(Lockhart is, was, a cotton mill village in SC.)
They're spawned in a gene pool
As old as the windowless plant
Reigning over mill village houses
Stuck in the west bank of the Broad,
Their bedrooms a source of labor.
It's said the children are born
With plugs in ears and lint in hair.
They smooth edges of concrete steps
And pace the warping pinewood floors
Their great-grandparents paced when flat.
They bolt pintos and greens and coffee
With nabs, and cut their lunch break short
Because machines with glaring red lights call,
Demanding cotton fiber from their feeders.
They come, with paper cups in hand
Full of cotton waste and brown thick spit.
They mount the stairs to red light machines
Like sailors mount stairs to red light dreams,
With the urgency of the damned.
where have you been R.G.? i suppose you've been where you are now. i'm just a little late reading this. i really enjoyed this. you make history come alive here. poor fellas (and gals?) (probably) . i got a bit mixed up when i read bolt pintos; i thought about bolting together Pintos (i believe there was such a car, but they were probably welded) . and i think your use of nabs (as a noun) is poetic license, which you (and i) deserve. i just reread the last stanza: They mount the stairs to red light machines Like sailors mount stairs to red light dreams, With the urgency of the damned. i didn't understand red light dreams at first reading. NOW I UNDERSTAND! and i liked especially the birth description and the cups part. yuck. ha ha, not. thanks for sharing. it is nice to read a poem in which the poet uses punctuation the way i was taught to use it. to MyPoemList it goes........... bri :)
Great poem. I live in the North West of England where there were once many cotton mills and their legacy remains. Interesting to read.
A very very strong poem, Gordon. Certain turns of phrases in it have my utmost admiration. And how very much more you know about these people than you say I can imagine. The weight of that knowledge certainly counts in this poem. Top drawer!
A really great poem, there used to be a lot of working mills round my area when i was a kid. There all gone now. A great write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
R.G., GREAT poet note you've added. it clarifies 'nabs' for me and i thought the cups were for upchucking mill dust caught in workers' throats. i hear snuff can be rough....on a body, like other tobacco is sometimes. yuck! [of course one still reads once in a while about sweat shops (illegal) in the u.s. of a.] thanks for sharing, especially that you worked there as well. bri :)