Dark Memory

I have seen the lengths darkness will go to,

Its height, too low for comfort, and its breadth

So narrow it is closing in it seems.

There are those who’ve measured it with their lives,

Precisely calibrated increments

Of sweat.

Hope rises in cages loaded

With cutting jokes brighter than lamps,

Or weighted with spent banter winding up

From where once the darkness was hewn, kibbled

And hurried towards the sun.

I have stood

Between trapdoors and listened to darkness

Flooding the galleries, feeling that light

Has to be taken with a pinch of snuff.

 

                                                                                                                                    Dave Alton

Energy

 

 

A scientist was pondering,

Could he possibly learn

Which is the best source of energy,

By asking each one in turn?

 

The coal-fired power station first

Was where he went to inquire.

But coal there complained, “I hate it,

I keep getting set on fire!”

 

Next, an oil-fired power station

Was what he went on to see.

“I don’t like it,” sighed oil, “because

They insist on burning me.”

 

A nuclear power station

Thought it was badly treated,

“I get bombarded with atoms,

Becoming overheated.”

 

Lastly, he went to a wind farm

And asked his question again.

“Actually,” said the wind turbine,

I really am a huge fan.”

 

                          Dave Alton

Seam of Sonnets (2)

 

                                    

Heritage Creation

(For Sally-ann on her new venture)

 

History must be a tale told and retold

To suit the teller who turns page by page

Old stories into living heritage.

Yet, what purpose or reason to unfold

Such narratives unless there’s engagement,

Cultured enticements to pay attention?

This is how lives lived are kept in contention,

Ensuring the past is always present.

Time and life are ever on fast forward,

Almost unnoticed every scene changes,

An opportunity rearranges

Perspectives, the pot of chance being stirred.

By seizing the moment as it befell

There’ll be many a new story to tell.

 

Dave Alton

 

Seam of Sonnets (1)

 

Snap Tin

 

Up in the attic, back of a cupboard,

Top of a wardrobe, left in a drawer,

An old snap tin that might have been made for

The photos. A time capsule holding a hoard

Of uncles and dads, granddads and grandmas

Pictured in pit boots and flowery pinnies,

Helmets and headscarves. How pale the skin is,

How broad the smiles, how empty of cars

Streets were back then, headstock staring down on

To close terraces. Suits and best dresses

At galas though, where each banner impresses

Still, even if the lodges are long gone.

A meal of memories for kith and kin

To muse on, and share, from an old snap tin.

 

Dave Alton

 

Renga by the Heartlines Writers' Group

 

   

      

A PROOF OF COLLEAGUES

 

Spring        The blossom flutters.

                   Green clusters un-knuckle and rise

                   to measure sunshine.

                   Neat earth plots sprout green shoots –

                   plots merging and over-grown.

 

                   Cloud swept arching sky

                   sweeps away Winter dust,

                   sparkles in the sun.

                   From unturned black soil

                   green shoots puncture barren earth.

 

                   Dappled light shines through

                   to linger beneath trees

                   then soothe false frowns,

Summer     fling away old sad feelings.

                   Wishful thinking I suspect.

 

                   Like miniature flags,

                   as if on a ferris wheel,

                   time does spin and whirl.

                   Carving its way through the land,

                   follows that winding pathway.

 

                   Deep below ground

                   ossified ancient forests

                   glitter with diamonds.

                   While men heave and strain sinews,

                   sightless ponies dream of fields.

 

Autumn     Tawny shadows merge.

                   Warm to long remembered words,

                   russet, red and gold.

                   Green moss creeps across stone walls

                   and damp grass drowns our boots.

 

                   Caught in the wind,

                   drifting like coloured snow,

                   leaves are falling.

 

                   Twigs snap, earth, hard beneath boots

                   mark the walkers weary way.

 

                   Joints begin to ache.

                   Squirrels crack reluctant nuts.

                   Autumn here at last.

Winter        The season tumbles silently.

                   The Earth begins its waiting.

 

                   Winter feels like death.

                   Seal all the nooks and crannies.

                   Shut the snow outside.

                   It gnaws at an emptied gut.

                   Militate, negotiate.

 

                   Lamps burn low, night falls,

                   under an indigo sky,

                   blending light and history.

                   Shedding the old worn out skins.

                   Horizons already watchful.

 

 

Compiled by: Cate Anderson

 

Contributors

Eileen Neil (Palmer)    Howard Benn

Bill Fitzsimons            Malcolm Henshall

Barbara Lawton          Drusilla Long

Myrna Moore              Terry Wassall

 

Renga Guide

Dave Alton   

On the 50th Anniversary of the Lofthouse Colliery Disaster

Lofthouse Memorial

 

Two score and ten in-by, and just how thin

Was that Flockton Thin Seam? Too thin by far

To hold back history; the breach, the pour

Of Victorian water flooding in,

From old workings, so long disregarded

By those who knew, or should have known at least,

Before the in-rush, and safety lamps ceased

To shine, the entire gate inundated.

