON. OFF. ON. OFF. ON. OFF.

No. Bravery is a choice. A habit.

Brilliance is an illusion.

Recorded: Tuesday 15th September, 2026

Location: Madeira, Portugal

Sponsor: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Notes Running⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠

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Poem:

A year later

The fig tree looks stronger,

it has overtaken the toolshed

and reaches far, talking to the sweet potatoes.

Old man, he shuffles with his scissors

A full bucket of grapes

His son tells me he could go forever

I'm sure the sweet green figs will sustain him.

Old lady, she makes me smile talking about sugar

She prepared dessert earlier

Her heart has been shaky

But the fig tree gives her something to do

My love, Her first visit to the island

The table below the unripened fruit is dusty

I wrote many pages there, staring at the ocean

I'm sure the fig tree remembers

The poet, he has returned once again.

Reminded of a simple life below the mountain

He nees more time in the sun,

For now, He'll share fresh figs in the shade.

Recorded: Monday Monday 7th of September, 2026

Location: Toulouse, France

Sponsor: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Notes Running⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠

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Register your interest for retreat.

Recorded: Tuesday 1st of September

Location: Gaudies, France.

Sponsor: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Notes Running⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠

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Poems:

Untranscribed yet.

Recorded: Monday Monday 24th of August, 2026

Location: Melbourne, Australia

Sponsor: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Notes Running⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠

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Poem:

Bird by bird,

The lady said

Find a bird

Write a bird

Draw a bird

Watch a bird.

And as one comes,

another goes.

I cannot expect one on my palm

And I shouldn't wish one to change it's path.

I know the birds have an eye on me.

Just like I do on them.

But a day feels too long,

so instead, I take things,

bird by bird.