Four Legs Good - Thanks, George

“Four legs good, two legs bad.”

Later, “Four legs good, two legs better.”

 

An unwelcoming, imposing secondary school full of strangers in a small, unfamiliar town. I was a reluctant new girl wearing the uniform of my old school, being stared at, but not spoken to. I kept silent and avoided eye-contact.  I was in an English class faced with an impossible task from a flustered and unfriendly teacher.

“Write a review of Animal Farm. Remember what we discussed about Russia,” she barked. She had her back to the class as she chalked something on the board. I approached her, close enough to explain that I was new and I hadn’t read the book.

“Do the best you can.” She didn’t even glance my way.

It wasn’t the first time I’d encountered differences in the curriculum between the education departments of Lancashire and Cheshire County Councils. This time it concerned work I’d done in preparation for my ‘O’ levels and which might now be wasted, leaving me faced with a great deal of catching up to do. It was another good reason to leave school, if only I could persuade my father.

I did as I was asked. I wrote an essay explaining that I hadn’t read Animal Farm, nor did I intend to as a book about talking animals taking over a farm was far-fetched and of no interest to me. The essay got me into trouble with my English teacher. She seemed to take my opinions personally and she accused me of not knowing what I was talking about. That was ridiculous. Surely I was entitled to speak my mind about why a book remained unread and was unappealing to me?

I knew everything when I was fifteen and rebelled against anything and everything. I was a stroppy, cocky madam. I was also a square peg in a round hole, uprooted from everything I knew and cared for and put in a place I had absolutely no interest of embracing or making my home. Luckily for me, the move was a bad one for the whole family and we came back after a few months.

I am so embarrassed now by what I did then, especially because I’ve come to love George Orwell’s work. I share his politics. He was a genius author. His novels explain socialism and why it matters. He died too young with probably more to say but he left an important legacy.

 

It can only be this poem,

 

Comrade Napoleon  (from Animal Farm by George Orwell)

 

Friend of fatherless!

Fountain of happiness!

Lord of the swill-bucket!

Oh, how my soul is on

Fire when I gaze at thy

Calm and commanding eye,

Like the sun in the sky,

Comrade Napoleon!

 

Thou art the giver of

All that thy creatures love,

Full belly twice a day, clean straw to roll upon;

Every beast great or small

Sleeps at peace in his stall,

Thou watchest over all

Comrade Napoleon!

 

Had I a sucking pig,

Ere he had grown as big

Even as a pint bottle or as a rolling pin,

He should have learned to be

Faithful and true to thee,

Yes, his first squeal should be

"Comrade Napoleon!"

 

George Orwell (1903 - 1950)

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Her, indoors

“My people, we stay indoors. We have keyboards. We have darkness. It's quiet.”

Neil Gaiman

To a practicing writer, the land beyond the well-worn track between the keyboard and the kettle is exotic.  The Greek origin of the word exotic pertains to The Outside.  This is not a place with which we are familiar.  The romantic image of a poet sitting beneath an oak tree with notebook and pen in hand is a ridiculous fantasy.  Do you know how many distractions linger in The Outdoors?  Just yesterday I found myself derailed from a potentially fruitful train of thought by the sight of a child of about three years sitting in a buggy.  This might not sound uncommon to regular inhabitants of The Outdoors but please let me assure you that it was an unsettling sight.  Please allow me to explain.

This buggy was designed by an adult in order to accomodate two children.  It was created to accomodate two children from the age of 'too big for the pram' to 'too little to walk for very long but big enough to break a back'.  The seats on this contraption were of a dark blue fabric and both set in a reclined position.  

At this point I will describe the buggy which my daughter travelled in as a tot.  It was a single-seater buggy.  There was a shelf underneath the seat which was handy for storing a bag of shopping and a couple of small items such as wipes and a bottle of juice.  

Now, to return to the unsettling sight.  The buggy which I saw yesterday, on the promenade near South Pier as it happens, had two reclining seats - one on top of the other.  The smaller child (too large for the pram) looked perfectly comfortable and content.  He was gazing across the road in toothless wonder and the morning sun was warming his spongy bones.  

