A Growing Pain

Apparently I am a "woke leftie, spouting a redundant Marxist narrative" - an accusation laid at my door recently by someone who not only believes both 'woke' and 'leftie' are forms of abuse, but also clearly doesn't understand there's a difference between democratic socialism and communism.

And there was me thinking I was simply advocating a world in which everybody has a secure roof over their head, isn't in danger of being gassed, bombed, ethnically cleansed or otherwise physically and mentally abused, has enough to eat and drink, is offered education while young and work at a reasonable remuneration in a world where being a good, caring and responsible citizen is the pre-eminent goal, where any form of discrimination is unacceptable, where exploitation (whether by 'greedy fat cats' or 'lazy scroungers') is simply not tolerated, but where the truly needy are supported and restored to equilibrium and a sense of worth. Isn't that what a decent society ought to be about?

Is it naïve idealism? I was told when I was a young man that I would grow out of such illusions when I got older, with a wife and kids, a career and a mortgage to worry about. But I still hold to those ideals, that social conscience and aspiration for the greater good. To me, that's what being 'woke' and a 'leftie' is all about. Far better than dozing into the nightmare of this creeping right-wing 'laissez-faire (i.e. rampant and unchecked) capitalist-oligarch domination that we're currently heading for. Maybe I just never grew up.

I take the view that we all start off with enormous potential as little human beings, with the latent ability to learn to be open, positive, kind, generous, co-operative, adventurous, creative, as we grow - providing we're given the right milieu and role models.


How disappointing that what starts like this....

If we're shown love, care, kindness, tolerance, the importance of honesty and fairness, most of us  will end up internalising and exhibiting those qualities in life (and pass them on in turn).

It doesn't always go according to plan. There are vast inequalities in this country where 5% of the population (just over 1 million people) own 90% of the wealth, a gap that's widening, by the way, and in which millions of people are living below the poverty line. Without political and social change enshrined in law (i.e.a leftie agenda) those inequalities are never going to be "levelled up" (to use the current buzzword). Instead, the power-brokers - the have-a-lots who mean to have even more - will always deflect away any criticism of their own privilege and motives by encouraging a sense of dissatisfaction with something or someone else: like the nasty EU (which has actually done more good for the average citizen in this country than any Tory government of the last 50 years), welfare scroungers, or those dirty immigrants. So it goes, shameful and disdainful.

...so often ends up like this!

"Boris is my PM", "No more immigrants here", "Our own rules", "Fuck off EU", "Oven ready, go!", "Tough shit, remoaners" - just a few of the placards endorsing and celebrating a democratic vote to leave the European Union thanks to a Brexit campaign founded on outright lies and misinformation peddled by right-wing pressure groups and part funded by Russian roubles, playing on the xenophobic bigotry and narrow-mindedness of a nation disaffected ironically by years of Tory austerity, supposedly necessitated in the wake of a financial crisis caused by the cynical greed of a bunch of exploitative free-market capitalists.

It's a growing pain (as far as I'm concerned), this groundswell of baying right-wing venom against the best of our social and democratic constructs as a tolerant and caring society. We have the greatest state health service in the world (the NHS) and yet the Tories are planning to decimate it as part of a trade deal with the USA. We have the finest public service broadcasting organisation in the world (the BBC - and we should be as proud of it as we are of the NHS), but it is under attack for proposing to charge the licence fee (means tested) to over 75s because the Tories have decided to pull the government subsidy that has funded the pensioners' free licence for decades. It's this government which should be receiving pelters of abuse, not the BBC. And then most recently there has been the ugly campaign against migrants and "illegals living off Britian's generosity".

Well here's a financial argument to put it all in perspective: if the business-men and companies that are illegally avoiding paying tax in this country stumped up the hundreds of billions a year of which they are defrauding the exchequer, that would more than cover every penny that's paid out in social benefits and universal credits (and those are the government's own estimates). Earlier on I  mentioned exploitation and it is abundantly clear that 'fat cat' illegalities far outweigh 'lazy scrounger' illegalities - but the Tory press and the right-wing pressure groups make sure your average Joe - or Doris - will vent their spleen on those at the bottom of the heap, the lazy scroungers and the pitiable immigrants, rather than the cynical captains of industry and financial makers and shakers who are the real culprits, sitting arrogant and supposedly untouchable on top of the pile, taking us all for a ride.

Okay, rant over. Let's cut to some poetry - and this week a piece loaded with satire, plus not a little irony and (in its tail) the sting of existential retribution. Don't be like Doris!

Lust And Loathing In Suburbia
Doris Motion, matronly and decorous,
is nonetheless a slave to patriotic lust.
It's discreet, like the ancient vibrator
in her dressing-table drawer, this secret
she shares with the blue-rinse ladies
with whom she plays fours; their mantra,
"In Boris We Trust", the only outward
token of such deeply felt devotion.

