Voices Abroad 1

 

 

Voices in the Coalshed reaches out beyond mining and its history to include a variety of voices. They may not have anything to say directly about coal mining, but the industry is just one part of the wider world.  The present pandemic has demonstrated all too vividly how closely connected we all are.

Here are three poems in a voice from Alaska - Kersten Christianson, welcome to the Coalshed.

 

Alignment of the Chakras

 

It’s June and my Throat Chakra

opens to sing to fingers eager

to type love poems, their words

captured from the wind, the tips

of an errant raven feather flipping

abandonment in the yard, the rebirthed

petals of raging violet rhododendron. 

 

Words like heartfelt, connection,

and We need to figure this out flit,

cut wake through sleep, and even

the June moon, the Strawberry

Moon, is romantic in her roundness

and name.  Both Sacral and Third

Eye Chakras argue for levity; one

 

for potential and if, the other

a reminder of distance and time.

But it’s that tricky Heart – she’s

fickle, demanding, hopeful. She

is plain in her language and shies

of woo.  Never has the written

word been easier.

 

 

Courier

 

“How now, Balthasar? How fares my Juliet?” – Romeo

 

In waking, you roll into another rusty

pandemic morning. Like a minor

character in any inconvenient plague,

your iPhone, a modern Balthasar,  you

dredge social media outlets for some sweet

 

morsel of optimism, anything to hitch

your hopeful wagon to, even a star,

but without the stench of an idiot

president, fallout still lacking a vaccine,

unmasked masses by choice, a million

 

broken hearts in the wake.  Sometimes

the peel is more fortuitous than the fruit. 

Sometimes, all it takes is an otter

juggling stones.  A blanched moose

jawbone hosting wild geraniums

 

in their short, season of sweaty dance

under hyperborean sun.  This morning,

you peruse the airbrushed photos

of celebrity marriages boasting partner

age differences of 15 years or more. 

 

Sir Elton John sagely advises,

You take it one day at a time.  And this

is rope ladder enough to pad barefooted

downstairs, humming “Rocketman,”

to start the midmorning coffee.

 

 

 

Bawdy Muse

 

Cisneros

Might well be

Bukowski’s

 

Shiny star

Sister: Thigh,

wine, bed crumbs

 

Appetite

for stanzas

sloppy men

 

                                Kersten Christianson

                        (www.kerstenchristianson.com)

 

Theme for August

Voices from the Coal Shed

August! Holiday season! And so many of us going…nowhere! Why not send a postcard anyway? Instead of the usual “Wish you were here”, how about, “Wish I was there”?

“Wish I was there” this month’s theme for contributions to the Voices from the Coal Shed blog and the virtual museum at the National Coal Mining Museum of England. This is open to any age and from anywhere.

Send your postcard message to:    voicesinthecoalshed@gmail.com

Whether you can travel or not, everyone can wish.

Dave Alton

(Writer in Residence

National Coal Mining Museum of England)

Voices in the Coalshed

Out from the Darkness

A voice deep within the Coalshed calls out,

“I know there are people with words about,

People who’ve something that they want to say;

That’s you! So don’t let you thoughts slip away.

A story, a poem, a humorous tale,

An anecdote, a notion that can’t fail

To enlighten, entertain or amuse,

With rhymes, without rhymes, anyway you choose.

And then, when your say has been said,

Wing it through cyberspace to the Coalshed.

How many words? One hundred more or less;

The challenge? The theme?

Out from the Darkness.

(90 words)

Dave Alton

(Writer in residence – National Coal Mining Museum)

Please send to:                       voicesinthecoalshed@gmail.com

   Dog Days Of COVID Summer

I radiate low esteem.

So much so that flies

sometimes can mistake me for

a piece of horseshit.

 Dissolution

I feel marginal.

Buried in obscurity.

Alive but not quite.

 On Another Hand

Thoroughly reliable

with a constant mood --

man of immense appetite,

energy for life.

 Breakfast In Bed

Though never feel, “Don’t

have enough,” always connive

to get more and more.

Gerard Sarnat

                                                                                (gerardsarnat.com)

Shadows

Nick loves walking on summer evenings when pale blue mingles with pink shrouds, especially when the moon rises, a luminous disc, orange or a pale lady. Too many corpses, more statistics, curves. He walks with methodical steps, absorbing shadows in country roads, deep and pink, dancing, darting. He observes leaning pines, each curved branch, lights from cabins snaking through pines, he is welcome. He walks slower and slower. The night settles, pale blue turned black. The morning knocks, a little too bright, country roads weary with dirt, the pines precarious. The shadows dart and dance. They can’t block the sun.

Yash Seyedbagheri

THE SOLITARY HEART

Like that weary rose,

the heart is under threat,

could succumb to the current,

go with the most convenient flow,

open to the sky’s scattered cumulus,

but wanting so much to avoid recriminations,

or to berate the weather for minor lapses

in years gone by,

a reasoning that scolds his instincts

with disquieting joy.

Reason is a trusting light, in its way,

placates the iris, wakens the sparrow’s trill.

And Fall nurtures with fluent

predictability, by shifting slightly, can be where

the stream’s downy current engulfs

and then, with unabashed adoration,

once more prove dedication,

unsullied, unrestricted,

avenge the solitary heart

given the strength to confess its trust,

all that a nurtured existence finds exemplary.

John Grey

From Coal to Dust

Streams of coal dust settle in wrinkles,

a trade ingrained forever in skin.

Egg white eyes with blue yolks

announce his Celtic origin.

Black seams of coal snake through

Welsh valley and Yorkshire dale.

Miners bent double hack away

with pick and shovel at the shale.

Coal dust turns lungs to black,

slithering unseen inside.

