Alan Morrison on

Alistair Findlay's

Dancing With Big Eunice –

Missives from the frontline of a fractured society

Luath Press (Edinburgh, 2010) 96pp

Foreword by Ruth Wishart

Poems of Polemical Impetigo

Findlay cover
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In her Foreword, Ruth Wishart alludes to the simmering ‘white knuckled rage’ that infuses Alistair Findlay’s poetic exposé of a lifetime in social work in Scotland and England. Indeed, Findlay’s professional CV – including, among numerous positions, Convenor of the Lothian Region Social Work Shop Stewards Committee (1982-6) – is testament to the experiential ‘true grit’ that under-gravels the robust and hard-hitting, empirically polemical, darkly witty and unflinching poems collected in this socially revelatory collection. The etymology of the curiously picaresque-sounding title is explained by Findlay in his fascinating Preface, which is worth excerpting in itself, succinctly yet poetically phrased as much of it is:

‘BIG EUNICE’ is a metaphor for ‘clients’ – the people statutory social workers deal with; ‘Dancing with’ is a euphemism for what that often feels like; ‘knee-trembling’ is the politest term I could think of to suggest the loss of apprenticeship innocence – ‘virginity’ – I experienced as a raw recruit to the fledgling profession of ‘generic’ (one door) social work in my first job with Falkirk Burgh all of 36 years ago. One could add that ‘Big Eunice’ had few pretensions either about herself or me. The result:

Dancing with Big Eunice was,

I must confess,

a complete knee-trembling experience.

She was a big girl, big and bonnie,

big in tights, and without oany

The poeticised ‘case studies’ in this collection are less the perennial ‘tearjerkers’ as uncompromisingly candid, sometimes excoriating character portraits of countless clients Findlay has worked with over the decades, and on the no-holds-barred approach he takes to enshrining many of them in verse, the poet relates:

the client population should not be confused with the self-effacing, shrinking violets depicted in social policy essays using terms like ‘the deprived’ or ‘the poor’, which might suggest a certain passive resignation in the face of Want, Ignorance, Disease. Such terms may apply in some cases, but by no means all. Resignation and victimhood may co-exist with sticking-up for oneself, physically and verbally.

In Findlay’s oeuvre then, we enter the uncomfortable but vital realm of social document in poetry, or what one might describe as socialist literature on proletarian subjects; and, more importantly, that which is composed from ground-level, rather than mostly hypothetically, as well-intentioned but more circumstantially remote social documenters of yore, such as Storm Jameson.

Findlay makes some important points about the commoditisation of modern welfare as demonstrated through an increasingly ‘marketised’ vocabulary:

Disrespect is in my view when the language of corporate capitalism is used in the welfare arena to describe relations between the state and its subjects in commodity terms: ‘clients’ are now addressed in policy documents as ‘customers’ or ‘consumers of services’, as though those placed on Probation could take their business elsewhere if they did not get on with the social workers allocated to them. … The misguided aspirations through which government ministers and their corporate management creatures offer up social workers as cure-alls for a fragmented society in fact ends, with media compliance, in social workers being held responsible for the misbehaviour of the people they are busy trying to help. This is as credible as holding the police responsible for the criminals they are trying to catch.

All this makes for a crucial and never more timely polemical intervention on the embattled social work profession, soon no doubt to go into total meltdown in this age of austerity cuts to health and social care and the mass pauperisation of the welfare caps (the dark flipside to what is murkily termed ‘gentrification’ in inner-city areas whereby thousands of benefit-capped families are effectively being mass evicted from their homes to make room for better-heeled tenants). Findlay makes some extremely astute points from his experiences, and encapsulates the bind of the social worker as the perennial first ports of blame for any social vicissitudes which occur among their often unmanageably wide clientele:

Too much is now expected of social workers, who are neither clairvoyants nor ‘engineers of the soul’, as Stalin once called poets … The people referred to social workers are often emotionally damaged and alienated individuals but their behaviour is often not easily distinguishable from the oddly eccentric or the wayward and downtrodden for whom society, and society’s laws, also exist. These are the daily conundrums which statutory social workers in particular face in their work…

Findlay’s Preface, at times, reads as a prose poem in its own right, faintly reminiscent of the poetic prose of Iain Sinclair:

I was curious myself as to what would emerge when the Scottish Arts Council awarded me a writer’s bursary to produce a collection of poems on social work and social workers after 35 odd years on the ‘front-line’ of Scottish local authority social work practice – a bang, a whimper, a Munch-like Scream, a Whitmanesque Yolp, all of the above? What I did not expect was the white-knuckled rage that erupted when I sat down before the metaphoric ‘blank page’.

