Social Work poem

In Scotland, the Association of Directors of Social Work commissioned this poem "for the social workers of Scotland" - I was trained as a Social Worker and now work for two charities working with people who have mental health issues. I thought it was good and worth more people seeing...

	Brothers and Keepers By Edwin Morgan
	It was heard all right; that was not the argument. Day or night it echoed from wall to wall, A voice, never incomprehensible, But a question many found intolerable: 'Am I my brother's keeper?' Some with scorn, Some with anger, some with quick dismissal, Some with the half-uneasy consciousness Of being put on the spot, some blustering, Some brazen, some bound to macho boasts, Kicking the can of pity out of play, 'Each to his own, let them get on with it!' Conflicting shouts and voices did not stop us. Threats were grist to the mill. We wanted The record of what was and is and may be To be set down if not in letters of the fire At least in good black print and clicks of mouse To open up what's wrong, what's right, texting, Probing, shaming, dreaming, countering The last indifference. Who could be indifferent When we took psychotic Steve from his filthy bolthole Into a modest hostel room and he murmured In half-belief 'Is this all for me?' The reward of gratitude is a star in dark skies. You cannot always help but trying is the crux. I well remember that old alky Bill Who shared his hovel of a house with others; They held him prisoner among the litter Of needles and syringes and empty bottles Waiting to be smashed on social workers. Another place for Bill? - possible, But he's a bloody mess from fights at the moment. We don't give up, that nothing is easy Makes it even better not to give up. Everyone alive is subject to change. Hope lies where you least expect it. Take exclusion from school, or rather don't take it! Sandra, a so-called impossible child, Made sure each class was disrupted to breaking-point. Yelling, hitting, throwing chairs about, Was she getting what she wanted, Did she know what she wanted? Was it 'What is to be done with her?' Or rather 'What has been done to her?' She was a child abused, her mother on drugs, She had become a 'case', found caring arms In social services alone, and there Not only care but cure: a worker assigned To be with her throughout school, helping, calming, A bridge of sympathy between teacher and pupil, A dedication not all that far from love. Homelessness is terrible, but a home Without love is almost equally so. We watch, we measure, we praise whatever Society can do, given the means and the people To unknot fearful twists of fate, each day Brings more, and if we are powerless We cry out in our powerlessness. If we are to blame, then we are to blame; Fair treatment is what we ask. My friends, There is always without doubt a worst case, And it is so bad because it is so rare, Call it the dark night of the carer's soul. Here you have Carl, supreme in cunning, Known to have a personality disorder, But showing the social team 'continued improvement': Ah what a mockery he made Of schizophrenia! This man, however, Took a claw hammer to his next victim's head, Fried his brains with butter and ate it - 'Very nice' he said. And unpredictable One might add, although social workers Would still have nightmares, thinking, shivering - What was needed other than what they had, Vigilance to the last degree, happy recall Of those so many they had helped, brought back To life with faith and hope blessedly renewed. Oh if you ever thought we were not required, Workers on the very edge of despair, Consider Joe, kicked out by his foster-carers At twelve, having stolen from the little they had: 'Ah don't know why Ah done it, but it's okay If they didny wahnt me back, it's okay - My ma didny wahnt me either.' To live In such an unquestioned acceptance of defeat Is dreadful, yet we know Joe can be helped. The value of a soul can be drawn out By those who are trained to do so, those Who can blow the tiniest downtrodden spark Of self-esteem into flame. You drop a tear In instant sympathy or you are filled With anger against systems and perpetrators, And this is good and fine and natural. But change is all the practicalities Of learning, funding, understanding, change Is everything we believe to be possible Whatever the squalor and sickness and stink. There will never be a paradise with people like angels Walking and singing through forests of music, But let us have the decency of a society That helps those who cannot help themselves. It can be done; it must be done; so do it.