54. Helen Astin-Hardman

Poetry from a communist ex-satanist with a history of paranoid schizophrenia and a quirky taste in hats.

Doncaster born Helen had a turbulent childhood before going to study fine art at Huddersfield university where she became ill with paranoid schizophrenia.

In January 2024 she was arrested under section 12 of the terrorist act, at a pro Palestine march. As all that she had been doing was handing out leaflets, the charges were all dropped.

An ex Satanist, and currently an active member of a communist party, Helen finds religion and politics are regular themes in her poetry.

Her excellent book Hell Here, details her experience with paranoid schizophrenia. I have reviewed it here.

She currently lives with her husband in Doncaster writing and creating artwork.

Poems

The Trouble with a Red Bowler Hat
Take Me Through Westminster
Speak of the Devil
No Birthday Cake
They Don't Want Us Educated
The Unfillable Void

The Trouble With a Red Bowler Hat

I wore my hat with pride, so I could be spotted, should I get lost in London. 
I didn’t realise it would have been better just to hide.
The protest went well, I was leafleting like a queen, like a machine.
I was smiling and polite, gave leaflets out to people whether black or white. 
And there were white people there, despite the media’s insistence,
that the fight is just a Muslim resistance.
Photographers were there, but unknown to me, 
they weren’t just shooting street scenes,
they were capturing the image of the protesters, 
and passing them on to the met,
I forget who took my picture.

Later I was approached by two policemen, 
asking politely if I’d spoken to a bearded man in a black jacket,
I couldn’t for the life of me recall, I’d seen so many faces, one and all.
They ‘informed’ me that the man was a ‘terrorist’, 
and that I’d been spotted speaking to him, 
which meant I’d be implicated if I didn’t name him.
“We’ve been told he was speaking to a woman in a red bowler hat, 
that’s quite distinct, don’t you think?”
I said I didn’t know, well how was I supposed to know?
I’d seen a fair few thousand faces that day, 
the description was vague, gave nothing away.

They walked off, I thought little more, continued my leafleting as of before.
The cunning bastards though, they waited for all the protesters to go.
As my comrades and I packed a way our stall, 50 police officers descended,
“Excuse me miss, can you step to one side please, it’s important this.”
“What now?” I enquired, this wasn’t what my heart desired.
“This will sound dramatic.” said the policeman.
“But we are arresting you under section 12 of the terrorist act.”
Despite the fact, I’d merely been passing out leaflets,

but the state is not there to protect us, it’s at the behest of the ruling class.
“Not to sound crass” I said “but how is passing out a leaflet a terrorist offence?”
“It’s the content, it might cause offence or convince people to join Hamas.”
Which is absolute bullshit! I don’t think they can land a plane in the Gaza strip.
I gave my details and stood silently beside them, until came the time to be detained,
they put me in a cage on the back of a van.
I wish I hadn’t worn my hat, and learned you can never trust a policeman

<<< 

Take Me Through Westminster

Today would be a good day, for a stroll through central London,
take me through Westminster, on my chariot of gold,
for I have been freed, and my heart does not corrode.
No longer burdened by that bail, conditions which were beyond the pale. 

Take me through Westminster, where I can freely wander,
the case is now dropped, and I am not torn asunder.
I can enjoy the sun, in central London free of rain or thunder,
and spread to joy and sense of wonder, for I am not a crook.

I’m free to go where I please, be it foreign country or protest,
I’m not at the behest of dire days, looking over my shoulder.
I can ride along freely, on the tube through central London,
for today would be a good day for a stroll, with kith and kin.

Did the ruling elite think I would go and kick the king?
So take me on my chariot, where I could never tread,
Screw you, the establishment, who would kill protest dead.

<<<

Speak of the Devil

How many times you have cropped up in my life,
a young child heard you in the pear tree,
even younger still, imagining you at the end of a dark tunnel.

Twice I have heard your voice,
though I never saw your vision.

An obsessional teenager praying to see you,
hoping for a glimpse in the night,
though only for the bragging rights.

Were the voices a product of your being?
Or was that much to do with a genetic fault in me?
A product of my psyche?

I wasn’t the best possessee,
I couldn’t kill or do ill will, ritual was hard to fulfil,
though it was a thrill to think I’d been chosen.