To the poetry itself: it is uniformly accomplished and well-crafted, buoyed on real anger and energy, sardonic wit, imaginative brio and a use of language which varies in style and tone, from the sinuous and muscularly verbal, to the more direct and unadorned – the subjects determine the shape, rhythm and linguistic character of each poem. At his more sparsely lyrical and descriptively succinct moments, Findlay shares much in common with the similarly socially engaged poet, Ian Parks.

The collection opens with a rumbustious monologue, ‘I am Robert Burns, headcase’, which is inspissated with spoonfuls of Scots dialect and earthily demotic adjectives. Here are some excerpts:

…my flouting gyte rules and conventions,

my long-suffering wife, my neighbours,

poor Holy Willie, whose religious beliefs

I discriminate against, my reprobate

companion, Tam O’Shanter, a blethering,

blustering, drunken blellum, I cannot

deny it, my sanity may lie in the balance,

my support for the French Revolution,

my purchase of cannons, my cadging

songs from the poor and unworthy…

…my laughing at

magistrates – I must be bipolar,

or else a Republican: I scream at the tv when

Blair gets a mention, there’s some talk of

Sections, and someone called Asbos, I drink

in the Masons, I do not vote Labour, I may

turn Scots National, I fear I’m not normal

and perhaps never have been.

This is a colourful and vibrant testament of marginalisation ventriloquised with arresting verisimilitude by a highly perceptive and empathetic ‘witness’ of the ex-social worker poet.

In ‘My First Adoption’, Findlay relates how he had to write a letter to be opened by a child given up for adoption when she reached sixteen – it ends all the more movingly due to Findlay’s employment of suitably clinical language for the elliptical formality of procedures:

your mother wanted to keep you

but of your father little is known

except he was tall, had black hair

and blue eyes and perhaps came from Glasgow.

One of my personal favourites in this collection is ‘Charity’ – a timely piece given the voucher-and-food-parcel nature of our current ‘Big Society’ – which is as much a small social document, or menu for contemporary poverty, as a poem. It demands to be quoted in full:

Charity, students I’d make write essays on,

their feelings, attitudes, beliefs, is it part,

or not, of the gift-relationship their tutors

keep harking on about, or a throw-back,

soup-kitchens, carding for lice, impetigo,

‘Christmas Day in the Workhouse’?

Spell out how you’d spend twelve months

of the year saying ‘No’ to the underclass,

then, for one day only, open all the doors,

burst out the boxes for the poor! I remember

when, in 1973, a 15-pound turkey was donated

by a man who wanted to deliver it himself, yes,

to the chosen ones. It would not go in the oven,

the gas for which had been disconnected: discuss.

‘The new born baby’ is another searing portrait of a case study:

her mother already gone from the hospital

to a drug den

her grandmother unwilling to come

from Carlisle, Pitlochry, Pittenweem

with her heart condition

the grandfather already in prison, dead

the subject of several previous convictions

against his own children

the child sleeps on, blissful,

unaware that someone like me has

already been phoned, care

arranged, and for the next four

years her mother will promise to change

her lifestyle, give up her addiction,

fail, try again, fail…

Poems such as these are rarities in today’s increasingly embourgoised poetry scene: neo-Dickensian miniatures of the marginalised and dispossessed. Another favourite of this writer’s is the short poem-cum-social document, ‘Poverty’, which powerfully evokes the very distinct olfaction of its universal subject (the phenomenon which George Orwell addressed with his notoriously de-contextualised trope, ‘the working classes smell’, in The Road to Wigan Pier (Victor Gollancz/Left Book Club, 1937)). Anyone who has either experienced long-term poverty or witnessed that of others, specifically within the domestic setting, will immediately relate to the profoundly evocative descriptions in this important poem, which also deserves quoting in full:

Poverty has a smell, it’s kind of dank

and musty, like you find gathered underneath

a leaky sink, in cramped, airless, overheated

rooms, bare floorboards, carpets strewn with

debris, but no toys, clutter, the junk that no one

bothers to remove for no one notices the stink,

the crunching under foot, or calls growling dogs

to heel, Alsatians mainly, that do quite literally

steal the food from out the mouths of babes,

whose sticky fingers point and stare and clamber

over strangers’ knees and poke your hair like

you are long-lost cousins, not social workers

only there to inspect the premises, motivations,

a new lodger, lying on a chair, not yet wakened

That opening line is particularly evocative of that certain odour of staleness, of trapped air, that pervades the stasis of impoverished domesticity. ‘Outside’ paints olfactory and aural impressions of the chronic obscurity of those who occupy the council estates of social workers’ circuits, almost personifying the residences themselves, some of which ‘stank of pain, loneliness, humiliation’ or ‘cried or raged or threatened’. ‘Inside’ is another evocatively ventriloquised monologue, scored through with Scots brogue and onomatopoeiac parochial dialect:

