The Last Trump?

 

This week I had an email from a charity that I have supported for all my (adult) life: Amnesty International.

Their work to uphold human rights ticks all the boxes of my life-view which is perhaps best described as humanistic. False imprisonment, gun violence, the death penalty, the ill-treatment of those dispossessed, and violence against women are all things that Amnesty International stands against.

And I do also.

It seems absurd, in the eighteenth year of the twenty-first century, that Amnesty International’s e-mails have contained grave warnings about one man. The implication is that the President Elect (who, by the time I publish this, will be The President) cares little for the values, projects, and principles of one the most important defenders of human rights. The fear is that these ‘rights’ will soon turn to ‘wrongs.’

While I don’t want to say anything particularly erudite or intellectual about this situation, I feel I must – as a writer and performer – add my syllables. The email I received from Amnesty International linked to a Facebook event; a Protest March being held in my home city of Edinburgh, in sympathy with the women’s march taking part in Washington DC on the day after Trump’s Inauguration.

I already knew about the Washington March and was quick to write a poem, following a prompt from several publishers for poems about the new regime. Like many ‘political’ poems it will quickly be out of date – in fact, as soon as I post this blog.

I have performed the poem several times already, to responsive audiences. But the issues that lie behind this poem will not go away.

 

We are entering strange times, as even the newspapers

(who cannot be trusted, but)

agree.

We must stand alongside the dispossessed. In solidarity.

 

 

The Last Trump

 

            We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed.

            In the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet.

 

I made a little robot, and called him Robot Trump.

He was an average robot, but turned into a cunt.

 

I gave him human attributes – freedom, volition, and choice.

Sadly, I also gave him a cock, and a whiny little voice.

 

This robot looked vaguely human; it had arms and legs and a mouth.

But its face became a rictus, and its hair went north, west, and south.

 

Robot Trump travelled to Scotland where he trampled all over the land.

It was much more than a golf course and a few hotels he’d planned.

 

He sidled up to the (former) Leader of the Scottish Nationalists.

But his balls ended up in the bunker: Aberdeenshire was pretty pissed.

 

So he beat a retreat to America, on course for more than just golf....

Meanwhile, in the British Courts was a TV-celebrity, Rolf.

 

Harris was his surname; his catch-phrase, “Can you see what it is yet?”

Indeed, the bigger picture is that women don’t tend to forget.

 

Harris came from an age when groping was seen as normative.

Like Trump, the balance of locker-room talk and abuse is only relative.

 

So Randy Rolf’s in jail, while Robot Trump’s about to be sworn in,

not by a jury of his peers but – sorry, I’ve given you no warning –

 

by his beloved country, as President of the Empire State.

Howcome? By whipping up a campaign of misogyny and hate.

 

Robot Trump stood with its rictal mouth, hair coiffured like a cappuccino,

and ripped into the ‘untouchables’ – Mexican, Black, Muslim, Latino.

 

While most Statespeople build bridges that liberate nations, to enthral

his fans, Robot Trump declared his intention: “Let’s build a WALL!”

 

Ever since Hadrian, walls have been built to fence the Nationalists in,

and keep the foreigners out – think of China, Israel, and Berlin.

 

Trouble is, people believed my Robot. In these times of post-truth,

Trump even claimed that, of climate change, there is no actual proof.

 

But things were getting warmer with the hot air of his rhetoric;

America wasn’t getting taken in; America was being gas-lit.

 

Trump was a Major League Arsehole – much like his predecessor –

yet unlike Bush, Trump was a dangerous bully; a fascist aggressor.

 

If anyone didn’t agree with him, he’d get them turfed out by security,

or he’d mercilessly mock them – especially those with a “disability.”

 

When up against his – yes, woman – opponent in the TV debate,

He’d stand directly behind her as she spoke, just to intimidate.

 

Robot Trump, I must admit, wasn’t provided with eloquent charm,

So he’d simply invent his multisyllabic words without any qualm.

 

We should have heard a bell ring when he made up ‘braggadocious,’

for the most alarming of his claims was nothing less than atrocious:

 

He seemed to think it normal or acceptable, that a man grabbing

a woman’s private parts is – less-than criminal – well-worth bragging.

 

Like every abuser of women, he sought right away to minimise.

But as we all know, the intention is the potential action’s disguise.

