Steele’s poem is both elegy and irony: the sculptor denied marble, chisels, and fame, instead carving tunnels through Lanarkshire coal. His body becomes his chisel, his life the material of sacrifice. It is a work of art measured in dust, sweat, and silence -- artistry hidden underground, rarely seen but no less profound.
My grandfather wanted to be a policeman
But his mother said no, you’ll be a sculptor
And took him to the Art Supplies Store
Aged fourteen, to buy his boots.
For years, he worked on his installation
Deep beneath the Lanarkshire moors
His speciality being the 18 inch tunnel
Though six feet tall himself.
Lying on his side, hacking
Passing rubble over his body
To be taken, sold and burned
To subsidise his work
Choking on the fine black dust
He suffered for his art
Began dying for his art
In a way that artists rarely do.