Song of the Pick

choreographed
                and synchronised
feet placed firmly,
                picks held high
above ochre earth,
                stark and bare
a moment hangs
                in the stifling air
while muscles tense
                and then release
earth is shattered,
                so is peace
rocks split
                and stones fly
metal sings
                and souls cry
sweat glistens,
                teeth are clenched
dust encrusted vests
                are drenched
the man just stands
                hat on head
hands in pockets
                nothing’s said

the smoke from his pipe has long since drifted
once again the picks are lifted

Kim M. Russell, 21st April 2026

Gerard Sekoto, The Song of the Pick (1947)

It’s Tuesday Poetics at the dVerse Poets Pub, where Melissa is our host and we‘re exploring the art of Gerard Sekoto.

Melissa reminds us that she is a fan of ekphrastic writing prompts – me too – and in her exploration of art, she came across Gerard Sekoto, a prolific South African painter known for his depiction of everyday life, specifically celebrating life of Black South Africans and the urban working classes. She has given us a bit of background on Sekoto and a choice of paintings on which to base our poems.

Melissa says to write whatever comes to mind as we explore the colours and images, as well as commenting in our posts which painting we’ve chosen, and crediting the artist.

28 thoughts on “Song of the Pick”

  2. I can envision the movement of the swinging picks through the rhythm of your poem. A stark depiction; I like that you touched on the man standing there wearing the hat. I don’t know that I paid much attention to him the first time I looked at the painting.

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  3. This poem really stuck with me because of how vividly it captures both the physical and emotional weight of the scene. The imagery is sharp—you can almost feel the heat, the dust in the air, and the strain in the workers’ bodies as they move in sync. The rhythm of the lines mirrors their labor, almost like each swing of the pick is echoed in the structure of the poem itself.

    What stood out most to me was the contrast between the workers and the man who “just stands” with his hands in his pockets. While everyone else is exhausted, tense, and fully engaged in the work, he feels distant and detached, almost symbolic of authority or control. That silence says a lot—it creates a sense of imbalance, like he holds power without sharing in the struggle.

    The line “earth is shattered, / so is peace” hit especially hard. It suggests that this isn’t just about physical labor, but something deeper—maybe conflict, exploitation, or even loss of humanity in the process. By the end, when “once again the picks are lifted,” it feels like a cycle that keeps repeating, with no real change or relief.

    Overall, I think the poem does a powerful job of showing how intense labor can strip people down, both physically and emotionally, while also hinting at a larger message about inequality and control.

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  4. I can’t really add to the comments above. As Bjorn said, a strong political (racial) message. That one man, look how small he is in comparison to the nine workers, but his gun or whip wouldn’t have been far off. We’re having a huge onslaught here in South Africa, racial tensions are being whipped up by political forces both in and from outside the country. I, and others, turned into quite the keyboard warrior! We’re not the only ones being targeted. You wrote a splendid poem to the painting Kim. Gerard Sekoto celebrated his people beautifully.

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    1. Thank you so much for close reading and such a detailed comment. We don’t hear much about what goes on in South Africa, but I am aware of the racial tensions – and, if I’m not mistaken, the orange madman in the White House seems to be adding to it.

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  8. Oh my, the rhyme and terse, sharp lines really mimic the rhythm and synchronization in the painting. At the same time, you capture the imbalance so vividly with “the man just stands / hat on head / hands in pockets / nothing’s said”. Tragic.

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