Silent voices (poem)

My heart is heavy, my head’s in a spin
As I try to make sense of this mess that we’re in.
Keep quiet you fool, says the voice I tend to ignore,
You’re turning into the most insufferable bore.
Droning on about rights, injustice and division
And how we still aspire to true independent living.

My high-pitched female voice grates on the ears
Of the suited pen pushers who never seem to hear,
and they even seem to relish the thought of those living in fear –
of the voices they’ve silenced down through the years.
And I wonder how long we can keep up the fight
When some of us are forced to end the day at eight at night,
And we know better than to dare to bite
The hand that feeds us.
We are so fucking grateful,
And like stupid obedient pups we will always be faithful
For the reward of the paltry scraps thrown in our direction.
While the powers that be rule our lives at their discretion.

Sometimes I think I go over the top,
And I wish I could get my racing mind to stop.
I wish I didn’t care about fairness, equality or rights
and that I didn’t feel pain in my heart day and night.
If I didn’t know better, I could live in a cloud
Where the voices in my heart wouldn’t sound so loud –
Just become a ‘yes man’ and simply nod my head
And turn off the brain that is now a mangled mess instead.

And on the worst days, when I’m exhausted through and through
I’m so tempted to shrug my shoulders and say “What can I do?”
Do my words make a difference to anything except my bruised ego,
And if we want people to listen, where should we go?
Had I known that gaining more knowledge would bring so much pain
Would I choose the same path had I my time again?

YES, YES, YES

I say yes to equality, for the right to my own mind,
To leaving the shackles of the past behind,
I say yes to being ‘the troublemaker’ who says what can’t be said,
I shout on behalf of those imprisoned in their bed.
I fear complacency and apathy, of accepting as the norm
The nitty-gritty of my life fitting on an A4 form.

My heavy heart’s on fire, my head spins with voices from the past
That say: If you want to change these things, you’d better act, and fast.
 

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Poem: Proud

                                                                Proud

Nine years of birthdays with no candles on a cake,
Watching seasons come and go,
The days dragged, but the years flew.
And here I sit once again, with no gifts, no smiles, no hugs
and nothing new to say,
Unless you count saying ‘I miss you’
in a completely different way.

But this year, as well as the usual
Memories that make me smile,
My mind wanders to the fact
We haven’t spoken in a while.
and I need some validation,
to hear you say the answers out loud:
What do you think of me,
Do I make you proud?

I know that when I share this poem
People will say ‘of course!
How could you ever think otherwise?’
And they’ll say it ‘til they’re hoarse.
But you know I’m a cynic –
I never believe until I see –
And to be honest, the fact I’ll never know
Has really been bothering me.

Because I know I wasn’t easy:
At times, I had to be pushed,
Sometimes I was lazy,
And others, far too rushed.
I remember you there goading me,
Telling me to do my best,
and as I got older
Begging me to take some rest.

Then I look at my daughter,
Your grandchild, brave and strong,
and I realise, for all my mistakes,
She’s the one thing I didn’t get wrong.
And when she looks into my eyes
and says ‘Mum, are you proud of me?’
I realise that the answer
Will ever only one thing be.

And this brings some consolation
at this desolate time of year,
A hope that you’re looking down on me
With a smile from ear to ear.
Because though I cannot know for sure
Or hear it said out loud,
I hope you know I try my best,
and I hope that you are proud.

Happy birthday xxx

Nonetheless, I Persist (Poem)

Hi all dedicated Wobbly Yummy Mummy Fans!

For the next six months or so I predict my posting on here will be a tad sporadic, so let me take this opportunity to apologise in advance. I’m studying for the Certificate of Disability Studies in NUI Maynooth, so that’ll be my priority for the next while. But I promise I will update this blog when I can!

In the meantime here is a poem inspired by what I’ve studied so far. Enjoy!

Look at you there, looking at me
As you will me to become whatever you see,
Your handy, capable hero, a huge lump of clay
to be moulded, designed in whatever way
you choose.

Choice.

You say, that if you had the choice
(and you say this so arrogantly, with your own voice)
That no way would you spend the rest of your life
Battling spasms, twisted limbs, pain and yet – in spite
Of this
I persist
To exist.

Do you honestly think that I cannot hear
That I’m the embodiment of all of your fears?
You tell me I’m great, a pure inspiration.
You don’t know my name! But you think
you still have the right to dictate my place
in this so-called ‘great’ nation.

I’m not here to inspire, or make you feel good
and yet I’m not able to live a free a life as I should.
I carry the weight of your negative assumptions on my back
While you casually remind me of all that I lack.