A monumental seven faced obelisk,

Is set now, pointing from darkness to light,

In a country park, covering the site

Where leisure now camouflages the risk

For those who once cut the coal, vital men,

Never sure they would see the sun again.

 

Dave Alton

Renga by the Heartlines Writers' Group

A Proof of Colliers

 

Spring

 

Bare branches splutter

Bright on our wintery eyes

Lighting the pit head

 

Down in the waterlogged earth

A summer bounty will follow

 

Fresh rainfall sweeping

Rinse bright new leaves and blossom

Under a pale sun

 

Birds recover forgotten songs

Establishing we’re free

 

Free of the shackles

Joy, warmth, gentleness, caring, love

What’s it all about?

 

Summer

 

Summer spreads its buttery light

Trickles like a beads of sweat

 

Bunting bright festoons

Bunting yellow, green and red

Pastry with hard egg

 

Round and round it goes whirring

Natures God given labyrinth

 

The coal hard and black

Dark underground are the miners

Passing into cage

 

Trot, trot, trot, trot, trot, trot, trot

Creatures of the darkling earth

 

Autumn

 

Russet, gold and red

In the store house of coal soil

Conkers fall on me

 

The roof leaks, damn it, damn it

Bites deeply into my soul

 

The leaves drift and sway

I sit on this cold wet bench

Caught in the wind

 

Twigs snap, earth hard beneath boots

Crackle underfoot on muddy paths

 

The moon, pale and white

Rain soaked earth beneath cold hooves

Ancient creaking limbs

 

Winter

 

The curtains drawn at four

The earth begins its waiting

 

Shut the door he said

The end of time shuts down time

Bruise eternity

 

This is the winter of discontent

Robbed of all summer’s bounty

 

Lights glimmer through panes

Under an indigo sky

My lamp is my guide

 

Shedding the old worn out skins

New years on the horizon

 

Contributors

Cate Anderson            Howard Benn

Bill Fitzsimons             Malcolm Henshall

Barbara Lawton          Drusilla Long

Myrna Moore             Terry Wassall

 

Composer

Eileen Neil (Palmer)

 

Renga Guide

Dave Alton

 

Pen Portraits

 

Inspired by the National Coal Mining Museum’s recent exhibition, “Face to Face” a workshop was held on the theme of “Pen Portraits”, characters rendered in words. Below are two from that workshop.

 

Time Served

By

Chris New

 

Isn’t it sad when your old dad leaves the pit for the last time. Here he is, he is old and done for – but he’s alive after plenty of trauma down there wi them machines, those infernal creaking pit props and that conveyor belt demanding being filled up wi ‘coil’.

Yes, here he is, returning for his “leaving do” wi his mates, so he’s a damn site leaner, dressed in his smart gear, yet carrying that Davy lamp that’s served him well for all them years – and manager’s rewarded his well – in giving him his hard hat – because it is hard letting go as you decline into your retirement.

You can see it in his face.

Daily Grind

By

Linda Golding

 

Up with the larks and out to the job as the sun rises and his heart starts to sink. He wishes his day was not spent in the dark, but in sunshine and nature, maybe the park.

He collects all his tackle he knows will keep him safe, but will it? He’s hopeful, he trusts that fate will keep him safe as he descends into darkness and finds his place.

Crouching and grubby, his focus is clear. The food on his plate, his family so dear.

At the end of his shift he looks back on his time as he ascends to greet moonlight, sadly not sunshine.

 

 

Saint Paul’s Ladies' Group

Monk Bretton

Haikus

 

1.       His name was Henry.

                        My granddad was a miner,

             Hated every minute.

 

2.       What are you doing?

                          Finding my way along here.

       I want to go out!

 

3.       Allotment is good,

                                    Winding down the day in mud.

              Our lamp is a dud.

 

4.       The sun is shining,

                            Potatoes extremely tasty.

                           Lamps in the lamp room.

 

5.       Hard work allotment,

                                     Bindweed winding round my feet.

                       Stamping, Lamp in down.

 

6.       A little hedgehog,

                    Funding for a rescue:

              Every little helps.

 

7.       Burgeoning bounty,

                                 Tendrils creeping overground:

                Sun shining brightly.

 

8.       Vegetables green.

                                          Bob, bring along the miner’s lamp,

                   Light aglow at night.

 

Composers

1.       Anne Bruce                        2. Janice Rees                    3. Anon                                4. Anon

 

5.       Pauline Rowland              6. Karen Milnes                 7. Elaine Doxey                 8.Gillian Pearmain