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As odd as it might sound \u2013 given the present state of the world \u2013 this article is all about joy. Before anyone starts to wonder who I am and what I\u2019ve done with Fran Lock, I\u2019ll explain: I began working on this article as I usually do, scrolling the rolling news and noting its reception and appearance in the comments and creative output of my friends and fellow poets. Which stories strike people as particularly vivid? Which seem to demand or incite that deeper investment of attention, an artistic response as opposed to a visceral gut reaction? Lately I\u2019d noticed that art \u2013 mine and others\u2019 \u2013 had stalled at this blank wall of awfulness; that there was something about this particular social and political moment that seemed to preclude the possibility of meaningful poetic response.<\/p>\n
This feeling began for me with the coroner\u2019s verdict that two-year-old Awaab Ishak died as a direct result of prolonged exposure to black mould in his family\u2019s flat in 2020. It began with a rage that felt quite literally unspeakable. When I say \u2018unspeakable\u2019, I am evoking two distinct silences: the first is the silence of being unheard. It is the silence of the \u201cother\u201d whose voice does not register on the instruments and apparatus of the state. It is the silence of Awaab Ishak\u2019s parents before their social housing provider. \u201cWe shouted as loud as we could\u201d, they said, but they might as well have been screaming in space. Too poor, too brown, their words carried no weight, transmitted no sound. The second silence is the silence that results when articulate language crumbles in the face of our rage and sadness; when miseries proliferate faster than our ability to name them. It\u2019s a defeated silence. It\u2019s the silence we retreat into when we know that to speak would be a waste of breath. It\u2019s an inability to catch <\/em>our breath, to organise or formulate a response. Too beaten, too reeling, we stagger from indignity to crisis to tragedy and back. The world provokes a response but denies our right to reply. It is infinitely frustrating and confusing.<\/p>\n Perhaps this is tactical. Not just the terrible things themselves, but the endless and malignantly rapid succession of them: iterative, accumulative, daily. Michelle Mone and her children received \u00a329 million on the quiet from the profits of a PPE business that was only awarded such lucrative government contracts after she pushed it to ministers, an article alleges. The equipment provided by that business was deemed unfit for use. NHS staff \u2013 among them the nurses currently being denied a decent pay rise \u2013 were donning DIY PPE to protect themselves and the public while Mone posted pictures of her jet-set life on Instagram. Nauseating. But hardly unique. And a drop in the ocean compared to the 37 billion wasted on Test and Trace under Boris \u201cPartygate\u201d Johnson. Energy bills have quadrupled. Over two million people are using foodbanks. Tenants face eviction. I watch footage of police brutality. I see images of our dying planet. I engage with the news in spasms of violent anger, and I\u2019m not the only one. Social media shows us lives destroyed and taken, globally, moment by moment.<\/p>\n It is overwhelming, and there is a deadening of ethical nerve that results when oppression and corruption are reduced to a litany of interchangeable instances. Calls for our compassion or outrage are so swift, numerous, and diffuse that meaningful dedication of focus and effort become a challenge; people feel bewildered and exhausted. You can\u2019t fight it all, so you feel like fighting any of it is futile. And while injustice without redress is naturalised as the new normal, so too is our image of ourselves as helpless and victimised. Poor and working-class people become those the world happens to, at, and working-class identity is fused inextricably to sorrow and impotent struggle.<\/p>\n Somewhere in the midst of all this our creativity disappears. Why wouldn\u2019t it? It seems inadequate, even indulgent to write amidst the suffering of a people, the death of a child. And why bother? What\u2019s the point in diagnosing the problem again and again, when we already know, when it changes nothing, when we\u2019re just \u2013 and I hear this one a lot \u2013 \u201cpreaching to the converted\u201d? What is restored or solaced in writing? Either we end in an apolitical catharsis that lets us off the hook, discharging potentially radical discontent in a vague gesture towards empathy, or we contribute to the performance and consumption of working-class pain without so much as touching the systems responsible for creating and maintaining that pain. It’s easy to discount ourselves. It\u2019s easy to believe that our art doesn\u2019t matter.