Thoughts on an old book
I love old books and the older they are the better,
1922 this one was published, my father was three,
my mother five, and I, not even a twinkle.
Yet this book lives, the paper is tough,
made from rags I am told.
I can bury my soul in its innards, smell its oldness,
like hymn books in Sunday school,
and wooden pews in church,
"All things bright and beautiful",
and the little girl with pigtails flying
skipping home in Sunday best, hat and gloves.
Happy memories cling to its pages,
but there are tears in my eyes for my father
who read this book,
yet slaved in the bowels of the earth for a pittance,
whose unspoken words bounce off the pages
into my mind.
Poetry in every unseen sentence.
I will read this book one day,
instead of touching, smelling,
feeling its vibrations rock me.
For it is a long way that I have travelled
from those cobbled streets and dereliction,
coal blackened faces and pit head gears.
Yet I am still the miner's daughter
who loves old books
and the older they are the better.
Sally James.
Published in OUP anthology Openings 11
Pit Brow Lassie
She wanted to play the piano,
have dancing lessons,
train to be a nurse
instead she worked on the Pit Brow
sorting coal.
She learned to like her job,
the chatter with the girls,
the laughter and the jokes,
the walk down the pit lane in Spring
listening to the bird song,
smelling the Hawthorn blossom,
her head swathed in a shawl
her clogs clicking cobbles.
Every Sunday morning
she went to church with her family
wore a hat with a feather,
pointed shoes that pinched her toes
and white lacy gloves
to hide her fingers.
Sally James
Washing day 1947
it was like that then
mam scrubbing mangling
boiling whites in the copper boiler
mist on the windows inside
smog on the windows outside
lobscouse cooking
on the solitary gas ring
a pint pot of strong tea
to keep her strength up
me crying with measles
her raw hands soothing me
giving me medicine
in between pegging out
damp clothes in the damp air.
Friday night out 1947
lino cold and worn
dad’s feet tip tapping
thinks he is Fred Astaire
polished shoes, gleaming
pit clogs in the kitchen, dusty
dad with white face
brylcreamed hair
cash jingling as he dances
me giggling
waiting for Friday’s penny.
Sally James
I love old books and the older they are the better,
1922 this one was published, my father was three,
my mother five, and I, not even a twinkle.
Yet this book lives, the paper is tough,
made from rags I am told.
I can bury my soul in its innards, smell its oldness,
like hymn books in Sunday school,
and wooden pews in church,
"All things bright and beautiful",
and the little girl with pigtails flying
skipping home in Sunday best, hat and gloves.
Happy memories cling to its pages,
but there are tears in my eyes for my father
who read this book,
yet slaved in the bowels of the earth for a pittance,
whose unspoken words bounce off the pages
into my mind.
Poetry in every unseen sentence.
I will read this book one day,
instead of touching, smelling,
feeling its vibrations rock me.
For it is a long way that I have travelled
from those cobbled streets and dereliction,
coal blackened faces and pit head gears.
Yet I am still the miner's daughter
who loves old books
and the older they are the better.
Sally James.
Published in OUP anthology Openings 11
Pit Brow Lassie
She wanted to play the piano,
have dancing lessons,
train to be a nurse
instead she worked on the Pit Brow
sorting coal.
She learned to like her job,
the chatter with the girls,
the laughter and the jokes,
the walk down the pit lane in Spring
listening to the bird song,
smelling the Hawthorn blossom,
her head swathed in a shawl
her clogs clicking cobbles.
Every Sunday morning
she went to church with her family
wore a hat with a feather,
pointed shoes that pinched her toes
and white lacy gloves
to hide her fingers.
Sally James
Washing day 1947
it was like that then
mam scrubbing mangling
boiling whites in the copper boiler
mist on the windows inside
smog on the windows outside
lobscouse cooking
on the solitary gas ring
a pint pot of strong tea
to keep her strength up
me crying with measles
her raw hands soothing me
giving me medicine
in between pegging out
damp clothes in the damp air.
Friday night out 1947
lino cold and worn
dad’s feet tip tapping
thinks he is Fred Astaire
polished shoes, gleaming
pit clogs in the kitchen, dusty
dad with white face
brylcreamed hair
cash jingling as he dances
me giggling
waiting for Friday’s penny.
Sally James