This poem was inspired by a poem by a British/Syrian of Kurdish origin called Amir Darwish who came to Britain as a refugee in 2003. His poetry is direct, engaged and accessible, often propelled by his life and experience as an internationalist and (I think) outsider. I adopted his approach and repurposed it to explore its meanings through the more insular world of Hyde where I was born and raised. The poem by Amir Darwish on which this poem is based is called Sorry! An apology from Muslims (or those perceived to be Muslims) to humanity and is available to read here.
Hyde is a working-class industrial town on the eastern edge of Manchester, and the poem is part of a much larger series of poems built around the town. We had three large employers, initially. Coal, hatting, and cotton - all gone. My parents worked in cotton mills - Dad as a cutter, Mum as a machinist. Courtaulds (who owned their mill) used the profit from their labour to buy fine art.
We were taught to blame ourselves for our decline, our poverty and our oppression, and to pass on this sense of culpability to those around us. I wanted to compare and contrast this experience with Amir’s.
We should learn much from Amir. Not least, to value ourselves more highly. One of the defining characteristics of Arab poetry – which I first experienced through the Anglo/Arab magazine Banipal, and a fabulous anthology of poems edited by Margaret Obank and Samuel Shimon called A Crack In The Wall (Saqi Books) – is the ability to cross borders, both within the Arab world and beyond, metaphorically and literally, imaginatively and intellectually.
We can all profit from the experience of refugees. I’m greatly influenced by the narrative abstractions of Arab writing, but Amir is more direct, building a momentum to a clearly defined goal. I hope With Apologies works in a similar way. Peace.
WITH APOLOGIES to Amir Darwish
by Steven Taylor
We're sorry for being poor
And not listening. Our lack of coal
And unsold hats. We apologise
For the cost of cotton products
And our failure to win the Lottery
We're sorry we can't pay more
For the privilege of breathing
The popularity of cancer
Testicular and bowel
We're sorry
For our mortality and infirmities
The stupidity of our children. How
They sulk and stand on corners
Smoking, slouching. Answering back
We're sorry for not knowing
The answers to the questions
On quiz shows, preferring
Bingo to backgammon. Superstitions
Our reliance
On last year's fashions. Bargains
Slight seconds on the market
We're sorry for offending you (if we did)
Playing our records too loud. Shouting
Screaming, bawling
Running in school corridors. Yawning
Chasms of inequity. The unfairness of it
Being hungry (before the lunchbreak)
Asking for help, having jobs that pay a pittance
The rise in unemployment, the soaring cost of heating
The number of us becoming pensioners
It just happened (no one planned it)
Most of us are grandparents
Previously we were parents, children, babies
We're sorry
For the state of our streets. The uncollected rubbish
The smell of urine in the alleyways. Immigrants
How we lack the capacity to help ourselves
How market forces (over which we have no control)
Overwhelm us. What I said about the Queen
Being abolished and then decapitated (I was drunk)
My dependence on prescriptions for survival
My ignorance of issues
The difference between Capital and Labour
The interests of the ruling class
The disloyalty of workers
Did I mention immigrants?
We're sorry for the lack of parking space (we're trying)
The demolition of the Mechanics' Institute
It was something we were proud of
The closure of our workshops. The fights in pubs
On Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays. How we shame
Ourselves in newspapers
If it's not fighting, it's shoplifting
Offending public decency. I didn't know
You could still be prosecuted for swearing. Spitting
It dates back, historically
To tuberculosis
The transmission of diseases
We're sorry for being so needy
Often being ungodly. Jesus never visited
We're sorry for building Hattersley
The tower blocks, in particular
Being late for things. Not just work
But signing papers. Our own funerals
The appointment with the doctor (Shipman)
We're sorry for our diet. Obesity and diabetes
Respiratory problems. Our fingers, arthritis (agony)
Haemorrhoids (in Hyde) are ubiquitous
We should have eaten fibre, roughage
Helped ourselves by being thinner
Gone jogging in the evenings
I wish we weren't so hopeless (that)
Our racing pigeons raced more swiftly
Our ratting dogs were keener
Our factory cats were less like pets
And more like hunters. Meaner, crueller
When we went to war we should have won more medals
Been braver, marched more proudly
Used our bayonets saved on bullets. Not retreated
I remember in some battles Hyde men simply legged it
We're sorry we didn't do more to distinguish ourselves
Have longer lists of names chipped into our cenotaphs
Less than a thousand altogether
And some of those are dubious
We're sorry we had idiots
Who put detergent in our fountain
Broken glass into our paddling pool. Kicked a man to death
In Newton. Why can't we be more like Marple, Romiley
Compstall, with her window boxes
Red geraniums, copying the Germans. Prideful
Manicured gardens. Private (not communal)
Richer. Decent. Driving to work in convoys
Not dependent on the trains and buses
I know (before you answer)
If we were worth the effort they would pay us