In another age, a picture of Our Lord
might have graced her bedroom wall,
but since her husband passed away
a framed photograph of Boris Johnson
and the sympathetic note he wrote her
are on proud display. If they made
a bust of her hero, she'd have one too,
for that extra touch of patrician gravitas.

In this chamber fashioned as a shrine,
every night she lights red, white and
blue candles, the better to contemplate
the man she adores as she peels off lashes,
cleanses her pores and, in deshabille,
pulls the brush a hundred times through
a once lush gilded mane. It captivated
Father; she imagines Boris is the same.

Sometimes she gets a hot flush
just gazing into his Labrador eyes,
would happily mother the sweet boy
for his brave sacrifice,
could fling her arms around
his stout form in mute gratitude
for making Britain great again -

and rues the fact that both her sons
have moved away, turned their backs
on this neat suburban nest, the elder lad
to France, the younger fled to Italy.

Kneeling nightgowned by her bed at length
to pray, beseeching: "Give Boris strength
and keep those dirty migrants at bay",
Doris doesn't see the dark stain of shame
spreading across her expensive pink rose paper,
nor sense that pervasive whiff of disdain
like bad drains which has been hanging
around the gated cul-de-sac for some days now...

Thanks for reading my "woke leftie spoutings", S ;-)

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Growing Pains

Plant a seed. Nurture it. It will grow. 

How I came to write as a guest writer on this poets’ blog is somewhat miraculous and frankly a result of a lifetime of growing pains. ‘Growing Pains’ takes me back to childhood. Its innocence replaced by a wiser knowingness through pitfalls of uncertainty, the failures embedded within the joys of achievement as I slowly ‘matured’. What I hadn’t banked on back then, was how growing pains remain with us throughout our lives.

I’ve learnt resilience whilst working through fear, rejection and loss, and found with persistence the strength to move forward.  I strive to grab every moment with passion, to live creatively and authentically whilst connecting, embracing and sharing with others making it all worthwhile. I learnt early on that one cannot go it alone.

In today’s quickly changing, rather disturbing world we are being bombarded with serious challenges. We are being forced to get to grips with letting go of the old, embracing the new and moving through the malaise hoping to come out the other side better for it. I am experiencing growing pains as never before and my guess is that I’m not alone in this.

I have made things throughout my life as a way of processing my experiences. It is a way of making my thoughts and feelings real, tangible. Sometimes I do it for sheer amusement (nonsensical drawings and poetry). Sometimes I do it to escape from real life. Sometimes I create things as a way of working through some of my growing pains. No matter the reason, creating something makes me feel better.

Moleskine Sketchbook - Ink and Coloured Pencil, January 2020

In reflecting on my childhood,  I have my parents to thank for being here. I am the seed they planted, nurtured and helped grow into who I am. However, I have my mother to thank for emotional sentimentality. She remarkably kept intact two large boxes of drawings, writing and other school materials as evidence to the child I was and a testament to the process of becoming; the learning, growing, changing, discovering the essence of what makes me, me. She recognised and valued this ‘becoming’ and her way to hold on was to keep physical hardcopies.

 

This sentiment for nostalgia was passed down and amazingly many of these artefacts have survived at least a dozen house moves over five decades and across two continents. My mother was one of many in a long list of very special people who have provided safety and security for me over the years, people who I fondly call my teachers. Those who fed and continue to feed my hunger to learn, explore and encourage the creative processing of my discoveries through different visual and textual means with a focus on storytelling.
 

Published in The Tower, a primary school publications - written age 6

 

Shammy - waxed crayon, created age 5

I grew up loving to draw and making up stories. The Shammy drawing is a prime example.

Here we have an interesting blend of reality versus magic. Katy is flying through the air being pulled by grandma’s rather large miniature poodle lunging at a cat that seemingly has been surprised. As a result, it has launched itself upwards in front of some distorted blue building. The red hair and pony tails add to Katy’s tidy hair style (mom was a real stickler about hair). The blue jeans have a decorative pattern which could be flowers, typical of the 1960s. The dog’s cropped tail clearly has a puff at the end.

 

I drew all the time. I also spent a lot of time alone. My sister and brother were much older and moved away when I was quite young. When I was a teenager, my parents separated and I drew and wrote even more. This helped me focus and to escape from the growing pains. It was good for my mental health and wellbeing. My creative work helped me through many difficult experiences throughout my life including the loss of my brother to Aids in 1990. As a way of dealing with these emotions I did a series of drawings illustrating journal extracts.

AIDS series - Scraperboard 1990

Moving countries was a massive change and one of insurmountable growth, and it has not always been easy. After living in the UK for over two decades I continue to grow and develop. I have always said that England gave me the gift of poetry.  Living in this country, so rich in literature history, has inspired me to write more and integrate my poetry into my creative work. I practice and experiment and through all the rejections and failures I hold onto those small morsels of success.

