Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE BLAST-FURNACE, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: And such a night! But maybe in that mood Last Line: And men had got to take things as they came. | ||||||||
And such a night! But maybe in that mood 'Twas for the best; for he was like to brood -- And he could hardly brood on such a night With that squall blowing, on this dizzy height Where he caught every breath of it -- the snow Stinging his cheek, and melting in the glow Above the furnace, big white flakes that fell Sizzling upon the red-hot furnace bell: And the sea roaring, down there in the dark, So loud to-night he needn't stop to hark -- Four hundred feet below where now he stood. A lively place to earn a livelihood -- His livelihood, his mother's, and the three Young sisters', quite a little family Depending on him now -- on him, Jim Burn, Just nineteen past -- to work for them, and earn Money enough to buy them daily bread Already... And his father on the bed At home ... gey sudden... Nay, he mustn't think: But shove his trolley to the furnace brink, And tip his load upon the glowing bell, Then back again towards the hoist. 'Twas well He'd work to stop him thinking. He was glad His mate to-night was not a talky lad -- But Peter, mum-glum Peter, who would stare With such queer sulky looks upon the flare When round the dipping bell it shot up high With roar and flourish into that black sky. He liked to hear it roaring, liked to see The great flame leaping skyward suddenly, Then sinking slowly, as the bell rose up And covered it again with red-hot cup, When it would feed more quiet for a time Upon the meal of ironstone and lime He'd fetched it in his trolley... Ay, and he, Trundling his truck along that gallery High in the air all night to keep it fed -- And all the while his father lying dead At home -- to earn a livelihood. 'Twas strange To think what it all meant to him -- the change... And strange he'd never thought before how queer It was for him, earning his bread up here On this blast-furnace, perched on the cliff-top -- Four hundred feet or so, a dizzy drop, And he'd be feeding fishes in the sea! How loud it roared to-night, and angrily -- He liked to hear it breaking on the shore, And the wind's threshing, and the furnace' roar: And then the sudden quiet, a dead lull, When you could only hear a frightened gull Screeching down in the darkness there below, Or a dog's yelp from the valley, or the snow Sizzling upon hot iron. Queer, indeed, To think that he had never taken heed Before to-night, or thought about it all. He'd been a boy till this, and had no call To turn his mind to thinking seriously. But he'd grown up since yesterday; and he Must think a man's thoughts now -- since yesterday When he'd not had a thought but who should play Full-back for Cleveland Rovers, now that Jack Had gone to Montreal, or should he back Old Girl or Cleopatra for the Cup. In four-and-twenty hours he had grown up... His father, sinking back there on the bed, With glassy eyes and helpless lolling head... The dropping jaw ... the breath that didn't come, Though still he listened for it, frozen numb... And then, his mother ... but he must not let His mind run on his mother now. And yet He'd often thought his father glum and grim. He understood now. It was not for him, His son, to breathe a word to her, when he, Her husband, had borne with her patiently Through all those years. Ay, now he understood Much, since he hadn't his own livelihood To think of only, but five mouths to feed -- And the oldest, the most helpless ... He had need To understand a little... But to-night He mustn't brood ... And what a golden light The steady spurt of molten slag below Threw up upon the snow-clouds -- and the snow Drifting down through it in great flakes of gold, Melting to steam, or driven, white and cold, Into the darkness on a sudden gust. And how the cold wind caught him, as he thrust His empty trolley back towards the hoist, Straight from the sea, making his dry lips moist With salty breath. 'Twas strange to-night, how he Was noticing, and seeing suddenly Things for the first time he'd not seen before, Though he'd been on this shift at least a score Of times. But things were different somehow. Strange To think his father's death had wrought the change And made him see things different -- little things: The sudden flashing of a sea-gull's wings Out of the dark, bewildered by the glare; And, when the flame leapt, mum-glum Peter's hair Kindling a fierier red; the wind; the snow; The unseen washing of the waves below About the cliff-foot. He could almost see, In fancy, breakers, frothing furiously Against the crumbling cliffs -- the frantic spray Leaping into the darkness, nigh half-way Up the sheer height. And now his thoughts dropt back Into the valley, lying still and black Behind him -- and the mine where other men Were toiling on their nightshift, even then Working the ironstone for daily bread, Their livelihood... He saw the little red Raw row of square brick houses, dark they'd be And quiet now. Yet, plainly he could see The street he lived in -- ay, and Number Eight, His father's house: the rusty iron gate; The unkempt garden; and the blistered door; The unwashed doorstep he'd not seen before, Or, leastways, hadn't noticed; and the bell That never rang, though he remembered well His father'd tinkered it, times out of mind; And in each window, a drawn yellow blind Broken and grimy -- and that blind, to-day Drawn down for the first time... His father lay In the front bedroom, quiet on the bed... And he, upon his usual shift... She'd said, His mother'd said; he shouldn't take his shift Before the undertaker'd been to lift... 'Twas scarcely decent: that was what she said -- Him working, and his father lying dead, And hardly cold... And she, to talk to him, His son, of decency, there, with that grim Half-smile still on her husband's cold white face! He couldn't bide a moment in the place Listening to her chat-chatter, knowing all That he knew now ... But there, he had no call To blame her, when his father'd never blamed. He wondered in that room she wasn't shamed... She didn't understand. He understood, Now he'd grown up; and had his livelihood, And theirs, to earn... Lord, but that was a rare Fine flourish the flame made, a bonnie flare Leaping up to the stars. The snow had stopt: He hadn't heeded: and the wind had dropt Suddenly: and the stars were shining clear. Over the furnace' roaring he could hear The waves wash-washing; and could see the foam Lifting and falling down there in the gloam... White as his father's face... He'd never heard His father murmur once -- nay, not a word He'd muttered: he was never one to blame. And men had got to take things as they came. | 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 |
|