Pauline Smith – Unearthing the Family Stories We Inherit
Poems arrive with a depth that stops you mid-stride, and Pauline Smith’s The Point of No Return is one of them. Written for Liverpool Noise’s 52 for 26 poetry project, this poem unearths a story long buried beneath family silence and the heavy legacy of the Suez Crisis.
Smith turns her attention to her uncle John, once a young swimming attendant whose life was abruptly rerouted by conflict in 1956. The poem gives voice to a man who never truly returned from war, imagining his inner world with a tenderness rooted in lived experience. John’s post-war life — shaped by severe schizophrenia and years spent in institutions — becomes the haunting backdrop to a narrative that refuses to look away.
What gives the poem its emotional gravity is Smith’s own memory: discovering an uncle she had never known existed, then visiting him in places like Winwick Asylum and Greenheys Lodge. She recalls rooms lined with patients, the persistent haze of cigarette smoke, and a sense of isolation that no young visitor could fully understand at the time. These impressions echo through the poem, lending it authenticity without sentimentality.
The Point of No Return operates on two levels. It is both a personal act of reclamation and a broader reflection on how society responds to psychological trauma — particularly that carried home by those who serve. Smith writes with clear-eyed compassion, drawing attention to the stigma surrounding mental illness and the institutional landscapes that too often swallowed people like John whole.
This is a poem that asks us to pause, to witness, and to reconsider the stories left in the margins of history. Thoughtful, resonant and quietly powerful, Smith’s contribution stands as one of the most affecting pieces in the 52 for 26 project.
The Point Of No Return
In 1956, I was 19 years old,
A swimming attendant whose life was to unfold.
The government called,
I must enrol for war,
Leaving my Liverpool roots,
I was given a uniform, number and boots.
To a different country I was taken,
I didn’t know I was to be forsaken.
Egypt, a beautiful place,
But in Suez Canal, it was a disgrace.
My turmoil unfolded through the sight of death,
The horror I witnessed no man should ever see,
But alls I was doing was fighting for my country.
Two years later, after we had surrendered,
Already back home to my roots,
Where I stripped off my uniform, number and boots.
The trauma inside my head,
Took its toll and left me in bed.
The doctor came and declared me not well,
Off I went to a hospital cell.
Strapped to a bed,
With wires on my head,
Trying to cure me,
But the electric treatment was not to be.
Another root was sought through the power of the spike,
To make me comfortably numb,
All along I wanted my mum.
Every month, my mum, dad and two brothers came to see me,
I would look forward the visit and my cigarettes where I smoked one after the other,
Not long after, I lost my mother.
I still got visits from my baby brother,
My instincts would let me know he was on his way,
With sweets, cigarettes, and he’d stay for the day.
62 years I was institutionalised.
A stranger to the outside world.
A stigma to society, not many people knew about me.
Oh, the shame. How could it be?
But my loyal brother stood beside me.
Until my death in 2017,
Loyal to the core,
Until I was no more.
Pauline Smith
