Industrial Museum by Mike Jenkins

For Adrian Mitchell

 

Hello and welcome to our industrial museum.

 

On your right there’s a slag-heap reclaimed…

a hill… another slag heap…

that one shaped as a landing-pad

for bird-like hang-gliders.

 

Notice the pit-wheels perfectly perserved

where you can buy mementoes

of the Big Strike and eat authentic cawl

at an austere soup-kitchen.

 

There mummified miners cough and spit

at the press of a button

and you can try their lungs on

to a tape-recording of Idris Davies’ poems.

 

That rubble was a 19th century chapel,

that pile of bricks an industrial estate.

The terraced houses all adorned

in red, white and blue as if royalty were visiting.

 

See how quaint the wax models

of women are, as they bow in homage

to polished doorsteps, the stuffed sheep

at the roadside give off a genuine odour.

 

by Mike Jenkins

from Invisible Times

Stallion by Mike Jenkins

When the night’s stallion

approaches us over the yellowing fields,

we see shafts of lonliness

in his eyes. The last wild flowers

have gone with the mares

he whinnied to, over the high-barred gate.

 

A barbed mockery of thorn-trees

and the two of us – jesting to catch

leaves feathering down – share

the hillside with the coal-hewn stallion.

 

Once, he had broken free, his spine

bridging the moor and the village,

hooves clicking the tongues of sleep.

Now, pushing flanks against staked branches,

he mules his raked flesh.

 

by Mike Jenkins

from Invisible Times