Somewhere there is a poleaxe,
your sweat worked into the staff
from unbroken nights,
where the pig must not squeal.
Milk bottle spectacles
but no flame or light catching
in the glass reflection.
All of it done in the silence
that cannot be broken,
unlike the rules you’re cleaving
with each precise blow.
Hands returned to steering wheel,
on dark lanes winding home,
nose to windscreen
foot light on the accelerator,
you mouth curled in prayer.
May they not come back this way
with the fat bulbs unsown
on London, or Crewe,
or elsewhere deemed vital.
May they not discard their leftovers
on these field tonight.
Let the silence be unbroken.
VE Day 2020
Not long ago my mother told me about the poleaxe my great-grandfather kept in the garage. He used it during the Second World War to slaughter pigs, as it was more effective at killing them quickly before there was chance for them to make any sound.
This was during rationing, when there were limitations on the slaughter of livestock. My great-grandfather, a butcher with eyesight so poor he was unable to enlist, would drive to farms in the middle of night to do the deed. Headlights were not allowed due to blackout regulations, and knowing those narrow country lanes, I’m amazed he managed to avoid ending up in the ditches.
My Great-Grandmother, who I knew very well, would remain at home. The danger was not only getting caught, but from returning German bombers on their way home. Any bombs that were not dropped on the high-value targets were dumped out over the country-side. I remember being told stories by the Great-Grandmother, of how she spent night in the cupboard beneath the stairs, listening as the bombs dropped nearby.
After the war ended and rationing was lifted, there was no more need for the poleaxe, and no-one really knows what happened to it. I like to think that it is still in existence, perhaps on display, or perhaps tucked in the back of a cupboard.
Carol J Forrester - Writing and Works 
What a fascinating history to accompany your poem, Carol. It adds so much background and depth. 🙂
Thank you. I love the odd stories that come with family histories. How is your own writing coming along? Have you had much time to put pen to paper with your stories?
I’m working on editing, Carol. And it’s going so slowly, like a chapter a day at most. And with a trilogy that’s about 110 chapters. Ugh. But getting there. Maybe August! It’s hard to focus. 🙂
This would be a good poem with historical background to take to your local library when some kind of commemorative day comes up regarding that period, with the poleaxe as an exhibit would be a bonus.
I might look into that when lockdown is over. I’ve got a friend who works at Shrewsbury museum.
So many things people had to do for survival back in those days… My mother was eleven when she woke up with German Soldiers in the street (my grandparents lived in Norway back then)… amazing what you can do with a poleaxe
I’m not sure how he worked out that the poleaxe was the way to go though…
Can your mother remember much from that time? I can’t imagine how awful, and confusing that would have been.
My mother died last year… and during the last few years she was lost in the fog of dementia… but she told us stories about it… also how she fled with her parents back to Sweden…
I’m sorry Bjorn, now you say that I think I remember you saying on your blog.
I like your description of the careful driving with “nose to windscreen”.
I kid you not, my great grandfather had awful eyesight apparently. How he didn’t end up driving into a ditch I don’t know.
Interesting background information that gives your excellent poem clarity.
Thank you. It appears I haven’t entirely exhausted the well of family oddities for poetry inspiration just yet.
You’re welcome.
What a most interesting story you share with us! Your poem captures it all. The darkness, the silence, the coke bottle glasses and more. Well done!
I hope you are writing your stories in memoirs for your grandchildren!
No but I did publish a poetry collection with poems based on those memories. When I try to put the stories into prose they don’t seem to work the same.
Your story at the end of your poem would work beautifully in a memoir. Just keep writing the same way… like you are telling us the story!
Yes, fascinating family sharing, riveting in it’s detail and sense of place and time. You have placed your grandfather and his poleaxe, and his poor eyesight into my poem research caverns; thanks.
Will you let him out once you’re done?
You paint a very convincing picture of your great-grandfather driving, almost as if by feel, just as it must have been when he worked that poleaxe.
I’m not sure what he would have been more nervous about. The driving, or the possibility of getting arrested.
I’m sure it was all one adrenaline rush.
Lovely piece sharing historical facts. Nicely done.
Thank you.
Wrapped in our own “discomfort” of quarantine and inability to visit the barber or beauty shop, we forget the terror, the hunger, the horror of a generation or two ago. Your story was fascinating. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for reading Beverly.
All these stories make history so much more real. You’ve painted a vivid picture. (K)
Thank you.
I love the intimacy of this poem, Carol, in the direct address to your great-grandfather. You’ve painted a portrait of him with only a few details, but so clear to me, and the atmosphere is palpable in the lines:
‘…no flame or light catching
in the glass reflection.
All of it done in the silence
that cannot be broken’
and
‘nose to windscreen
foot light on the accelerator,
you mouth curled in prayer’.
I have memories of the stories my grandparents told me about the war, some of which became my children’s novel, Joe and Nelly. Those stories are rich picking s for a writer.
Thank you Kim. I was lucky enough to have my great grandmother in my life, however my great grandfather passed away before I was burning. All my impressions of him are based on stories I’ve been told. There’s still that sense of familiar and love there though.
My great grandfather was in the First World War. he died when I was four. He was larger than life.
The poem is such a different but important tribute to those who lived during really difficult times. I love the memory of your great grandfather and the poleaxe takes on a momentous task. The most dangerous being driving down those country lanes in the darkness. They were a generation who learned how to cope.
You’re right about that.
So specific and interesting, both the poleaxe and the family story you tell. I like the suggestion above to use this in a library….or museum, as you said. I can picture it on display.
These were the lines I most appreciated, Such an elegant twist here and so many meanings piled into that metaphor. When you think of it so many ordinary, useful, potentially lethal tools have sweat-stained wooden handles.
“All of it done in the silence
that cannot be broken,
unlike the rules your cleaving
with each precise blow.”
Arg! I used the wrong for of your. I’m glad it enjoyed it despite my error.