Miners
There was a whispering in my hearth,
A sigh of the coal.
Grown wistful of a former earth
It might recall.
I listened for a tale of leaves
And smothered ferns,
Frond-forests; and the low, sly lives
Before the fawns.
My fire might show steam-phantoms simmer
From Time's old cauldron,
Before the birds made nests in summer,
Or men had children.
But the coals were murmuring of their mine,
And moans down there
Of boys that slept wry sleep, and men
Writhing for air.
And I saw white bones in the cinder-shard,
Bones without number.
For many hearts with coal are charred,
And few remember.
I thought of all that worked dark pits
Of war, and died
Digging the rock where Death reputes
Peace lies indeed.
Comforted years will sit soft-chaired
In rooms of amber;
The years will stretch their hands, well-cheered
By our lifes' ember.
The centuries will burn rich loads
With which we groaned,
Whose warmth shall lull their dreaming lids,
While songs are crooned.
But they will not dream of us poor lads
Left in the ground.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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Related quotes
21 - Victorian Poverty
A period of extreme poverty of the lower working classes
As they worked to the death the rich sat politely on their arses
London’s poor tried to scrape a living doing jobs the devil created
As the rich sat at their windows laughing at the pitiful souls they hated
The poor would have sooner died than enter the poor houses control
As it was not fit to harbor a single living human soul
Small boys were used to clean narrow sooted chimneys
While in the coal mines children worked on their hands and knees
Although this golden age pioneered many useful inventions
Children privileged to go to school were whipped instead of detentions
And as the poor worked for a life at every waking hour
The rich covered their stench with perfume and wild flowers
The poor had nothing and hardly anything to eat
While the rich enjoyed tea and honey and sherbet lemon sweets
In Victorian London the poor just lived and died
The rich never really noticed the rich never really cried
A period of extreme poverty of the lower working classes
As they worked to the death the rich sat politely on their asses
poem by Nicola Burkett
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Inward Burning Fire
It's a dark path now - I don't know where it leads.
I only know you're not on it.
Insufficient light comes from the flame in my heart.
The fire you started.
This flame rages seeking fuel to burn and survive.
Give me some coal dust from your hair.
Just some green driftwood shavings from your eyes.
Your oaken wood hands warming mine - they're so cold now.
Better yet, an answering warmth
from the fire burning in your heart for mine.
Nothing serves to heal a dying flame as that meeting would.
But that's my fire seeking what will not be found on this path.
So, the flame turns inward to die out.
I hide the smoke.
It was always enough for you alone to know of this kindling within.
In the flame's death it must be secret still.
The fire consumes internally,
seeking out each memory hidden away.
Consuming every thought I ever had of you.
No one knows the fire's rage
until it turns to them and touches.
It will burn on inward
until it has devoured every memory, every feeling
with sustenance left in it.
It's a painful death,
but once the fire exists
it can only consume until it dies.
I know this science. I accept.
I accepted long ago.
The fire is so warm when first kindled.
Soon, I hope and fear,
only ash will be left.
The pain will be over.
I know I'll be cold but I'll rest.
As for now, while it's still burning,
I will make one vow.
I will save one tiny ember.
I will try to keep it warm and safe.
Just in case the path turns - and there you are.
And if a spark still remains within you too
this dear and dreaded fire can rise again.
Though more likely I know -
my little ember will serve only to remind me what warmth was
and burn my fingers.
poem by Meli Secret
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Springhill Mining Disaster
Bono: like to...Id like to try a song that I think weve only played once before, so. this is a city that a...a lot of irish people came to this city, right? so this time...this irish...t
Irish people came as rock and roll band, okay? so...but this is a folk song. its like...the irish kinda hold america in a very special place because, for over a hundred years or more, irish have come over here to find work and find a future. and they brouught with them songs, old irish folk songs that became old american folk songs. and, I hope maybe wed leave behind some songs one day. this is a song written by peggy seeger. its a song...i wished Id heard this song on the raidio during the miners strike in england a few years ago. this is called springhill mining disaster.
In the town of springhill nova scotia
Down in the dark of the cumberland mine
Theres blood on the coal, and the miners lie
In roads that never saw sun or sky
Roads--
Bono: shut up for a second, will you? stop whistling cause Im not in the beatles, okay? its u2 here.
