Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE SHAFT, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: He must have lost his way, somehow. 'twould seem Last Line: As, close at hand, there came an answering shout. | ||||||||
He must have lost his way, somehow. 'Twould seem He'd taken the wrong turning, back a bit, After his lamp ... or was it all a dream That he'd nigh reached the cage -- his new lamp lit And swinging in his hand, and whistling, glad To think the shift was over -- when he'd tripped And stumbled, like the daft, club-footed lad His mother called him; and his lamp had slipped And smashed to smithereens; and left him there In pitchy dark, half-stunned, and with barked shins? He'd cursed his luck; although he didn't care, Not overmuch: you suffered for your sins: And, anyway, he must be nigh the shaft; And he could fumble his way out somehow, If he were last, and none came by. 'Twas daft To do a trick like thon. And even now His mother would be waiting. How she'd laugh To hear about it! She was always game For fun, she was, and such a one for chaff -- A fellow had no chance. But 'twas the same With women always: you could never tell What they'd be at, or after saying next: They'd such queer, tricky tongues; and it was well For men to let them talk when they were vexed -- Although, his mother, she was seldom cross. But she'd be wondering, now, ay, that she would -- Hands folded in her apron, at a loss To know what kept him, even now she stood, Biting her lips, he'd warrant. She aye bit Her lips till they were white when things went wrong. She'd never liked his taking to the pit, After his father'd.... Ay, and what a song She'd make ... and supper cold! It must be late. The last on the last shift! After to-day The pit was being laid idle! Jack, his mate, Had left him, tidying -- hurrying away To back ... And no night-shift... If that cursed lamp Had not gone out.... But that was hours ago -- How many hours he couldn't tell. The cramp Was in his thighs. And what could a lad know Who'd crawled for hours upon his hands and knees Through miles on miles of hot, black, dripping night Of low-roofed, unfamiliar galleries? He'd give a hundred pound to stand upright And stretch his legs a moment: but, somehow, He'd never reached a refuge, though he'd felt The walls on either hand. He'd bumped his brow Till he was dizzy. And the heat would melt The marrow in his bones. And yet he'd gone A dozen miles at least, and hadn't found Even a crossway. On and on and on He'd crawled, and crawled; and never caught a sound Save water dripping, dripping, or the creak Of settling coal. If he could only hear His own voice even; but he dared not speak Above a whisper... There was naught to fear; And he was not afraid of aught, not he! He would come on a shaft, before he knew. He couldn't miss. The longest gallery Must end somewhere or other; though 'twas true He hadn't guessed the drift could be so long. If he had not come straight ... If he had turned, Unknowing, in the dark ... If he'd gone wrong Once, then why not a dozen times! It burned His very heart to tinder, just to think That he, maybe, was crawling round and round And round and round, and hadn't caught a blink Of light at all, or hadn't heard a sound.... 'Twas queer, gey queer... Or was he going daft, And only dreaming he was underground In some black pit of hell, without a shaft -- Just one long gallery that wound and wound, Where he must crawl forever with the drip Of lukewarm water drumming on his back... 'Twas nightmare, surely, had him in its grip. His head was like to split, his spine to crack... If he could only call, his mother'd come And shake him; and he'd find himself in bed... She'd joke his fright away ... But he was dumb, And couldn't shout to save himself ... His head Seemed full of water, dripping, dripping, dripping... And he, somehow, inside it -- huge and dark His own skull soared above him ... He kept slipping, And clutching at the crumbling walls ... A spark Flared suddenly; and to a blood-red blaze His head was bursting; and the pain would break... 