Filling the ladle. Commons image CCA-2.0
By Roger Cornish
The poems come from my time working at Russell’s Iron Foundry between 1997 and 1999, following redundancy from the pit. I had spent 23 years underground (see here), and although the foundry was a very different workplace, the physical demands of the work felt strangely familiar.
The workforce at Russell’s was predominantly Sikh, alongside English and other workers, and the three poems grew from those years — the men, the work, the heat and fumes, the exhaustion, the skills, and the cultural differences. But also, importantly, the camaraderie and moments of celebration.
BQ3
Ashok had worked at
Russell’s Foundry
For thirty-three and a half years.
He was the man the
Operator
Of the
BQ3
He worked 12 hours a day
Seven days a week
He was the machine
A balletic fluidity
Entrancing to watch
A delicacy of movement
He would collect a moulding pattern
Not looking just knowing
With his other hand he would
Grab a moulding box
Simultaneously filling it with
Sand in a single movement
The ram would come down
Compressing the mould into the pattern
And now his finale as
He pirouetted the mould
Like an angel
Pushing the box on
And starting the cycle
Again
He could have been a violinist in the
Berlin Philharmonic
Playing his
Stradivari
The spotlight illuminating his
Truth
It just felt odd not feeling
The sand
Salting
Down his back.
Castings
The moulds are all lined up,
Ready for the molten metal.
Ashok pushes the crucible
To the moulds — sweat drips from
His face like a sad colonial rain.
Raman places the Core in the
Mould – a heart – gently,
Delicately adds a Chaplet,
Runs his finger along the
Parting line.
Depac, Sikh, not Paki as they called him,
Cleans the showers,
Scrapes the shit off the toilet
Again.
Sells his smuggled fags right
Cheap.
Colin the alcoholic numbers the moulds up
And double checks,
And double checks –
Hides his quart of vodka in the cistern,
His communion.
Steve wastes time outside on
His forklift truck, keeping
Out of the lung-stinging fumes.
Twelve-hour shifts, never sees his
Kids – industrial orphans.
The knocker-offs have a minute
Waiting for castings to cool.
The work has knocked their
Bodies into shape.
They’re all the same under this
Mausoleum of a foundry,
Baptised in their sweat,
Their souls tied to the
Clocking-off machine.
Guerrilla Feast
He watches in the sand mill,
Watches through the trapdoor
As Mr Binmire drives past in
His new Lotus Elan.
Signals to Ashok that he’s
Gone—they wait a while,
Then the word goes out.
Half an hour later there’s
Three crates of Stella on
A made-up trestle table.
Then the glorious spectacle
Of seven Sikh women,
Dressed in the
Colours of a million
Butterfly ribbons that
Emasculates the foundry,
Diminishing the
Greys and black
Casting sand.
They dip under the thunderous
Noise,
Cup their glistening mouths,
Hiding sweet smiles. Their
Perfume’s the breaker—
Takes the edges off their
Men, kicks them into
Touch.
They bring their offerings
On stainless-steel trays,
Covered with satin cloth.
Tandoori chicken,
Vegetable samosas,
Onion bhajis.
The Comafont is switched off.
Conveyors and shake-outs
Off.
Furnaces on standby.
Let the ball
Begin.
