Yawning in the theatre
Sleepy Helen dozed,
Unimpressed by the performance
Her eyes tightly closed.

Richard of Gloucester,
Eyes all red and sore,
Has to be prompted his lines
As Helen begins to snore.

The man next to Helen nudges her
His face all puffed up and red,
Helen oblivious to his nudging,
Thinks she’s tucked up in bed

Torch in hand the usherette comes
And shines it in Helen’s face
But she is deep in her slumbers
And the manager mutters disgrace.

The attention of the audience shifts
From the stage to the fourth row down
And even the actors fall silent
As Helen begins to frown

She rises from her seat like a Queen
And makes for the steps to the stage
And as she sets foot on the boards
Gloucester flies off in a rage.

She turns to face the audience,
Their interest in the stage renewed
And still deep in her slumbers
Mutters, ‘We are not amused!’

The S M rants and raves
Well for him that’s nothing new
And Gloucester comes back swearing,
The air now turning quite blue.

But Helen is no longer with them
She’s lost all interest you see,
In her dreams she’s back at the palace
With Prince Albert and afternoon tea

Colourless, white and grey
The snow,
Outside, cold, blinding, unfriendly.
Inside grey.
Grey walls, grey floor, grey ceiling,
Grey faces, grey eyes, unfriendly grey
And cold.

Four a.m. breakfast.
Porridge, fish broth and bread.
Judges, priests, high-ranking officials,
Jews, writers, dissenters,
Now a series of numbers,
Queue wearily for their food.
Work Team C.S.S. Building

They eat, without sound, without taste, without pleasure.
Grey soup, grey porridge, grey bread.
The priest mumbles some prayers,
The judge sits upright – elite.
The two Muscovites talk politics.
All Citizens of the Socialist State.

Four-thirty a.m.
Twenty degrees below freezing,
The work party is counted out,
Five, ten, fifteen, twenty...
Citizen Guard count carefully now
....twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five...
Count one short Citizen Guard
And you’ll fill the gap yourself.

Eight guards, armed and warm,
Two dogs, hungry and wild.
Five abreast we march,
Hands behind backs, eyes forward.
A step to the right or left
And you’re dead, shot
Or torn to shreds.

Five-thirty and we arrive.
It is the site for the new power house.
Counted again, guards posted
And the team leaders take over.
Citizen guard discards his cigar ****
And two men fight to retrieve it;
The snow claims it first.

Fire made and water boiling
We mix the mortar.
Building blocks piled high
Trowels at the ready,
Work rate fixed, we begin
And heaven help the man
Who fails to pull his weight.

Trowels glide over steaming mortar,
Just a thin layer,
Put too much on and come the summer
It will all just melt away.

More mortar, more mortar for number two.
More water! Hurry man, hurry
The boiler’s running dry.
More wood! More wood!
No, not coal,
We want fire not smoke – no wood?
Then pull down the stairs.

The sun is overhead.
It is one o clock.
I remember reading where the Americans
Believe it is Twelve Noon when the sun is high!
Ah! If the Soviet Government says it is one
Then by God, whilst you’re in Russia
It’s one.

Time for rations.
It’s a good job the porridge has no taste
Because it looks alarmingly vile
But it fills your guts
And while you can feel it
Weighing heavy as you move,
You’re contented.

Of course there’s no nourishment
To be got from it,
We’d be better off eating grass!
And so we would,
If there were any.
I’ve lost three teeth in eight years
Through crunching this bread.

Break over, back to work.
Stoke the boiler,
More wood! More water!
More mortar for number one!
You lazy sons of lice.

It’s getting darker.
The wall is now at chest height,
We’ve done well
And we got good rates.
It’s getting colder now,
The nightly lowering
Of the temperature begins.

They count us out again.
Why I don’t know,
Where would we go?
What would we eat?
You could walk for a week
And still see nothing but snow;
Like as not you’d be dead by the first night.

Isaac is limping.
I saw him earlier,
His big toe was swollen black.
I saw him lift the trowel
And heard the dull thud
But I couldn’t watch.
Crazy Jew!
He’ll get ten days if they find out.

Ten days! That’s a laugh.
Two out of three die by the first night,
They just freeze up
Like wet sheets left out
In a frost,
Stiff as boards.
Crazy....

Now we’re running!
Are they mad?
Why are we running?
Copjezc, why are we running?
The maintenance group returning?
God no! If they get there first
We’ll get no supper tonight
Ruin you *******, run.
A night without food,
Half of us will be dead by morning.
Run! Run!

I hear screaming.
It’s the dogs,
If I turn my head
I can just see without slowing down...
Isaac!
Crazy ******......

Come on feet run, run,
Run or be dammed.
We’re going to make it.
Poor Isaac. Still he’s out of it now.
Come on citizen guard
Count us in – we’re hungry.

Ten o clock, supper.
Fish broth, porridge and bread.
Red faces, sparkling eyes,
Tired but warm.
We worked like hell today
And been fed three meals.
Time for a smoke.

All in all it’s been a good day.
I stole an apple,
Found a piece of metal
From a guard’s buckle,
It’ll make a good knife.
Yes! If the next five hundred days
Are no worse,
I might even start praying again.

Wi yer eyes stingin n wet wi tears
N muk bungin up tha nose n ears
N a white rimmed ed where thi's ad thi hat
Up tha floats on't lift like a drownded rat

After twelve hours tha's pretty dun in
Whilst t'other folks as been kippin n dreamin
Tha's bin diggin n drillin like summart daft
Now up tha floats on't hydraulic raft

The cold morn air meks tha lungs urt
Cause tha's bin breathin muk n dirt
Fer nigh on forty years or more
That most folks wudn't ave on't floor

N as tha washes all't muk away
Tha knows thas sum that'll allus stay
N whilst outside tha luks nice n clean
Tha's stuff inside thi th't'll never be seen

Until o course tha's gon n died
N them docter fellers tek a look inside
N in amazement they'll stand n stare
At all that muk th't shudn't be there

N wen tha's ded it'll be nowt new
Not too a bloke what's lived like you
Fer now tha's on'y six feet under
Wen undreds is what thas bin used to

N't Crowner'll say thi ad a natural death
Not like them th't had their last breath
At sixteen, seventeen, twenty or more
When sum big explosions brought ceiling t floor

But a doubt if tha'll think it wer thi turn
As tha lays there nattering t worm
Crawlin in n out o yer ears
Not much t show fer sixtyodd years

Still what else cud you ave dun, that's it
But follow yer old man down pit
A mean even his dad was a facer tha knows
Kem out at thirty wi' ands like claws

Ah well it's time fer sum grub
Then half-a-dozen pints't pub
Wi an hour or two o noonday sun
Then back t wife fer an hour o fun
N be six next morning I'll be feelin well
As I teks yon raft t bowels of 'ell
Thirty shillin a week be summer the reckonin
Ah but then they can't see yon worm beckonin


Remember this is a 'Performance Poem'
and the style of writing acts as a
speech prompt. The accent is loosely
Yorkshire. A 'Crowner 'is an old word
for a Coroner.
I hope you enjoy it.

© David Irwin Phillips 2008