an old labourer, me, in winter weather

inside, hanging the pee, sweeping the floor

in plain view of the gaffer, an oaf, a fud

a forelock tugger, a repeater of phrases

cascading, day and daily, guffage, sent down

from the air-holes of the Scottish Executive

crud, geegaws, paper-hats, bells to ring and

whistles to blaw at the ear-holes of paupers

while I, in this bourach masquerading, this

beer-tent, do as I am able: I sweep the floor

[Note: bourach is Scots/Gaelic for ‘small hill, mound, disorganised heap’; some of the other unusual words in this poem appear to be Middle English in origin, though fud could also be Scots, meaning ‘tale of a hare or woollen waste’].

‘Workers’ is a rousing paean to the perennial labourer, or journeyman, and has an echo of the Jack Cades, which again warrants reproducing in full:

Let me have about me workers who are fat

In the beam, but not in the head, well-fed

Natures that give cuddles or straight-talk

Without breaking stride, nor skulk nor hide

In their offices nor strut about in the shade of

Legalese, nor the fear of weak-kneed Seniors,

Afraid of God knows what, of making a mistake?

God, mistakes are what this world is made of,

Our daily bread, so let them not distort our

Features, we band of brothers, sisters, whose

Reward will not be found in headlines nor

Gongs hung round the necks of wasters. No!

We do our work in the people’s cause, firing

Haylofts, saving maidens, slaying robber barons.

‘The Senior Social Worker’ is a shockingly hard-hitting poem, but in that, again, an essential one, which needed to be written as verse witness. It’s about a scrupulously by-the-book social worker whose bible is the ‘[Scotland] Act 1995’, a covenant with his clients whereby he must (in a bravura alliterative display)

protect children

from public-opinion, press-gangs, panels,

politicians, perverts, piss-poor-parenting,

prefects, po-faced professionals, plook-

sookers and persons who drink polish.

[Note: apparently plook is a Scots noun, a variant of plouk, which means ‘pimple’; Scot for ‘sucking’ or a ‘sycophant’, so presumably plook-sooker presumably means something like ‘pimple sucker’…?]. The shock of this poem comes in the grisly exposition of a report the social worker is forced to read:

his own daughter, aged nine, when his wife

became ill, because he was a strong Christian

and did not wish to break his marriage vows

by going outside the family. Her vaginal

walls are split and she may never have a

child of her own. The senior social worker

looks out of the window, and growls.

This is followed by the slightly lighter (it could hardly be darker!) ‘The Consultant’s on the Phone Again’, where Findlay again displays a deft punch with alliteration: ‘the Voice of God calling, in clipped tones, / for the taking of a Child Protection Order’. There’s an almost sing-song Scots brogue to this poem:

but, the legislation’s plain – it says,

‘significant harm’ must be shown before

a Sheriff, only the medic’s come up ‘inconclusive’,

and the surgeon’s no sayin’, along wi’ him, that

the bruising’s ‘unexplained’, so, he’s going

to report me to my boss for not doing as I’m told,

by him! – well, if it gives them any pleasure –

I’ve more important things to do than bandy words

wi’ him –

like sending out three workers

every day,

and a coallie-dug,

to shore the whole thing up.

‘Process Recording’ is another poignant piece in which a social worker senior mumbles lachrymosely that a case report sounds “Shakespearean” (in the tragic sense, naturally). ‘Social Workers on Tractors’ is an exceptionally figurative piece on the atomisation of social work:

Suddenly, we were genericised, overnight,

professionalised, mechanised and sat astride

our tractors, gleaming in the morning light,

mean-machines, tearing round the countryside

draining swamps, marshlands, with the alligators

staring at us, strange creatures, strange vocabularies;

not by candlelight we led them, like fallen girls,

but straight through the barnyards, reformatories,

old workhouses, hospitals for the poor, gears

crashing, engines revving, hencoops scattering,

on and on we dragged them, heading for Jerusalem!