In the town of springhill
They dont sleep easy
Often the earth will tremble and roll
When the earth is restless
Miners die
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Listen to the shouts of the black faced miner
Listen to the call of the rescue team
We have no water, light or bread
So were living on songs and hope instead
Living on songs and hope instead
In the town of springhill nova scotia
Down in the dark of the cumberland mine
Theres blood on the coal, and the miners lie
In roads that never saw sun or sky
Roads that never saw sun nor sky
In the town of springhill
Dont sleep easy
Often the earth will tremble and roll
When the earth is restless
Miners die
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bono: thanks for your patience. thank you.
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Primary
The innocence of sleeping children
Dressed in white
And slowly dreaming
Stops all time
Slow my steps and start to blur
So many years have filled my heart
I never thought i'd say those words
The further we go
And older we grow
The more we know ...
The less we show ...
The very first time i saw your face
I thought of a song
And quickly changed the tune
The very first time i touched your skin
I thought of a story
And rushed to reach the end
Too soon
Oh remember
Please
Don't change
So the fall came
Thirteen years
A shiny ring
And how i could forget your name
The air no longer in my throat
Another perfect lie is choked
But it always feels the same
So they close together
Dressed in red and yellow
Innocent forever
Sleeping children in their blue soft rooms
Still dream
The further we go
And older we grow
The more we know ...
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Long Forgotten for Friend David Threadgold
Who dares?
Disturb my peace
after so may years.
My sleep
was undisturbed.
Who is it dares to peep.
This grave
is mine alone.
It is all that I have.
To show
who I once was.
What do you seek to know?
My bones.
Are all that’s left
here beneath these stones.
Which mark
my resting place
Here in the quiet dark.
Begone
you have no right
in truth to look upon.
Remains
mouldering here
What do you hope to gain.
Leave me
in peace and go.
Your curiosity
Is no
concern of mine.
Why should you seek to know.
Why I
am buried here.
Dry bones will not reply.
My curse
will fall on you.
Things go from bad to worse.
Swiftly
flee from this place.
Where you’re not meant to be.
I lay
hidden from sight
for years until today.
Why do
you disturb me.
There is no reason to.
Leave me
to sleep in peace
here where I ought to be.
Alone
Contentedly
hidden away unknown
.14-Sep-08
http; // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Dreaming A Dream
Dreaming of a dream
A dream were skies are blue oceans are clear and life scared
Dreaming of dream
were a dream of peace and love rule and hate is a myth
Dreaming of a dream
having food for all, and all not thirst
Dreaming of a dream
Dreaming of a dream
were skin color is just that, us all just one
Dreaming a dream
no pain, war the only true crime
Dreaming a dream
were the rich give, and the poor have a chance
Dreaming a dream
Dreaming a dream
were we can look on a future of happiness'
Dreaming a dream
were the children are the future
Dream a dream
were lives are fullfilled, and getting old is not a bad thing
Dreaming a dream
World wonderess, happy, clean, perfect
Dreaming a dream
poem by Vincent Armone
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Why We Tell Stories
For Linda Foster
I
Because we used to have leaves
and on damp days
our muscles feel a tug,
painful now, from when roots
pulled us into the ground
and because our children believe
they can fly, an instinct retained
from when the bones in our arms
were shaped like zithers and broke
neatly under their feathers
and because before we had lungs
we knew how far it was to the bottom
as we floated open-eyed
like painted scarves through the scenery
of dreams, and because we awakened
and learned to speak
2
We sat by the fire in our caves,
and because we were poor, we made up a tale
about a treasure mountain
that would open only for us
and because we were always defeated,
we invented impossible riddles
only we could solve,
monsters only we could kill,
women who could love no one else
and because we had survived
sisters and brothers, daughters and sons,
we discovered bones that rose
from the dark earth and sang
as white birds in the trees
3
Because the story of our life
becomes our life
Because each of us tells
the same story
but tells it differently
and none of us tells it
the same way twice
Because grandmothers looking like spiders
want to enchant the children
and grandfathers need to convince us
what happened happened because of them
and though we listen only
haphazardly, with one ear,
we will begin our story
with the word and
poem by Lisel Mueller
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A Diamond Or A Coal?
A diamond or a coal?
A diamond, if you please:
Who cares about a clumsy coal
Beneath the summer trees?
A diamond or a coal?
A coal, sir, if you please:
One comes to care about the coal
What time the waters freeze.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Pioneer. storypoem
John Willy was a collier lad
and life for him was not too bad
Until the day that he took bad
and could no longer dig for coal.
He had to fill his time somehow.
He found life boring on the dole.
He had left school soon as he could
because it was then understood.
Lads followed Dads just they should.