<\/p>\n But it does. More than ever. Perhaps it helps not to picture our own small acts of creative resistance as purely unilateral. Although we often work as individuals, our many gestures of articulation and defiance have accumulative power, form a network of responses in solidarity with others. You can\u2019t change everything, but you don\u2019t have to: there are a million or more points of focus, there are thousands of approaches or methods of engagement. You are not alone, you are chipping away, in concert with others, at different facets of the same edifice, until cracks appear and the monolith falls.<\/p>\n Strengthening friendship and community<\/strong><\/p>\n As for \u201cpreaching to the converted\u201d, who says that the primary purpose of your writing is to persuade those opposed to you? Isn\u2019t art also for strengthening the bonds of friendship or community? For remembering? For mourning? For holding space for each other? Critics on the Right are always using this one to belittle and discount Left-wing and working-class art because their experience of the world doesn\u2019t admit to the power and importance of testimony, of witnessing. Of course <\/em>we\u2019re talking amongst ourselves, nobody else is listening. Don\u2019t discount the power of our talk, the sheer gift of it. Listening is one of the most important things we can do for each other. We gain strength from it. We also share information and find common ground. It allows us to recognise and care for ourselves in a way that society does not and never has.<\/p>\n It is true that when we speak about our pain and sadness, we leave ourselves vulnerable to misrepresentation. So often working-class pain is co-opted as narrative freight by the culture industry; representations of our lives are narrowly focused and selectively edited in ways that deny us our full humanity. Here are stories of poverty, addiction, violence and abuse. But where is the music we make in the teeth of these things? Where is the love? Where is the joy? Our silence will not patch these representational lacunae, it will only ensure that others speak for and about us. And so often the making of our art, the writing of the poem, is how joy is accessed and born.<\/p>\n Joy is not the same thing as happiness, which is fleeting and interior. Joy is a made thing. Often, although the subject matter of our work is bleak, in the language of our texts \u2013 their wit and liveliness \u2013 they manifest models of resistance, they carve out a scene of refusal. The poems I want to share in this column enact this resistance in different ways. In Sab Lyall\u2019s \u2018I wanna live with common people like you\u2019 the poem echoes the coda to Pulp\u2019s 1995 working-class anthem \u2018Common People\u2019 at the precise moment when Jarvis Cocker\u2019s lyric pivots from an ironic address to a privileged pretender to \u2013 in Lyall\u2019s imagination \u2013 a sincere expression of care for his working-class community: \u2018all-firming. Firm\u2019 writes Lyall, which functions as both a description and celebration of Cocker\u2019s voice, and of the community Lyall dares to image. \u2018Firm\u2019 is informal British slang for a group of (working-class) football supporters, typified in popular (middle-class) imagination by aggressive and hooligan behaviour. Lyall\u2019s poem turns this stereotype on its head, giving a two-fingered salute to the judgement which sees any group of working-class men as inherently violent and dangerous. Her \u2018firm\u2019 is a place of solidarity and mutual support, and the \u2018fist\u2019 is formed not in an act of menace or destruction, but of cherishing and protection.<\/p>\n In \u2018Lumpen Broadcast Connotation\u2019 Wendy Young takes a playful, performative, and linguistically knotty approach to parody, challenging the \u2018repetitive banality in querulous bollox \u2013 borne of ye olde BBC\u2019 with iconoclastic zeal. The poem tackles the treatment of working-class and left-wing political figures by the mainstream media through the person of Mick Lynch. Young\u2019s poem captures that sense of a hectoring and unsympathetic interview in which \u201cquestions\u201d are used to accuse and bludgeon rather than facilitate genuine exchange. When Young gives voice to her BBC interlocutor, the speaker indulges in a monologue that forecloses the possibility of meaningful reply: a mixture of stale refrains, click-bait phrases, and irrelevant non-sequiturs: \u2018What will YOU<\/em> do if agency workers cross the line MISTER <\/em>Lynch?