This is a brilliantly lyrical and aphorismal polemical poem, particularly in its symbolic representation of – what I presume is meant to represent – the socially marginalised clients, as ‘alligators’ with ‘strange vocabularies’. ‘Ian Slater’s Overcoat’ is almost like a latter day ‘Old Mother Hubbard’ nursery rhyme for the broken society:

Today, we have the Ian Slater overcoat,

genuine RSSPCC, large and roomy,

whole families once sheltered in its shade,

its inside pocket doubling as a place-of-safety,


and eighty-nine cases he had between Stirling

and Slamannan, and only himself, a female

assistant and a collie-dog to visit them, and,

every three months, a meeting held between the

whipper-in, school nurse and him, the cruelty man.

The title of ‘Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers’ is taken from part of Tom Wolfe’s 1970 Radical Chic & Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers, and is suitably readapted to the context of bureaucratic showdown between ‘the establishment/ and the underclass

a wee guy looking across

the desk at me in 1973 in Falkirk Burgh

social work department (side-chads, smoking

a roll-up – him, no me!) whose ancestors had

no doubt made the English feel unwelcome at


Findlay’s rich fount of historical and literary allusion lends a distinctly cultured quality to some of the more quixotic sketches of his fundamentally Marxian take on contemporaneous social document; an historical materialist sensibility transfigured into a dialectical poeticism.

The title poem is a tour de force of cadence, rhythm and patois; like its eponymous personified motif, it is a muscular poem at full-throttle which seizes you on reading it – here’s an excerpt:

from her hips and curved roond

like welded sheets of metal on the bow-sprits

of the Queen Mary – she was hairy –

where she needed to be – oan her heid! –

she had ringlets and curls, swirls and swurls,

and her eyes seemed to follow your crotch,

and wink Hi! as you walked by her room.

Her own walk was indescribable but went

something like – Boom-Boom!

(The homphonous pairing, ‘swirls and swurls’, is noteworthy). The last stanza breaks out from the decorum of tercets into a verbal beat with an almost bebop tempo:

Her lips were soft, her breath was sweet,

you were in her grip, as her tongue unfurled

inside your cheek, and downward drove

towards your feet – where it turned and

growled, then upward hurled until it curled

around your waist, looking – no, licking –

sucked you up and hung you inside-out

to die, o my o my – nobody ever kissed you

better – except, perhaps, Wee Marion –

though she’ll deny it to this day.

‘Care in the Community, ‘74’ provides one of the most authentic-sounding descriptions of the type of physiognomy so often testament to a life of fag-filliped, vitamin-deficient hardship: ‘Fifty, he looked 98, cheeks clapped-in, / no teeth, a mournful monk, / a rabbit caught in headlights’. On a textural note, ‘Panels’ demonstrates again Findlay’s sharply aural grasp of language: ‘Miss Gee retired, thank Christ, satiated, Chair/ of Falkirk Burgh’s Panel, an ex-headmistress’. ‘Tailgunner Parkinson’ offers us another picaresque character, though this time an insider, a whistleblowing probation officer whose own unorthodox means to the truth impeach himself in the process:

Old Tailgunner, they got him in the end,

of course, but what a hoot he was, urbane,

irreverent, his New Society columns chock

full of Romantic English prose, Shelley,

Byron, Blake, a wee bon mot then wham!

…he too got his in the tail-end, grassed

himself up too, in his own column, for

giving old cons cash to keep them out of prison

…shot down for offending

market-forces, and endless mocking laughter.

‘Here to read the meter, friend’ is one of the most candid poems in the collection, conjuring to mind what by less experiential or empathetic pens would be stereotyping, but by that of a veteran social worker, a sobering glimpse into some of the grittier truths behind such stereotyping (Bill Sykes crossed with Rab C Nesbitt, minus pit bull):

…our job was to care

and deal with those whom God and the

class-system made and coincidence

and the Poll-Tax had cast asunder, Life’s

troubadours, Tommy Sheridan’s crew,

mixed-in with victims and psychopaths,

whose doors you’d knock and sometimes hope

would be not there, not standing in the lobby

looking grim, rent book in one hand, meat

cleaver in the other: how tempting to have

called out then: here to read the meter, friend!

It’s a tribute to Findlay’s Dickensian eye that he can so effortlessly draw out humour from the grimmest of imageries. ‘Notes Towards a Novel’ is a biting slice of occupational misanthropy, or what is today termed ‘compassion fatigue’, which would undoubtedly throw a particularly long shadow on the well-seasoned social worker:

This may underestimate the case.

James Baldwin hated blackness

and whiteness, and the unbelievable

streets. He knew race doesn’t matter,

class doesn’t matter, sex doesn’t

matter, nothing matters except your

humanity. I am a social worker, I

hate people and their appetites for grief.

