The Code Beneath the Grip
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Marcin Malek
War Without Footsteps
Well now, dear readers—today I bring you something a touch off the beaten path. I’d been deep in the bones of a forthcoming book of essays when a strange thing happened: a piece arrived, unbidden, that took even me by…
The Wounds That Never Heal
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Between War and Wonder
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The Reapers Are the Angels: What If?
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The tyrany of Coaching
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Rituals of the Unseen
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Where the Paper Cuts Deeper: A Return to Clonkeen Woods
Portlaoise carries its soul just beneath the hedgerows, where boots sink slightly and tree roots knot like old thoughts. And tucked within that pulse, in Clonkeen Woods – where the canopy breaks into mottled shadow and the light stammers across…
The Bow Remembers: On the Ethics of Recoil
The essay that follows—perhaps a touch long for an online piece—is, in truth, a chapter from The Arrow Knows No Master, a book I’ve been quietly shaping since February of last year. It’s composed of individual essays—mostly reflective, occasionally philosophical—on…
Lesser things and trivia… (Column)
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Forever Drawn:A Day with the White Feather
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A Bow Drawn Between Two Worlds
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Aleksander Wat and Japanese Archery
Japanese Archery By Aleksander Wat (in Marcin Malek poetical interpretation) 1The hand to the bowstring speaks:Bend to me, yield.The bowstring to the hand replies:Strike bold, be steeled.The bowstring whispers to the shaft:O arrow, flee!The arrow to the bowstring calls:Unshackle me!The…
Curwood and May: The Worlds They Wrote
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Ishi The Last of The Yashi…
It’s a strange thing, to draw a bow and feel the pull of something older than time itself—a quiet understanding between hand, string, and arrow. I think about that often, about how archery is less about hitting a target than…
The Archer’s Guide to the Unspoken Essentials
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Click, Stabilize, Obey: The Rise of the Machine-Archer
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The Arrows That Sang Against Steel: The Spanish Conquest and the Vanishing Echo of Indigenous Archery
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A Bow Drawn Against the Wind – Akira Kurosawa and his vision of men
Stories are not told. They are loosed, like arrows from a drawn bow, their fletching kissed by breath, their paths uncertain yet inevitable. A storyteller does not own the tale—he only pulls the string, lets it fly, watches it carve…
The Fever That Dwells in Men
Have you heard of a madness that does not burn with fire but seeps like a disease, making bones feverish and bending the mind to its will? It does not speak, it does not sing, it does not threaten, but…