 

Instead of accepting with dignity and acknowledging his great ‘fail,’

He threatened to put his opponent (with Rolf Harris?) into jail.

 

It seems, like Frankenstein, I had created an unpleasant creature;

one that defied what is generally acceptable to human nature.

 

Luckily, I’m just a poet, and Robot Trump, ficticious. No, wait?

This is actually real? My god! Do something, before it is too late.

 

Women, and men also in solidarity, congregate at Capitol Hill,

and march, hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm, round and round until

 

the foundations of Trump’s fake Jericho are feeling less-than fast,

then bring the walls of his folly tumbling down with a blast.

 

Sound the trumpet, ring a bell, make your voice heard, and let

this idiotic Robotic President know that women do not forget.

Season of Good Will?

Last week, at around 11.30pm, a neighbour in my tenement block made it to but not through her front door. She’d got into the close, but was slumped in the stairwell; the remnants of the Office Party were regurgitated over the bottom step. I felt uncomfortable about dealing with this young woman who I didn’t recognise, but luckily an upstairs-neighbour arrived.

“Oh dear,” we both said to each other. My neighbour prodded the woman into consciousness, and we ascertained that she stayed in the flat opposite. We extrapolated keys from her. After getting the woman through her front door, my neighbour went up to her own flat leaving me to deal with the leftovers. “Do you have bleach?” she checked.

“I have bleach.” I assured her, and set about boiling a kettle and sourcing a mop. Half an hour later, having shovelled what amounted to barely-digested bruschetta swimming in prosecco into a plastic bag, doused the steps in bleach and boiling water, swept, scrubbed and mopped the whole ground floor, I felt an odd mixture of irritation and  self-satisfaction.

The following morning, the upstairs-neighbour emailed me to say what a good job I’d done. “I hope she's not feeling too rough this morning,” she wrote, adding, “I'd be mortified!” Of course, she may not remember a thing about it. I was not expecting a thank-you from her, for either or both of those reasons. My work-colleagues had a different take on the incident.

“You should send her the bill,” they said: “Labour, equipment, anti-social hours – charge her double.” Oh, please. How miserable and selfish, to respond with base greed after having helped someone in need. I don’t care whose fault it was that she’d over-indulged at the Office Party (except that I suspect her colleagues cared less for her safe journey home.)

The so-called ‘season of good will’ brings out the worst in people.

When someone is in a mess, no matter what the reason, no matter what they’ve done, no matter who they are or where they’re from, if you fail or neglect to help them it makes you the weaker person. Compassion is not a quid pro quo arrangement either. It is simply shows the Golden Rule, to treat others as you expect to be treated yourself. If you only help others expecting a reward, you shouldn’t hope for charity in return when you are down or out.

In my youth, I was scraped up from the pavement in a state of inebriation on two occasions. Once, by the Met Police who took me to Paddington (not the train station) for the night; another, when I was 17, by a neighbour who took me to hospital and called my parents. They were firmly instructed not to give me a hard time over it. One of the nurses knew who I was, and was telling everyone, “Oh, but he’s got such a beautiful singing voice.”

Neither my voice nor I felt beautiful for a day or two. My parents never got to the bottom of why this drunken spree was a cry for help... but at least they didn’t punish me.

During this festive period, whether you helped the homeless or supported refugees, visited someone in prison or hospital, or spent time with friends, family, or insufferable relatives, was it out of compassion alone? You won’t be rewarded in heaven: there’s no such place. On earth, you only have one chance to do Good. And if you fuck it up, let’s hope someone will hear your cry for help and come to your aid – even if just to mop up the detritus.

Meanwhile, here’s a piece of doggerel about doing good deeds... and some of the modern martyrs on the front of Westminster Abbey.

Saints for a Day; Martyrs for What Cause?

Sometimes I wonder if the sanctity

of Saints is best remembered

among more secular hagiography,

rather than for what they did.

In January, Saint Kentigern is celebrated.

Better known in Scotland as Saint Mungo,

since his beloved relics are now consecrated,

buried below his own cathedral in Glasgow.

Saint Valentine is patron of love and romance –

though proving this connection’s pretty hard.

Yet retailers of tat snap up the main chance:

If you love someone, why not buy them a card?

Saint David, likewise, is popular with florists

and vendors of leeks. But who’d have thought a

country would commemorate, by getting pissed,

a man who lived off vegetables and water?

