Blue Collar Blues

For those who are interested, what follows is a Renga between David Irwin and myself. The topic of our conversation: work, the working man/woman and the issues surrounding. Watch as it grows!

Bill:
Who am I, really?
Am I the sum of my deeds?
The man that I am?

Or am I what I have made?
Is my labor who I am?

Dave:
These hands and fingers,
how connected to me and
how attached to work.

Be the moment of motion
and the still moment after.

Bill:
The forest is cut
by the strength of my sinews
wielding a sharp saw.

Each tree that falls to the ground
Rises again as a house.

Dave:
In progress, wood falls
to steel, only to rise up
better, more useful.

And wood, burned brightly, gives rise
to steel from the ochre earth.

Bill:
I want to return
to the place of alchemy,
the factory floor.

Sweat and grime are nourishment.
Making is my religion.

Dave:
The body, a horse:
ride it gently when you can,
hard when you have to.

This paste of dust in my pores,
transformation's by-product.

Bill:
By horse, man and plow
The field was broken and turned,
The beast the engine.

Now the work of our machines
is measured in horsepower.

Dave:
Gear and cog fit well
by design; innovation
a love of future.

Water carries our boats first,
Later expands in pistons.

Bill:
Smokestacks reach skyward.
Rolling plumes of steam rising
mark transformation.

Fire, the tool of alchemy
attends the act of making.

Dave:
Smoke, the fool of fire,
dances in the air above
as we breathe deeply.

Shepherding toxins carries
the hidden costs far downwind.

Bill:
My hands are leather.
There is metal in my blood,
my back bent over.

Creation has byproducts.
The price of progress is change


Dave:
The price masks the costs:
the magic of numbers steals
what can't be counted.

The strong back organizes
for a fair share of pennies.

Bill:
Industry's captains
see men as less than machines.
Profit rules their hearts.

The gold and silver they gain
will mean nothing in the end.

Dave:
This circle of trade:
knowledge and pain for money,
though not that simple.

What is the purpose of work?
To create or to live well?

Bill:
When we stood erect
survival was our labor.
To hunt. To gather.

Is punching a time clock yet
another hunt for our food?