John Willy was a clever lad
so he returned to studying.
He seized the chance he never had.
John Will chose to study law,
that no pit lad had done before.
He finished with the highest score.
He was awarded his degree
and worked for a solicitor.
For several years successfully.
He became well known to the courts
and took on cases of all sorts
and never sold his client short.
He very rarely lost a case.
His success was phenomenal.
For pit lads are a hardy race.
The time had come to specialise
and he had come to realise
That men who suffer injuries
Should sue for compensation
and make employers pay the cost.
This caused great consternation.
Amongst the greedy coal owners
Prone to cutting corners
and exploiting their coalminers.
They were content to let men die
Because they chose to penny pinch.
John Willy thought he’d show them why.
His client had an injured spine
a family man of twenty nine
Who had been injured down the mine.
John Willy proved successfully
Poor safety practice was the cause.
The mine owner was found guilty.
The judge decreed that he must pay
compensation. Paving the way,
for health and safety laws today.
Employers know they must obey
rules laid down by government.
Because John Willy led the way.
15/10/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Rococo
TAKE HANDS and part with laughter;
Touch lips and part with tears;
Once more and no more after,
Whatever comes with years.
We twain shall not remeasure
The ways that left us twain;
Nor crush the lees of pleasure
From sanguine grapes of pain.
We twain once well in sunder,
What will the mad gods do
For hate with me, I wonder,
Or what for love with you?
Forget them till November,
And dream there’s April yet;
Forget that I remember,
And dream that I forget.
Time found our tired love sleeping,
And kissed away his breath;
But what should we do weeping,
Though light love sleep to death?
We have drained his lips at leisure,
Till there’s not left to drain
A single sob of pleasure,
A single pulse of pain.
Dream that the lips once breathless
Might quicken if they would;
Say that the soul is deathless;
Dream that the gods are good;
Say March may wed September,
And time divorce regret;
But not that you remember,
And not that I forget.
We have heard from hidden places
What love scarce lives and hears:
We have seen on fervent faces
The pallor of strange tears:
We have trod the wine-vat’s treasure,
Whence, ripe to steam and stain,
Foams round the feet of pleasure
The blood-red must of pain.
Remembrance may recover
And time bring back to time
The name of your first lover,
The ring of my first rhyme;
But rose-leaves of December
The frosts of June shall fret,
The day that you remember,
The day that I forget.
The snake that hides and hisses
In heaven we twain have known;
The grief of cruel kisses,
The joy whose mouth makes moan;
The pulse’s pause and measure,
Where in one furtive vein
Throbs through the heart of pleasure
The purpler blood of pain.
We have done with tears and treasons
And love for treason’s sake;
Room for the swift new seasons,
The years that burn and break,
Dismantle and dismember
Men’s days and dreams, Juliette;
For love may not remember,
But time will not forget.
Life treads down love in flying,
Time withers him at root;
Bring all dead things and dying,
Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit,
Where, crushed by three days’ pressure,
Our three days’ love lies slain;
And earlier leaf of pleasure,
And latter flower of pain.
Breathe close upon the ashes,
It may be flame will leap;
Unclose the soft close lashes,
Lift up the lids, and weep.
Light love’s extinguished ember,
Let one tear leave it wet
For one that you remember
And ten that you forget.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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But When The Flames Of Fires Touch Your Eyes
The leaves are gone; the world’s gone to sleep
The grass is brown the earth is dark and bare
And if you look beyond that silent peak
Silence is there
Then in the morning when the world’s young
When all the children still sigh in their sleep
Before the fog is lifted from the ground
Silence creeps
But when the flames of fires touch your eyes
When everything you’ve loved leaves you alone
When even moons refuse to wax and wane
Silence moans
So I will walk upon this sidewalk loud
And sing old songs that have no melody
In hopes that with this lonely clamoring
Silence leaves
poem by Ben Paynter
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(V – 1990) War & Peace
War has stabbed the heart of peace
And peace lies bleeding now –
A peace which was healing slow
The wounds it had suffered hard,
A peace which was recovering
From the mind blowing blows
Of the decades past!
Now the precious blood of that peace is draining
And each dropp of dripping blood
Is singing the songs of savagery
To the frightened ears of civilizations!
Man mastered bombs but now bombs master man!
Man busy growing the world outside
How poor he forgot to grow his inside!
And now when he stands a helpless child
Before the giant of things he grew
Reason comes again and asks
Was this the progress you built through the years
And man has no answer
He just drops into wounds
Wounds inflicted by bullets of arrogance
Of selfishness, hatred, fear and greed!