Beneath the curious baby sat the second child.  Being of the 'too little to walk for very long but big enough to break a back' variety, he was crammed into the lower seat beneath his little brother.  The underside of his brother's cushion was so close to his face that he was forced to hold his head on the side to avoid squashing his nose.  He could see only glimpses of the scene which stretched out before his spoiled sibling.  This child looked bored.

As I watched his face, turned to one side, I wondered whether he had the faculties to resent his sub-standard seating.  Did he notice the disparity between their arrangements or did he simply accept his position as the status quo?  

This question put me in mind of the May Day protests taking place across the world to demand workers' right.  Walter Crane's Garland for May Day 1895 has been doing the rounds and the combination of the recent Bangladesh factory collapse, the ongoing struggle to defend worker's rights, and the look on that toddler's face - hidden from the May Day sunshine - felt to me like a fitting reminder of the need to point out unfairness wherever we find it.

And so, with a hearty salute to a Chartist Poet, I give you the Song of the Lower Classes by Ernest Jones:

WE plow and sow, we’re so very, very low,

That we delve in the dirty clay;

Till we bless the plain with the golden grain,

And the vale with the fragrant hay.

Our place we know, we’re so very, very low,

’Tis down at the landlord’s feet;

We’re not too low the grain to grow,

But too low the bread to eat.

Down, down we go, we’re so very, very low,

To the hell of the deep-sunk mines;

But we gather the proudest gems that glow,

When the crown of the despot shines;

And when’er he lacks, upon our backs

Fresh loads he deigns to lay;

We’re far too low to vote the tax,

But not too low to pay.

We’re low, we’re low—we’re very, very low,—

And yet from our fingers glide

The silken floss and the robes that glow

Round the limbs of the sons of pride;

And what we get, and what we give,

We know, and we know our share;

We’re not too low the cloth to weave,

But too low the cloth to wear.

We’re low, we’re low, we’re very, very low,

And yet when the trumpets ring,

The thrust of a poor man’s arm will go

Through the heart of the proudest king.

We’re low, we’re low—mere rabble, we know—

We’re only the rank and the file;

We’re not too low to kill the foe,

But too low to share the spoil.

I hope I have proven how distracting the exotic land of The Outdoors can be.  This blog post was supposed to be on the subject of my undying love for the Tory Party.  Maybe next time.

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Your face is a mess

This week we're enjoying Christmas poems?  Really?  Here's a list of what I've actually been enjoying this week.  I say enjoying, what I mean is these are the things that I've done this week that, in retrospect, seem like they were worth doing.

This week I:

• Refused to try to win at Monopoly because I'm usually a Socialist and it feels like something I ought to do, at least when playing a board game with my family who actually know my leftist leanings and neither agree with them nor care.
• Found a parking space across the road from the dentist while transporting my daughter to an emergency appointment.  It was bitterly cold and town was very busy.  She left her scarf in the car, however, after I specifically told her to wear it as it gives the appearance of good mothering when she's all wrapped up.  In the waiting room there was a very small girl with tinsel in her hair.  We agreed she looked like a cyborg.  The small girl took her coat off without being asked as soon as her name was called.  I don't know if that's a helpful talent in this weather.
• Drove home down the promenade after dark, distracted by the twinkly lights.  I remembered that I love Blackpool out of season and made a mental note to go on North Pier this weekend. Two ideas for poems occurred to me during Wednesday's drive.  By Wednesday night they'd grown into first drafts. One is short and riddlish, the other inspired by Carol Ann Duffy and Malcolm Tucker. I'm anticipating editing them at some point.
• Prayed to any deity listening to let me write for jezebel.com before thanking the aforementioned supernatural beings for the euphemism 'vampire teabags' and sharing the new phrase with my sisters, thus making myself seem both hilarious and brave, or so I assume.
• Snuggled under my duvet with the electric blanket on its highest setting while sipping an Irish Redbush tea and reading.  I read a little more of The End of Mr Y by Scarlett Thomas (as recommended by Lisa) and I read a few poems on the Poetry Foundation App.  One of these was Dirty Face by Shel Silverstein.  
• Ate brussel sprouts and I'd do it again because farts are supposed to smell like that.
• Rebelled on the Dead Good Blog.  Tell people I'm enjoying Christmas poems will you?  We'll see about that.

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