Illustrated ABCs - waxed crayon, created age 5

 

66 Years and Counting - Multi-media on paper 2013 (West Ox Arts Gallery Exhibition)

I thought I would leave you with this. It is something written nearly four decades after creating 'The Story Writer' and the drawing of my grandmother’s dog pulling on its lead. A lot of living and creating has gone on in between.  I have never shared any part of this poem before, as it is too long a poem to read on an open mic night. It is 191-lines and written when I did not have the confidence to share much of my creative writing work.

It is an excerpt from ‘The Poet’s Pen’.  Not only is there a hint of déjà vu from the Shammy drawing but in it I feel depicts the frustration and hope that goes along with the growing pains and struggle of the creative maker within.

…The Poet’s eye as dog pulled taught

The lead to arm and tipping man

Who pulled back dog and gave command,

“Sit,” and dog he sat, he did

Whilst Master scanned the ghostly grid

Of papered floorboards, chequerboard

That captured men and captured sword

His blasted pen that he had thrown

Across the room to where, unknown

Until he saw it laying there

The Poet sighed and smiled aware

That soon he would return again

Like boomerang with fingered men

That flung the weapon, sword now resting

On the floor in spider’s nest and

Would remain till cobwebs cleared

Inside his head between the ears

Once he’d finished basking in

The sunshine washing o’er his skin

As oiled pistons plugged to sparking

Energy for brain embarking

On new paths to bath in writing                                                                          

Something worthy and exciting…

 

Thank you for reading.

Kate Eggleston-Wirtz

www.eggwirtz.com

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Growing Pains - Back to School

Fear gripped me. Mid-dream and half asleep, I slipped out of bed in response to the screaming child in the next room. I tried to hurry, but my heart was pounding out of my chest, I could hardly catch my breath and my legs wouldn’t move properly.

He sat upright, wide eyes staring straight ahead at something scary, mouth open, continuous screaming. He was otherwise quite still.  I wrapped my arms around him, stroked his silky hair, made soothing noises and rocked him gently.  Night terrors, bless him, my little son. They continued for a while and terrified me more than him. I never got used to it happening and never found a proper reason.  He wouldn’t know anything about it, but my night was disturbed and my head filled with indescribable horrors that prevented me getting back to sleep long after he was settled.  He was about three years old, maybe only two and a half.  Perhaps his brain was working overtime, the events of his busy day filling his head with all sorts. Maybe it was a form of growing pains. He soon grew out of it. Later this week he will be thirty.  I am proud of him, and myself for getting something right along the way.

My daughter’s growing pains were physical and very real. Again, it was a night time thing, but she was older and could yell out that her legs were hurting. Double Calpol and lots of rubbing did the trick. She could settle back to sleep. I would be wide awake. I thought ‘growing pains’ was something made up, but our doctor was certain that was her ailment and she would grow out of it. She has.

At last, children have been able to return to school. It’s been too long a break, six months for most infants. I’m confident that schools are as safe as they can possibly be and I’m delighted to see my eldest grandson happy in his reception class where he is in the process of moving to Year 1. He loves school so much, it was awful to have it taken away from him. He understood about the ‘germs’ and needing to protect each other, but he missed everything. I enjoyed playing games, reading to him and doing little lessons to keep him on track with what he had learned so far, but as time went on, he needed the dynamics of his teacher, the surroundings of his inspirational classroom and to socialise with his friends.  He proudly tells me he is in the Giraffe ‘bubble’ and they do everything together. He’s happy. I hope all the children are, especially anyone who has been feeling unhappy in these difficult times.  Lockdown has brought plenty of invisible growing pains.

One of my favourite wordsmiths and fellow Mancunian, Mike Garry,

Signify

I called her Mam once

Sat on the carpet

With arms folded and legs crossed

Fingers on my lips

In that special place

She would eclipse

Where she'd read me poems

Tell me tales

Sing me songs

And like a fish to it's source

I'd be drawn in

I loved the way she'd hold the book

So that I could see the pictures

And the way she'd slowly move it from side to side

So that the naughty kids at the back could see

She told us we were allowed to dream

She got us to act out plays

I remember doing Finnegan's Wake

Told us about Shaw, Shakespeare and Joyce and Yeats

I was eight

But in that classroom her voice was sweet music

Echoing prayer and hymn

Story and songs

She was a living angel

But you'd know if you'd done wrong

She took us on school trips

To castles with moats across oceans with boats

And we would float

Without ever leaving the room

Loved the way she made the simple act of reading of the class register

Sound like the most beautiful song tune

Simply by the way she'd validate childrens names by saying

Katherine

Theresa

Patricia and James

Sometimes she'd get me to close my eyes

Imagine worlds beyond the sky

She told me one

"Michael, It's alright to cry"

And her eyes were seaside blue sunshine

But in that rainy, 1970's black and white Moss Side

Where my messed up life would disappear

The very second she walked into the room

She made my insignificant life

Signify

And she taught me that the more I read the more I see

The more I see the more I know

The more I know that more I grow

The more I grow the more I am

And I would give the world and all its riches

To simply hold that woman's hand one more time

And say thanks

"Thanks"

Mike Garry

Thank for reading, Pam x

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