The Coal Miner

It was summer when they found him,

And he still knew how to grin,

“Come and work and sing with us”

That is how these things begin. 

And at first the work was pleasant

Working hard and hardly sore

But that day has come and come again

When he wanted to say more

For his friend was bright and cheerful too

Buried under miles of coal

And the lie that made it bearable

Was was the profit to his soul

And another who was old and grey

Coughing big black globs of goo

And the lie that made it bearable

Was “he chose to work there too”

But the loudest lie of aching soul

As he shoveled through the clay

Was the way they made him cover up

And they paid him not to say

For the man was bright and clever,

And a useful sort of chap

Bright mind for sorting numbers, 

Bright mind for setting traps

Not traps to kill men instantly

Tell me, where is gold in that?

But traps that killed them shamelessly

From the negligence and draft

And ways to turn a profit

And to round out boys and dimes

As the fellas toiled on fearlessly

And his silence was his crime

And the working stole his soul away,

And the silence stole his joy

And the lie that made it bearable?

“I am silent for my boy.”

But one day he came home sheepishly

As he struggled to make sense 

Of his aching sense of dignity

And his mischief to his friends

And that day turned brightly crimson,

When his eldest turned to say,

“I will work with you tomorrow,

I am old enough today!”

And then what oh what, I ask you

Could his bright and good heart do?

Could his silence hold the bloodshed

Would his son be buried too?

It was autumn when he said it,

Said it clear and said it grim

“Men,” he said, “it’s time we strike”

And the men, they stood with him

Stood and watched that is, they watched

As the scabs all broke the line

Working hard and hardly sore

And they whistled as they mined

But the man could not be silent,

And his fury did not dim

And his clever mind and bitter whit

Made him strong enough to win

It was winter when he wrote it

Bound it tight with miners twine 

Sent it off to be a book 

Sealed in black a dying mine

And some say his hairs grew whiter,

And some say his ears grew dim

And they said it was his anger

And his selfish way to win

But then win he did,

In a sorry sort of way

For the trying times could roll no dimes

And it all shut up one day

It was springtime when they found him

With an arrow through his heart

And a note in blood attached to it

“Thanks a lot, you bloody lark!”

And his son was crimson bitter

For the way his old man died

And his friends they turned to mourners

And his widow wailed and pined

But that message that he spoke that day

Bound with twine and inked in truth 

Sent an arrow to their dragon heart

For his sacrifice was proof

And in time the story changes

From a martyr to a friend

And his son took up the banner

And the workers made an end

Of a tyrant of silence 

Overcheerful ever gay

Of the dark and ill-found riches,

Of their narrow, crafty ways 

It was summer when he found himself

And he knew his dad not dead

Beat within him, speaking through him

As with flaming heart he said:

“No lie could make it bearable

To suffer on in dread

Be the man and break the silence

Tremble not but write instead!”

Tremble not, 

but write

Instead