[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
From: "Jack Diamond" <Jack.diamond@>
I have searched for some time for this work remembered from 60 years
ago.there is an error ...it should read" the seal- pack"
From: "mick brown" <mbrown@>
My recollection of this poem, learned in wartime England around 1943 was
..... "floundered after slippery seals through shimmering seas of icy
blue".
Maybe our teacher, a fiery irishman named Carlo Loretto, decided to
'improve' Gibson's work? I think perhaps he might have . I also
agree with Jack Diamond it should read "Among the seal pack....."
Mick Brown.
From: "John & Jacqueline Crook" <jcrook@>
I first heard this poem when I was about 7years old, lets say that was
"about" 50 years ago. I have been searching for the words for the last
20 years (using libraries and poetry books) and only today "found it"
through this site.
When this was read to us (me) by our English teacher it was a very hot
sultry day. Within three lines I was there, swimmimg in cold water and
walking ice flows ( although at that time living in the UK I did not
know what an ice flow was).
Thanks for allowing me to relive a childhood memory,
John Crook
Lower Sackville
NS Canada.
From: "The McKies" <marsonwae2@>
I learned this poem as a child at school but couldn't remember who wrote
it. I thought that, I'd try to find it on the web. I typed a few words
into 'Google' and here I am. As it has been so warm lately, it seemed
appropriate. Thank you!
http://web.onetel.net.uk/~marsonwae
From: "Clive Collins" <Dartaviation@>
Clive Collins exSutton Coldfield in Warwickshire
I too read and had to learn this poem in wartime England at school.
I had also forgotton some of the text but there are certain words that I
find distinctly odd, "sea-pack" does not make sense and I too recall
"SEAL-pack" as one of them.
However, the errors are immaterial and I offer my thanks for the
reviving of a memory from 1943.
Kindest regards,
Clive Collins
From: "Gordon Robertson" <meadows2@>
I am 14 and I am studying this poem in my English class and found it
very very interesting, I love the way that the author uses such great
detail when the office worker is imagining he is a seal, and when I read
it I could picture it in my head. I think that this author is very
talented and this is a brilliant poem and I'm glad I am studying it.
From: "howard hawker" <onesyewart@>
a fine emotive work which i did in the 4th yr .....glad to be cooled by
it again,
dr howard hawker
From: JnBurnham@
I have searched for this poem in library and bookshops for over 25 years. I'm
new to the internet and as I couldn't remember who wrote it or hardly any of
the words I just typed in "of that intolerable street". It's wonderfull to
read it again. Thankyou.
From: PamPuig@
I was delighted to finally find this long lost poem! I studied this some 24
yrs ago for my o level. The first line has come baack to me so many time and
I have been unable to complete it! I am going to save it and read it at my
leisure as I know I shall want to relive the class room situation in which I
learned it!! Thank you so much for printing it!
Pam Puig
From: "Dominic Walshe" <DWalshe@>
Like many respondents, I feel I've been reacquainted with an old
friend. As a secondary school pupil, in 1977, I, along with the rest of
my class, was forced to recite this poem by Mrs. Gunn, our English
teacher. At the time, I hated having to recite it, but looking back, it
was probably one of the best day's educational investments that I
made. Now, as an expatriate from England, living in California, I can
empathise with much of the poetic laments expressed in writings by
Wilfred Owen, Wilfred Gibson, and David Sylvian, to name but three.
Mrs. Gunn, perhaps, would be upset to learn that until today, when I
found the poem again, on your web site, I was only able to recite the
first six lines, off-by-heart. Reviewing the poem caused me to revisit
a past that I had long since forgotten, and unlike the individual in the
poem, even if the stimulus were to be rude or otherwise, I'm not sure
that I'll fully awaken.
Dominic T.Walshe
From: "atir" <atir@>
As a child in Primary we were taught this poem and I had to recite it
for a test.I have thought of it many times but could not recite it all.I
was amazed to ask Google and up it came in a flash.I shall read time and
time again to evoke memories of 55 years ago.We never realised then how
things would change.
Rita Martin
South Yorkshire
England
From: BillC@ Thu Jul 10 12:19:50 2003
On a whim I keyed the first line, remembered from school in St Albans,
England around 1954, into Google. Magic! The whole poem, unseen for
50 years, and every line familiar except for two completely forgotten.
I don't remember the teacher, but I do recall that the lines "The carter
cracked a sudden whip: I clutched my stool with startled grip" were held
up to us as a pair of fine examples of the 'transferred epithet'.
Enjoyed the comments posted about the Ice-Cart. Seems Gibson's poem made
quite a splash with my generation. Thanks for this little memory trip.
Bill Cleghorn
From: Mary Jane Miller <mjmiller@>
I remembered accurately only the last two lines and googled with
success. But I had elided this poem with one by Marjorie Pickthall
called " Dream River" , also on the internet. I found it first and
was surprised to find that it did not continue on with what I now
remember is a separate poem called 'THe Ice Cart". Memory does play
strange tricks. Taken together, the two poems could not be more
unlike, except for the sensual use of language. Gibson's is much
more adventurous in form. Now, 50 years after a grade eight class in
Toronto, I will hear and see both of them complete and on their own.
