Haiku - For International Women's Day

On Sunday, 5^th March, International Women’s Day was celebrated at the National Coalmining Museum. Amongst a plethora of events the resident poetry group, Coalshed Poets, invited attendees to pen a haiku.

It’s scary the unknown,

How do we look forward in hope?

Present in turmoil!

Anon

Only source of light,

It’s precious, lives depend on it

Down this deep, black hole.

Anon

Out in drizzling rain,

Almost like coal mining is a game

Against society’s gain.

Moira

Cold, wet March morning

Gathering to celebrate

Women and the mines

Tim Fellows

Driving here today

Windscreen wipers stopped working

Feeling very stressed!

Sheila Bradford.

Damp and wet

Many memories

Let’s celebrate

Richard Opasiak

On a wet March day

We women came to Caphouse

For songs and poems

Jane Loe

Cycling alone

To the end of the Pennines.

Drink? Toilet? Or both?

Clare Furness

The Old Miners

Down the long throat of shaft their bodies caged

in bony stoops, rammed joints, scrubbed skin,

they’re heard now for that guttural crack

back of the throat brimmed cough,

its spittle of spent black dust

from an earth-life below,

deep-down as the pockets of city toffs.

They lived by tonnage and beamed light,

the shot-blown or bad dreamed blast. The wedge

of each pit prop a third arm or handy leg

that helped raise the sunken roof of seam.

Hackers, drillers at the unbroken face,

they broke through, they broke through,

digging out what spoke for them.

                                                                  G.F. Phillips (1949 – 2017)

An Ode From A Miner's Grand-daughter

There is a coal house way up north beyond the backyard gate

Where starlings flock and pigeons cough to welcome in the day

The sky is dark, the wind is raw as the village slowly wakes

When men and boys conjoin, in gas-light haze, to find the colliery gates

Down paths well trod they make their way to mine the said black gold

And with lamps in hand they wait their turn to descend the

dank, dark shaft.

This toil is hard and noise is all around as seams are worked so deep

 beneath the ground

The air is thin and chests are tight with choking dust and grime

But men and boys must carry on until the siren sounds

With blackened faces out they come to daylight sharp and bright

And as heavy lungs and tired limbs take their toll they make their

way back home

And there in the distance shines a light - oh what a heavenly sight

In the modest home the wife awaits to greet her grimy man

She too has toiled to make his home a warm and happy place

With polished range and food to serve she sits before the embers

And holds their son against her breast with dreams to be remembered

But for tonight these dreams must wait as she stokes once more the fire

The latch is lifted and he is home - oh what a sorry sight

The grubby clothes are peeled away and in the zinc tub he soaks

Until once more he feels revived and again can live in hope

Time passes by but this still young man now carries old man’s bones

and sees through old man’s eyes

At his son he smiles, his pride and joy, and his schooling paid its worth

For he is leaving soon to follow paths well trod

 But not towards the mine thank God

His mother weeps with tears of joy as all her dreams come true

 Her boy is free - no colliery dust for him but only fields of gold

For Mum

 Christmas 2015

Carol Grainger Spalding

Oaks Ballad

A pre-Christmas, sparkly, 12/12 day.

Then… Explosion felt, far and near!

Cracked black diamonds blew away.

Déjà vu, The Oaks of yesteryear.

Devilish fiend of firedamp struck mine.

Some workers bid each other goodbye. Amen

into vortex of Dantean-layered decline

I’ll never see those darlings again

From nineteen counties: Northumbria to London,

Norfolk to Cork, toiling on the dark side.

Men and boys, local and incumden

deaths. Howmany, howmany, howmany? The Oaks’ detritus cried.

A valiant voluntary rescue but 383 were dead.

Many bodies unburied, deep in Stairfoot terra.

Family futures, stark glimpses ahead;

burdened down with perseverance and terror.

Gloria Victis.

The Oaks and The Tears

of a hundred and fifty years

are remembered by us today.

.

When The Oaks Took 383: Give Or Take

Claire Crossdale

2 Poems for the NCMM Memorial

Lives Lived, Lives Lost

A wall of steel ageing with time

This sweeping arc stands sublime

Names of those who risks their necks

Etched forever onto coloured glass checks

Tokens of remembrance given with grace

A kaleidoscope of colour here in this place

Prisms in the sunshine shining so bright

Rainbows through the rain a wonderful sight

A lasting memorial to miners and mines

So much to read between all those lines

A seam forged with power; glass fused with care

Reflections and tributes for generations to share

Lives lived and lives lost though never in vain

Their memories live on and will always remain

© Marian Barker

In the Memorial Garden

Misty moments and misty eyes

Heads bowed beneath November skies

Family members young and old

Standing together in the cold

Mist wraps around just like a shawl

Gently enveloping us one and all

Names read out in reverence due

Music played softly through and through

The choir sang in harmony

Words befitting a eulogy

Silence fell; a wreath was laid

Some shed a tear; others prayed

Misty moments, misty eyes

Underneath November skies

© Marian Barker

Baware Miners Beware

Beware Miners Beware

There was coal in stockpiles, coal from abroad

And dark blue lines drawn across the coal road.

Convoys of grim buses in greens and greys,

Prowling the length of British motorways.

Beware, miners, beware.

The rule of law, but the law is partial,

The rule is fear when the law is martial.

What matter then the ballot or the vote?

It’s who wields the baton in the last resort.

Beware, miners, beware.

It wasn’t policing some might celebrate,

Policing by consent, consent of the state,

And how much money so readily found

To keep centuries of coal deep underground?

Beware, miners, beware.

The pit was never a romantic place,

In the dusty dark, hewing a coal face,

In the dusty dark with the troubling damps,

Keeping wary eyes for the blue-flamed lamps.

Beware, miners, beware.

 It wasn’t, though, for welfare the pit closure plan,

It wasn’t for workers the shut-downs began,

It wasn’t for climate change they stopped the coal;

But break the miners’ union, break them all!

Beware, miners, beware.

There’s not a cob cut underground anymore,

With collieries fading into folk lore,

A heritage experience, and yet,

Without reminders, people will forget.

Be aware, miners, be aware.

                                                                Dave Alton

Black Dust

‘Oh’ Lament it keeps on whispering

Through the tunnels down below

With each resounding blow

Children waking from sweet slumber

Bleary eyed they all must dread

Footsteps in the Black Dust, they will have to tread

Eyes like a Panda: Tarnished and broken; coming up to the shore

I bet your head is aching?

And your feet are really sore?

For Black is the colour of Ill Health

Black is the colour of the Coal in Dust

And Black remains the colour in which, our lungs are sure to bust

Black is the colour of the clothes they owned

Imagine all the fatalities underground?

Imagine all the Fear by which, those precious children must be bound?

“We are the young children at work, down the mines

Opening and shutting the trap doors

Who are we that we should speak? And who will fight our cause”?

‘Oh’ to play in daylight amongst others

And feel the Sun shining upon our face

We do but sit and wonder: where is the Love? And Where is Grace?

Historical moments generations will remember

For Black were the thoughts of the ‘Children’s Call’

And Black are the memories prevailing; as Coal was mined for all.

                                                                                                         Bernadette O' Horo