Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE ROCKLIGHT, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Ay, he must keep his mind clear - must not think Last Line: And her grave eyes kindling with kindly light. | ||||||||
Ay, he must keep his mind clear -- must not think Of those two lying dead, or he'd go mad. The glitter on the lenses made him blink; The brass glared speckless: work was all he had To keep his mind clear. He must keep it clear And free of fancies, now that there was none, None left but him to light the lantern -- near On fourteen hours yet till that blazing sun Should drop into that quiet oily sea, And he must light ... though it was not his turn: 'Twas Jacob's, -- Jacob, lying quietly Upon his bed ... And yet the light would burn And flash across the darkness just as though Nothing had happened, white and innocent, As if Jake's hand had lit it. None would know, No seaman steering by it, what it meant To him, since he'd seen Jacob... But that way Lay madness. He, at least, must keep his wits; Or there'd be none to tell why those two lay... He must keep working, or he'd go to bits. Ere sunset, he must wind the lantern up. He'd like to wind it now -- but 'twould go round, And he'd be fancying ... Neither bite nor sup He'd touched this morning; and the clicking sound Would set his light head fancying ... Jacob wound So madly that last time, before ... But he, He mustn't think of Jacob. He was bound, In duty bound, to keep his own wits free And clear of fancies. He would think of home. That thought would keep him whole, when all else failed -- The green door; and the doorstep, white as foam; The window that blazed bright the night he sailed Out of the moonlit harbour, -- clean and gay 'Twould shine this morning in the sun, with white Dimity curtains, and a grand display Of red geraniums, glowing in the light. He always liked geraniums: such a red -- It put a heart in you. His mother, too, She liked... And she'd be lying still in bed, And never dreaming! If she only knew! But he, ... he mustn't think of them just now -- Must keep off fancies... She'd be lying there, Sleeping so quietly -- her smooth white brow So calm beneath the wisps of silver hair Slipped out beneath her mutch-frills. She had pride In those fine caps, and ironed them herself. The very morning that his father'd died, Drowned in the harbour, turning to the shelf, She took her iron down, without a word, And ironed, with her husband lying dead... As they were lying now ... He never heard Her speak, or saw her look towards the bed. She ironed, ironed. He had thought it queer -- The little shivering lad perched in his chair, And hungry -- though he dared not speak for fear His father'd wake, and with wet streaming hair Would rise up from the bed... He'd thought it strange Then, but he understood now, understood. You'd got to work, or let your fancies range; And fancies played the devil when they could. They got the upper hand, if you loosed grip A moment. Iron frills, or polish brass To keep a hold upon yourself, not slip As Jacob slipt... A very burning-glass Those lenses were. He'd have to drop off soon, And find another job to fill the morn, And keep him going through the afternoon -- And it was not yet five!... Ay, he was born In the very bed where still his mother slept, And where his father'd lain -- a cupboard bed Let in the wall, more like a bunk, and kept Decent with curtains drawn from foot to head By day, though why -- but 'twas the women's way: They always liked things tidy. They were right -- Better to keep things tidy through the day, Or there would be the devil's mess by night. He liked things shipshape, too, himself. He took After his mother in more ways than one. He'd say this for her -- she could never brook A sloven; and she'd made a tidy son. 'Twas well for him that he was tidy, now That he was left; or how'd he ever keep His thoughts in hand ... The Lord alone knew how He'd keep them tidy, till... Yet, she could sleep: And he was glad, ay, glad that she slept sound. It did him good, to think of her so still. It kept his thoughts from running round and round Like Jacob in the lighted lantern, till... God! They were breaking loose! He must keep hold... On one side, "Albert Edward, Prince of Wales," Framed in cut cork, painted to look like gold -- On the other a red frigate, with white sails Bellying, and a blue pennon fluttering free, Upon a sea dead calm. He couldn't think, As a wee lad, how ever this could be. And when he'd asked, his father with a wink Had only answered laughing: Little chaps Might think they knew a lot, and had sharp eyes. But only pigs could see the wind. Perhaps The painter'd no pig by him to advise. That was his father's way: he'd always jest, And chuckle in his beard, with eyes half-shut And twinkling ... Strange to think of them at rest And lightless, those blue eyes, beneath that cut Where the jagged rock had gashed his brow -- the day His wife kept ironing those snowy frills, To keep herself from thinking how he lay, And wouldn't jest again. It's that that kills -- The thinking over... Jacob jested, too: He'd always some new game, was full of chaff. The very morn before the lantern drew... Yesterday morn that was, he heard him laugh... Yesterday morn! And was it just last night He'd wakened, startled; and run out, to find Jacob within the lantern, round the light Fluttering like a moth, naked and blind And laughing ... Peter staring, turned to stone... The struggle ... Peter killed... And he must keep His mind clear at all costs, himself, alone On that grey naked rock of the great deep, Full forty mile from shore -- where there were men Alive and breathing at this moment -- ay, Men deep in easy slumber even then, Who yet would waken and look on the sky. He must keep his mind clear, to light the lamp Ere sunset: ay, and clear the long night through To tell how they had died. He mustn't scamp The truth -- and yet 'twas little that he knew... What had come over Jacob in the night To send him mad and stripping himself bare... And how he'd ever climbed into the light -- And it revolving ... and the heat and glare! No wonder he'd gone blind -- the lenses burning And blazing round him; and in each he'd see A little naked self ... and turning, turning, Till, blinded, scorched, and laughing crazily, He'd dropped: and Peter ... Peter might have known The truth, if he had lived to tell the tale -- But Peter'd tripped ... and he was left alone... Just thirty hours till he should see the sail Bringing them food and letters -- food for them; Letters from home for them ... and here was he Shuddering like a boat from stern to stem When a wave takes it broadside suddenly. He must keep his mind clear... His mother lay Peacefully slumbering. And she, poor soul, Had kept her mind clear, ironing that day -- Had kept her wits about her, sound and whole -- And for his sake. Ay, where would he have been, If she had let her fancies have their way That morning, having seen what she had seen! He'd thought it queer ... But it was no child's play Keeping the upper hand of your own wits. He knew that now. If only for her sake. He mustn't let his fancies champ their bits Until they foamed ... He must jam on the brake Or he... He must think how his mother slept; How soon she would be getting out of bed; Would dress; and breakfast by the window, kept So lively with geraniums blazing red; Would open the green door, and wash the stone, Foam-white enough already: then, maybe, She'd take her iron down, and, all alone, Would iron, iron, iron steadily -- Keeping her fancies quiet, till he came... To-morrow, he'd be home: he'd see the white Welcoming threshold, and the window's flame, And her grave eyes kindling with kindly light. | 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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