Few poems could be said to begin so graphically as ‘The Client Said’:

The client said he was unaware

children were in the room

when he started rubbing his genitals

against the TV screen

because Gordon Brown came on

and he hates him.

Its straight-in-your-face punchiness of exposition juxtaposed with viscerally disturbing subject matter reminds this writer of Wigan poet Peter Street: like Street, Findlay is able to depict truly shocking incidents comically, a sort of ‘farcical tragedian’ quality:

The client said she burned

her left leg by pouring diesel

over it and setting it alight

but the pain got too much

so she thought if she drank

the rest it might knock her out.

‘Monday Morning Duty’ is another ‘gallows humour’ coping stone of a poem, darkly witty but equally polemical:

I’ve read all the Emergency Referrals

– the Unrulies, the Self-Harms,

the Runaways, the Admissions, the

general round of Domestics and

Violations of the Peace – whit, in this dump?

‘Snap-shot’ finds Findlay back in angrier mood, still faintly satirical, but sourly so, as he describes a councillor’s photo shoot glossed up for public consumption:

some grinning

councillor standing beside a wheel-chair,

not, I imagine, some child being forensically

examined for rape, a disaffected yob, an

ingrate, a doubly incontinent brain-damaged

inebriate, least of all, a drug-addict in prison

for injuring that child, because, you see


are just some things the great British public

just doesn’t want to know about, or look at –

whether you photograph them, or not.

‘Shrubhill’ offers an amusing interlude whereby the poet and his social work colleague greet each other in a corridor in footballing mimes. ‘Work-to-Rule!’ is a vignette on the internecine trials of the shop steward, written in a conversational, anecdotal tone. ‘Big Tam Says’ continues this theme of industrial relations, or lack of, in a caustic take on the tribulations of trades unionism:

Big Tam says we should have

gone into basw, the professional organisation,

instead of slaving in the unions, nalgo, unison,

and all for the collective right of binmen

to work unlimited overtime in North Lanarkshire.

Big Tam says if we’d our time over again

we’d take no prisoners, oppose the machinations

of the corporate state, expose corruption

in low places, agitate for the professional assessment

of need no matter the cost to the taxpayer.

Big Tam, I says, I thought we’d done that already:

oh, aye, he says,

but next time we’ll no be such Bloody Mr Nice Guys.

‘Managers’ is a hilariously sardonic Marxian little gem, which begins:

Managers, to adapt Lenin, were once

good men fallen among Fabians, but now

are vermin and should be taken out and rehired

by Tesco.

‘No Problemo’ is a particularly touching sketch in which the poet (as social worker) tries to console and bodily cushion a distraught eight year old following a ‘hearing that would not/ send him home’:

I feel his heart thumping against

my frame as we stand, or rather

crouch, in this foetal exchange

the world, and now me, weighed

round tiny Quasimodo-shoulders

until he breaks into a sob and rushes

forward to his carer demanding fish

for tea later.

‘Social Welfare: a Fantasy in Scots’ reads almost like a miniature Wasteland on archaic penal edict juxtaposed with contemporary social injustices:

The gaberlunzie stood

on Waverley Steps

clinking, wet

the pennies in her blanket


(they say)

Ane cried the Meanistry o’ Social

hae pished in thir mooths

[Note: gaberlunzie is a mediaeval Scots word for ‘licensed beggar’]. This curious piece incorporates a fascinatingly draconic excerpt from the Statutes of Perth 1422-1524, which sounds disturbingly familiar in terms of rapidly reviving ‘Big Society’ attitudes of punishment as retribution, and punishment rather than help as the more effective means to tackle poverty:

Maisters o’ Correction sal entertain wasters, sornars,

overlayers or maisterful thiggers [all types of beggars]

harbouring on kirkmen or husbandmen [medieval taxpayers]

an bi a’ correction necessary or sever, whipping or other

wise [excepting torture]

The poem starts with a timelessly relevant quote from one William Thorn’s Justice Made Easy in Tait’s Magazine of 1857: Fellow, you have broken our laws! Yes, your Honour, but not before your laws had broken me.

‘Section 12’ is another chillingly contemporary-sounding polemic:

Section 12, the duty on local authorities to

promote social welfare, hailed as a revolutionary

clause. Santa Claus more like.

…like the rest of social work, beyond

rational analysis, an act of faith, used in the early

days to employ community workers to organise

rent strikes, petition councils, fix drains, but it

couldn’t last, councils paying rent arrears to

stop children coming into care.


the Tories began to eradicate poverty by selling off

council houses, we were told by the suits to only

pay a fiver per head per child – for lost giros, purses.