\/ Isn\u2019t your social media profile The Hood from Thunderbirds MISTER <\/em>Lynch?\u2019<\/p>\n Often, Young\u2019s interviewer is so carried away by their own rhetoric that their questions take on an absurdist stream of consciousness quality, delivered in one long breathless rush of words, blurring the line between private thought and public utterance: \u2018Let me get on with my chauffeur driven car to work my holiday home my several annual holidays my kids in private school while I bandy about your 130K salary MISTER<\/em> Lynch?\u2019 In this way Young exposes both the ideological and self-interested underpinnings behind the speaker\u2019s bland fa\u00e7ade; the working-class audience of which Young is part has spotted the dodge, and more than this, they are capable of giving back as good as they get. Young\u2019s poem relishes wordplay and pun, taking pleasure in the rude and brazen buzz of language, which she uses to lampoon her targets to hilarious effect, running verbal rings around those stolid apologists for the awful status quo. There is rage in this poem, but there is also a healthy strain of ridicule, that takes on the powerful with spoof and swagger.<\/p>\n \u2018THE WHITE NATIONALISTS ARE STONED ON THEIR OWN BALL SWEAT AGAIN\u2019 by Paul Corman-Roberts is a State-side burlesque on a racially polarised and increasingly totalitarian vision of Christian-conservatism. It is a frightening world in a which an atavistic urge toward power and violence \u2013 \u2018the blood of the vulnerable\/ makes them hot with lust\u2019 \u2013 is cloaked in the legitimating veil of patriotism. Corman-Roberts\u2019 images are driven by a farcical and excessive juxtaposition which would be funny if we were not already living with their fatal consequences: \u2018Teenage martyrs\/ rifles strapped to their bibles\u2019. The power of this poem, however, is not in its accretion of grotesque images of white conservative power, but in their contrast with the vulnerable dignity of America\u2019s \u201cothers\u201d \u2013 \u2018God\u2019s beautiful queers\/ black and brown families in perpetual mourning\u2019. While the image of an historically suspect \u2018white Jesus\u2019 rocking out to Ted Nugent is horribly comic, the poem\u2019s moral bite comes from his being set against a \u2018dark Jesus\u2019 who is depicted as miserably enmeshed in the apparatus of immigration detention. Throughout the poem Corman-Roberts weaves the nebulous threads of conspiracy culture, so that the final lines depicting a world ruled over by the \u2018will of invisible men\/ who live in the sky\u2019 signal not only a hazy grasp of the life hereafter, but an approximate knowledge of reality itself. \u2018Dark Jesus\u2019 is persecuted by indifferent oppressors without a will to recognise him. Yet, he is aligned in the poem with those who mourn and suffer, and in this way the poem sounds one sweet, low note of radical hope.<\/p>\n \u2018Post-Covid\u2019 by Kevin Patrick McCann is less an expression of joy than it is an indictment of the way that joy is coerced and manipulated by politicians and by culture. From the beginning McCann implicates poetry in this exercise, introducing the \u2018smooth poet to\/ Chant an In Memoriam\/ At fifty quid a line\u2019, a public figure bought in (and bought off) to mediate and manage our collective experience of grief; to absorb it back into a politically expedient nationalistic script. The poet speaks on our behalf, over-writing the choppy textures of our difficult mourning with his own nicely modulated voice from which every ounce of anger has been purged. McCann\u2019s poem has no time for this voice. His bracketed asides puncture the fluent operation of his poem, as if providing interruptions, tears, sudden glimpses into the world as it really is.\u00a0 \u2018Post-Covid\u2019 is a poem that says \u2018don\u2019t take my <\/em>word for it\u2019, it is sleight of hand slowed down to half the speed to show its workings. It provides \u2013 then deconstructs \u2013 a recipe for misdirection: \u2018Re-arrange the past\u2019, \u2018Invoke the Dunkirk Spirit\u2019, \u2018Slow-mo footage of crowds\u2019 etc. It shows us how art can be used to depoliticise tragedy; to strip it of its long biography \u2013 its precedents and legacy \u2013 by providing a neat (false) resolution \u2018End with happy children playing\u2019. I offer McCann\u2019s image of a sinister contentment as a counterpoint to the real joy we can access through working-class art and poetry. A joy that sees the world as it is but finds both courage and pleasure in fighting and writing back.