THE STORY OF STEAM: FOR GEORGE STEPHENSON 1781-1848

‘How wonderfully has his invention facilitated the meeting of thousands of fond and happy lovers.’ (Thomas Summerside)

The story of steam,

history’s hiss 

through the passing

of engines and 

clapped-out hours.

The pereptual urge

to move

into the peace

of sleeping valleys;

iron dreams

and the nagging drive

of cruel ambition 

on the banks of the sliding Tyne.

You knew all this George,

how violent life is,

as, thoughtless in your youth, 

you stole a blackbird’s eggs,

developing an understanding

of mankind’s urge

to rip forests apart,

to make ways

through gardens and castles, 

for commerce

and selfishness to have their way.

That and the wonderful offshoots

like lovers

getting together

and children laughing

in cultural deserts.

Your broad Northumbrian tongue

echoed along rails,

barked orders

to force idle workers

to spark the engines

that scared the crows

and brought terror to horses and cattle

with the fiery blast of mechanical power.

Your ambition surged roughshod

over delicate flowers,

more interested in the mechanics of time 

and fixing watches

than the whispers that the clocks of dandelions

heard in the breeze.

Mister Practicality, 

though you knew that the human lot

ended up in vapour,

you still told the pitmen’s sons that the earth

was round,

taught algebra to the lads

in a curiosity shop

of working models,

self-acting planes

and perpetual motion machines.

In your litttle garden,

you grew gigantic leeks, astounding cabbages,

scarecrow ams to fly in the wind

and a sundial to record the ticks of days.

Hammering the flaming hours

into the rickety shape of Blucher,

you moved people along the way,

crafted the valves, the rods and cylinders

of life

into a breathing thing

that lolloped along,

careering like you

into a famous night.

It did not come without a price;

My Lord, they can’t imagine

how much you scraped along in the dirt,

the bursting blisters on your feet,

your hurting fingers as you began to write.

Wriggling out of the Militia,

you earned everything you got,

forced 

to suffer the deaths of wives and daughter

and the blinding of a father.

Weeping bitterly on the West Moor to Killingworth road,

thinking of leaving for America,

you got to your own station in the end.

Geordie,

with Ferguson’s ‘Astronomy’ in your hardy hands,

you gave us many a glorious smoke-filled day,

brought young lovers together on platforms

awash with the smell of smoke

and the sparks of hearts 

spreading lightning across the land. 

KEITH ARMSTRONG

from 'North Tyneside Steam', Northern Voices Community Projects, 2014.