Thomas Ovans is moved by Steve Ruddâs very personal poems about the NHS
Gabrielâs Trumpet
Steve Rudd
Staring Owl Press
ISBN 978 1909 548985
45pp ÂŁ6.99
Steve Ruddâs Gabrielâs Trumpet is a book written out of gratitude to the NHS â âthe eighth wonder of the world âas the dedication puts it. And that dedication is complemented by a malediction on all politicians who threaten to harm it. However the poems themselves mostly deal with the personal rather than the political and capture aspects of the experience of a lengthy stay in hospital.
The sequence begins with arrival at A&E by helicopter â evidently this is an emergency admission. The approach from above provides an opportunity to liken the hospital and its many workers to a beehive. Such comparisons may already have been made by other writers about all sorts of large organisations. But Rudd adds his own novel twist as regards the product and purpose of this particular hive which are
... storing or restoring health
That glorious cloying substance
Indefinable as honey.
I might quibble at âcloyingâ since health surely shouldnât be something we feel weâve had too much of? But otherwise this is a pleasing simile.
The more usual way of arriving at hospital is via an ambulance and the second poem neatly observes how passers-by distance themselves from sirens that sound for someone else (âeveryone pretended nowt had happenedâ) while on the other hand
... those whoâd summoned
That pale carriage, elsewhere,
By paradox,were willing its
Approaching siren stronger.
That âpale carriageâ is another evocative image.
A prolonged stay in hospital can be an unreal experience and is often rendered stranger by side-effects of medicines and sedatives. Sometimes an apparition lasts only a few seconds
A dim light, as a candle burning low
On an altar, illuminates the nursesâ station.
I turn another way and I behold
For a moment, Our Lady of the Medical
Assessment Unit...
In fact the âpattern-seeking ape brainâ has simply mistaken a blue curtain for the Virgin Mary! Other fancies are more persistent. Regular night-time doses of morphine often summon Sister Wendy and Padre Pio to Ruddâs bedside. They do not bother him: they are âold friends: I can explain themâ. More disturbing is the third visitor âthat bloke in tweed … I never see his face. Heâs always / Halfway back in shadow…â Rudd begins to picture a
Dark panelled library where this
Bloke is the murderer...
Very occasionally there may be incidents where it is harder to dismiss a suspicion of the supernatural. Ruddâs sleep is interrupted by an unfamiliar vision â âA Bedouin in full robes … all in whiteâ
He regards me with a smile
Adaab, I say, sensing no harm
A few days later there he is again
My Bedouin in scrubs, not robes.
Hello, he says, I am the Medical Registrar.
Adaab, I say. We have met before.
Now and then a patient can become a figure in his own fantasy. In the long dark nights Rudd contemplates his room-mate George surrounded by monitoring equipment and then glances through the window at the clouds scudding past and thinks âHere we are, flying the hospital / Through the night…â Truly they could be âGeorge and Steve, Pilots of the Futureâ
In contrast to flights of fancy â drug-induced or otherwise â a hospitalâs procedures are totally down-to-earth. âHandoverâ happens at every shift change on a ward when âin a room somewhere, lit by neon, / They are discussing our meds / And vital signs…â Rudd, however, cannot resist playing verbal games with the process
Handover. It sounds like a Jewish holiday.
Or a posh town in Hampshire.
The poems do not dwell on medical details, staying at the level of âI donât know what my problem is / But I bet itâs hard to spell …â and being rather dismissive of medical textbooks â â A detailed diagram comparing arses and elbows/ Might have been more use to me.â The nearest we get to a diagnosis is the wry revelation that âmy body has been plotting to kill meâ even though
[I] have lavished on it many things:
...
Warmth, clothing and the caresses of women;
Not many, and not often, admittedly...