<\/p>\n \u201cI wanna live with common people like you\u201d<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n (After \u2018Common People\u2019 by Pulp)<\/em><\/p>\n By Sab Lyall<\/em><\/p>\n The first is The second is The third is all- To live. \u00a0<\/p>\n Lumpen Broadcast Connotation <\/strong>\u2013 the Paxman Cometh<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n By Wendy Young<\/em><\/p>\n \u2018when the hurlyburl(e)y’s done, when the battle’s lost and won\u2019<\/em> … (not MacBeth Rigby)<\/p>\n So what if Mick Lynch gets 130K a year!?! In my workplace the pay for non-medical consultants is phenomenal \u2013 and we’re informed endlessly that good negotiators and brains should be paid a good remuneration… guessing (well knowing) they get far more than Mick Lynch. Worth it just to see him make the lumpen press splutter!<\/p>\n Pompous lump Why don’t you just do as you’re told MISTER<\/em> Lynch? Behind this Botox facade is an older person who remembers the Miners\u2019 Strike MISTER <\/em>Lynch? Let me get on with my chauffeur driven car to work my holiday home my several annual holidays my kids in private school while I bandy about your 130K salary MISTER<\/em> Lynch?<\/p>\n MISTER <\/em>Dempsey why did you walk out of talks with the shit-shoveller \u2013 worker turned management kowtow bower?\u00a0 Let me tell you how it is and cut the crap chat pleasing Shapps chap down to spouting media dolly lumpens:<\/p>\n The RMT represents flexible workers who are willing \u2013 though you flex us vex us \u2013 try to shake us your nexus \u2013 slit our throats \u2013 pay us groats \u2013 in it up your necks \u2013 <\/p>\n It would be helpful if you stopped spewing like barrow-boy bankers \u2013 to ignoramuses\u2019 \u2013 our loyal supporters \u2013 it\u2019s basically a fantasy that being said \u2018Hello\u2019 to by managers, our workers will restart their break \u2013 they serve the public 24\/7 \u2013 stop dragging up old laws spreading them in treacle \u2013 ALL THAT\u2019S FINE WHOOP-WHOOP WHISTLE THISTLY SHIFTY BUM EAGER BADGERING BULLSHIT SEEKER ME BEGS \u2013 please let me break you \u2013 MISTER <\/em>Lynch and MISTER<\/em> Dempsey!<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n THE WHITE NATIONALISTS ARE STONED ON THEIR OWN BALL SWEAT AGAIN<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n By Paul Corman-Roberts<\/em><\/p>\n It was neocons eve last night QAnon is the new Ministry of Information Teenage martyrs all making sure dark Jesus everything is on the table \u00a0<\/p>\n Post-Covid<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n By Kevin Patrick McCann<\/em><\/p>\n And when it\u2019s all over Sabrina Lyall<\/strong> divides her time between Clonmel and London. She is new to poetry but is currently working on her first collection.<\/p>\n Wendy Young<\/strong> is a poet\/ performer, whose publications include Living with Ghosts<\/em> (Natterjack Poetry, 2015), Ooetry<\/em> (William Cornelius Harris Publishing\/London Poetry, 2015) and The Dream of Somewhere Else<\/em> (Survivors Press, 2016). Her poem \u2018The Time is Ripe and Rotten Ripe for Change\u2019 was selected for Handbook for 2021<\/em>, the anthology of the Bread & Roses Poetry Award 2020 (Culture Matters).<\/p>\n Paul Corman-Roberts<\/strong> is the author of the CLMP Firecracker nominated Bone Moon Palace<\/em> from Nomadic Press (2021.)\u00a0 A co-founder and co-director of Oakland\u2019s Beast Crawl Literary Festival, he teaches with the Older Writer\u2019s Lab of San Francisco, the San Francisco Creative Writing Institute and with the Oakland Unified School District.<\/p>\n Kevin Patrick McCann<\/strong> has published eight collections of poetry for adults, and one for children: Diary of a Shapeshifter<\/em> (Beul Aithris Publications). There is also a book of ghost stories: It\u2019s Gone Dark<\/em> (The Otherside Books), and Teach Yourself Self-Publishing<\/em> (Hodder), co-written with the playwright Tom Green. Ov <\/em>(Beul Aithris Publications) is a fantasy novel for children. Deleted Scenes: Poems i.m. Shirely Jackson<\/em> is a new e-pamphlet from Culture Matters.<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" As odd as it might sound \u2013 given the present state of the world \u2013 this article is all about joy. 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a sneer, wiped
off on the back
of the hand.