The Irish, on the other hand, have quite a lot

to thank Saint Patrick for, not least, explaining

impossible doctrines with a three-leaf shamrock:

Now that makes Guinness worth draining.

England’s megalomartyr of Gregorian Sacramentory,

George, slayed what didn’t exist in the first place.

That dragon, like most legends, was imaginary  –

the English really are an inventive race.

Saint Andrew, an Apostle, became a fisher of men.

But, as a Martyr, was crucified askance;

his grisly saltire now turned national emblem

allows us Scots to celebrate his death with dance.

Saint Nicolas – now also known as Santa Clause –

has become a patron for the spendthrift greedy.

But he used his bags of gold for a good cause,

to rescue the destitute, pickled, and needy.

Illuminating Lucy with her candlelit corona

lends to Sweden’s darkest day a lurid light:

This stubborn virgin takes on the persona

of a girl with cinnamon buns, dressed in white.

King Wenceslas looked out on Boxing Day

for the feast of Stephen who was stoned.

Not that sort... people are still stoned today

for acts that don’t need to be condoned.

Ever since Mary Magdalene was pardoned

by the man who said: let the one without sin

cast the first stone, men’s hearts hardened

against justice, equality, liberty and pacifism.

Two millennia later, another set of martyrs

came to challenge those who judge, condemn

or silence: here’s a handful, just for starters;

none were ordinary women, nor ordinary men.

A Grand Duchess called Elizabeth, in the grips

of Tzarist Russia, sold her opulent possessions

to care for the poor. Unfortunately the Bolshviks

took care of her through state-endorsed execution.

In 1940s Auschwitz, among the genocide of Jews,

a priest called Maximilian Kolbe gave his own life,

not for the sake of his religious influence or views,

but for another man’s life: a selfless sacrifice.

Manche Masemola, of the Transvaal Pedi Tribe

refused to marry for any other reason than love.

Her parents brutally killed her and dared to ascribe

their motive to her belief in a God above.

Another, placing grace above religious ideology,

Bonhoeffer, daring to stand against the state

of Nazi rule with a seemingly simple theology –

The Church exists only for others – met his fate.

And how to precis Romero’s state-led execution

In a quatrain? In a country led by corruption and lies,

He was a catalyst for moral prophecy: a notion

to which our ‘post-truth’ culture may become wise.

A woman known as Esther John turned her back

On her homeland to teach other women to read.

But her folks disagreed with her mission, tracked

her down, murdered her as she lay in her bed.

Martin Luther King Jnr refused to keep silence

in the face of oppression and racial segregation.

Challenging the existing order with non-violence,

His birthday’s now an annual, national celebration.

Yes, there are many modern saints and martyrs

Who have died defending basic human rights.

They may not feature in liturgical calendars,

But remember them as you turn on your Christmas 
                                                                       lights.

Childless by Choice

Last week, I was in a short documentary about sperm donation. Regular readers of this blog, and those who know me well, will be aware of the irony behind this. A few years ago I found myself to have been an unwitting, involuntary donor of sorts. Whether anything ‘came’ of this, I’ll never know.

 

Some time ago I was engaging in pub-chat when someone asked the question, apropos of nothing in particular: “What do you regret most about your life?” A carefully-worded question that somehow avoided the obvious reaction, to say what you regret having done, one friend answered with something he hadn’t done.

“What do I most regret?” He answered: “Easy. Not having children.”

As the conversation continued, we discovered that he and his wife had not been able to have children; adoption wasn’t an option for them, and sperm donation was inconceivable. Now in his fifties, it remains, and always will remain, an aching lacuna. Nothing we could do would placate him over this regret of absence.

I heard a similar tale on the radio recently when jazz pianist, Bill Evans, was the featured composer of the week. We heard the story that he and his partner, Elaine, were unable to have children. It seems that the problem lay with Elaine, so Evans left her for another, apparently fertile woman. His desire to procreate seemed more important than his commitment to love.

In fact, it overruled life itself: Elaine was so devastated by the situation that she threw herself under a train. When Evans’ new partner gave birth to a son, they named him after his father’s surname: Evan. He may have been the ‘Chopin of Jazz’ and a ‘Poet of the Piano.’ But he was also a selfish git.

