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Black As The Soot Of Coal Workers

In my grandmother's historical memory
coal triggers off coaches pulled by engines
that eat up live fire, and about the man
who came to town in one such train
with a cycle,how he raced a circumference
navigating on pedal pushers.And
in between watching this
she doled out oil and shikaki
and the green powder of dried hibiscus leaves
to these coal workers with soot in their hair
as black as their bodies.
Out of context,my two year old
grand nephew stood worshipping
the iron box which fumigated smoke
like the gods in his puja room.

Sivakami Velliangiri




Grandmother ran to pick up a fallen mango
during her own wedding procession
plied me with her recollections of the railways
of real engines that ran on coal fires and steam.

At one time, a cycle was brought down from the train
a man went cycling in circles, mere watching
could make her head swirl.

In the meantime men with shovels
fed the coal fire and the train coughed.

The engine driver, his mate the fireman
their whole body was black with soot,
so she begged oil and the powder of green leaves
‘shikaki’to help them scrub.

I can relate to those coal fired engines
cognizing the western ghats
but now we look forward to 'The Bullet '
whizzing 400 kilometres an hour.

I saw my tiny grandchild praying to the iron box.
all those fumes when water is splashed resembles the incense
so perhaps this is how we found our Gods.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



My grandmother, it seems , ran to pick up a mango
when it dropped down during her wedding procession.
She told me believable tales about the railway track
of real engines that pulled carriages working on coal.
Once a bicycle was brought down from the train
and the man went cycling in circles, mere watching
could make her head swirl. In the mean time
men with shovels pushed in the coal and the train coughed.
Their whole body was black with soot, so she begged oil
and the powder of green leaves and shikaki to help them scrub.
I can relate to these coal trains cognizing the western ghats
and now we look forward to the bullet whizzing 400 kilometres
an hour. Incidentally I saw my tiny grandchild praying to the iron box.
All those fumes when water is splashed resembles the incense
in our puja room, so perhaps this is how we found our Gods.

A beautifully penned poem, evocative of a past age - Imperial India. I too as a child placed pennies on the line to watch the wheels run over and elongate the penny to an oval twice its original size. I collected coal thrown in anger by the fireman and was hurt by his anger and so I desisted. I slept at night to the chugging of the engines and the clankety clank as the wagons roared through the night. Their fireboxes lighting up the clouds with a flash of red, I listened to the whish of steam and thrilled to hear them come in the distance and their change of pitch as they withdrew into the opposite side. So long ago yet so fresh and comforting a sound.

I loved this work although it can be tidied up a little. Suggestions:


My grandmother, it seems , ran to pick up a mango [Grandmother ran to pick up a fallen mango]
when it dropped down during her wedding procession. [during her own wedding procession]

She told me believable tales about the railway track [Plied me with her recollections of the railways]
of real engines that pulled carriages working on coal. [Of real engines that ran on coal fires and steam]

Once a bicycle was brought down from the train [At one time, ]
and the man went cycling in circles, mere watching
could make her head swirl.

In the meantime men with shovels
pushed in the coal and the train coughed. [pushed is not right, they threw or fed the coal [fire], heaved etc etc, but not pushed]
[train chugged - imitate the sound chug chug not cough. Cough is original, but sometime we have to use hackneyed simply because they work best.]

Their whole body was black with soot, so she begged oil
[Who's body, we can guess but it is better you tell.][the engine driver and his mate the fireman]
and the powder of green leaves and shikaki to help them scrub. [She used powder of green leaves...]

I can relate to these coal trains cognizing the western ghats
[I relate to 'those' coal fired engines, 'those' because they don't exist anymore, 'these' suggests current] [Coal fired is important because they do not run on coal, they are driven by steam and steam is made by the firing of coal]

and now we look forward to the bullet whizzing 400 kilometres
an hour. Incidentally I saw my tiny grandchild praying to the iron box.

[kill 'incidentally] Indigenous people of North American used Iron Horse, but 'iron box' works well enough.

All those fumes when water is splashed resembles the incense
[The water vapour resembles the temple incense
in our puja room]

, so perhaps this is how we found our Gods. [She thought of God, this little one!]


I really think you have something rather wonderful, I hope my suggestions an help, but please say it your way.


















Post Posted: 13 Jun 2014, 08:25

Frank Dyer

I agree with your suggestions and will work on the poem when I have rested a bit. Thank you.I knew you would be familiar with this scenario.

Siva

Grandmother hated waste
during her own wedding procession
she skipped out to collect fallen mangoes
hoarding them in her white sari

[A reason for her wastlessness]

She loved to talk
and ply me with recollections of the railway,
of engines fired by coal and hissing steam.

At one time, a cycle was brought down from the train
a passenger cycled in circles.
Watching - our heads swirled

Firemen fed the furnace
shovelling with haste as she climbed
the gradient to grandma's village

The driver and his fireman
black with soot, wanted lodgings
She made them scrub with green powder
mixed in oil, before they entered in

I can relate to those old coal fired engines
cognizing [running/] the western ghats
but now we have 'The Bullet '
whizzing at 400 kilometres an hour.

My grandchild prayed to the iron box.
the steam so like temple incense
Is this how we found our Gods.


Ok, now these are my words, I have redone to give you an idea. But they must be your words. I still think it needs refining and cutting, sparser to make us think, its too prosaic still. I will leave it to you where the pome is not rounded then invent. There must be a reason for those firemen working s hard, there must have been a reason why she scrubbed them. Use your own words, rest and come back to it until you are happy.

Siva, I really like this poem. I have some suggestions. I liked the first version better, but it needs some fixes. I like how you tied in the dropped mango to the rest of the poem in your second version. I had trouble knowing who saw the grandchild, the N or the grandmother. I know it would logically be the grandmother, but it is not clear grammatically and confusing. Also, I would change to this:

The engine driver and his mate the fireman
their bodies black with soot,
so she begged oil and the powder of green leaves
‘shikaki’to help them scrub.


Good poem.

Billy

Thanks for reading Billy.I will look into what you have said.

Siva