Ode To Vilhjalmur Stefansson

Captain Bartlett went wild with delight
when he laid eyes on those serpentine Alutian isles,
because jagged ice jaws bite, reflect truth, and set you free

claimed the Royal Geographic Society’s extolled caveatee

Alas, Alaskan months of yore

gleaned esprit de corps
wielding white demon sheens

down in Wrangler, holm of mortal danglers

In the presence of looming foredoom

splintered Karluk vanished in a gloomy swoon

and the stunned, staggering, moribund crew
each later eschewed their unlikely rescue

A great war began, but the captain’s fight

was to steer his Bear back to that frigid campsite
and with Bob on the tail feathers of King and Winge
a few breathing fellows were fetched and freed,

though stuporous from months of tallow poisoning

Thereafter a man remained on cold dead sand
to map the last masses of unknown land
with his polar talisman in a 5 year clutch

but no others had such luck

The ice insisted that all succumb
to what dread intends for the rawest ruck
those poor bastards, gull graspers
found Stefánsson’s lost cause

the Friendly Arctic mirage