'Twas solid coal he'd run against, adaze -- Coal, sure enough. And he was broad awake, And crawling still through that unending drift Of some old working, long disused. He'd known That there were such. If he could only lift His head a moment; but the roof of stone Crushed low upon him. A gey narrow seam He must be in, -- and bad to work: no doubt That's why 'twas given up. He'd like to scream, His cut knees hurt so sorely; but a shout Might bring the crumbling roof down on his head, And squash him flat. If he could only creep Between the cool white sheets of his own bed, And turn towards the wall, and sleep, and sleep -- And dream, maybe, of pigeons soaring high, Turning and tumbling in the morning light, With wings ashimmer in a cloudless sky. He'd give the world to see a bonnie flight Of his own pigeons rise with flapping wings, Soaring and sweeping almost out of sight, Till he was dizzy, watching the mad things Tossing and tumbling at that dazzling height. Ay, and his homers, too -- if they'd come in, He hoped his mother'd fed them. They would be Fair famished after such a flight, and thin. But she would feed them, sure enough; for she Liked pigeons, too -- would stand there at the door With arms akimbo, staring at the blue, Her black eyes shining as she watched them soar, Without a word, till they were out of view. And how she laughed to hear them scold and pout, Ruffle and fuss -- like menfolk, she would say: Nobody knowing what 'twas all about, And least of all themselves. That was her way, To joke and laugh the tantrums out of him. He'd tie his neckerchief before the glass; And she'd call him her pigeon, Peter Prim, Preening himself, she'd say, to meet his lass -- Though he'd no lass, not he! A scarf well tied, No gaudy colours, just a red or yellow, Was what he fancied. What harm if he tried To keep himself respectable! A fellow -- Though womenfolk might laugh and laugh... And now He wondered if he'd hear her laugh again With hands on hips and sparkling eyes. His brow Seemed clampt with red-hot iron bands; and pain Shot red-hot needles through his legs -- his back, A raw and aching spine that bore the strain Of all the earth above him: the dead black Unending clammy night blinding his brain To a black blankness shot with scarlet streaks Of searing lightning; and he scarcely knew If he'd been crawling hours, or days, or weeks... And now the lightning glimmered faintly blue, And gradually the blackness paled to grey: And somewhere, far ahead, he caught the gleam Of light, daylight, the very light of day, Day, dazzling day! Thank God, it was no dream. He felt a cooler air upon his face; And scrambling madly for some moments more, Though centuries it seemed, he reached the place Where through the chinks of the old crumbling door Of a disused upcast-shaft, grey ghostly light Strained feebly, though it seemed the sun's own blaze To eyes so long accustomed to the night And peering blindly through that pitchy maze. The door dropped from its hinges -- and upright He stood, at last, bewildered and adaze, In a strange dazzling world of flowering white. Plumed snowy fronds and delicate downy sprays, Fantastic as the feathery work of frost, Drooped round him from the wet walls of the shaft -- A monstrous growth of mould, huge mould. And lost In wonder he stood gaping; and then laughed To see that living beauty -- quietly He laughed to see it: and awhile forgot All danger. He would tell his mother: she Would scarce know whether to believe or not, -- But laugh to hear how, when he came on it, It dazzled him. If she could only see That fluffy white -- come on it from the pit, Snow-white as fantails' feathers, suddenly As he had, she'd laugh too: she... Icy cold Shot shuddering through him, as he stept beneath A trickle. He looked up. That monstrous mould Frightened him; and he stood with chattering teeth, Seeming to feel it growing over him Already, shutting out the fleck of sky That up the slimy shaft gleamed far and dim. 'Twould flourish on his bones when he should lie Forgotten in the shaft. Its clammy breath Was choking him already. He would die, And no one know how he'd come by his death... Dank, cold mould growing slowly. By and by 'Twould cover him; and not a soul to tell... With a wild cry he tried to scramble out, Clutching the wall ... Mould covered him ... He fell, As, close at hand, there came an answering shout. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BETWEEN THE LINES by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON BREAKFAST by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON FLANNAN ISLE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON FOR G. by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON GERANIUMS by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON LAMENT by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON RETREAT by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON RUPERT BROOKE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE GORSE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE ICE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON |
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