Ballad of Spring Hill (Spring Hill Disaster) -- Peggy Seeger

Guest poem sent in by Dale Rosenberg

(Poem #1386) Ballad of Spring Hill (Spring Hill Disaster) In the town of Spring Hill, Nova Scotia, Down in the heart of the Cumberland Mine, There's blood on the coal and miners lie In the roads that never saw sun or sky Roads that never saw sun or sky. Down at the coal face the miner's workin' Rattle of the belt and the cutter's blade Crumble of rock and the walls close round Living and the dead men two miles down Living and the dead men two miles down Twelve men lay two miles from the pitshaft Listen for the drillin' of a rescue team Six hundred feet of coal and slag Hope imprisoned in a three-foot seam Hope imprisoned in a three-foot seam Eight days passed and some were rescued Leaving the dead to lie alone All their lives they dug their graves Two miles of earth for a markin' stone Two miles of earth for a markin' stone In the town of Spring Hill you don't sleep easy Often the Earth will tremble and groan When the Earth is restless, miners die Bone and blood is the price of coal Bone and blood is the price of coal -- Peggy Seeger

Yesterday's poem about a mining disaster made me think of Peggy Seeger's
"Ballad of Spring Hill."  Based on a real mining accident, where a number of
the trapped miners survived until rescued 8 days later, it has a haunting
melody and even more haunting lyrics.  I heard it as a child, listening to
Peter, Paul and Mary's recording.  I doubt I've heard or read it for 30 years,
but the line "all their lives they dug their graves" still gives me shivers.

Dale Rosenberg

Biography:
  [broken link] http://www.pegseeger.com/html/peggylongbio.html

[p.s. thanks to everyone who identified Stephen Mitchell as the translator of
the Rilke poem. - martin]

Miners -- Wilfred Owen

Guest poem sent in by Dave Fortin

(Poem #1385) 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-frosts, and the low sly lives Before the fauns. 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. Many the muscled bodies 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 life's 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. -- Wilfred Owen

Tuesday, November 4th, marked the 85th anniversary of Wilfred Owen's death.
He was killed in action on the Oise-Sambre Canal near Ors one week before
the Armistice was signed.

The above poem is one of my favorites by Owen.  He originally meant to write
about a mining accident at Podmore Hill Colliery, Halmerend that killed 140
men and boys.  In a letter to a friend, he writes "Wrote a poem on the
Colliery Disaster: but I get mixed up with the War at the end."

The list has a number of poems by Owen and other poets from WWI.  In
thinking about the congruence of poetry and war, I came across a passage in
one of Erich Maria Remarque's novels, The Black Obelisk (1957):

  "I push the poems aside.  They suddenly seem to me flat and childish,
  typical of the attempts almost every young man makes at one time or
  another.  I began to write during the war, but then it made some
  sense--for minutes at a time it took me away from what I was seeing.  It
  was like a little hut of protest and of belief that something else existed
  beyond destruction and death."

Dave Fortin

Autumn -- Rainer Maria Rilke

Guest poem sent in by Sashidhar Dandamudi

(Poem #1384) Autumn Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by. Now overlap the sundials with your shadows, and on the meadows let the wind go free. Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine; grant them a few more warm transparent days, urge them on to fulfillment then, and press the final sweetness into the heavy wine. Whoever has no house now, will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening, and wander along the boulevards, up and down, restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing. -- Rainer Maria Rilke

Notes:

The first fall day is here, at this latitude [Sep 29 - ed]. The long
sleeves come out of the closet as do dawns after 7.00 am. Light and darkness
slice the day almost evenly, two halves of a pumpkin. And as I wander along
the boulevards, up and down, only Rilke sings in the wind.

Sashi

Untitled -- Wendell Berry

(Poem #1383) Untitled To my granddaughters who visited the Holocaust Museum on the day of the burial of Yitzak Rabin, November 6th 1995. Now you know the worst we humans have to know about ourselves, and I am sorry, for I know you will be afraid. To those of our bodies given without pity to be burned, I know there is no answer but loving one another even our enemies, and this is hard. But remember: when a man of war becomes a man of peace, he gives a light, divine though it is also human. When a man of peace is killed by a man of war, he gives a light. You do not have to walk in darkness. If you have the courage for love, you may walk in light. It will be the light of those who have suffered for peace. It will be your light. -- Wendell Berry

     from: A Timbered Choir, The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997

I should probably be sitting on my hands having already submitted a poem to
you recently but I discovered this was not on your site. It has been
pinned to the bulletin board next to my desk for quite a while. I was
tracking down a poem by Denise Levertov which I found on minstrels. I
then wondered if Mr. Berry made an appearance and discovered he did not nor
could I find this poem anywhere on the internet. With all that has
happened since his death, Rabin's life and death are even more significant.
And more tragic. The 8th anniversary of his death approaches and the
poem's sentiment could not be more timely.

Being a military veteran (retired, full career) and a pacifist contains
some inherent conflicts and guilt. I've Berry's poem by my desk for a year
now and still nearly weep every time I read the first four lines. This
poem speaks to me in all of the ways that give me hope. Hope in times like
these when the cry of havock calls forth in my name, in all of our names.
Hope when I feel so helpless to effect any change. And Hope that my
actions in the second half of my life wiill create a light to burn after
me. That my children and theirs can see just a little further in the
darkness and make their contribution to the advancement of civilization.

Bill Schubert

Biography:
  [broken link] http://www.poets.org/poets/poets.cfm?prmID=692
  http://www.heureka.clara.net/art/berry.htm

Hope -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Jessica Schnell

(Poem #1382) Hope Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune--without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me. -- Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson has long been a favorite poet of mine, and I've loved this
particular poem ever since some time in middle school when I first read it.
Maybe it's because it presents such a cheerful and enduring imagery for me,
of what hope is like, as a little bird with a beautiful and uplifting song.

I noticed you had numerous other poems by Dickinson, and thought this would
be a wonderful addition to your collection, to share with others (I
regularly pick a random poem to post on profiles, away messages, etc.)
Great site, keep up the hard work! [thanks! - ed.]

~Jessica

[Martin adds]

I am reminded of Poem #646 - the imagery in the two poems make an
interesting blend.