On the flip-side, there are people who actively decide not to have children. I spoke to a couple of friends earlier this year who had sealed their commitment to one another with marriage, and their agreement not to procreate with an operation. Tying one knot, while snipping another cord!

It is easy enough to reverse a vasectomy, of course, but that’s a bold decision to make at the start of a life-partnership. For the record, I’m pretty sure that very few men, outwith a life-long relationship, would voluntarily vasectomise. This is why I greeted the question (following ‘that’ sexual encounter) if I had had ‘the operation’ with suspicion and surprise.

There is yet another side of this coin (since humans do not fit into a simple head-or-tails binary) for same-sex partners. Two men have no choice than to have children through a surrogate route, but for women in this situation, at least one of them may bear a child, having procured the means.

 

This documentary was a good-humoured look at the search for a suitable sperm-donor, which was not without difficulties. The film-maker and her partner who wanted to have a child described sperm-donors as being like flats: if you don’t snap them up, someone else will get there first. The voice-over was addressed to the unborn child, or perhaps, unfertilised seed, with some amusing lines... “Soon you will splash into our world.”

The key part of the film was to do with choosing the ‘right’ donor. The two women looked through hundreds of profiles, with only pictures of the donors as babies or infants to go on. In the hope of finding the perfect match they read details on personality, DNA profiles, and testimonies about the donors’ reasons for donating. It was not unlike certain dating websites.

My part in the film, with other random men, was to provide an infant picture, do a bit of voice-over, and have a bunch of close-up shots that formed a montage of possible donors. Seeing my ears far larger than they are in real life on the big screen of my favourite cinema was a scary thing! But it was, I suspect coincidentally, a defining factor.

How did the women choose? They agreed that you’d want the baby to look like you. They arbitrarily rejected an infant with a squint, and at one point – much to my amusement – cried out: “Check out those ears!” Another salient point was, “God forbid it has asthma.” My mother and I both suffered horrific asthma as children. It is not something I’d wish on any infant.

When I spoke to the film-maker after the screening, I told her that although it is focused on the LGBTQ+ community, the film had broader, universal themes. It raised questions about our desire to widen the gene-pool, the reasons to donate sperm, and a woman’s urge to create a life. Above all, it was a touching, personal journey about two women, living and loving.

In October this year, the NHS sperm bank in Birmingham closed due to lack of donors – only eight men came forward in the two years since being set up – and even one of those pulled out. Perhaps a Roman Catholic. I suspect his excuse was a limp one, yet a more serious issue lurks.

Since 2005, a change in law means that, on turning 18, people have the right to discover their natural father, which may explain the lack of donors. It is no longer anonymous, unless you donate to an unregistered service overseas, which is not without ethical issues.

Even a single woman can request IVF, although it seems a pretty bloody selfish thing, to bring a child into the world without any wish to give it two parents, no matter their gender. Children of single parents start asking questions as early as three years old, but I doubt the single mother’s answer will be, “Daddy was a convenient £950 transaction from a ‘bank’ in London.”

 

 The duplicitous person with whom I was in a fraudulent relationship told me that she had wanted to purchase sperm and bring up a child alone. I should have heard a warning bell, but – hey – ‘love’ is blind. Not that it was love. It was lust, and greed; theft and deception. She was callous and unhinged.

On our final tryst, days before I discovered the truth about her, we met (ominously) in a graveyard. She pressed her body into mine, saying, “I’m so sexually attracted to you,” then added, casually laughing, “We even look like each other!” She had clearly chosen me. Should I feel flattered?

Or should I feel used – and abused – for saving her the trouble of searching for a donor using the honest, difficult method told in the documentary. I suspect she and her fiancé – about whom I knew nothing – were exploring those very options; clearly, the problem wasn’t with her fertility.

As I’ve said many times, short of reverting to the Courts or Jeremy Kyle I’m unlikely to find out the truth. Without DNA proof, how would I know? One friend said to me, “Just by looking at the thing!” I suspect he was referring to my ears (scroll down for the ear-story...) but of course, I’m hardly likely ever to see this child.

Perhaps I should name-and-shame the parents? That would be retaliation; a petty reaction, stooping to their level. Their subsequent behaviour towards me has proven their complicity. The real victim in this is the child, for whom out of pity I ought to show compassion.

Whether or not I’ve been denied the right to be childless by choice, I still have integrity and dignity.