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The Iron Road
Flecked with the dust of snow, the iron rails
Lie still and undisturbed beneath a sky
Of cloudless blue where eagles freely fly,
Their wings outspread to catch the wind like sails.
They soar in circles high above a scene
Of rocky crags and canyons where the sound
Of roaring rapids rushing, wild, unbound,
Resounds in ancient pine woods, dense and green.
Through countless miles of pristine wilderness
The iron road across the wide plain runs,
By day, kissed by the light of blazing suns,
By night, cloaked in the eve’s black velvet dress.
Built by the brawn and courage of a host
Of daring men who labored night and day
To open wide the west and make a way
For travelers to trek from coast to coast,
These tracks that dwell in silence now, alone,
Bear witness to a throng of beating hearts
That met here—weathered veterans, young upstarts–
To lay these rails with many a weary groan.
They gave themselves as one in heart and soul
And labored long and hard for many years
With shovels, picks and hammers, sweat and tears,
Their visionary eyes set on one goal:
To open up the virgin lands before
Them, stretching every fiber of their being,
Their aching frame filled with the hope of seeing
This royal ribbon stretched from shore to shore.
And when at last the mammoth task was done,
Their worn-out sinews, joints and bones could rest
And know refreshment as their eyes were blessed
To see the goal now reached, the victory won.
These rails to their endurance testify.
They speak without a word—but listen well!
For in the distance, like a shriek from hell,
A whistle blows, as chugging sounds draw nigh.
Look there above the trees! You see its black
Smoke rising from its belching, fire fed engine.
You hear its puffs and feel the growing tension
As now it comes, careening down the track!
It thunders past, with unrelenting speed,
Like some fierce steed that snorts, with nostrils flaring,
Propelled by fire inside, through landscapes tearing,
It flies with freedom nothing can impede.
That fire was lit by blazing hearts that gave
Their all to build that highway made of steel,
Who labored on through years with ardent zeal
And kept on moving forward to their grave.
Though long deceased, their spirits did not die.
They haunt you all along the railway’s length;
In every hurtling train, you feel their strength,
In every whistle shrill, you hear their cry!
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Martin Rizley grew up in Oklahoma and in Texas, and has served in pastoral ministry both in the United States and in Europe. He is currently serving as the pastor of a small evangelical church in the city of Málaga on the southern coast of Spain, where he lives with his wife and daughter.
Martin, this is a poem worthy of the mighty men who felled the trees and hewed their way through rock to accomplish their great feat. What great imagery you wrote into your poem with perfect rhyme and rhythm that sang to my soul of a lasting legacy.
Thank you, Roy. I have always been fascinated by stories of the American west and its settling, and the building of the transcontinental railroad played a major role in that history. It was a mighty achievement that came at the cost of many lives. One day, when I saw a picture of a steam train crossing rugged terrain, I felt stirred to write this poem as a tribute to those who gave their lives to build that “iron road.”
Once I built a railroad, made it run —
Made it race against time.
Yes, I built that railroad — now it’s done.
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Sorry — the remembrance of this short lyric from the Depression years came to me as I read your poem.
Beautiful description, and a great tribute, Martin.
Thank you, Cynthia, for your feedback!
Iron and fire! You reveal the spirits of the wilderness road, Martin. Their purposeful work together earns our admiration and gratitude.
Margaret, You have summarized in two words the theme of the poem– iron and fire. It is those two characteristics that make the steam train a fitting metaphor for the character of the men who built the transcontinental railroad. They themselves were men of iron and fire, which is why I describe them as still “haunting,” in a sense, the mighty work of construction they left behind, their presence felt in the power and dynamism of the trains that travel on that iron road.
Rich with images and lucid in its form, this poem serves as a fine token of gratitude to every railway worker out there. Mr. Rizley, I am truly mesmerised by the topics you choose to write on and even more by the way you execute them. This piece offers an uninterrupted read and really pulls its readers in. Thank you so much for sharing it with us.
Shamik, Your comments are always encouraging. Sometimes I am moved to write on a topic by a picture that I see on the internet that strikes me as poignant, mysterious or beautiful– one that stirs the imagination. That was the case with this poem. In a sense, therefore, it feels at times as if certain topics choose me, for I would not likely have written on them had I not received that visual stimulus.
A great achievement indeed, and a lovely, flowing piece of poetry. But was the land ‘virgin’ if indigenous peoples already lived there?
Thanks for the read.