I’ll never walk properly, my hands are weak
And I sound like a drunkard whenever I speak.
Would I not be happier surrounded by ‘my kind’
where my existence wouldn’t push the boundaries of your tiny mind?

I am not scrounger, or inspiration, or hero,
And I won’t be hidden or locked away either.
I’m a Trinity graduate, a writer, a wife
Who, in spite of your assumptions, has a pretty good life.
My ‘incapacitated’ body bore a daughter full of light,
And she knows that, one day, she must continue the fight:
Fight for equality
Fight to be seen as ordinary –
Fight to make mistakes.
I’d rather be seen as flawed than a fake.

You see,
I am not your ‘handy-capable’ hero,
Or an inspiration,
Or a workshy scrounger,
Or a burden, or a waste of space.
This is no tragedy
I am me – spastic, wobbly, gabby
And, ‘in spite’
Of this
I choose
To persist
To exist.

 

Say Nothing (Poem)

(To mark World Mental Health Day, 10/10/2018. Apologies for the corniness – I bashed it out over lunch)

I have this voice inside my head
That often drags me down,
And nothing I can say to it can make the bastard drown.
It tells me that I’m ugly, useless, a waste of space
And worst of all that I’m alone in everything I face.

See, people have bigger problems:
Some people don’t have homes –
Others burdened by their mortgages
Or living on their own.
Some are trapped by violent partners
Others will have no tea.
I live a life of privilege that
This isn’t happening to me.

I couldn’t tell my friends or family –
I couldn’t bear the shame
Of having that stigma of ‘attention seeker’
Attached to my name.
They’ll think that I’m a nutcase
or that I need to take some pills.
I might be told ‘snap out of it’
Or that I’m not really ill.

And so I will say nothing,
Until one day when I wake
I decide that I’ve had as much
Torture as I can take.
What started as a grey cloud
Has turned into a storm
And I can see no way out…

Or maybe… just maybe…
A chink of light will shine through,
When I pluck up the courage
To turn and say to you:
‘I really don’t feel like myself,
I don’t think I’m okay.
I just need you to hold my hand.
I don’t know what else to do or say.’

Because, you see, I could say nothing
And no-one would’ve said
That there’s a bomb about to explode
Inside my messed up head.
The agony is tangible, it eats me up inside.
But I know you cannot help me if I proceed to hide.

And so, I must say something
If only so you know
That if you ever, ever feel the same
I need you to tell me so.
Because silence is a killer,
And pride keeps us apart –
And though the sentiments of this poem seem ‘corny’,
I mean them with all my heart.

One last thought, and then I’ll say goodbye:
There’s often more to things than meets the eye:
Smiles don’t always mean joy, laughter can hide sorrow,
So check in on those you love – don’t leave it til tomorrow.

Poem: Autumn

Autumn is more than a season.
It’s the feeling
Of the world falling down around you –
Yellow and reds:
Heaven and hell.
The closure of warmth,
The fug of turf fires,
A subtle breeze biting your skin,
A familiar darkness closing in.

It’s the season of horror
and hiding behind masks –
A chill leaks into your soul
as you look around
at what is lost.
The silenced children’s voices
now hide behind closed curtains,
Their once glowing faces now white
From the glow of their screens.

Trees sway, unconfident in their nakedness,
Their once plentiful garb strewn to the ground.
Desolate, they wait patiently
For longer days
And a hint of sun.

And so, we go about our days,
Our houses and cars lit to fight the darkness,
Waiting until we see that first green bud
On the old, dependable sycamore tree.

Sarah Fitzgerald, 02/10/2018

 

 

Be Quiet

Hi all, this is a poem I wrote inspired by the day I’ve had. I woke up this morning and spontaneously decided to go up to Dublin for a few hours (I know, I’m a bad cripple not giving notice). So I rang the train station – no answer. Rang Athlone, Portarlington, Dublin – no answer. Frustrated, I did what any rational being would do and took to Twitter, making a complaint to the @IrishRail page. They never answered, but it was retweeted about ten times, with many in disbelief that because I didn’t give notice that there was a real chance I wouldn’t be on the train.

As I watched the responses coming in on Twitter, I started to feel ashamed. Maybe I’d taken it too far this time. Maybe I was starting to cross the  line from well-meaning activist to downright troublemaker. But then it occurred to me that if it was someone else, a fellow wheelchair user, I’d be the first to cause a stink. And that if we don’t cause a fuss, we will continue to be overlooked.