Thanks to the maker of this site
Mary Jane
--
Mary Jane Miller, Professor,
Chair of Department of Dramatic Arts
School of Fine and Performing Arts
Brock University,
St. Catharines, Ontario,
Canada, L2S 3A1.
e-mail: mjmiller@
Phone (905) 688 5550 ext 3584: Fax: (905) 682 9020
From: Steve Gough <pianoman@>
Like many others, I learned 'The 'Ice Cart' by heart nearly 60yrs ago but had forgotten some lines. I'm glad to have found it again.I too have the feeling that the words, 'shivering seas' should be 'shimmering seas' and also that there should not be the indefinite article between 'O'er' and 'sapphire'. Please correct me if I'm wrong. Thanks for printing this poem. Regards,
Steve gough
New Zealand.
From: "Lodge, Catherine" <C.Lodge@>
I remember having to learn this poem at junior school in the 1950's. I was
too young to understand it all - too "poetic" - but certain fragments have
always stuck in my mind.
Today it is so hot, and I am really perched on my city office stool and no
ice cart in sight. On an urge I rediscovered this old friend via an internet
search.
BayLa-Union GmbH Steuerberatungsgesellschaft
- Geschäftsführungssekretariat -
Catherine Lodge
Tel. 089 5898283
Fax. 089 5898285
www.bayla-gruppe.de
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From: "Donald Kerr" <dkerr@>
Like everybody else here, I too remembered this from school days - but
could not remember the poet! What a wonderful thing Google is (and inded
this website) - my grandson will now benefit!
Pat Kerr
From: "Mike Sadler" <sadlerfam@>
Greetings all.
I must firstly admit to being a none reader of poetry/verse etc, but I
have been sent
a poem about my family and their cottage in Gloucestershire, written by
Wilfred W
Gibson after he bought the property sometime around the turn of the 19th
century.
The property was known and is still called 'The Olde Nail Shoppe' at
Greenway near
Dymock, Gloucestershire, and became known as 'Poets Corner'.
The poem is as follows, and I would like to know if it is the entire
poem, so please
email me direct at sadlerfam@
With thanks.
Mike Sadler.
**********************************************************************
I dreamt of wings, and waked to hear
through the low sloping ceiling clear
The nesting starlings flutter and scratch
among the rafters of the thatch
Not twenty inches from my head
and lay, half dreaming , in my bed
watching the far elms, bolt- upright
black towers of silence in the night
of stars square framed between the sill....
Of casements and the eaves, until
I drowsed and must have slept a wink
and wakened to a ceaseless clink
of hammers ringing on the air....
and somehow, only half aware
I'd risen, and crept down the stair
Bewildered by strange, smokey gloom,
until I reached the living room
that once had been a nail shed......
And where my hearth had blazed, instead
I saw the nail-forge glowing red;
and through the strife, and smokey glare,
three dreaming women standing there....
With hammers beating red-hot wire,
on tinkling anvils, by the fire...
To ten-a-penny nails; and heard....
Though none looked up or breathed a word...
the song each heart sang to a tune
Of hammers, through a summers noon,
When they had wrought in that red glow
Alive , a hundred years ago.....
The song of girl, of wife and crone, sung
in the heart of each alone.
From: "Peter Dahl" <pdahl@>
I was the son of an American military officer and was attending Form IV of
the British Institute in Madrid, Spain, 1954. As part of our English course
we had to recite a poem from memory. This poem was my recitation. Years
past. I was never sure of the name of the poem and had forgotten the
author's name, but I have never forgotten....the first half...reciting it to
my wife on occasion. I have been looking for it in libraries and other web
sites for the past 20 years. I have just found a diamond in the desert. I
will soon be able to return to Madrid of 1954 and complete my recitation
again. Thank you.
L. Peter Dahl AIA
Milton Pate Architects
2801 Buford Highway
Suite 280
Atlanta, GA 30329
404.633.4586 tel
404.634.3284 fax
pdahl@
From: Russell Kent <gandalf@>
Like many others I too remember having to learn this poem at school in
the mid fifties (maybe it was required reading?).
A very evocative poem which has stayed with me for fifty years. Best
read during a heat wave.
The Internet is wonderful for finding such shadows from the past.
Thank you for posting it.
Russell Kent
From: OddRon@
From Ron Wallace _oddron@ (mailto:oddron@aol.com)
I am yet another who learned this poem in late wartime at school in
Greenford. For some reason it has stuck with me throughout my life together with
the Hiawatha trilogy, The Armada and the dear old Ancient Mariner. I wonder
if as many young people of today can
get the feel of the medium of poetry in telling and instilling a story.
P.S. Is Young Lochinvar still coming out of the West?
From: "Levy" <malviv@>
From: Malcolm K. Levy malviv@
I am not an internet buff but thank goodness my wife is. I've been
trying to trace 'The Ice-Cart' for half a century, rattling off lines of
it to my family, always worried if I have got it exactly right. At
last my 'poetic soul' is at rest.
M.K. Levy
29 Ranulf Road,
London, NW2 2BS
From: "Chris Clark" <chris@>
While reading a novel, I read the word 'cart' and later, 'the driver
cracked' and immediately made the intertextual link with 'The Ice Cart', a
poem I taught my class of secondary students some forty odd years ago. I
could remember most of it, which makes me suspect I used it with more than
one class. Oh, how I loved to read it aloud and the wonderful images it
evoked.
From: "Richard Charnley" <ric.charnley@>
Standing in 'Refrigeration' section at the Science Museum, London
looking at an old film of men cutting ice, suddenly out of nowhere the
long-forgotten opening lines of this poem came into my head, first
learned in Primary School, Sutton Coldfield England in the late 1950s.
Ric.charnley@