Oh, these bombs that preach ‘might is right’
Oh, these merciless bloodthirsty bullets –
What answers are they? What justice makes they?
What battle is real than a battle for peace?
What victory, true, when won at the cost of peace? !
Peace was long destroyed on the minds of men
So no peace now remains outside!
Rising from narrow rooms of thought
Man armed with the mortal arms of passion
Smashes the skulls of his brethren
And when upon the fractured bones
And the boiled flesh, cries of anguish fall
And when the hands and limbs of innocents
Lie eaten and bitten by vultures of violence
Their hearts cracking into a fury of pain
And when thick clouds of smoke
Of the smoke of life, rises from the graveyards of war
A tear comes into the eyes of man and time asks:
Hasn’t History taught you anything still?
And man stands dumb!
With all his will and wisdom paralyzed
He searches for peace, for the solace of peace
But peace lies writhing there!
He knows he wants it dearly
The company of peace,
Wounded though he be!
But peace is dying there;
But peace is not dead!
His life lies in our hands
The wounds are many
But many more can be spared!
The wounds are sore
But they can be medicined still!
War is death
But war can be killed!
Comes Death (A song)
'Out the window lies the future,
where we can see, but never reach her.' - P.N.
All the world is hopeless,
All the sights been seen
all the land is bought up
all the dreams been dreamed
The end comes to everything
to every time - to every place
comes death on wings of fire
cones death on wings of dark
All the years are fruitless
all the work's been done
all the curses lifted
all the prizes won
The end comes to everything
to every dream - to all that's green
comes death with eyes of fire
comes death with eyes of dark
All the difference taken
all the people same
all that's war is broken
all this peace is lame
The end comes to everything
to every war - to every peace
comes death with thoughts of fire
comes death with thoughts of dark
All the gold is rusted
all the cities gone
all the wind is hollow
all the lights left on
The end comes to everything
to every story - every theme
comes death on tireless mission
comes death with darkened peace
poem by Poet Dragon
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A Day In The Life Of A Tree
Feel the wind burn through my skin
The pain, the air is killing me
For years my limbs stretched to the sky
A nest for birds to sit and sing
But now my branches suffer
And my leaves dont bear the glow
They did so long ago
One day I was full of life
My sap was rich and I was strong
From seed to tree I grew so tall
Through wind and rain I could not fall
But now my branches suffer
And my leaves dont offer
Poetry to men of song
Trees like me werent meant to live
If all this world can give
Pollution and slow death
Oh lord I lay me down
No lifes left to be found
Theres nothing left for me
Trees like me werent meant to live
If all this earth can give
Is pollution
Trees like me werent meant to live
(oh lord I lay me down)
If all this earth can give
(my branches to the ground)
Is pollution and slow death
(theres nothing left for me)
Oh lord I lay me down
My branches to the ground
Theres nothing left for me
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heart Cooks Brain
Slow walk
Its land mine
Its coal mine
Its a bad thought
On the way to God dont know
My brains the burger and my hearts the coal
Im trying to get my head clear
I push things out through my mouth I get refilled through my ears
Im on my way to God dont know or even care
My brains the weak heart, and my hearts the long stairs
Inland from vancouver shore
The ravens and the seagulls push each other inward and outward
Inward and outward
In this place that I call home
My brains the cliff, and my hearts the bitter buffalo
My hearts the bitter buffalo
We tore one down, and erected another there
The match of the century: absence versus thin air
On the way to God dont know
My brains the burger and my hearts the coal
On this life that we call home
The years go fast and the days go so slow
song performed by by Modest Mouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Harvest Moon
It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Song-Books of the War
In fifty years, when peace outshines
Remembrance of the battle lines,
Adventurous lads will sigh and cast
Proud looks upon the plundered past.
On summer morn or winter's night,
Their hearts will kindle for the fight,
Reading a snatch of soldier-song,
Savage and jaunty, fierce and strong;
And through the angry marching rhymes
Of blind regret and haggard mirth,
They'll envy us the dazzling times
When sacrifice absolved our earth.
Some ancient man with silver locks
Will lift his weary face to say:
'War was a fiend who stopped our clocks
Although we met him grim and gay.'
And then he'll speak of Haig's last drive,
Marvelling that any came alive
Out of the shambles that men built
And smashed, to cleanse the world of guilt.
But the boys, with grin and sidelong glance,
Will think, 'Poor grandad's day is done.'