Anyway, Tullamore train station must’ve been notified because, half an hour after my tweet, the kind man there answered and promised me the assistance I needed. I felt simultaneously smug and stupid, and embarrassed to have caused such hassle.

But I am not hassle. I am equal. And I deserve to be treated as such.

Keep Quiet

Sssh
Keep quiet
Don’t make a fuss
All you ever do is complain
Things really aren’t that bad for you people.
Imagine if you had been born
Sixty years ago
You may never have known the outside
Of the four walls of your bedroom.
You don’t realise how lucky you are –
A home, a job, a family –
We don’t need to hear about
How you fought for every little thing.
Contrary to what you read in fairy tales
At night, when you were younger,
One person cannot change the world.
All your anger does
Is make us all uncomfortable

(I cannot stay quiet.
The silence echoes through our small island.
Rights on paper but not in practice,
Lone wolves howling in the darkness.

I dare not stay quiet
When now there is a generation behind me
Who need to know that it’s okay
To point out things are not okay.
I shall never shrug my shoulders
And pretend to be happy with anything less
Than anything less than true equality).

What would be worse than anger is complacency
And silence, shame of causing a fuss.
Going against what we’ve been taught,
That we must be grateful.

Well, I promise to be grateful
When the simplest things are not made complicated,
When I can come and go as I please,
When the words ‘funding cuts’ don’t make me heave,
When I am equal,
And the lion roaring in my soul is quiet.

Birth Day (Poem)

At eight minutes to midday,
On a sterile, cold operating table
Happiness was born.
She weighed eight pounds four ounces.
She was strong,
But her mother was saggy, deflated.
My breasts throbbed with the heaviness of milk
Ready for the taking.
They sewed me back together,
But alas, they knew
They couldn’t fix me.


I curled around my newborn cherub
Like a lizard around her precious eggs,
Sneaking peeks at the round blue eyes
And the perfectly pink skin.

Nothing made me so frightened
Than my beautiful, breakable china doll.
I’d broken so many cups, glasses, plates –
But this was something that really mattered.
How I wished I could bubble-wrap you,
Shield you from my imperfections,
Preserve you as you were.

And all that time spent worrying –
Baby talk and weaning all a blur –
And for what? To prove myself? Ha!
All that matters is that you love me
And that I truly believe I am good enough.

Worthy of the princess
Whose hand feels so soft on my cheek,
Who strokes my eyebrow when she is worried,
Who pulls me so close after her bedtime story
That our breaths fuse in the half-darkness

I know people watch us, comment and stare
And shake their heads, but honestly, my darling
I don’t care.

They tried to destroy what we had and now
I say no more, enough.
I wasn’t put on earth to prove them wrong
But rather to love you,
And as every year goes by, be assured
That I love you more than life itself,
Than all the stars and oceans,
Even more than chocolate.

Aussie Dreams

Finally, after losing a whole day of your life,
You are hovering over the fair green isle –
Squares and squares of different shades of green –
From up here you could tell where the grass is greener.
It’s so beautiful. You’ve never really noticed it before.
As the wheels bounce off the runway you tell yourself you will appreciate every second.
A second might not seem long, but sometimes it’s forever –
Before, each second dragged as the Aussie dream refused to come nearer,
And now seconds fly as your family live on in your absence.

 You’re prepared for how bloody cold it will be –
Hats and scarves at the ready –
Isn’t that why you left in the first place – because of the bitter cold?
You’d be forgiven for being bitter
For being fed the lie
That having a good Leaving Cert was the key to a good future
And that your performance would define you for the rest of your life.
As you walk through the airport, shocked at the Irish signs,
You’re also shocked to see your childhood neighbour sauntering beside you in Customs.
Ah, we Irish stick together, even in flight,
Showing solidarity in escaping a life of misery and monotony.

 And now, back in your hometown
You feel like a celebrity
Being stopped in your tracks by those you went to school with,
Worked with for a while,
got drunk with every Saturday night.
It always was the same old  story –
And for some, the tale remains the same.
Giddy with excitement and faint disappointment,
You hardly can decide what to do first.
You stuff yourself with Tayto and Barry’s tea,
The familiar tastes leaving an odd cramp in your stomach. 

