Monday's Poetry: "The Telegraph Operator"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator

The heartache and excitement of the Alaskan gold rush of 1898 lives on today in the works of two remarkable writers. Jack London gave us an intimate look at the lives of the "sourdoughs" through his dog books like White Fang and The Call of the Wild. And who can forget his short tale of man's attempt to survive the elements in To Build a Fire?

While London chose to tell his tales of the far north in prose, Robert W. Service chronicled the same period in poetry - massive amounts of poetry describing the characters and calamities of the gold rush in poems that were tough, gritty, sometimes comedic, always insightful, and a joy to read.

I have two large volumes of Service's work, so choosing a representative poem of his was a difficult task. I finally settled on The Telegraph Operator, a tale of a working man destined to spend months by himself in an Alaskan winter. Bundle up - because you're about to get cold!

The Telegraph Operator
by Robert W. Service

I will not wash my face;
I will not brush my hair;
I "pig" around the place -
There's nobody to care.
Nothing but rock and tree;
Nothing but wood and stone,
Oh, God, it's hell to be
Alone, alone, alone!

Snow-peaks and deep-gashed draws
Corral me in a ring.
I feel as if I was
The only living thing
On all this blighted earth;
And so I frowst and shrink,
And crouching by my hearth
I hear the thoughts I think.

I think of all I miss -
The boys I used to know;
The girls I used to kiss;
The coin I used to blow;
The bars I used to haunt;
The racket and the row;
The beers I didn't want
(I wish I had 'em now).

Day after day the same,
Only a little worse;
No one to grouch or blame -
Oh, for a loving curse!
Oh, in the night I fear,
Haunted by nameless things,
Just for a voice to cheer,
Just for a hand that clings!

Faintly as from a star
Voices come o'er the line;
Voices of ghosts afar,
Not in this world of mine;
Lives in whose loom I grope;
Words in whose weft I hear
Eager the thrill of hope,
Awful the chill of fear.

I'm thinking out aloud;
I reckon that is bad;
(The snow is like a shroud) -
Maybe I'm going mad.
Say! wouldn't that be tough?
This awful hush that hugs
And chokes one is enough
To make a man go "bugs."

There's not a thing to do;
I cannot sleep at night;
No wonder I'm so blue;
Oh, for a friendly fight!
The din and rush of strife;
A music-hall aglow;
A crowd, a city, life -
Dear God, I miss it so!

Here, you have moped enough!
Brace up and play the game!
But say, it's awful tough -
Day after day the same
(I've said that twice, I bet).
Well, there's not much to say.
I wish I had a pet,
Or something I could play.

Cheer up! don't get so glum
And sick of everything.
The worst is yet to come;
God help you till the Spring.
God shield you from the Fear;
Teach you to laugh, not moan.
Ha! ha! It sounds so queer -
Alone, alone, alone!

Brrr!

For those who would like a bit of comedy mixed in with savage winter, might I suggest The Cremation of Sam McGee, also by Robert W. Service. And for those who would like to sample the talents of Jack London, sans the dogs, I enthusiastically recommend The Iron Heel (I've read it twice - and will again!), and People of the Abyss. Both may challenge your notions of a just society.