Shifting tons of dirty slack,

while black lung rots flesh to dust.

Now the pit heads turn no more,

their wheels confined to rust.

Sheila Kinsella

A miner and his daughter (Part 1)

He came down on his bike, she says. Bramley to Betteshanger

following the black seam.

Ants across June asphalt to drill their colonies.

Genteel Deal hung out her signs; no dogs or miners.

Shops flung cheap chops at wives

hands boiled raw, scrubbing since dawn

in the steaming shadow of the sheave wheels.

Shifts leave pitch-blind.

Face silhouettes with pinhole eyes.

Coughed his lungs up, she says. Pit dirt did him over.

Insides dark as the Kent shafts,

blood runs black.

Coal dust settles on clean sheets

seals the white seams of his skin.

Helen Price

Helenlouiseprice.wixsite.com/thisissediment

Out From the Darkness

Out from the darkness at the end of the day

The miners emerge without much pay

A long hard shift so bleak and dreary

Swathed in blackness, tired and weary

Dismal faces daren’t look to the skies

They blink as the daylight hurts their eyes

Whilst surfacing from the murky depths

In sombre mood they catch their breaths

Filling their shadowy lungs with air

Sinister coughs are everywhere

Out from the darkness at the end of the day

The miners emerge without much pay

Marian BARKER

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

Voices in the Coalshed

My View Today

Have a thought? A flash of inspiration? What is your view today?

Pen a para-graphic - a picture painted with words. Let the world see what you see.

In no more than 100 words, the fewer the better – written or spoken or videoed or…whatever way suits you – say what is, “My View Today”.

Then voice it in the Coalshed at:

Email Address: voicesinthecoalshed@gmail.com

Dave Alton

(Writer in Residence – National Coal Mining Museum)

Lonely Wonderings

(Or, will I ever sit in a pub again)

The ground it moved

Then was still

That deathly rattle

Was with me

Silenced by the movement

Of the cursive spread

Linked worthy trends

Incumbent need

Upon me crushed

With finality

Normality

Movement

Quiet dread

Paul Simms

My View Today

My View Today

Have a thought? A flash of inspiration? What is your view today?

Pen a para-graphic - a picture painted with words. Let the world see what you see.

In no more than 100 words, the fewer the better – written or spoken or videoed or…whatever way suits you – say what is, “My View Today”.

Then voice it in the Coalshed at:

Email Address: voicesinthecoalshed@gmail.com

Dave Alton

(Writer in Residence at the Mining Museum)

From a Wellington Window

From our window, at a distance, is the sea. We walked there yesterday, a crisp winter’s day with the sun shining. We still move aside on the pavement, without thinking, to give space; we still carry hand sanitiser in our pockets; teddies continue sitting in our window. But now the playgrounds are noisy with children. We meet friends in cafes, buy beer and pizza at our local pub.

Outside our window, birds visit. The best thing about the last few months was birdsong. The traffic stopped and for a time we could hear the birds better.

Janis Freegard

My View Today

Have a thought? A flash of inspiration? What is your view today?

Pen a para-graphic - a picture painted with words. Let the world see what you see.

In no more than 100 words, the fewer the better – written or spoken or videoed or…whatever way suits you – say what is, “My View Today”.

Then voice it in the Coalshed at:

Email Address: voicesinthecoalshed@gmail.com

Dave Alton

(Writer in Residence at the Mining Museum)

I gaze out of my window, cup in hand, from the lush green of the reclaimed Barrow pitheap, the spire in Worsbrough, the hills of Grenoside, over fields and woods to the mass of trees which frame the reservoir and reflect on the eighty days since lockdown began.

I've seen rainbows for the NHS, clapped for key workers, cheered on Captain Tom, commemorated VE Day, kept the two metre rule, used Zoom for yoga, maintained contact via WhatsApp, spent hours reading, crosswords, gardening, walking.

I've done my best, I really have, but oh! how I long for a grandchild's kiss.

Joan Shaw 

RELAX, REPEAT

Relax, kick off your shoes

Chase away Corona blues

Let your many worries go

Take each day a little slow

Don’t feel guilty, you’re allowed

To read a book or sing out loud

Wear your pyjamas if you wish

Drink your coffee from a dish

Wave your arms up in the air

Never mind your messy hair

Do your make-up now and then

Relax, and do it all again!

Marian Barker

 During this lockdown,            folks heads have started stirring.                                        As tempers burn, emotions    start whirring.                                                                    Imagination, finds a whole new meaning.                                    Whilst homes and Work.        Get a thorough cleaning.                                                                    Many more Gardens have a regal look.                              After many years, folks are finally reading a book.                                                                    The arts are helping, with a multitude of feelings.                As music and crafts, bring about deep natural healing.                                                Lockdown has definitely brought about, many hidden skills,and talents out.                  We all are going through this hell.                                           The only way we'll stay safe and well 

         

Andrew Lubelski

My View Today

My View

You should have seen it last week; the cry of every aspiring gardener. 

Then, there were

stabbing spikes of stipa, 

zinging flashes of alliums grown tall,

soft, sensual , promiscuous folds of peonies softly opening 

crowning the view, the stately glory of Aesculus hippocastanum

spreading her blowsy skirts and  flaunting her rose pick racemes.

But now, the 'March come lately' wind has roared out May instead. 

Blown this view apart, bashed it to the ground.

Broken, beaten, bedraggled and bewildered. 

Sally-ann Burley

Then and Now.

Bang of doors

Crunch of gears

Sound of horn

Squeal of brakes

Shriek of laughter

Shout of neighbours  

Bark of dogs

Whistle of owners

Cry of babies

Crash of pallets

Call of birds

That was then

Now its silence, disturbing silence with just the distant call of birds

Doreen Murdin