Feeling the joy of seeing your loved ones,
You wonder why every day can’t be like this,
But no-one bothers to tell you that
You’ve forgotten to take off your rose-tinted glasses.
Behind the smiles and the warm embraces
Everything is the same as it ever was, and will ever be –

Those who love you have continued to do so in your absence
But your fair country refuses to drag itself out of depression
Like a feisty school kid is pulled out of bed on a frosty morning.
Rent in Perth and Tullamore are nearly on a par,
And the streets are lined with people who are ‘wealthy’
But can barely afford to live.
Old Tom still drinks in the same pub on a Thursday night,
And those who stayed behind in pursuit of their pot of gold
Ended up with a bucket of coal.

And when they ask whether you’d come back,
You purse your lips and smile and say simply: ‘Some day.’
Some day when Ireland becomes sexy and alluring
And rewards young people for a good day’s work.
Some day when you’re allowed to have big dreams
And not clipped around the ear for ‘having notions’.
Some day when having fun is not tied up with being obliterated.
When being ‘home’ makes your heart soar higher than being away.

But that day is not today.

And so your heart breaks as you stuff your life back into your suitcase,
Trying to ignore the glistening tears
Falling from the eyes around you.
And knowing that it’s the right thing to do
Makes goodbye ever slightly easier on everyone.
‘Sure we’ll see each other again, and sure can’t you come over?
You’ll be sick of me Skyping you – sure you won’t miss me at all!’
And other such little comforts.

 And as the green plane takes off into the darkness
Searching once more for the light
You’re proud of what you’ve accomplished
And that you were brave enough
To leave behind this little island
In search of something spectacular –
And not to worry, dear – dreary, dependable old Ireland
Will be the very same when you get back again –
But somehow, you’ll have changed-
All grown up, and just a little bit wiser.

 

 

Fight, Fight, Fight

Before they cut the cord,
They shake their heads and say
That having a ‘child like that’ won’t be easy
And probably won’t live very long anyway
(Well one must hope).
Because, heaven forbid
This child is a drain on our resources,
A
nd if it survives it faces a lifetime of pain
And completing meaningless little courses,
The kind that would never get you a job
Beyond stacking shelves in Aldi,
He may never talk and never walk
Or go to school, or get married.
But those little voice inside your parents shouts with all their might,
‘You don’t know what you’re on about. We will fight, fight, fight.’

*

You dodge the bullet of special education
Thanks to your parents’ begging and tears,
You work and work to prove yourself –
Much harder than your peers.

You’re told to ignore the insults:
Spastic, rehab, handicap,
They don’t know what they’re saying
And it would be rude to fight back.
‘Oh aren’t you an inspiration?’
They say when you achieve
Enough points in your Leaving Cert
To grant you the reprieve
From languishing in a day care centre
And instead you are lucky enough
To study in University just like you always dreamed.

Suddenly you’re equal. It’s too good to be true
And people are sitting up and listening to you.
After all these years they realise
You have something of worth to say,
You’re finally taken seriously!
Nothing can get in your way!
Then BAM! You are spat back out
And put back in your place
When you leave third level education
And fall right on your face.
What makes you feel so special
And worthy of a job
When you walk like an old drunk
And dribble like a slob?
College has given you notions
That simply will not do!
But don’t worry – there’s lots of Jobbridge courses
For people just like you.
But the niggling voice inside is saying ‘This simply isn’t right.
I want so much better. I will fight, fight, fight.’

****

And so I don the armour
And pick up the heavy sword
To follow in the footsteps
Of activists gone before.

Ignoring the voices of normies
Telling me that I’m an ingrate
Don’t I know I would be dead but
For the mercy of this state?
But I don’t feel their compassion,
Just a weight upon my heart –
I just want to fix the world
But I don’t know where to start.
A world where I need not give notice
To travel on a train
A world where I don’t have to beg for my rights
Time and time again.
And those who once paved the way for us
Are dying, one by one –
Dying fighting a battle
That they have never won.
The workload is increasing
And people start to look to me
For little nuggets of wisdom.
‘What shall we do? Will we ever see
This so-called progress that’s meant to be
Happening in Ireland right now?’
I can’t answer, I don’t know how.

And I plaster on a smile
And blog about something deep,
Knowing that they don’t know
I sometimes cry before I sleep.
You can’t show ‘them’ your weakness –
They’ll feast on that like cake –
So you simply be persistent until you
Wonder how much more you can take.

You hope your messages are seeping through,
Although you never are quite sure,
When people say they understand,
Then refuse to ramp a door.
You start to become repetitive,
Repeat, repeat, repeat.
And suddenly you’re that annoying crip
That people cross the street
To avoid.

And you smile inside
Because in your heart you hope
That it’s getting harder to hide
From the grim reality facing people in Ireland today.

