The Noble Working Men: the Navvies, by ​Wendy Holborow

Work, by Ford Madox Brown (UK, b. France) 1865.

The Noble Working Men: the Navvies

Prologue
​
The navvies are resident in a still life,
shovel, dig and mix without a stop,
spades and picks unzip the road in Heath
Street, Hampstead, London, where they prop
and shape a gaping hole in the busy road,
dig water trenches for the powerful and rich
though the poor still carry pails to their abodes
from wells or pumps on cobbled streets, which
one day, perhaps may change for their houses.
The navvies are fenced in and passers-by
are kept behind the barriers – the work arouses
indifference, theirs not to question why.
            The navvies are hot. The sun shines on their faces
            a canopy of sky squeezes between the spaces –

a canopy of sky squeezes between the spaces,
of leaning trees. The navvies are scrutinised for ever.
We see but do not hear the commotion, the scrapes
of shovels against the scarp, how the men never
cease their idle chatter or pearls of laughter.
We don’t hear the peals of bells, the insincere threats
and barks and growls of the dogs who loiter.
We see, but do not smell the scent of sweat,
sodden shirts and kerchiefs, faces burnt
from working in the heat of summer sun
as they strain and stretch and are subservient
until the end of day when work is done.
           The painter doesn’t consider them to be
           too vulgar for his art for everyone to see –

Adonis

Adonis is not too vulgar for all to see,
our painter’s enamoured by his theatrical stance,
he is the centre piece, his poise carefree,
his gaze fills the central space, a glance
towards the artist, mocking, a rose clamped
between his lips, improbable in real life –
brought to mock the painter? Will it be stamped
on, as in an opera? Petals shred with his knife?
He stands in a pose of perfect equipoise
clean-shaven, striped kerchief, a length
of white shirt over his brown corduroys
held up by a wide red sash. His strength
            is limned, his portrait painted, his destiny
            is set down by our painter for posterity –

set down by our painter for posterity, then
a scintillation of light illumes him. He stands
on a raised platform above the other men.
He piles up the earth, the quicklime and the sand.
What is he thinking up there in the limelight?
Is he waiting for the day’s work to be done
to go with his pals to the tavern, eat a bite
of food before returning to a wife, mother or none
of these?  His has become a rifled life
but it is doubtful he knows the ancient myth
of Adonis, the epitome of beauty, the strife
that surrounds his newly-given name, the acroliths
            built to worship his fame. Adonis in the flesh
            knows nothing of this – a common working wretch –

he knows nothing of this – a common working wretch,
a lowly born man, but worthy of his depiction
as he tears a hole in the street, carrying and fetch-
ing, symbolically ripping society’s fiction –
disrupting the social hierarchy by chance.
He watches the ragamuffins play nearby
calls to his mates, casts an occasional glance
at our painter, and the people passing by.
Adonis a sobriquet, not his real name,
he is a Bill or Fred or possibly a Jack
not a god, but a worker – just the same
as the other men. Our painter attacks –
            believes that idleness is the devil’s chicanery
            but favours the navvies with great integrity–

The Shoveller

our painter endows navvies with integrity–
he has given the shoveller some sense of style
a red and yellow cap, though bowed in servility,
as he bends over double, shovelling, to pile
the rocks and earth, sieving the quicklime,
the powder accumulating on his left
unaware of the problems that ticking time
could bestow on him, leave his wife bereft
if he develops breathing difficulties later on
or be unable to stand up straight and tall.
He leans on his spade in languor, wanton,
a hint of smug, certainly not in thrall
            to Adonis. His cement-spattered boots a token
            by the painter, the worker’s status is unspoken

The Ale Drinker

to the painter, the worker’s status is unspoken,
though the hefty navvy, the thirsty ale drinker
at the apex of the painting, his thirst now broken
is a follower of Dionysus and no great thinker,
just shoulders his hod, a big beefy man
from the back of beyond. He’s a translation
from the rural economy, needed by the urban
to ply his particular trade.  His identification –
his rural smock, a tie around his neck,
loose white shirt, greying from the dust
a yellow cap aslant upon his head. He checks
his way is clear to start the downward thrust
            into the hole made for the sake of others
            but not for his kin – parents, sisters, brothers –

The Hod Carrier

not for his kin – parents, sisters, brothers
does the red-bearded navvie plunge into the hole
but for the nobility, the bourgeoisie and others.
The Hodsman’s Heaven or Drink for Thirsty Souls
is the title of the Puritan woman’s tract.
He rudely brushes off the scourge of her tongue
scours away the words, tries not to react.
He’s like a dwarf entering a cave, his long
flowing beard catches the light, then he’s gone
to build the walls, forgets her warning words
that in this darkened place are dead and done.
He’ll continue with his drinking undeterred,
            the tract won’t save him, he’s no need of piety,
            our painter has charged him with immortality –

The Pipe Smoker

our painter has charged him with immortality
though eclipsed in the shade of overhanging trees
the Paddy, pipe in mouth, lures our sympathy
as he’s travelled a long way from over the sea.
Concentrating, gripping a larry in one hand
he sweeps with the other. Is worthy of the powers
of an English painter, who wants him to stand
and sweep and pose for hour after hour.
A trilby throws shadows on his half-hidden face
a green hessian shirt marks him out from away,
a stranger sleeping rough as is often the case
but eager for the labour is this émigré.
            Far from his homeland in his work’s forward motion
            he’s an enigma of an indescribable emotion –

The Ginger Haired Navvy

he’s an enigma of an indescribable emotion,
bearing a heavy bucket of water, to mix
with quicklime – a mortar of a sticky volition
he gives to the hod man and builders to fix
the walls below ground for the supply of water.
Red curly hair, a smile brightening his face
the youngest of all causing roars of laughter
as he cavorts around, teases the dogs, chases
the ragamuffins, the women with the tracts,
the man that sells ale, even the chickweed-seller
who glares from under the brim of his hat.
Women repulse him with gloves and umbrellas.
            Our painter respects the noble working men –
            he will want to depict them again and again.

Epilogue

Our painter respects the noble working men –
will want to depict them again and again,
believes that idleness is the devil’s chicanery
but favours the navvies with great integrity–
the painter does not consider the navvies to be
too vulgar for his art for all to see.
Their dirty, cement-spattered boots a token
by the painter, the worker’s status is unspoken.
Far from their homes in their work’s forward motion
they are an enigma of an indescribable emotion.
Limned, their portraits painted, their destiny
is set down by our painter for posterity.
            The tracts won’t save them, they’ve no need of piety
            our painter has charged them with immortality.

Wendy Holborow

This poem won the Pre-Raphaelite Poetry Competition in 2016 and was published in the Pre-Raphaelite Review.

Wendy Holborow, born in South Wales, lived in Greece for 14 years where she edited Poetry Greece. Her poetry has been published internationally and placed in competitions. She recently gained a Master’s in Creative Writing at Swansea University. Collections include: After the Silent Phone Call (Poetry Salzburg 2015) Work’s Forward Motion (2016) An Italian Afternoon (Indigo Dreams 2017) which was a Poetry Book Society Pamphlet Choice Winter 2017/18 and her most recent collection Janky Tuk Tuks (The High Window Press 2018)