So little changes, it seems. ‘Swearing’ is another hilarious vignette, recounting the poet (as social worker) acts as interpreter for an Irish client detained in a police station:

of an hour. I said, you understand a word?

Nut, she said. Well neither did I, but the gist o’ it

wis, dae it again and you’ll be offski, you’ll be exhere,

aw right? She smiled. I’d made myself a friend.

‘Reading Files’ relates how clients are often far less ‘dragon-like’ than their case files might suggest:

stop in case you imagine

this great towering beast

with a huge fiery tongue

and glittering eyes

because in will come

this wee specky person

‘Supervision’ again comments on the social worker as institutional scapegoat for perceived behavioural leakages of clients into the public and media spheres, tellingly beginning:

I was only supervised myself

for about ten minutes in 1973

The side-splittingly titled ‘An Early Social Work Training Film, Shot in 1973, starring Robert Mitchum’ does not disappoint in its crackling language and satirical tone:

‘A mean wind wanders through the backcourt trash’,1

an owl hoots, Vincent Price laughs, a police car

cruises past as the poem pans through film-noir

towards neglected lives, rats, psychopaths,

dwells on tenemented stairs, fag-ash,

then leaps to rub our backs on fictive air

that hangs like fetid breath, balderdash, haar

round Partick Cross, Maryhill, Alcatraz.

But who cares, for here comes Robert Mitchum,

social worker extraordinaire, a mug-shot,

and then he climbs the stair, finds a loose one,

then he’s at the door he’s looking for. He knocks.

A man with an axe appears, looking glum:

‘Take them’, he says, ‘the wife, the weans, the lot.’

This ‘movie verse’ is reminiscent of the similar filmic poems of Robert Dickinson (Micrographia, Waterloo Press, 2010). The lazy-eyed Mitchum, starring here in what might be titled, Philip Marlowe – social worker, makes for a ludicrously inappropriate elbow-patched interpolator:

‘A shilpit dog fucks grimly by the close.’

‘He’s doing what The Social does to us’,

the axe-man says. Bob sighs. ‘I’ll call the fuzz.

Axeman, you’re not my scene. Adios.’

And then down crumbling stairs Bob Mitchum goes

Bob yawns. ‘Why don’t Probation carry guns?

Can I not at least shoot the dog, the weans?

This social work’s all crap, they talk like nuns

and fill out forms and make expenses claims

and bleat about the dead-beats, bad-guys, huns.

Who gives a shit for bums, the shit-for-brains?’

This is ingenious comic verse, made all the more amusing for its serendipitous rhymes:

Axeman pauses, lights another cigarette.

Bob looks glum, he’s heard it all before, would bet

a pound to a bird’s-shite Axeman’ll be creased

by noon in some crummy joint, Rab C Nesbitt’s

most like, ‘victim’ boaked all across his vest,

kept warm by whisky-chasers. ‘Jesus Christ,

Axeman’, Bob explodes, ‘what about the weans? Forget

the booze, the greeting in your drinks. Be a man,

my son, or you will die a low-life, loser,

bum!’ The Axeman meets Bob’s gaze. ‘But ah am

a bum’, Axe says, ‘and, yes, by god, a slaver,

but never count me out, Bob, for I can turn

my life round now, if I model your behaviour.’

It all ends with a polemical punch and genuine belly-laugh:

‘Let them eat cake’, made no bones about it’.

If Marie Antoinette’d lived in Govan

she’d have lost her fear of tumbrels even’

– Bob Mitchum tells the youth, the paralytic –

‘it’s not cool, you shit-for-brains should shove it,

look for jobs, apprenticeships, education,

stand up for human rights and join the unions.’

Bob Mitchum smiles, unsuspecting, Mrs Thatcher’s

not yet ridden into town and shot his happy ending.

‘Three Hundred Spartans’ is another bravura monologue in brogue:

How can I express the unutterable echtness,

the dree, Three Hundred Spartans deid, and

me here on the brig on ma lane: think TS

Eliot, the hot gates, knee-deep, bitten, fought,

in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass, eyeless

it’s all fear, a driven pack outside and in here

a crowd of no-risk-takers, hacking holes in me,

aye, me! – ma vest – the last bleeding Trojan.

[Note: dree is Scots for ‘endure’, ‘suffer’]

‘MBA’s’ is concise polemical poem, ear-catching in its assonantal 

harmonics, and is worth excerpting in full:

We used to read Biestek on non judgemental

relationships, Hollis and Pearlman,

Maslow on hierarchical needs,

the choice between fight or flight, Erikson,

self determination, client centred practice

and to what extent we are, or ought to be,

agents of social change or social control,

ho hum, that old one, reform or revolution,

and so it went on, ad infinitum.