*

Sometimes it feels that we’re getting nowhere
And no-one hears our plight,
But we owe it to our children
To stick up for what is right.
And they might have to do the same
Which should be to this country’s shame,
But in every single disabled person’s name
We have no choice
But to suck it up
(because Ireland’s fucked it up)
And continue
To fight, fight, fight.

The Innocence of Anna

Yesterday, my dad called in and delivered an unexpected surprise: an old newspaper article from 2001, written by two of my Transition Year classmates about the performance of my play, Waiting for Anna, in the Sacred Heart School. The paper itself is now tatty, dog-eared and smells damp, but the memory of that period of my life is as clear and fresh as if I were seventeen years old again.

 

waiting for anna 30007

Aforementioned Article published in the Offaly Express, 5 May 2001

 

A year before, I was sixteen, getting ready  to sit my Junior Cert with only a vague idea of what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I hated study at the time (yes, believe it or not) and the prospect of going into fifth year made me feel sick.  So, in spite of the fact that I would be nineteen leaving school, a year older than 90% of my peers, I decided to do Transition Year and chill out. Little did I know that there’d be little chilling involved!

To get into Transition Year, there was an interview process. I was nervous and when it came to my turn, I was asked what skills I had to offer either by way of the Mini Company or other projects. Before the thought of writing a play had crossed my mind, the idea fell out of my mouth into the thoughts of Ms F, who was interviewing me to determine if I was a suitable TY candidate. Within twenty-four hours Ms H, the drama teacher, had sought me out and congratulated me on committing to write the TY play. It was madness. The only play I’d ever read was Romeo and Juliet, and I suppose Waiting for Anna does share similar themes: two teenagers falling in love against their parents’ wishes, running away to be together. Thankfully nobody dies; that’d be a tad extreme.

I set to work in the summer of 2000, spending all my time at the computer typing, composing, tittering to myself. I decided to have fun because I didn’t think anyone was ever going to actually read it, let alone play it out on stage. I got to know all the characters individually, each one based (and named after) someone I knew and loved. I laughed out loud, I sobbed into my chest. The first draft was completed on the 13 September 2000, at twenty pages long.

Writing Waiting for Anna was the most pure writing experience I’ve ever had. I had no perception of myself as a writer; it was just something I wrote. I never thought to edit or censor myself either, and all in all Ms H took very little out. Handing it over to be read by my classmates is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. In the beginning, they  didn’t know I’d written it and felt free to pull parts of  the dialogue apart and make it their own, although these occurrences were rare. As the writer I was more than happy to walk away and leave my friends to their  own interpretations, but then Ms H insisted that I co-produce the play as well.

Anna consumed me. In many ways I became her. She was the unwitting victim of psychological and financial abuse at the hands of her boyfriend Tom, but this wasn’t a straightforward ‘good vs evil’ story. Tom’s life had been hard, whereas Anna came from a privileged background. Tom wasn’t evil; in fact he had a lot to be angry about: having to leave school early, losing his mother and bound to support his hapless, unemployed father. All he wanted was control over his life. And believe it or not, even though I wrote the bloody play, I can only understand Tom now, nearly sixteen years later.

And here I am, sixteen years later. trying to forge a career for myself in writing and finding myself envious of that confident seventeen year old who didn’t know any better. I miss her. She wasn’t self-conscious about every little thing that she wrote. She didn’t care who she offended as long as her message got out there. She would’ve had the confidence  to throw herself out there at the mercy of an unreliable audience.

She wouldn’t have hordes of short stories hidden away on her laptop, never to be read by anyone.

She would have finished her novel months ago without giving two flying figs how it would be received, if it made sense or if people would relate to the main character.

Some people become less self-conscious as they get older, but I seem to have become more so. A lot of it has to do with being a disabled parent, but that’s not the whole story. I’ve been told, both by people who know me and people who don’t, that their favourite blogs and stories of mine are ones where I share my own experiences. I do believe that the best writing has passion and personality and reveals a bit about the author, and yet doing so makes me nervous. Every time I press that ‘publish’ button up there, for a second I feel physically sick. Why do I do this to myself? What if I’m being annoying, repetitive, or coming across as self-righteous? Is it time to revisit the idea of getting a normal office job, and ignore the little voice that says I’m happier as a writer?

Obviously, owing to a lack of time-travel facilities, I’ll never be seventeen again, but hopefully that doesn’t mean that I can’t learn how to write again without the burden of self-consciousness.

As my friend used to say ‘what other people think of you is none of your business.’ Maybe, one day, I might fully agree with her.