This is a warm-hearted and generous-spirited book. The poems have a liveliness of imagery and a spontaneity unspoiled by being over-crafted. I may have concentrated too much on its humorous aspects (since these lend themselves to easier quotation!) but the collection does include some more thoughtful and serious-minded poems. As a single example, âShepherdsâ Purseâ captures the ethos of public service through the voice of a shepherd who has just rescued one of his flock on a filthy night
No one cares but me that I saved its stupid life â
Even the sheep itself has probably forgotten.
But somehow thatâs not the point.
You go because something inside you â
Call it divine â call it a hard-wired holy chip â
Wonât let you sleep ...
So much for the myth that âmarket forcesâ are relevant to the NHS!
London Grip Poetry Review – Steve Rudd
November 7, 2019 by Michael Bartholomew-Biggs • books, poetry reviews, year 2019 • Tags: books, poetry, Thomas Ovans • 0 Comments
Thomas Ovans is moved by Steve Ruddâs very personal poems about the NHS
Steve Ruddâs Gabrielâs Trumpet is a book written out of gratitude to the NHS â âthe eighth wonder of the world âas the dedication puts it. And that dedication is complemented by a malediction on all politicians who threaten to harm it. However the poems themselves mostly deal with the personal rather than the political and capture aspects of the experience of a lengthy stay in hospital.
The sequence begins with arrival at A&E by helicopter â evidently this is an emergency admission. The approach from above provides an opportunity to liken the hospital and its many workers to a beehive. Such comparisons may already have been made by other writers about all sorts of large organisations. But Rudd adds his own novel twist as regards the product and purpose of this particular hive which are
I might quibble at âcloyingâ since health surely shouldnât be something we feel weâve had too much of? But otherwise this is a pleasing simile.
The more usual way of arriving at hospital is via an ambulance and the second poem neatly observes how passers-by distance themselves from sirens that sound for someone else (âeveryone pretended nowt had happenedâ) while on the other hand
That âpale carriageâ is another evocative image.
A prolonged stay in hospital can be an unreal experience and is often rendered stranger by side-effects of medicines and sedatives. Sometimes an apparition lasts only a few seconds
In fact the âpattern-seeking ape brainâ has simply mistaken a blue curtain for the Virgin Mary! Other fancies are more persistent. Regular night-time doses of morphine often summon Sister Wendy and Padre Pio to Ruddâs bedside. They do not bother him: they are âold friends: I can explain themâ. More disturbing is the third visitor âthat bloke in tweed … I never see his face. Heâs always / Halfway back in shadow…â Rudd begins to picture a
Very occasionally there may be incidents where it is harder to dismiss a suspicion of the supernatural. Ruddâs sleep is interrupted by an unfamiliar vision â âA Bedouin in full robes … all in whiteâ
A few days later there he is again
Now and then a patient can become a figure in his own fantasy. In the long dark nights Rudd contemplates his room-mate George surrounded by monitoring equipment and then glances through the window at the clouds scudding past and thinks âHere we are, flying the hospital / Through the night…â Truly they could be âGeorge and Steve, Pilots of the Futureâ
In contrast to flights of fancy â drug-induced or otherwise â a hospitalâs procedures are totally down-to-earth. âHandoverâ happens at every shift change on a ward when âin a room somewhere, lit by neon, / They are discussing our meds / And vital signs…â Rudd, however, cannot resist playing verbal games with the process
The poems do not dwell on medical details, staying at the level of âI donât know what my problem is / But I bet itâs hard to spell …â and being rather dismissive of medical textbooks â â A detailed diagram comparing arses and elbows/ Might have been more use to me.â The nearest we get to a diagnosis is the wry revelation that âmy body has been plotting to kill meâ even though
This is a warm-hearted and generous-spirited book. The poems have a liveliness of imagery and a spontaneity unspoiled by being over-crafted. I may have concentrated too much on its humorous aspects (since these lend themselves to easier quotation!) but the collection does include some more thoughtful and serious-minded poems. As a single example, âShepherdsâ Purseâ captures the ethos of public service through the voice of a shepherd who has just rescued one of his flock on a filthy night
So much for the myth that âmarket forcesâ are relevant to the NHS!