The Potosi Silver Mines (EDIT)

[syzygy73]

In Potosi Bolivia the ancient silver mines are dying,
Once richer and more populated than London or Paris
the world's highest city has become downtrodden,
undervalued, underpeopled and overlooked since
the elevated days of the seventeenth century.

The miners, good-natured men, family men who
enjoy a joke and a bottle of beer,
who in different times would have celebrated
the hunt with a deer
roasting on a spit, have a sadness in
their eyes, a sadness that converses in a
language only their dead know-
Their children, sons and daughters of the Sun
have nothing but time to dig,
empty the royal land
of its treasure for the sake the latest conquistadores,
for the sake of cameras and cutlery.

It takes days in low-ceilinged chambers and
narrow passages more dust than air, pitch
black with electricial cables and waterpipes side
by side, to bring a handful of the Moon from
the earth who never gave up her secrets easily.
The mineface, undaunted by dynamite and drills
has remained unknown for millennia,
its domain, that of bacterium, worms and other
blind things that love permanent night.
When it is opened in chunks for an ounce
of metal it continues to breathe as if there had been
nothing but a slight cough.

Down from the Cerro Rico, Potosi gasps under the Sun;
the townsfolk wonder when their men will come to them
once more with freshly-killed deer,
singing songs of legendary heroes and battles,
when the children will run to them from their play
as if the Sun-God had arrived with gifts,
when the women will smile and boil water
for rich feasting and long laughter,
when things are again as they were,
when questions of silver are silent.

[Ron Wallace (Scotshawk)]

I'm making a copy, Rob; I'll be back. I just want to take it all in and ponder for right now. Ron

[MichaelFirewalker]

this is an important and powerful poem, Rob, one which needed saying and needs musing over now that it's been said----in it I hear the weeping of the Mother who is Earth, and her ancient children, whose spirits walk their land today, waiting for us to see what we have done, and rebuild the places of desolation we have created...

michael

some edits...please discard if you like...

In Potosi Bolivia the ancient silver mines
are dying,[.]
Once richer and more populated than London
or Paris[,]
the world's highest city has become downtrodden,
undervalued, under[-]peopled[,] and overlooked since
the elevated days of the seventeenth century.

The miners, good-natured men, family men who
enjoy a joke and a bottle of beer,
who in different times[,] would have celebrated
the hunt with [by roasting] a deer [on a spit.]
roasting on a spit, have [Today,]a sadness [lingers] in
their eyes, a sadness that converses in a
language only their dead know-
Their children, sons and daughters of the Sun
have nothing but time to dig,
empty the royal land [of its treasure]
of its treasure for the sake the latest conquistadores,
for the sake of yours and my [our]camera and cutlery.

The words horrendous and hellish describes every
western visitor's experience of the mines,[.]
they all [All] tell of how the men and children
chew coca leaves all day, mild narcotics to numb
the monotony and painful breaths.

The lifespan of a miner[,] from day one[,] entering [who enters]the mine
at maybe 8 or 10 years of age[,] is 15 years,[.]
after [After]that they are useless, unable to do anything but
wretch and heave their lungs out.
They make a $1.50 a day, it's considered good money.

It takes days in low-ceilinged chambers and
narrow passages more dust than air, pitch
black with electricial cables and waterpipes side
by side, to bring a handful of the Moon from
the earth[,] who never gave up its [her]secrets easily.
The mineface is undaunted by dynamite and drills[.]
having [Having]remained unknown for millennia,
its domain is that of bacterium[bacteria], worms[,] and other
blind things that love the permanent night,
so that when it is opened in chunks for an ounce
of metal[,] it continues to breathe as if there had been
nothing but a slight cough.

Down from the Cerro Rico[,] Potosi gasps under the Sun, [.]
the The townsfolk wonder when its men will come to them
once more with freshly-killed deer,
singing songs of great warriors and great battles,
[or]when the children will run to them from their play[,]
and the women will smile, prepare to boil water
and not even know[unaware] that the mountain is filled with silver.


michael

[mfwilkie]

Rob,

This reads more like an essay than a poem to me.

This line could use a little clarification:
Down from the Cerro Rico Potosi gasps under the Sun,

Maggie

[LynnDoiron]

Rob -- for me, the following is a poem:

Down from the Cerro Rico(,) Potosi gasps under the Sun, [not sure where, but feel a comma goes somewhere in there to mark off the Down from phrase]
the townsfolk (*) wonder when its men will come to them
once more with freshly-killed deer,
singing songs of great warriors and great battles,
when the children will run to them from their play
and the women [omit will] smile, prepare to boil water
and not [omit even] know [omit that] the mountain
is filled with silver.

