Wednesday 11 January 2012

Battery Grannies

In my own sort of homage to the Spartacus Report getting so much press today, my first Open Link Night poem for the dVerse poets website: http://dversepoets.com/ I'm a bit nervous. I've been a secretive groupie perusing the links on the site for a while.


Please feel free to read and comment. This one is still in process (what poems aren't?) and derives from my time as a Speech and Language Therapist caring for patients with dementia and their families. I think the way in which a society treats its  youngest and oldest members says everything we need to know about it. 

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Battery Grannies
The tour starts here. This is the Activity Room.
I would ask that you don’t open any doors, or go anywhere without
a member of staff. Please stay on the green carpet.
We want the best for our residents.
We offer everything they need-- positive freedom, freedom:
from hunger and thirst; from discomfort; from pain; injury or disease; 
to express normal behaviour; from fear and distress.
Don’t feed them.
This isn’t a petting zoo. 
Some of them are still very slender, but
they come to us in terrible shape,
most of them, so we fatten them up.
No one ever wants a scrawny one, but we stock
all shapes, makes, and models.
We feed them regularly.
Food is supplied in place.
They quickly learn to eat 
things
they don’t recognize, if 
they get hungry enough,
though the weaker ones get pushed aside. Occasionally.
Which
leads to other problems, which then require 
somewhat
harsher remedies:
The de-beaking of chickens is deprecated, but it is recognized that it is 
a method of last resort, seen as better than allowing vicious fighting and ultimately cannibalism.
Their legs don't always work, unfortunately, but
this will not affect your statutory rights.
Because they cannot move easily, the chickens are not able to adjust their 
environment to avoid heat, cold or dirt as they would in natural conditions.
Some have strange hock burns; do-gooders accuse us of 
leaving occupants lying in their own shit,
but we just can't train them to stand. 
We feed them, but then
they cannot support their increased body weight. 
First too weak, then too fat. A conundrum.
All are functional, to some extent. They
learn to mimic natural behaviour.
We train them not to chirp
or squeak,
and never let them pray.
Research suggests that they benefit from participating
in meaningful activity:
we encourage bingo and crochet.
Physical restraints are used to control movement or actions regarded as undesirable.
The telly works for some of them.
they don't know what they're missing.
Reception's not an issue;
they're content with static and with hissing.
Piled here,
they take up very little space.
Confinement at high stocking density is one part a systematic effort to produce 
the highest output at the lowest cost. 
We do our best for the shareholders and customers.
There's a warehoused granny for everyone.

The Dead Leg turns 5

Five years ago, I sat at a table in Bar Roma with family and friends. We were ostensibly celebrating my 40th birthday. They were waiting impatiently for the pizzas to arrive. I was wondering what the hell was going on with my leg, which felt like a block of ice under the table. I couldn't do anything to warm it. I could barely stand to put socks on. I would have worn nothing if I could have gotten away with it, and I am NOT an exhibitionist, AND it was January. I knew then that I was disabled, that something had gone horribly wrong, that broken bones in foot shouldn't be causing all of the other weird things (shiny skin, diminishing leg hair, waking up in the night with my leg on fire up to the knee). 3 weeks post-fracture, I knew something that no doctor or anyone else would feel comfortable telling me for another two and a half years: my tree-climbing days were over. No more cartwheels. No more walking silently and swiftly through woods. I didn't tell anyone; I didn't want to be told that I was negative, that everything would be fine. The Dead Leg knew, though, without me saying anything, and our uneasy relationship began. Everyone enjoyed the pizza.