While you wove your way through my life,
I danced on the tip of a knife,
and only strife found me, that, and calamity,

I’ve damned myself and drown in waters,
I was caught in a trap and a web,

the darkness left me in a dark mess,
and though I confess, I asked you to possess me,
I didn’t know what I was letting in.

Had I already gone by that point?
I never ceased and never stopped trying to connect to you,
and as my frustration grew anew,
I never stopped searching for you.

Though it seemed you were always there intruding my thoughts,
I am out of sorts, no longer willing my soul to be bought.
Though perhaps I am lost, my games came at the highest cost,
and as I coast on by, leaving you behind,

I still wonder are you behind, 
lurking somewhere in the shadow of my mind? 
Get thee behind me, for that is where you belong.

<<<

No Birthday Cake

(addressing the voices I heard during an incident when I was suffering with paranoid schizophrenia)

With all that was going on, I hadn’t thought to celebrate, 
not even buy myself a cake.
Most painful reminders of that day,
scars, they heal but memories stay,

I was so pained by your words,
as if tweeted by endless birds.
You wouldn’t stop or go away, 
and I forgot it was my birthday

<<<

They Don’t Want Us Educated

We the workers, creating all the value,
are trained to do so in shit schools,
learning to stay in line and to push the buttons,
to follow the rules.

All the way along, from infancy to university
taught to be literate consumers.
We are never taught to think for ourselves,
our destiny is stacking shelves,
cleaning the toilets, mowing the grass,
checking the meters for British gas.

The institutions which train us,
show but a tiny sphere of our potential,
and this is truly circumstantial.

If I were rich, I’d be in a private school,
with decent food, and taught to rule,
learning politics from a young age,
growing to earn a decent wage,
taking a place on the world stage.

Instead in a cage the workers sit,
the classes we take are carefully curated,
carefully premeditated,
we can’t learn anything, 

they, our rulers, don’t want us to know,
while they sit at the top our anger does grow.
We can’t throw our chains off, without becoming aware, 
and that’s what scares those with power,

we’re sat on a powder keg hour by hour.
But until we become conscious of our class,
our fragile glass hearts will sooner shatter,

and they will still remain our ‘betters’,
we need to lose our fetters,
and to do that we can’t just be writing letters,
to each and every MP, 
parliament is part of their game, you see. 
But they don’t want us to know this fact,

all the odds are stacked in their favour,
yet mopping the floor seems to lose its flavour,
and no one else is going to be our saviour.
We have to learn things for ourselves,

read that book, learn those skills,
dig and find the things they don’t want you to know,
it’s the only way to show our power,
to topple the establishments great card tower 

for that’s all it is, a piece of shtick, 
as fragile as a circus trick,
we’ve got to be quick though, 
discontentment grows,

and it’s at times like these that blood starts to flow,
and no one knows when things will start changing,
educate yourselves and find the pieces rearranging.

<<<

The Unfillable Void

We all have a void in our hearts, 
something empty which we need to fill, 
we can place anything we want in there, 
but the void remains still.

Some people turn to religion,
to find their place in the universe, 
they do their godly duty,
but this life remains a curse.

Others may buy commodities, 
filling the void with objects, 
they fret about the future,
and things they want to protect.

A few may turn into gamblers, 
spending all of their gold, 
filling the unfillable,
until their assets are all sold

Some may try experiences,
desperate for those holidays,
they travel the world 
looking for a place they’ll hold always.

Those who hoard the wealth, 
are doing the same thing, 
trying to fill their emptiness, 
but achieving no such thing.

Other people may turn to drugs, 
to try to numb the void,
eating out their essential soul, 
till nothing they enjoyed.

There are those who look for happiness, 
seeking out self help,
never realising,
a bottomless pit they’ll delve.

What can we do with this yawning chasm? 
The void within our soul,
we can’t just fill it in with things,
there always remains a hole.

The only thing that closes this gap, 
is real human connections,
the real help we give to others,
on a closer inspection.

We are not an island all by ourselves, 
not lonely wanderers in an empty world, 
as solitary as an oyster,
with a single pearl.

We cannot fill or lives with nothing,
things of little value,
we have to care for one another, 
which I will do, shall you?

<<<