Adiathermanous

Digital Art & Verse By: Linda J AustinCopyright 2001, All rights reserved

Some photographs were obtained from the Morgue File (morguefile.com)

Originally published in 2002 as part of the online National Poetry Month Exhibit at Writer’s VillageUniversity

A poem combining the format of Poe’s The Bells; and thestory of London’s To Build a Fire

He was quick and alert in the things of life, butonly in the things, and not in the significances.

Part 1

Feel the cold, frigid coldSilver Cold!What a world of icicles glacial breath bestows.Causes one to shiver, shiver, shiverOn pure white Yukon ice.Skies spill sunlight sliversAnd the heavens seem to quiverOver crystal crackling riversAs the husky falls in line,Wishing

Chechako change your mind.Seek shelter! Build a fire.

Burrow under snow.Today’s no day to go.

It’s too cold, cold, cold.

Part 2

The husky knows the cold, frigid coldSilver cold!What a tale Siberian the old one foretold.On muzzle, lashes, jowlsHusky wears a fine frost powder.Man chews tobaccoSpittle ices mouth makingAmber beard grow.

This Klondike day, like nightChechako pushes forwardToward Moosejaw creek they hike.Plunging four miles an hourWith faint clues to follow.Looking, looking, lookingFor the path that snow swallowed.

Springs bubble from the hillside,Traps for unsuspecting feet.Camouflaged, they hideThree inches, maybe three feet deep.Twice Chechako shiesAt crackle of ice skin.He shoves the reluctant husky,To break trail for him.Husky feet sink.

His fur crystalizes as he struggles out,Biting, chewing, spitting hair and iceMan removes his mitten for a momentTo help tear away glaciated vise.

Stupid man! Don’t you know?It’s too cold, cold, cold!

No covering for your face.No provisions for this place.

Chechako, you should’ve listened

To that Sulphur Creek old-timer.Never trudge alone when it’s sixty below.

Part 3

Chechako feels the cold, frigid coldSilver cold!What a world of arctic tragedy frosted breath holds.Oh the incapacitation of the bitterly boldTrespassing on the frigid and the rigidCold, cold, cold!

He stamps his feet to start a quiver,Heads for high ground on the river.As the twigs begin to mingleHe feels a tingle, tingle, tingle.Fanned, a flame defrosts his face.Husky basks in fire’s embrace.The man devours biscuitsSopped in bacon-grease.Fills his pipe, takes his ease.

Never offered a crumbHusky heeds the call to come.Loathe to leave the fire behind,His tail droops, no longer keeping time.Walking, walking, walkingNo warning signsChechako crashes through the brumal tomb.

He begins to shiver, shiver, shiverPulls himself from the river.Gathers sticks, twigs, branchesFine, dry, last-year’s grasses.A shred of birch bark takes a sparkSoon, a fire starts.

Boot laces twisted, knots of steelHe draws his knife the ice to peel.Above his head branches sway,Spill snow, smother blaze.

Part 4

Feel the cold, frigid coldSilver cold!What a world of arctic tragedy by old-timer foretold.Causes one to shiver, shiver, shiverOn pure white Yukon ice.Skies gray. Sunlight silversAnd the heavens seem to quiverOver crystal crackling riversAs the husky lies besideOne who sought to strip his hide.

Chechako change your mind.Today’s no day to go

And leave meIn the cold, frigid cold

Silver cold!