When the state became this massive casino

our finest began taking MBA’s in accountancy

and brown-nosing. Now the banks have bust

we may have to concentrate once more on

some of the old stuff: saving, the price of mince.

‘Bob Purvis’ gives us another of Findlay’s candidly carved dried-up salvages:

I see Bob Purvis died, a lovely man.

He ran the old Family Service Unit,

Castlemilk, when I was a student there,

1972. He chain-smoked, clicked his teeth

and talked and talked, told endless stories,

how debt-collectors nailed folk to the floor,

’cos that’s still the drill round here, you know,

the syllables of ‘drill’ hung in the air

until the knee-caps froze, and then he clicked

his teeth once more and looked at you, and grinned.

‘Baby P’ is titled after 17-month year old child who suffered a terrible death through parental abuse and neglect, in 2007, and here Findlay universalises the case through the proverbial warning signs among a social worker’s infant clientele, in starkly lyrical, epitaphic lines:

that photograph

your face smeared with chocolate

to hide the bruising

the wary look

the expressionless gaze

we are always told to look out for

‘Tragedy’ is a bitingly vitriolic poem, beautifully composed, as are so many in this volume, which justifiably impeaches the detached, peripheral professionals who orbit round the tragic cases of the social work profession, but saves its most bitter reproach for last:

Tragedy, nothing new, old as death, dogs all

our footsteps, open any newspaper,

the jokers of the press, the editorial

reaching out for metaphors like ‘human nature’

which does not exist, my friend, but dusted off,

may do to swell the note of righteous indignation,

while some poor clod, fifty of a caseload and half

way down the food chain, submits their resignation,

yet they’re the lucky ones – their nightmare’s over;

we who remain still have to read the Enquiry Report

written by some bourgeois, some big-shot lawyer,

who’s never taken kids away, cleaned up snot,

awaited outcomes or thrown themselves upon

the fetid breath, the so-called court of ‘public opinion’.

Equally reproachful is ‘We go to our posts in the morning’, this time towards the more holistically remote police. It begins in a grimly musical style:

We go to our posts in the morning,

our desk-tops, our cell-phones,

the daily rituals, the unwrapping of forms,

visits to clients, perhaps, or

more likely, the courts and the hearings,

then lunch, the anarchy of duty,

the wailings and gnashings, the witherings

and scorns of the inept and maladjusted

‘Pelt’ employs the metaphor of an Elk’s thick skin to evoke psychological self-protection and ‘compassion fatigue’ of decades in social work. ‘Mollycoddling’ catches the humour in the short shrift attitudes of the older working-class generation towards those whose circumstances are only marginally shabbier, but whom they insist on perceiving as profligate and morally inferior, a sub-species to their own subordinating social stations:

My mother, ninety-three,

blames me and my kind

for mollycoddling the feckless.

My mother was honed from birth

to almost death by work and soap

and water flung on rock-face

and hearth like pounding surf

on iron-black metallic range

before which she knelt and cursed

sweating and scrubbing and now

she sits like some old steam-engine

balefully eying the slope

the distance between herself

and the imitation fire-place

on which dust is settling.

It’s a candid and caustic depiction of (presumably) the poet’s mother, but in that serves us the truth as Findlay perceives it, warts and all; and it’s this uncompromising authenticity of  human landscaping, of documenting social attitudes, that lifts Findlay’s poetry above the norm in terms of subject and treatment. ‘Desks’ depicts the social worker almost as a surrogate parent to his infant clients:

Social workers cover their desks with photographs

of kids they have in care

hang their vivid red blue and green paintings up

‘A Silver Grey One’ brings us down with a thump of grittier reality:

Clearing out my desk I came upon

an old claw-hammer, a keep-sake,

from a distraught mother, trying

to stop us taking her son away

because the Panel said so.

‘Alan Finlayson’ is an affectionate, E.A. Robinson-esque poem-portrait of a stout-hearted and idealistic lawyer, and in that, a seemingly untypical spoke in the cogs of a system that will more usually “pass-the-buck’/ back to social work’:

The great Alan Finlayson, Rumpole

of the Reporter’s Department, Lothian Region,

a brilliant wee barrel-voiced solicitor,

full of wit and humour and lawyer’s lore

yet deep-down serious about justice.

