The Question -- Wilfred Gibson

(Poem #830) The Question I wonder if the old cow died or not. Gey bad she was the night I left, and sick. Dick reckoned she would mend. He knows a lot-- At least he fancies so himself, does Dick. Dick knows a lot. But maybe I did wrong To leave the cow to him, and come away. Over and over like a silly song These words keep humming in my head all day. And all I think of, as I face the foe And take my lucky chance of being shot, Is this -- that if I'm hit, I'll never know Till Doomsday if the old cow died or not. -- Wilfred Gibson

Note:
  Gey (adj.): Considerable, `tolerable', `middling': esp. of quantity or
  amount. Scots, variant of 'gay'. -- OED

We've run a lot of war poems, but nothing quite like today's. Which is
rather surprising - in retrospect, this ought to be a more common
perspective on the subject. Gibson's portrayal of the soldier - who, in the
midst of the battle, and with death a distinct possibility, can only think
of an minor unresolved matter that he will now 'never know till Doomsday' -
is incongruous, yes, but definitely not unconvincing.

The language has an appealing quality to it, too. Overlaid upon the
deliberately rustic sound are some wonderfully flowing phrases, like

   Dick reckoned she would mend. He knows a lot--
   At least he fancies so himself, does Dick.

and the unexpected 'lucky chance of being shot'. The rhythm also follows the
'over and over like a silly song' nature of the poet's obsessive thoughts,
as do the several repeated phrases.

Biography: poem #622

Links:

  I did think of rounding up all the war poems we'd run in Minstrels, but
  there were just too many of them. We are working on categorising the
  archive, at which point there will indeed be a complete list of war poems.

-martin

The Ice-Cart -- Wilfred Gibson

(Poem #622) The Ice-Cart Perched on my city office-stool, I watched with envy, while a cool And lucky carter handled ice. . . . And I was wandering in a trice, Far from the grey and grimy heat Of that intolerable street, O'er a sapphire berg and emerald floe, Beneath the still, cold ruby glow Of everlasting Polar night, Bewildered by the queer half-light, Until I stumbled, unawares, Upon a creek where big white bears Plunged headlong down with flourished heels And floundered after shining seals Through shivering seas of blinding blue. And as I watched them, ere I knew, I'd stripped, and I was swimming too, Among the seal-pack, young and hale, And thrusting on with threshing tail, With twist and twirl and sudden leap Through crackling ice and salty deep -- Diving and doubling with my kind, Until, at last, we left behind Those big, white, blundering bulks of death, And lay, at length, with panting breath Upon a far untravelled floe, Beneath a gentle drift of snow -- Snow drifting gently, fine and white, Out of the endless Polar night, Falling and falling evermore Upon that far untravelled shore, Till I was buried fathoms deep Beneath the cold white drifting sleep -- Sleep drifting deep, Deep drifting sleep. . . . The carter cracked a sudden whip: I clutched my stool with startled grip. Awakening to the grimy heat Of that intolerable street. -- Wilfred Gibson

I like today's poem for the vivid trip through the poet's imagination - the
images are glowingly detailed, and move easily from scene to scene, the
whole capturing the feel of an extended reverie admirably. The varying pace
is handled nicely too - the crystalline images setting the scene, the burst
of activity, the drifting snow, all slide effortlessly into each other,
until the vision is abruptly shattered and the narrator is returned to the
'grimy heat' of his surroundings.

Biography:

b. Oct. 2, 1878, Hexham, Northumberland, Eng.
d. May 26, 1962, Virginia Water, Surrey

 British poet who drew his inspiration from the workaday life of ordinary
 provincial English families.

 Gibson was educated privately, served briefly in World War I, and
 thereafter devoted his life to poetry. A period in London in 1912 brought
 him into contact with Lascelles Abercrombie, Rupert Brooke, John
 Drinkwater, and other Georgian poets, with whom he founded the short-lived
 poetry magazine New Numbers. In 1917 he made a long lecture tour of the
 United States. His first poem had appeared in The Spectator in 1897, but it
 was with his realistic presentation of the lives of country folk in
 Stonefolds and On the Threshold (both 1907) that he first exploited the
 themes of contemporary life which distinguished his major works.

          -- EB

Links:

For a vision of an altogether different sort, poem #30
Ice, poem #145

martin