Our good friend Phil Russell recently stepped out of his CEO role with the very marvellous Hoot Creative Arts after 15 years at the forefront in the Arts & Mental Health field - work which over the last couple of years has extended into prison settings. Alongside cycling, gardening, music-making and grand-parenting he's taken to spending time in his attic exploring new and slower ways of being creative. The man has clearly had poetry locked away inside him which is now finding the space to spill out, inspired by topics as diverse as Jeremy Corbyn and owls. Always on the look-out for guest blog posts which connect with themes in our own work (do feel free to get in touch), we spotted Man Sing and felt a strong urge to share it. Thanks Phil (presumably you would like it noted that enticing offers of freelance work will be considered with interest?).
Man Sing
In the hope that they would finally find their voice
We offered them the secrets of the universe
But found them quite unready to rejoice.
A slight celestial hum would turn to rhapsody
A harmony would prickle the neck hair
A tribal chant would unleash something primitive
But they were mostly interested in a chair
With wheels so they could wander the perimeter
Or spin around and run over your shoes
It seems that we had underestimated
The power of office furniture to amuse
We let the rugged bastards have their heads
And slow the lure of furniture subsided
Then they were free to play with us instead
They offered us a comprehensive repertoire
Of how to make damn sure things turn to shit
Aided and abetted by a system
That says one thing, but means it not one bit.
Pale faced, deathly, ragged, argumentative
Sulky, clever, stupid, comatose
A spectacular assembly of behaviours
Guaranteed to get right up your nose
Or sung a lullaby and held you tight
If no one made up tales to send you off to sleep
Or frightened off the demons in the night
And if that early fracturing went on and on
And the broken parts would never seem to mend
And bad things led to bad things like an avalanche
And you wished that you could die so it would end
You might struggle too, to make an offering
To be in here, to look me in the eye
To open up your gob and let the shit pour out
And to do it without really knowing why.
And found some kind of flickering of hope
That let them open up their strangled throats again
And send into the air a tiny note
That grew and grew and faltered and then grew again
Still they found the courage to return
‘Til the tiny note became a lion’s roar
And in their hearts a fragile ember burned
Not much, perhaps, to get a bunch of blokes to sing
To hold the same refrain and be as one
But I tell you that this took a greater courage
Than all the villainous deeds that they had done
September 2015