‘Sonnet Frae the Social Works’ is a startlingly rhythmic slice of balladic monologue, reminiscent at once of the variously styled Scots-dialect verse of Robert Burns, Hugh MacDiarmid, Edwin Morgan, and, in its surreal and filmic aspects, Scots modernist Joseph MacLeod:

Wir clapt-oot tramp steamers

doonladen wi’ ores, subs frae the Indies,

electric bar fires, wir tubs fu’ o’ dreamers

but deep in wir holds thir’s urgent supplies,

unguents frae the Orient and the Azores,

the Isthmus o’ Panama, Orkney an’ Mars,

in th’Isthmus o’ Greenock wir knockin’ doon doors

wi’ breidplants an’ incense, baked beans an’ spam,

wir lambasted by trade winds, becalm’d, submarined

wir mendin’ propeller blades an’ doon-broke camshafts,

wir Hepburn and Bogart oan the African Queen

in wir semmits and vests cryin’ Come-oan, Get-aft!

Abin us the war cloods ominous form,

ablow us wir vessels puff intil the storm.

The collection concludes appropriately with the poet’s social working swan-song, ‘On Retiral from Public Service’:

I’ve left my Humphrey Bogart poster

looking down on six Scottish Colourists

hanging on my wall, and although

John Cleese’s Ministry of Silly Walks

has gone, the bowler-hatted business-men

of René Magritte rain on, remorselessly,

from the heavens, and whoever pinned

Laurel & Hardy to my office door,

holding onto each other for comfort on

some precipitous ledge, with the legend

– Oh No! He’s Duty-Senior Again! –

Dancing With Big Eunice is a singular collection in terms of its unflinching depiction of some of the thorniest subjects poetry is likely to tackle. That such challenging themes should be rendered to such a genuinely engaging, even curiously heartening, read is a testament to Findlay’s sheer energy, brio, defiant sense of humour and, above all, fecund imagination. Allied to these rich qualities, his highly accomplished compositional talents, and his deeply cadent engagement with the sound and meaning of language, both English and Scots.

Poetry as social document seems to be undergoing something a revival of late, which can only be a good thing, particularly in this new age of austerity and a ‘back to basics’ welfare state. Poets such as Tom Kelly, Peter Street, David Kessel, Ellen Pethean, Andrew Jordan, Chris McCabe, Angela Readman, Victoria Bean, Helen Moore, Paul Summers, Clare Saponia, Niall McDevitt and many other notable poets have in recent times contributed to a realignment of poetry with its once common purpose as a medium of contemporary witness and recording of aspects to wider society, further afield than the ivied quads of academia or the dislocated ‘radical chic’ of close-knit metropolitan literati too frequently turning the medium in on itself, making poetry its own subject rather than a channel for more universal issues, and thus in turn, rendering it culturally peripheral, and, therefore often of only peripheral interest to the broader public. There has also been something of a subtle insurgence in poetic topic managing to penetrate the the poetry mainstream itself, with one example being David Swann’s 2010 volume based on his residence at HMP Nottingham, The Privilege of Rain (Waterloo Press), being shortlisted for the Ted Hughes Award 2011.

This is the long-standing irony of much mainstream poetry of the past three decades: a gentrification of subject coupled with a jarring casualisation of language, the latter technique designed to compensate in the eyes of a projected lay reading public for the quotidian, even bourgeois, themes of the verse itself. Poets such as Findlay (and many others, through more socially responsive presses such as Luath, Smokestack, Flambard, Five Leaves, Hearing Eye, Waterloo, et al) are, in part, doing, is producing a riposting poetry: not anything so gauche as a ‘casualisation’ of subject and a ‘gentrification’ of language, but more a ‘socialization’ of subject combined with a more musical and metaphorical ‘recalibrating’ of language; in a sense, putting the ‘song and the throng’ back into poetry.

Like his numerous fellow exponents of contemporary social poetry, Findlay’s key strength in terms of subject is his hard-bitten empiricism, his experiential didacticism (which, as with the best socially educative poetry, never comes across as didacticism), allied with a piercingly empathetic sensibility, though one never afraid to be candid, bitingly satirical, even occasionally excoriating. This book is equivalent to a finely embroidered antimacassar tucked round a concrete chair arm: at once richly spun and softly woven and rough-edged, hard-hitting and thickly gritted. Alistair Findlay is a formidable Makar for the twenty-first century. This collection is highly recommended as essential reading for anyone with an appetite for poetry that actually awakens them to something less comfortable and so less forgettable than all-too-common supplemental stupors; for a grittier poetry taboo.

Alan Morrison © 2012