And dream of lads who fought in France
And lived in time to share the fun.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Tommy's Dead
YOU may give over plough, boys,
You may take the gear to the stead,
All the sweat o' your brow, boys,
Will never get beer and bread.
The seed's waste, I know, boys,
There's not a blade will grow, boys,
'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
Send the colt to fair, boys,
He's going blind, as I said,
My old eyes can't bear, boys,
To see him in the shed;
The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,
I doubt she's badly bread;
Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There'll be no more corn, boys,
Neither white nor red;
There's no sign of grass, boys,
You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,
The land's not what it was, boys,
And the beasts must be fed:
You may turn Peg away, boys,
You may pay off old Ned,
We've had a dull day, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
Move my chair on the floor, boys,
Let me turn my head:
She's standing there in the door, boys,
Your sister Winifred!
Take her away from me, boys,
Your sister Winifred!
Move me round in my place, boys,
Let me turn my head,
Take her away from me, boys,
As she lay on here death-bed,
The bones of her thin face, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed!
I don't know how it be, boys,
When all's done and said,
But I see her looking at me, boys,
Whenever I turn my head;
Out of the big oak tree, boys,
Out of the garden-bed,
And the lily as pale as she, boys,
And the rose that used to be red.
There's something not right, boys,
But I think it's not in my head,
I've kept my precious sight, boys, --
The Lord be hallowéd!
Outside and in
The ground is cold to my tread,
The hills are wizen and thin,
The sky is shrivelled and shred,
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread,
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,
And the eyes of a dead man's head.
There's nothing but cinders and sand,
The rat and the mouse have fed,
And the summer's empty and cold;
Over valley and wold
Wherever I turn my head
There's a mildew and a mould,
The sun's going out overhead,
And I'm very old,
And Tommy's dead.
What am I staying for, boys,
You're all born and bred,
'Tis fifty years and more, boys,
Since wife and I were wed,
And she'd gone before, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
She was always sweet, boys,
Upon his curly head,
She knew she'd never see't, boys,
And she stole off to bed;
I've been siting up alone, boys,
For he'd come home, he said,
But it's time I was gone boys,
For Tommy's dead.
Put the shutters up, boys,
Bring out the beer and bread,
Make haste and sup, boys,
For my eyes are heavy as lead:
There's something wrong i' the cup, boys,
There's something ill wi' the bread,
I don't care to sup, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
I'm not right, I doubt, boys,
I've such a sleepy head,
I shall nevermore be stout, boys,
You may carry me to bed.
What are you about, boys?
The prayers are all said,
The fire's raked out, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
The stairs are too steep, boys,
You may carry me to the head,
The night's dark and deep, boys,
Your mother's long in bed,
'Tis time to go to sleep, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
I'm not used to a kiss, boys,
You may shake my hand instead.
All things go amiss, boys,
You may lay me where she is, boys,
And I'll rest my old head:
'Tis a poor world, this, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For The Elite Political Machine!
vote for me,
i'll sell your soul,
but do it in a way,
you'll hardly know.
give me your sons,
i'll give you ribbons.
give me your poor,
i'll fill my prisons.
pump that oil,
mine that coal.
nuclear meltdown,
gotta meet my goal.
stand in lines,
begging for work.
i'll take your hearts,
i'll take your shirts!
the cost of freedom,
yours for mine.
cant see your hurts,
i'm rich and blind.
i'll pave my roads
over your dead bones.
over your unmarked graves,
i'll build my home.
you're only as equal
as your money allows!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Banking Coal
Whoever it was who brought the first wood and coal
To start the Fire, did his part well;
Not all wood takes to fire from a match,
Nor coal from wood before it’s burned to charcoal.
The wood and coal in question caught a flame
And flared up beautifully, touching the air
That takes a flame from anything.
Somehow the fire was furnaced,
And then the time was ripe for some to say,
“Right banking of the furnace saves the coal.”
I’ve seen them set to work, each in his way,
Though all with shovels and with ashes,
Never resting till the fire seemed most dead;
Whereupon they’d crawl in hooded night-caps
Contentedly to bed. Sometimes the fire left alone
Would die, but like as not spiced tongues
Remaining by the hardest on till day would flicker up,
Never strong, to anyone who cared to rake for them.
But roaring fires never have been made that way.
I’d like to tell those folks that one grand flare
Transferred to memory tissues of the air
Is worth a like, or, for dull minds that turn in gold,
All money ever saved by banking coal.
poem by Jean Toomer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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