REBIRTH

A prose poem about the Chilean miners experience.

Mighty Earth traps me in its grasp; crushing eons of accumulated time descend around my fragile shell. Terror consumes me as once living screams echo off dead stone.  Choking dust strangles me; fate surrounds me with a bubble of life.  Dark as the darkest death, my coffin lid 2000-feet thick, I pray to heaven, although I am closer to hell. 

 

  Mumbled sounds, I’m not alone.  I feel flesh on my flesh, a hand reaching out, lives immerge, then more.  Surrounded by brothers, children of my youth, now partners in tragedy.  We shall die as one, sealed in the warm steamy womb of Mother Earth, our sustainer, now executioner.  We cry helpless, hopeless reaching out to god, the god that we ignore in the loud noises of the cantina, as we drink and dance to conceal our fear.  Now entombed I feel god is near, listening.  “Oh, please save me and my brothers.”

 

  Some talk of hope, “They will not forsake us.”  I gather courage from my brothers, as a tree absorbs light.  Faith keeps us alive.  Little food or water to sustain our bodies, without faith our souls will die and all is lost.  We hold our comrades and nurture them like babies, with tender words and soft caresses.  The strong sustain the weak, encouraging; building a framework for hope. 

  

  “Silence! Listen,” sound feeble, weak, but sound!   A new determination swells within.  “We must survive! They are coming!”  We plan, organize, optimize our chances.  “We are men, miners, proud, not sniffling rabbits!”  Sound increasing day by day, and with a burst a break through, umbilical to the world, a lifeline!  Our joy immeasurable, life once again baths us with sustaining gifts: food, water, light, the blessed present of human voices speaking through the belly of the earth.

 

  Hope explodes with joyous reverberations in our breasts.  But wait, we are still captives of solid stone, encased by the fickle whims of fate.  Crushing stone, our ceiling, gravity the trigger for instantaneous death.  Our loved ones witness to our demise heard through  wire, massive sound then stillness, the cold quiet of death.  We swallow hard as one, our brains are in perfect sink:  “Its not over yet.”   We regroup and steel ourselves for many days ahead of waiting, knowing our survival anything but a sure thing.

 

  New sounds develop as our birth canal takes form. Days and endless days go by, first one, then another and after that, another and then some more.  Tedium upon tedium, waiting, listening, anticipating.  Knowing the world is now watching, we think about our lives to come as we prepare for birth.  What is to come?

 

  The world breaking through once again our birth imminent; a passage 2000 feet long awaits.  Concealed in our womb we embrace knowing our seed was strong, we survived.  I break my placental bonds and prepare for my birth.  Encased in steel I begin the long dangerous passage.  I see light!  I feel fresh air!  I’m born into the world crying with joy!

 

Reviews

[roarke]

There are ancient aboriginal stories of an early time of man, that came out of the earth that sound very similar. You've put into words what was surely on the minds of the miners.
"Concealed in our womb we embrace knowing our seed was strong, we survived."
something we all need to contemplate. Good write.

[emmajoy]

Wonderful!

You put yourself there, you thought as you could, imagined how it might be and painted a picture that really soaks into the mind .. some words, phrases very emotive: ' A new determination swells within. “We must survive! They are coming!” We plan, organize, optimize our chances. “We are men, miners, proud, not sniffling rabbits!” That's how I saw those brave men and the word MEN is their tribute .. poor men, hard working men, who trusted themselves, their God and each other. They're an example of how it should be.

Great write, thank you for sharing it.

[Ed Hart]

yes, this truly is a prose poem...you've given your mind to it to enlarge the picture for us...excellent