A Welsh Coal Mines web page

Penallta Poem: the Cathedral of Life.

A shell-shocked moonscape awaits
And a devastated landscape is seen:
This should be a place of business 
But there is nought of what grandeur had been
That penetrates the gloom and despondency
Of the aftermath of a war fought for rights.

1984 was the beginning that ended extraction of coal
On this hallowed and immortal site
Where once stood the towers of power
That took man down to the coal seam
And returned him at the end of a weary shift's work
With that thing we call pride and esteem.

The place was a living, breathing cathedral 
With its cloisters made out of coal dust and stone
And the miners that were hewn out of Penallta Rock
Were the kings on the industrial throne.

The surface itself was full of nutrients 
To feed to the men down below
To help wrestle and strive with the elements
To rip out the reluctant King Coal.

It was said that the pit had a future
With targets all fixed to achieve
The miners easily met them time after time 
But there was only time to grieve.

And now as we look around this graveyard
With its huge towers rotting away
We hear the ghosts of the miners around us
Whisper, " We lost at the end of the day".

There is a feeling of despair and denial
At the forlornness and devastation found there
Where there had been so much life and fulfilment
That has given way to deceit and despair.
 
The dilapidated buildings are gloomy and cold
They are wrinkled and sprinkled with dust
And the cobwebs of industrial strife and disease
Have invaded the iron with rust.

Those towers stand tall to the glory of coal
And to the miner who sweated his blood
In the fight for coal and his way of life
That the strangers had not understood.
 
It is so quiet, serene and stripped bare
Of all that was worthy and great
And precious little of its character remain 
For those same strangers had decreed its fate.
 
The towers remind us of yesteryear
As they stand firm and strong in the wind
But they've been stripped of their dignity
And the cause for which they'd been built.

There is not much to see that excites us
On this dark and obscene lonely site
For all that remain is a memorial
To the miners and their life-saving fight.

The sound of silence is ghostly
And its whisper caresses the ear
As it speaks of those bygone, halcyon days
When Penallta stood proud and austere.

Our visit is nearly over, that's sad
But we have gleaned a tale or two of strife
And we'll never forget for one moment 
That Penallta was The Cathedral of Life.

Yes! Penallta was the Cathedral of Life

                                       By Cyril Thomas
                April 3rd 2004. Art and Design A-level Examination.
  

This poem is the result of research, and standing amidst the bleakness of 
Penallta on a number of occasions, and this coupled with my own 18 or so 
years in pit and drift mines as a collier and fireman, left me with that feeling of 
nostalgia, of the good old days. Others may agree or disagree, but one can 
never forget the pitfalls (excuse the pun) and the camaraderie that was typical 
of the mining communities-it really was a matter of pride and esteem to go 
down t' pit. To hear the dancing, tapping sound of the steel-bottomed boots as 
they caressed the cobbled baileys in 6/8 time, was a joy to the young miner and 
a source of personal pride and fulfilment and job satisfaction. Conditions in 
the mines were not always conducive to better prospects or health, but we were 
conditioned to all that the day or night shift could throw at us, and there was 
plenty, believe you me, for old king coal did not give up its resting place easily. 
Yet coal was the god that was worshipped; it was heat, light and power; it paid 
the wages; it gave us self-esteem, it was the four-letter word, as well as many 
other four-letter words used (but now part of everyday language), that 
appeared on every miner's lips. Yet, how many mothers and fathers wanted 
their offspring to have a better education and go to college, and break with 
tradition. Remember the old and wise saying "Don't go down the mine dad, 
there's plenty of coal in the cwtch". I suppose one can thank the Thatcher 
regime for ensuring that no mother's child would be sent underground again 
(apart from a few in the ever-decreasing coal levels) and this in retrospect was 
no bad thing, especially when you see the craggy, blue-scarred miners of 
another generation leaning over a wall, heaving, coughing and spluttering, 
striving desperately to draw breath from lungs bunged up with the residue of 
coal and stone, the immediate legacy of coal that were the true wages, paid 
with full interest to those greedy and uncaring invaders, who came to middle 
earth from upper earth, pillaging and raping that which had been set between 
layers of stone for millions of years, to remain untouched and virginised for all 
time.
The price of coal has been expensive, not in monetary terms alone, but in the 
sacrifice it demanded and received in blood. The price was too high, and as we 
look back with clear and articulate minds, I think we all know it. However, 
nostalgia being what it is, and a yearning for the good old days, makes us 
always remember the good times and the self respect and pride that was 
indented in the very soul of everyone who called himself a miner.