Hi Everyone. A second post from me today just to keep you updated about my Grampa's poems. With a few piccies. You can skip this if it doesn't interest you!
I had a museum curator come to see them a few days ago, he said he wondered how Grampa had slipped through the net and not been acknowledged for his poems, there are very few poems written about the coal mines by actual miners, which he was. The Curator also said his museum couldn't do them justice and as there are so many, he is going to search someone out, someone who will be able to do them justice, as they will need cataloguing and be rewritten. He said to continue writing them up as I'm doing.
Just to know that someone outside of the family appreciates Grampa's writings was an enormous lift to me. I thought you may like to see a little of what I have.
The blue folder is his writing of his life, that I have typed up. The old case is full of note books and paper with his writings on.
the poem in the left book is the poem I did on a scrapbook page
HERE
The pink book are the only poems he had published.
Some poems are dated 1916 and 1917 about the tragedy of the soldiers and their treatment when they returned home.
first verse of one of the poems, there are 6 in total.
Our Broken Heroes
Only a broken soldier, now thrown aside as "scrap"
After fighting for King and country, and now, who cares a rap.
What will become of our heroes? Shall we leave them to die in despair?
It's a shame the way their treated, after doing their bit out there.
I haven't gone on as it's such a sad story. I don't want to leave you with sadness. However he does have a funny side to him too. This was written during the Second World War. There was a campaign for people to "dig for Victory" as there was a food shortage.
I’m in the Spring #39
The birds, yes, they whistle and sing,
The lambs they gambol and jig,
And I go to the garden and sweat, oh! Beg pardon,
For it’s my lot, on my plot, to dig.
The dock leaves are showing up fine,
Their roots are so deep and so tough,
I follow them down and tear up the ground
In an hour I have had quite enough.
I sit down to rest by the hedge,
That blackbird is singing a treat,
While I’m cleaning the weed, for sowing the seed
And digging up worms he can eat.
But I mustn’t give in, now I’ve started,
I must oh! My back – have a go,
Or my neighbours, will think I am lazy
Of my pain in my back, they don’t know.
Twas old Adam that started this nonsense
And alone is to blame,
As he made his garden in Eden,
We are expected to do the same.
So, it’s dig – yes dig, for victory,
Never mind the sweat on your brow.
Dig deep - if you would grow onions,
I had to – and that’s how I know.
