Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

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Wilfrid Wilson Gibson was born on November 2, 1878, in Hexham, Northumberland, England. He was a poet primarily known for his works that explored the lives of ordinary people, especially those impacted by the First World War. Gibson’s writing was marked by a simplicity and directness that reflected his deep empathy for working-class life, and his poetry often dealt with themes of loss, hardship, and the emotional toll of war.

Gibson was from a middle-class family, and although he was not initially drawn to literature, he eventually became a prominent figure in the literary world. He was influenced by a range of poets, including the Romantic tradition, but his work also bore the influence of the rising interest in social issues and realism in poetry. His early poems focused on rural life and the struggles of common folk. His writing style was often straightforward, capturing the emotional essence of his subjects in simple but effective language.

In 1915, when the First World War broke out, Gibson enlisted in the army. He served in the Royal Field Artillery and spent time at the front. His time in the military was a formative experience for Gibson, as it deeply impacted his poetry. Unlike some of his contemporaries who wrote about the glory of battle, Gibson’s works expressed the emotional weight and toll the war took on soldiers, as well as the pain felt by those left behind at home. His most well-known wartime poetry, such as Soldier and The Glorious Dead, reflects his belief that war should never be glorified. He wrote about the struggles of the soldiers who endured the war’s brutal realities, highlighting the pain and devastation felt by the men in the trenches.

Gibson’s military career was significant not just because of his time spent serving, but because his service shaped much of his later poetry. His experiences in the war were shared by many soldiers, but Gibson’s ability to translate those experiences into poetry allowed him to connect with readers on an emotional level. His works were often a stark contrast to the patriotic fervor and romanticism associated with the war. In his writing, he captured the fear, grief, and exhaustion that came with being at the front. His poems explored themes of death, sorrow, and the sacrifice of the soldiers, giving voice to the trauma experienced by many.

After the war, Gibson continued to write and publish poetry. He was recognized for his role in reflecting the emotional impact of the war and was considered an important part of the poetry of the period. While his post-war work was not as focused on the horrors of combat, he remained interested in themes of loss and social issues. Gibson’s poetry had a lasting impact, particularly for its portrayal of the common man and his struggles in the face of overwhelming circumstances. His works were not always as celebrated as those of other war poets, but they held a place in the broader conversation about the emotional aftermath of war.

Gibson lived until 1962, passing away at the age of 83. His legacy as a poet is largely tied to his wartime experiences and the way in which he captured the human side of war in his poetry. While his work did not always receive the same level of acclaim as some of his peers, he remains an important figure in the landscape of First World War poetry. His writing reflected the devastation of war, but also the resilience of the human spirit in the face of hardship.

Gibson’s poetry is a reminder of the often-overlooked stories of ordinary people, especially those who lived through the harsh realities of war. His direct style, empathy for others, and focus on human emotion in the face of adversity ensure that his work remains relevant today, offering insight into the lives of those impacted by conflict.

You may learn more at the Poetry Foundation and Wikipedia.

THE RETURN

Geoffrey Wall
SOLDIER, back from the distant fray,

With the bandaged arm and the ribbon gay,
Where have you been so long away,

Hit

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Out of the sparkling sea

I drew my tingling body clear, and lay
On a low ledge the livelong summer day,

The Housewife

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
She must go back, she said,

Because she’d not had time to make the bed.
We’d hurried her away

The Joke

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
He’d even have his joke

While we were sitting tight,
And so he needs must poke

The Ridge 1919

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Here on the ridge where the shrill north-easter trails

Low clouds along the snow
And in a streaming moonlit vapour veils

The Quiet

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
I could not understand the sudden quiet—

The sudden darkness— in the crash of fight,
The din and glare of day quenched in a twinkling

Ragtime

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
A minx in khaki struts the limelit boards:

With false moustache, set smirk and ogling eyes
And straddling legs and swinging hips she tries

The Quiet Hour

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Absorbing the clear green tranquility

Through the last hour before his evening flight
In the lush verdure by the ruined mill,

When the Plane Dived

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
When the plane dived and the machine gun spattered

The deck, in his numb clutch the tugging wheel
Bucked madly as he strove to keep the keel

The Raining

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
The night I left my father said:

“You’ll go and do some stupid thing.
You’ve no more sense in that fat head

Nine O’clock News

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
‘Only just one plane lost” – the suave announcer

broadcasts the news of the successful raid;
and the lone mother knitting by the hearthstone

Leave

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Crouched on the crowded deck, we watch the sun

In naked gold leap out of a cold sea
Of shivering silver; and stretching drowsily

In the Ambulance

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Two rows of cabbages,

Two of curly-greens
Two rows of early peas,

Air Raid

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Night shatters in mid-heaven: the bark of guns,

The roar of planes, the crash of bombs, and all
The unshackled sky pandemonium stuns

Comrades

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
As I was marching in Flanders

A ghost kept step with me–
Kept step with me and chuckled

In War Time

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
As gaudy flies across a pewter plate,

On the grey disk of the unrippling sea,
Beneath an airless, sullen sky of slate

Back

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
They ask me where I’ve been,

And what I’ve done and seen.
But what can I reply

Reveille

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Still bathed in its moonlight slumber, the little white house by the cedar

Stands silent against the red dawn;
And nothing I know of who sleeps there, to the travail of day yet unwakened,

The Dancers

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
All day beneath the hurtling shells

Before my burning eyes
Hover the dainty demoiselles —

The Light-Ship

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Stretched on the foam-white deck, taking their ease,

The crew were basking on the Summer day,
We passed the anchored light-ship on our way;

The Bayonet

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
This bloody steel

Has killed a man.
I heard him squeal

Retreat

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Broken, bewildered by the long retreat

Across the stifling leagues of southern plain,
Across the scorching leagues of trampled grain,

Mad

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Neck-deep in mud,

He mowed and raved –
He who had braved The field of blood –

Between The Lines

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
When consciousness came back, he found he lay

Between the opposing fires, but could not tell
On which hand were his friends; and either way

Troopship: mid-Atlantic

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Dark waters into crystalline brilliance break

About the keel, as through the moonless night
The dark ship moves in its own moving lake

Rupert Brooke

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
I

Your face was lifted to the golden sky

Lament

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
We who are left, how shall we look again

Happily on the sun or feel the rain
Without remembering how they who went

Breakfast

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
We ate our breakfast lying on our backs,

Because the shells were screeching overhead.
I bet a rasher to a loaf of bread

the Conscript

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Indifferent, flippant, earnest, but all bored,

The doctors sit in the glare of electric light
Watching the endless stream of naked white

The Messages

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
“I cannot quite remember…. There were five

Dropt dead beside me in the trench—and three
Whispered their dying messages to me….”

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