The dreggy taste
of closing time.<\/p>\n
yearning. our
fingers inch
toward the fire.
Our itch to
confirm a blue
flame.<\/p>\n
affirming. firm.
The fist you form
around your key \u2013<\/p>\n
To live with you.
With all of you.
So common.
So rare.<\/p>\n
The spoilt lump on news channel conniving, emphasises MISTER <\/em>Lynch emphatically
Proving their worth \u2013 repetitive banality in querulous bollox \u2013 borne of ye olde BBC
happenstance \u2013 coined by established \u2013 frankly bored \u2013 interrogator seeking a \u201cstraight\u201d Tory answer<\/p>\n
Why don’t you just stay in your place MISTER<\/em> Lynch?
People going about their daily BIZ<\/em>-ness MISTER<\/em> Lynch?
People getting to work MISTER<\/em> Lynch?
You can ridicule me all you want MISTER<\/em> Lynch!<\/p>\n
And of course those burly beastly Miners were pure selfish and out for a fight MISTER<\/em> Lynch!
What will YOU <\/em>do if agency workers cross the line MISTER<\/em> Lynch?
Isn\u2019t your social media profile The Hood from Thunderbirds MISTER<\/em> Lynch?<\/p>\n
I ask as a once-council-house-dwelling done-gooder \u2013 worst of the bunch \u2013 part of the Press who pressures plebs \u2013 who now calls dinner a champagne lunch
Maybe even a Mone muncher!\u00a0 A PPE perpetuating prick emanator! Hey, don\u2019t bring up the \u201cscum\u201d remember what happened to Ms Rayner?
Awh but int she gorgeous \u2013 blonde bimbo incumbent \u2013 a \u201claydeee doncha know\u201d ooh an offshore public money dumper!<\/p>\n
We have a skilled work force who deserve protection \u2013 a decent wage \u2013 it goes for every worker who ticket \u2013 collect \u2013 clean \u2013 shunt \u2013 tap \u2013 drive \u2013 operate \u2013 help \u2013 because people want humans not automated chastity \u2013 our Members don\u2019t want charity \u2013 food banks \u2013 income support \u2013 just clarity \u2013 plain and simple guaranteed futures \u2013 for their well-being and families!<\/p>\n
fight or flight now for God\u2019s beautiful queers
black and brown families in perpetual mourning
protection gun rackets for sale
on every corner<\/p>\n
Prince DeVos smells broken glass
smells fire
the blood of the vulnerable
makes them hot with lust.<\/p>\n
rifles strapped to their bibles
matching uniforms
while white Jesus
rocks out with Ted Nugent<\/p>\n
knows which side of the room
to line up on
don\u2019t get too close
to the right saviour<\/p>\n
United States of Russia
flat earth-centred cosmos
will of invisible men
who live in the sky.<\/p>\n
(By Christmas) find
Some smooth poet to
Chant an In Memoriam
At fifty quid a line,
Re-arrange the past
(Johnson moved swiftly)
Invoke Dunkirk Spirit
(Slo-mo footage of crowds
All masked) morph
Surmise into facts,
Montage rainbows
(Avoid corruption)
Doorstep clapping
(Don\u2019t mention useless PPE)
End with happy children playing:
Fade out on Our Own Dear Queen<\/p>\n