A poem combining the format of Poe's "The Bells" and Jack London's tale "To Light a Fire."

1. Adiathermanous
Digital Art & Verse By: Linda J Austin
Copyright 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 Village
University
A poem combining the format of Poe’s The Bells; and the
story of London’s To Build a Fire

2. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but
only in the things, and not in the significances.
Part 1
Feel the cold, frigid cold
Silver Cold!
What a world of icicles glacial breath bestows.
Causes one to shiver, shiver, shiver
On pure white Yukon ice.
Skies spill sunlight slivers
And the heavens seem to quiver
Over crystal crackling rivers
As 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.

3. Part 2
The husky knows the cold, frigid cold
Silver cold!
What a tale Siberian the old one foretold.
On muzzle, lashes, jowls
Husky wears a fine frost powder.
Man chews tobacco
Spittle ices mouth making
Amber beard grow.
This Klondike day, like night
Chechako pushes forward
Toward Moosejaw creek they hike.
Plunging four miles an hour
With faint clues to follow.
Looking, looking, looking
For the path that snow swallowed.

4. Springs bubble from the hillside,
Traps for unsuspecting feet.
Camouflaged, they hide
Three inches, maybe three feet deep.
Twice Chechako shies
At 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 ice
Man removes his mitten for a moment
To 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

5. To that Sulphur Creek old-timer.
Never trudge alone when it’s sixty below.
Part 3
Chechako feels the cold, frigid cold
Silver cold!
What a world of arctic tragedy frosted breath holds.
Oh the incapacitation of the bitterly bold
Trespassing on the frigid and the rigid
Cold, cold, cold!
He stamps his feet to start a quiver,
Heads for high ground on the river.
As the twigs begin to mingle
He feels a tingle, tingle, tingle.
Fanned, a flame defrosts his face.
Husky basks in fire’s embrace.
The man devours biscuits
Sopped in bacon-grease.
Fills his pipe, takes his ease.

6. Never offered a crumb
Husky heeds the call to come.
Loathe to leave the fire behind,
His tail droops, no longer keeping time.
Walking, walking, walking
No warning signs
Chechako crashes through the brumal tomb.
He begins to shiver, shiver, shiver
Pulls himself from the river.
Gathers sticks, twigs, branches
Fine, dry, last-year’s grasses.
A shred of birch bark takes a spark
Soon, a fire starts.
Boot laces twisted, knots of steel
He draws his knife the ice to peel.
Above his head branches sway,
Spill snow, smother blaze.

7. Part 4
Feel the cold, frigid cold
Silver cold!
What a world of arctic tragedy by old-timer foretold.
Causes one to shiver, shiver, shiver
On pure white Yukon ice.
Skies gray. Sunlight silvers
And the heavens seem to quiver
Over crystal crackling rivers
As the husky lies beside
One who sought to strip his hide.
Chechako change your mind.
Today’s no day to go
And leave me
In the cold, frigid cold
Silver cold!