If you noted the (*) above, rob, it's because a rearrangement may not be necessary, but just a thought for you to consider; also some other edits made below . . . something along the lines of:

Down from the Cerro Rico, Potosi gasps under the sun;
townsfolk wonder when men will come home to them
singing songs of great warriors, great battles,
with freshly-killed deer slung by --
when children will run to them from their play
and women smile, prepare to boil water,
unaware the mountain is filled
with silver.

I'm pretty sure I've gone too far with my thoughts on this one. The work above your final stanza is pure prose for me, rob -- informing and interesting but in the same terms or style as a well-written essay. The poetics, even if you ignore every idea I offered is beautifully rendered in your final stanza. I'd make it the only one for this piece.

lynn

[syzygy73]

I don't think it's prose at all, and besides- poetry has no particular form or shape- many found poems begin as prose- there is far too much poetry in this poem for it to be prose-

Feel free to disagree...

Thank you all for the suggestions, they are most welcome- I shall ponder and add/subtract when I can.

[Ron Wallace (Scotshawk)]

Rob, I thik this is a strong narrative poem, but I like it better without stanzas 3 & 4 for some odd reason. Most likely me trampling your intended voice. Here are a few other trivial ideas to ponder. Rehardless - fine work; I think. Ron

In Potosi Bolivia the ancient silver mines
are dying,
Once richer and more populated than London
or Paris
the world's highest city has become downtrodden,
undervalued, underpeopled and overlooked since
the elevated days of the seventeenth century.

The miners, good-natured men, family men who
enjoy a joke and a bottle of beer,
who in different times would have celebrated
the hunt with a deer
roasting on a spit, have a sadness in
their eyes, a sadness that converses in a
language only their dead know-
Their children, sons and daughters of the Sun
have nothing but time to dig,
empty the royal land
of its treasure for the sake the latest conquistadores,
for the sake of yours and my cameras and cutlery.

The words horrendous and hellish describes every
western visitor's experience of the mines,
they all tell of how the men and children
chew coca leaves all day, mild narcotics to numb
the monotony and painful breaths.

The lifespan of a miner from day one entering the mine
at maybe 8 or 10 years of age is 15 years,
after that they are useless, unable to do anything but
wretch and heave their lungs out.
They make a $1.50 a day, it's considered good money.

It takes days in low-ceilinged chambers and
narrow passages more dust than air, pitch
black with electricial cables and waterpipes side
by side, to bring a handful of the Moon from
the earth who never gave up itsher secrets easily.
The mineface{,} is undaunted by dynamite and drills
has remained unknown for millennia,
its domain{,} is that of bacterium, worms and other
blind things that love the permanent night{.}
so that When it is opened in chunks for an ounce
of metal it continues to breathe as if there had been
nothing but a slight cough.

Down from the Cerro Rico{,} Potosi gasps under the Sun{;}
the townsfolk wonder when its men will come to them
once more with freshly-killed deer,
singing songs of great warriors and great battles,
when will the children will run to them from their play
and the women will smile, preparing to boil water
and not even knowing that the mountain is filled with silver.

[mfwilkie]

It does have poetry in it, Rob, but I have to agree with, Lynn, on where the poetry is.

Spending more time with the piece this evening, that is the only area where I see it fitting the definition of a narrative poem—telling a story with poetic flair.

The two stanzas Ron struck out are all tell.

There are lines and phrases elsewhere like:

sons and daughters of the Sun
have nothing but time to dig, and elevated days

but not enough to change my mind that this works from start to finish as a narrative poem in its present form.

You might consider compacting the story; I think you'd find yourself enriching its poetics.

Maggie

[syzygy73]

Thank you all for your sound advice- here is the result...

[sandpiper]

a quick bump and a thought...
For this line;
"by side, to bring a handful of the Moon from
the earth who never gave up her secrets easily."
For some reason which I can't quite put my finger on, I want it to read "who never gives up her secrets..." but, I don't quite have the reasoning behind it yet.
But for the ending

"when questions of silver are silent"...

would you consider:

when questions of silver are spent.

either way, I like the write and the edits you've made, and will come back with more thoughts...
-piper

[Ron Wallace (Scotshawk)]

Rob, really like where this has come to. It's a fine narrative poem, and moves so well. An interesting suggestion for a close by Piper; I like "silent" as well though. Well done, my friend. Ron