(Remembering Gawber)

March 2025 saw the fortieth anniversary of the end of the Miner’s Strike. Six months on, this day marks another coal mining anniversary, the ninetieth of the North Gawber Colliery Explosion. The Lidgett Seam was known to be gassy, the ventilation often inadequate.

On the afternoon of the 12th September 1935, Mapplewell, Barnsley, became the tragic scene of an underground detonation. It resulted 19 deaths and a further 5 injuries.

It is an example of the cost in working class lives of capitalism’s relentless pursuit of profit, subordinating meeting need. In cases such as this the need for safe working conditions.

While the deep mining of coal has now gone from Britain, it remains a dangerous occupation, along with other types of mining, in many parts of the world. Workers are still being killed in the pursuit of profit.

Once headlines at home

Mining’s continuing cost

Remains in the dark

D.A.

SS Great Britain

The ship is sinking. ‘I know what to do!’

One of those who would be captain said,

‘This vessel will float if we paint it red.’

‘Nonsense!’ The paint job just has to be blue.’

A second declared. Then a third fellow,

Decided he had better intervene,

Insisting it would be better yellow.

But, a fourth politely suggested, ‘Green!’

Finally, a shrill jingoistic old lag

Spoke out, ‘It really would be best, I think,

To cover the hole with the Union Flag.’

However, the ship continued to sink.

The crew had the answer, ‘We’ve had a vote;

We’re going to build a completely new boat.’

D. A.

Wage Deduction

“The wages of sin…” was cited by Romans

Back when. But, presently, it is wages

That are the sin, for they are the gauges

Of exploitation. Until there are plans

For radical change, the true creators,

No matter what their work or workplace,

Their nationality or supposed race,

Will receive a salary that ignores

The full value of what they may produce.

It’s there a difference must always arise,

For in unpaid labour the profit lies,

As creation is for profit, not use.

The one alternative to this schism,

Is moneyless, unwaged socialism.

D. A.

End of Term Report

This, my two hundredth Socialist Sonnet,

Two thousand, eight hundred lines for the cause,

And perhaps time to stop, or at least pause.

Poems of possibilities, and yet

People largely remain loyal to their states,

While workers of the world have made some gains,

Too few seem to want to throw off their chains;

Capitalism still proliferates.

Socialism? There’s no foretelling when

Or even if. But a resort to force

Can’t hurry history along its course,

As words won’t either. So I’ll sheath my pen,

Having not changed the world one iota

And my now having written my quota.

D. A.

End of Term Report

This, my two hundredth Socialist Sonnet,

Two thousand, eight hundred lines for the cause,

And perhaps time to stop, or at least pause.

Poems of possibilities, and yet

People largely remain loyal to their states,

While workers of the world have made some gains,

Too few seem to want to throw off their chains;

Capitalism still proliferates.

Socialism? There’s no foretelling when

Or even if. But a resort to force

Can’t hurry history along its course,

As words won’t either. So I’ll sheath my pen,

Having not changed the world one iota

And my now having written my quota.

D. A.

End of Term Report

This, my two hundredth Socialist Sonnet,

Two thousand, eight hundred lines for the cause,

And perhaps time to stop, or at least pause.

Poems of possibilities, and yet

People largely remain loyal to their states,

While workers of the world have made some gains,

Too few seem to want to throw off their chains;

Capitalism still proliferates.

Socialism? There’s no foretelling when

Or even if. But a resort to force

Can’t hurry history along its course,

As words won’t either. So I’ll sheath my pen,

Having not changed the world one iota

And my now having written my quota.

D. A.

End of Term Report

This, my two hundredth Socialist Sonnet,

Two thousand, eight hundred lines for the cause,

And perhaps time to stop, or at least pause.

Poems of possibilities, and yet

People largely remain loyal to their states,

While workers of the world have made some gains,

Too few seem to want to throw off their chains;

Capitalism still proliferates.

Socialism? There’s no foretelling when

Or even if. But a resort to force

Can’t hurry history along its course,

As words won’t either. So I’ll sheath my pen,

Having not changed the world one iota

And my now having written my quota.

D. A.

Herodians

Now is the time of new Herodians,

Those corrupted by power and vanity

Until, devoid of all humanity,

They are utterly blind to their own plans

Requiring the merciless massacring

Of children. They constantly justify

This infanticide with barely a sigh,

While parasitic sycophants sing

Their praises. Herods don’t do the killing

Of course, child murder is made easy,

Avoiding any need to feel queasy

When it’s done for you by the all too willing.

Also Herods in the shadows without qualms,

Counting profits from the market in arms.

D. A.

Penny Pinching

Treasuries are empty vessels.

Chancellors, in a parlous state

Of limited means, must wrestle

With demands as they inflate.

More for defence and more for health,

More for increasing benefits;

Meanwhile, the wealthy guard their wealth

Or money markets take the hits.

Every penny capital pays

Whether as salaries or doles,

If taxes rise so must wages,

Too much by capitals’ gauges

And it’s then the stock market falls:

So, back again, to crisis days.

D. A.

Public Purse Strings Attached

Came the day when well-meaning magistrates

Gathered in Speenhamland’s Pelican Inn,

To settle supplements for wages too thin

To maintain life.  Doles from the parish rates

Would make up for any deficiencies.

Although the sentiment’s always well placed,

It stops the cause of poverty being faced.

The real source of wealth’s inequalities;

All necessities for life are produced

For profit, it’s what the market’s about.

Whosoever can’t pay must do without,

Leaving those at the margins traduced.

Back in Speenhamland the parish rates soared,

While today it’s what the state can’t afford.

D. A.