Poems in a time of COVID-19

Harry McNaughton

1. During the first year of the COVID pandemic, well before vaccines were available, many NHS staff were infected and plenty died.  Personal protective equipment quality and supplies were woefully inadequate. Disproportionately, those that died were from minority ethnic groups. Porters and other ‘non-clinical’ staff, working for very low wages, were at substantial risk of infection. This poem is for them.
2.  

Hello, my name is… Pericles

Pericles the Porter, pushes death one-way.

Are born, will die.

The mortuary trolley anonymous, metal-grey. Loud wheels on lino.

He didn’t know her, Bed 3.2, by the window, the nurse said.

Was she old, too old for this?

Did she not have sons and daughters, grandchildren?

Pericles the Architect, in another, recent, life,

Forced to flee Greek austerity,

For this.

Now pushing corpses, soon-to-be corpses, and the lucky ones,

Masks askew in lifts, coughing and agitated.

He offers accented words of comfort,

And accepts the risks, without choice.

As he accepts the xenophobia of this so-proud island refuge.

The irony of the word’s Greek-ness not lost.

This Pericles, the name a grandmotherly gift, soldiers on,

For family at home.

And that Pericles, the ancient Greek; sage General,

The Parthenon his lasting monument,

So strong of speech,

Fearsome advocate of democracy;

What would he say?

“Don’t hide from necessary decisions. Protect the weak.”

He died of plague in Athens, many did.

Pericles the Porter mops his forehead.

Unaware, the fever there, harbinger of the approaching viral storm.

So soon this trolley will be his.

No monument for him on

The Athenian skyline.

2. For many people working in the NHS, the ritual applause every week during the early part of the COVID pandemic was not welcome, however well-intentioned. Especially in the face of increasing attacks from the press and Government that were (are) aimed at fundamentally changing the nature of the public health service in the UK.

Save your applause

We are not valiant; heroes seldom,
Nor robots, immune from error,
Nor Belsen commandants, who call ‘life’ or ‘death’
For pleasure, in some twisted game.

But human, just as you,
With lovers, parents, children,
Flaws a-plenty.

Would that we were mighty springs,
Resilient under any strain,
Always wise as Solomon,
Free of fear and hurt, yet full of compassion,
Bouncing back for ever

Instead, we are but fiddlers’ strings,
Steel wound tight
To keep us in tune.

Even mighty springs can fail, strings will snap,
Loaded beyond their limits.

So speak the names of those who broke,
Their cores unwound.
Scarred, misshapen, spent.
No manufacturing flaw,
Wound too tight, too long.

The fiddler calls, ‘New strings!’ and plays them in,
Sound better than before.
The broken ones forgotten, discarded;
Collateral damage.

What if we, Nye Bevan’s child,
Are, too, a giant spring,
A million strands of purest gold
Kept whole by one another.

But you, with such malign intent,
Have stretched and weakened us too far:
Our purpose, betrayed;
Our autonomy, corroded;
Our competency, questioned;
Our connections to others, intentionally fractured.
Would you replace us with brass?

Our collective pulse is weakened.
Save your applause,
Let us heal.
Give us the people, the time, and the tools
To ply our craft, as we know how,
Kept whole by one another, those we love,
And the people that we serve.

3. In October 2020 it was clear to everybody except the Prime Minister and his cabinet that a second national lockdown was required. Acting against scientific advice despite his pledge to act on ‘data, not dates’, the lockdown was delayed, and horrendous damage and death ensued well into 2021.

“Data, not dates”

Ring out the bells for those who will die
Or be maimed by this.
Ring them for Moheen, Jasvir, for Tommy and Sue,
Caught naked, so close to protection,
Lives silenced for headlines.

Vast swathes of collateral damage:
Cancers not cured, new hips stay packed away,
Theatre lights dimmed.

The nurses and doctors, applauded and lauded,
Broken by this.
Survivors - perhaps - but destroyed just the same.

Great Leader, Scientist, we salute you,
A natural experiment! So simple, so neat,
Yet, we do not consent.

Tell Ethics, Police, the Public:
"Narcissus is King, and is mad!"
Quick, take his fiddle,
Put his hand in the flames.

4. Early 2021. For the families and friends left behind by the deaths of loved ones in the pandemic: at the time 100,000 (UK), 400,000 (US), and rising, countless elsewhere. Works best for me with music: Tchaikovsky (Adagio lamentoso from 6th symphony or 1st movement of Serenade for Strings) or Mahler (Abscheid from Song of the Earth), volume up.

Was this their time?

George and Monica Hope died yesterday.
Hands touching one last time
Across hospital beds, magically ungendered.

Sixty years married,
Two giant candles, wax melted together,
Their flames burnt out.

True Elders these, repositories of family lore,
Storytellers to generations of Hopes,
Wise, calm listeners too:
Of marriage, grief, and teenage angst.
Was this their time?

For those left behind: soul-shattering loss and grief,
No final hugs, just iPad farewells.
How can they heal?

Monica's final breathless wish was, "Bring George here, love",
And so they did, so she, as close to death as he,
Could keep them One.

The heavens wept.

Her Spirit, luminous, exulting,
Sent flying in a Ganges dream
Of love-soaked, long-ago adventures with George;
..........Bodies wrapped together in simple cloth
..........High on a funeral pyre,
..........Consumed by holy flames.

5. January 2022. And still it goes on. The PM does photo-ops at hospitals while his cabinet actively undermine the NHS. The scandals of VIP lanes, PPE and £37 billion pounds wasted on ‘test and trace’ are ignored but somehow his fate will be sealed by breaches of his own rules. Hubris. The Greeks understood.

            Retribution

Prime Minister – welcome to E.D.,
Lie back, dream of England
As was, ‘fore you came.
There’s one rule for all here
But no cure for Karma.

The Gods wreak their vengeance
Not for Murder, nor Lies,
Nor Stupidity, nor Greed,
But for Arrogance. See?

Prime Minister - here’s Nemesis
Come for you,
Piercing your cold heart,
Lancing the boil,
Ridding a plague from the land,
Rank Corruption.

Transformed, she is gone
Just a murmur of starlings,
Small darts on the wind, flying free.

     Origami missiles
     Of folded ballots.

Harry McNaughton is a specialist doctor working in the NHS. These are a selection of poems which explore the impact of COVID-19 on NHS staff: the viral infection itself, managing death and some of the political decisions made during this time. He has recently published a book, 'Sam's Gift: transforming one person's life after stroke' https://amzn.to/3z3TD49