Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SHAFT, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SHAFT, by                 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.





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