Today the government's cap on welfare benefits comes is into force. The government's own Department of Work and Pensions estimates that some 88 000 families will have their housing benefits slashed by an average of £2 000 a year (that's £40 a week). Many will be unable to pay their rent and are likely to become homeless. It is estimated that between a quarter and half a million children are likely to be affected. (Figures from this
article by Aditya Chakraborty)
During the summer I met an artist and poet, Paul Clark, who had been working not with, but among, some homeless people. He had spent some time restoring a cast-iron rose window in a listed building being used as a rescue centre for homeless men. He told me: "I'd take extra sandwiches and have my lunch-break with them; listening. And bit by bit I heard their stories, recording their tales and memories in the form of this poem, called: The Shadow People."
I found the last three stanzas of his poem very moving and asked Paul's permission to put them on this blog. He readily gave his agreement but insisted that the the poem should be be seen as a whole, the earlier stanzas contrasting the rural experience with the urban one.
So here it is:
The Shadow People
Droning ‘cross a field, away beyond
the hedgerow
flowers
Tedding straw - tomorrow’s bales
a tractor
counts its hours
On wings of wind is tinny music
snatched
out of its cab
Tuneless whistling in pursuit
is muffled
grey and drab
’Longside the field a shadow weaves
a deeper
pattern of light
No puddles ripple or briers cling
to this
early being of night
Blackbird cackle, rabbits thump
ascending
skylarks sing.
It stoops, it hunches, walks upright
unseen
from brush to thicket
A shadow on the undergrowth –
is lost
and past the snicket
The driver’s eyes are locked and glazed
As up
and down he treads
His mind has gone, it’s far away
with Rosie in the snug
Humid warmth with pints of ale
and embers on the rug.
Wraith-like it waits and watches
while the roaring drone goes
by
Steps in the light is gone ag’in
the
flicker of the eye.
Beyond the stream and in the bracken
silent,
looking down
A wary roebuck , nostrils flaring
watches
on the ground.
Cupped hands stoop beside the water,
sip,
a thirst to quench
Sitting, sighs of resignation,
fallen
tree a bench.
Shadows dancing with the trees
a
dappled figure make
An old young man ill dressed and stubbled ,
slumped
his rest to take
Before tonight a barn or byre
will
make his day complete.
The wary folk of field and forest
watch
this wraith go by
Tractor parked the driver homeward
’neath
a setting sky
Behind the bales planking rattles
swinging
gently stop
Shuffling through the straw to reach
the
tractor still and hot.
Arthritic fingers
grasp the smokestack
wrapping
tightly ‘round
Body draped warm engine cowling
making
not a sound
Tired and lonely, bales surrounding
sleeps
and fades away
A city’s streets are all the same
when
you have nowhere to go
Lying in your doorway
watch
the ebbing human flow
Leave the city still and empty
to
the homeless and the dregs
Circulation slowing ‘til
you
cannot feel your legs
People look the other way,
why
should they have to care?
You’re not in their reality
and
so, you’re just not there
Pulling from a bottle
in a
screwed-up paper bag.
The clocks are chiming midnight
and you’re far too cold to shiver
Lying like a corps that’s just been
dragged
out of the river
Drunks have had their fun
and
gone off, staggering home to bed
With luck or hypothermia
in
the morning you’ll be dead.
Feel the numbing splintering cold
of
winter through the bones
Life on the street’s a torture
when
you haven’t got a home.
A police cell or a hospital,
a hostel bed or morgue
For God’s sake roll on Giro day
when
nanny State will deign
The milk of human kindness
to anaesthetise
the pain.
The pain of arthritis,
the
pain of being forgot
The pain of being pissed upon
the
pain of being shot
By farmers’ rock-salt cartridge
and
kids with airguns too
The pain of cheap raw cider
as
it rots your guts right through
So when you’re up the bar next
to
get another beer
Say "Cheers!" to oblivion, and
the pain
of being here.
Maybe someone from the government will read this poem, or similar, and recognise that benefits need to be paid according to need rather than a figure to humour the tabloids.
A concurrent approach would be to build more houses and, in the meantime, re-introduce rent controls and so limit the windfalls accruing to buy-to-let landlords