Black Gold

The Dad was dour, his face was sour

When he came home from the pit,

He looked like a furnace stoker but

That wasn’t the half of it…

His fists were like a couple of hams

And he used the blighters, too,

The Mam would hear his foot on the step

And hurry to serve his stew.

 

She wore his bruises over her face,

Her arms and her legs and more,

I’d seen her body all over then

For I was coming-up four,

I’d watched the blood run down her leg

As she cleaned herself with a rag,

Whenever he’d come home roaring drunk,

Use Mam as a punching bag!

 

My sister Else was barely ten

When he made her work at the pit,

She struggled to push a cart of coal

Until she was almost sick.

The manager was a brutal man

With a knotted, leather strap,

If Else was slow or got vertigo

He’d lay it across her back!

 

I never heard Mam complain to him,

I guess that she didn’t dare,

She’d rub some cream into Else’s wounds

And run a brush through her hair.

‘It’s hard, but you’ll toughen up, my girl,

He said, as a sort of scold,

‘You’d better respect what we’re mining here,

Just think of it as Black Gold!’

 

‘Think of it as Black Gold,’ he’d said…

(The sort that gets into your pores,

The dust that gives you a crippled lung

And your skin gets covered in sores.

The cough that’s keeping the house awake

When everyone needs to sleep,

The sulphur smell round the chimney-piece

As you watch your mother weep!)

 

He dragged me out, and he took me in

When I was only eight,

He said, ‘Now look here, fella-me-lad,

It’s time that you pulled your weight!’

They started me at tuppence a day

And sat me down in the shaft,

I had to open and close a trap

To help to create the draught.

 

The hours were long, the days were long

We worked a twelve hour shift,

It took me an hour to get to the face,

Clambering over the drift,

I didn’t get time to go to school,

Still sign my name with an ‘x’,

But I’m learning now at the Institute

Just to try for a little respect!

 

When I was ten, they sent me down

With a pick to the old coal face,

Where miners hammered and banged like hell

And they tried to make me race,

Poor Else, still pushing the trucks of coal,

Her back had formed in a hump,

The boys would whistle and jeer at her

For her legs were like two stumps.

 

New-fangled ships were coming in,

The ones of steel and steam,

‘It’s only good for the working man,’

The Dad said: ‘Good for the team!’

But some of the stopes were caving in

The mine was in full retreat,

We’d pull what pillars of coal were left

And send them up to the street.

 

The Dad was working the furthest pitch

While Else sat crippled and old,

She’d ripped a tendon and looked quite lost

As she sat by a pillar of coal,

She waved me away to the further stope

And attacked the coal with a pick,

The pillar came suddenly crashing down

And the roof  -  it followed it!

 

I never saw Mam cry for The Dad,

She cried for our Else instead,

‘She never had much of a life at all,

I’m glad the old bugger’s dead!’

Now the years have passed, and I understand

That The Dad was true to his kind,

He never had much of a chance at all

And he’s buried, still in the mine!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[.]

Well done, my fellow bard. This story can still relate to current events of today, especially in the societies we are members of. One thing I thought was very ironic was the fact that the father was buried from the start( in life and even death). Your imagery was also quite remarkable. Great job, David.

[Shelley Holt-Lowrey]

What a wonderful little story. Sad, but told well, and with an easy rhythm which softens a harsh subject. Even found myself cheering a bit at the end. You are a study as an artist Mr. Lewis Paget. I am always interested in bits like these, and find myself wondering where the seeds of ideas like these germinate, if not personal experience. This is perhaps the most interesting type of poetry to me - fiction poetry. Thank you.

[Lily Mae]

This reminds me of the stories I have heard from the Copper Mines in the UP of Michigan. Life was hard.. and that mean't you worked hard, loved hard and hated hard. Passion good or bad was a part of all they lived. Lives were lost and bitter abused women and children left behind and yet there were alot of lonely harden hearted men also.. this is a perfect write for the life and times.. and that is your gift..x

[MoriartyMesa]

Hells fire aint the right words to describe this, maybe, holy mother of god, or something more christian. This was good and took me to those pits.

[Veronica Chandler]

Amazing imagery, the piece felt so real I could taste the coal. This work is incredibly well written and so timeless in it's style. Your work captures life with the finesse of a true artist. What an honor it is to read.

[poeticpiers]

Thats how it used to be.Mine owners got rich exploiting the poor
Treated as brute beasts they acted like brute beasts.
Another emotive tale sadly based on truth
you keep the craft of story telling alive my friend

[Katrina Mckeown]

you astound me with your in depth writing, lovely use of imagery and imagination of what it was like back then.
Love the story you unfolded in your well written poem.

[Rantazma]

Any poem this long, that I find myself reading from top to bottom has something unique and special about it. The story was superb, the rhyme was nearly perfect.
you are an amazing poet indeed!

[Leigh]

What a great story, glad I took the time to read it, there is so much in here

[TL Boehm]

So many emotions vie for attention as I read this. As always your poetry is technically brilliant and your ability to tell a story - evident. But this time it is truly the story that kicks me in the gut. Perhaps starting with my parents generation - those born in the 40's or so, the baby boomers - they have little concept of the brutality of life for most folk. My generation and the generation of my children in so many respects we are coddled, spoiled and so small minded. It is sobering and humbling as I read this - knowing this isn't just a bit of fiction. This was the reality for so many children - just a few generations back. Its quite sobering to consider. An excellent poem though.