POETRY: Floyd Collins 1925

Floyd Collins
1925

By Noble Collins

A coal-oil lantern‘s flame
spits and sputters,
flickers shadows on the walls,
then ,with a final sigh, allows the darkness in.

Now,
in cold and damp confined,
a fallen boulder holding fast his leg,
Floyd Collins, explorer of the underground,
Shouts a hoarse “Hello!“ for hours on end
to no one within miles of his plight.

The greatest irony of all:
the great explorer - captive to the cave
a hundred meters from the open air,
a meager distance , normally, to crawl,
but nothing will dislodge the heavy stone
which holds him fast and causes grinding pain

“The Greatest Caver!” some had called this man,
renowned for finding wondrous worlds within -
columned caverns, crystal passageways
honeycombed beneath a naïve earth

Now venturing once more
to find connections to the Mammoth Cave.
A new-found entrance, hoping to provide.
to lure the tourist dollars to his own
His “Crystal Cave” which goes unnoticed still.

In early evening, searchers finally come,
and there by torchlight called into to the dark,
“Floyd Collins, are you there?” but hear no sound,
and still again,
“Floyd, are you there?”
then one says “Listen!”
and, frozen to their pose, a weak response is heard ,
the hoarse voice recognized:
“Yes, I am here, but trapped,
and cannot move my leg.”

A sigh of great relief, is breathed into the night’s cold air,
for Floyd has been found alive
and only needs a rock removed, a fairly easy rescue, so it seems.
So, quickly now, they set about
to formulate a plan -to get him out.
“Hold on!” they call
“We’re here to get you out.”

But morning came and still there was no plan;
no firm agreement of the right approach.
The opening looked small, and
did the passage twist a bit and narrow when inside?
One said it did, and left to get some proper tools
to shore the crumbling sides
and bring a sturdy rope and harness
thus to pull him out -
to pull Floyd Collins out.

A smallish boy was chosen
to climb inside the cave
to navigate its twisting crumbling passageways -
squeezing even him -
and twenty minutes down, he came upon the man -
a smiling grimy face with head and shoulders barely visible,
one arm stretched out to touch his rescuer’s hand.

“I cannot use the rope.” Floyd said, “This rock has pinned me good.”
“but maybe you can dig around and free me from the side”
The boy agreed, but shifting rocks soon threatened
to undo the feeble shoveling, and so he stopped the work.
“Sir,” he said,
“ I must get better tools and stronger arms to help me dig,
but I will leave you water and some food ‘til our return.”
And then he crawled away.

By now, the town had heard the news, and when the boy crawled out
he was amazed to find a hundred people gathered ‘round
to witness Floyd’s release -
(a great moan rising as they heard the lad’s report)

Soon, heated mumbling made its way throughout the crowd
“For God’s sake, can’t we get him out?”
“Someone get him out!”

Another day, and then another, ended in debate
as first one plan was offered and rejected ,
then another seemed to offer better chances.
No one was sure, and none came forward to go down
except the boy who daily took some food and water
and some meager cheer
to aid Floyd Collins in his peril.

(The boy wrote it all down,
and later won a prize
the one named for Pulitzer.
but that was later.)

Day by day, a train unloaded hundreds more
as, quickly, the small town whistle-stop became a major depot
bringing news reporters and a morbid crowd who
hungered for some stark sensation, cheap excitement,
entertainment in a barren age now linked by newsprint
(back-fence gossip, just as surely as a whispered phrase).

“A MAN IS TRAPPED WITHIN THE EARTH!”
“ALL EFFORTS FAIL TO GET HIM OUT!”
“A CAVER TRAPPED WITHIN A CAVE!”

So. More and more they came to form a mingling crowd -
thousands now to see the growing show,
the dire event become a carnival.
and, of course, they must be fed
and entertained,
and there was money to be made.

All the while a man was trapped beneath the earth -
in total darkness and no sound -
lonely, afraid, cold
wet, hungry,
slowly losing hope.

First one took charge
and then another.
“Go in.” said some.
“Stay out.” said others -
brilliant architects and great leaders,
but no help to Floyd,
and it began to rain

The crowd now neared ten thousand,
and all around the world
they bought up every edition of every newspaper
and every EXTRA!

“ALL ATTEMPTS FAIL!”
“HUGE CROWDS BECOMING A PROBLEM AT RESCUE SITE”
“NATIONAL GUARD CALLED TO QUELL VIOLENCE AND OPPORTUNISTS”

But Floyd, cold, and wet
hungry and afraid
couldn’t move his leg
and didn’t imagine such things

A hole was dug
It quickly filled with mud and water
A light was lowered on a rope.
Did it navigate the twisted caved-in tunnel
to bring some warmth to Floyd?
There was no way to tell,
and no more volunteers to scramble down and see

Once, he shouted, “I’m free, boys.
Come on down and get me out.”
but they knew it wasn’t so

Another hole was started, larger now
and pumps were brought to get the water out.
Around the clock they worked
as, finally, all agreed upon the plan.

The crowd, wet and grumbling
down to their last dollar and no food left to buy
began to stumble back to town.
“What a sorry show!” they all agreed,
“and what a sorry ending”

It took two weeks to dig the hole.
No words or sounds from Floyd ,
and when they finally broke through
they were ten feet above his body,
So they closed the cave and let it be his grave.

Later, other men went back
to get the body out.
They put him in a glass box for all to see,

Floyd Collins -
a shy man who only wanted to succeed in his own way.-
a spectacle for other men’s coffers.

Soon, though, the news came from other places
and was of different things.
The train no longer stops here,
and for a very long time, now,
no one speaks of Floyd Collins anymore.