I was no philosopher
and not the master digger.
I took no pride and did not
understand the job I did.
Old Craig, the lazy digger,
gave advice and laid it out.
And Hubert, the artist of the crew,
would take a sharpened spade
to even up the sides and make
them true. Howard and I,
or brawn and useless intellect,
would throw the slack from
out the hole and cut a little deeper
down till we were told to stop.
I did not understand the fuss
and careful contemplation
of the pit, not as long as the
coffin fit. But I was just
eighteen, too young to realize
that this was art, the final
mark a man would cause
upon the earth, the ditch
unlike the others that would
be re-dug and altered
by the years and whims
of other workers. No, this
was permanent work for
pay, the likes of which
is hard to find today.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is a delightful & meaningful poem Barry. It really made me reflect and remember the past and what being very young felt like. Thank you for writing this poem.
Thank you. I believe I wrote this one in the 70s. Memories of working my way through college with some very odd jobs.