Work
Poems by Ian Hardy
Stitched, by the hand of a woman
Around the circle,
Is a thread.
It holds the picture together.
Turn the outside
And the colours change:
A kaleidoscope,
Built with mirrors
That reflect across the liquids within.
Many hours are spent weaving the fabric
That this banner is created upon.
Time that could have been spent
In other ways, but the reasons why
I must finish this task
Far outweigh the pressures of the day.
The colours must be accurate.
They must reflect the manner
By which those they represent
Carry out their duties;
I must endeavour to communicate
The integrity that is needed
To survive the trials that await.
And I must respect the yarn
That has drawn together each existence
And is sewn into what it represents.
Unity
In a drawer in the base of my bed
Is a metal box, larger than a cash box
But smaller than a biscuit tin.
This container was left behind by my father;
I found it amongst his tools after he had died.
His initials are scratched onto the lid
Beside the name of the mine where he worked,
Punched into the metal, worn away
But apparent.
I keep things that are important to me
In this box;
Objects that are my history.
Some of them are faded and worn,
Others seem to be new, in their quality.
Still, they are old.
There is a photograph
Of men on their hunkers:
Differing in years,
Yet only one age.
Their lives together,
As marras,
The story of the day.
Eight sheets turned back
To a cold wooden floor.
The stairs from the loft,
One family, or more.
Snap boxes sealed,
Their baits to keep clean.
The fires to stoke,
If the ashes aren’t cold.
Eight men with their work to do.
Men named by me and her
And you and you,
Eight men locked back into the cage;
If the stythe does not blow,
And the graft comes to an end.
A Pit Pony and its Handler
He was beautiful when he
Was born. And he
Learned to walk quickly.
His first days there
Were hard and words disturbed him.
It seemed that temper
Would be a burden,
But he was disciplined and
He was not afraid
To walk into the narrow
Gates
Where others with similar marks
Chose to rest. It was time for
Him to leave but a place
Had been made
Where he could come out of the shadows.
And the trees
Would border the fields.
The Haulage Operator
They’ve told me that I’m soon to be
Replaced by a machine.
A matter of time the management said.
I won’t be looking back at this,
My shoulders ache too much for that.
Am I aged, am I ragged?
I haven’t seen myself for long enough
To be able to tell. It didn’t matter when I came down here
And now I’ve got to find work for my hands.
I think that I might travel to the city
If I can save enough for a new suit.
But I’ve been in the tavern with the butty man
And I drink all that I make. I play the piano
When the house will let me. My fingers talk
And the cramp is shook loose from my forearms;
The blood tears free from the coal.
I count time by the shifting of the gear:
The rhythm of the dark, the iterate shadows.
Above the grind and the shouting and the heat;
I am sure that I can feel the earth breathe.
Mining the Seam
He was a Hewer. He cut the coal from the earth,
He observed angles and he gauged the pitch.
Where he was cavilled there wasn’t much space;
The air was gritty and he had to lie on his side,
Often in a swally two or three inches in depth.
And so his kidneys ached at times.
He was smiling because the tomatoes
In his greenhouse and his gooseberries
Were flourishing. And his wife laughed.
His daughter was healthy and she continued to grow.
He kept on digging
When the Boys travelled the shaft.
He had to focus,
For if the pick struck a boulder
The prop could have been shook loose
And the roof may have collapsed.
There was a fire up above, in London and around,
It wasn’t so bad, down there amongst the trees.
His hips hurt a bit,
And he had to watch his knees.
When his shoulders interfered with the glow from the lamp
Whilst trying to aim the pick,
Because the dust could be worse at the screens
And the keeker was tough,
There were times when the shadows did not seem
To be quite right. As if the beam was travelling from a different direction.
And he thought about the earth when the plants were alive. How the animals
Might have moved. And how it was that they were so far down.
Of course it was dark,
Down there amongst the coal.
Yet he did not mind,
It gave him the opportunity
To cast light across his soul.
The Undermanager
He was the Undermanager.
He represented the board,
But he was not one of them.
It was his responsibility to take charge
Of the pit,
And to take care of the men.
He ensured that production
Was maintained, and that the targets
Were reached each day.
He saw that overtime
Was distributed fairly
And that the bonus was in the pay.
When the loco broke down,
A prop was shot or a conveyor was jammed,
He supervised the repair teams, signed off on all the tasks.
And he filled out the paperwork
If a foot was crushed, or fingers lost, or sometimes a hand.
Distributing instructions with the deputy in the kist,
He examined the seams and he briefed the shift.
It was a difficult position that he chose for himself,
neither man nor management,
He showed his children the middle way;
Talk of work to rule
Or another cowboy day.
There were times when he wished that he could gather them all
And clash their heads together,
But that is not how he chose to live his life,
He didn’t think that would be too clever.
He inspected the judd when the charge was set,
and he supervised the blast.
He wore the uniform of a fire and rescue man:
Part of the team, with his bull’s-eye,
Practising what he said.
Pithead at Sunset
Say a prayer
For the miners of the world.
The sun has set on the last pit here
But it has risen elsewhere.
​
1995
Omai gold mine Guyana
Cyanide
The river poisoned.
1996
Gretley coal mine Australia
Flood
Four men drowned.
2001
Welkom gold mine South Africa
Methane
Twelve dead.
2003
Primorye coal mine Russia
Methane
Five killed.
2005
Xingning City coal mine China
Flood
One hundred and twenty three lives lost.
Say a prayer
For the miners of the world.
The sun has set on the last pit here
Yet tomorrow will come again.