This was told to me by a friend. He had read my blog yesterday about James Thurber and his backward limericks, and it made him remember a poem he had read in high school. He was not a big fan of poetry, but this one had made a mark on him. It was about two gold prospectors in the Yukon, one of whom was dying. He asked his companion to cremate him so he could feel warm again. My friend couldn't remember the name of the poem--it was "The Cremation of...," and he wondered if I remembered it, or would know how to find it.
He went on to say that when he was stationed in Korea in 1978, he pulled duty on a frigid night with an old Master Sergeant from West Virgina. Staring into the fire and buzzed on coffee, my friend told the Sergeant what he remembered about the poem. The old southerner, in his country voice, recited the poem from start to finish.
I did not remember reading the poem, but then I was not much for poetry in high school, either. Now, though, I was intrigued. The Internet let me type "The Cremation of" before the screen filled with options for "The Cremation of Sam McGee," by Robert W. Service.
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was the night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Fifteen stanzas in all, its haunting verse literally made me shiver.
Things have a way of working themselves into stories, and I'm glad I heard this one today. Thank you, my friend, for asking me to help you find your poem.
2 comments:
One of my best memories was being in the back of a truck on Grand Turk Island. We were being transported to the job site in the early morning. As the sun was rising and sipped our coffee as we rattled over the poor roads, two men on our crew - one a retired professor from Minneapolis, the other a schoolteacher from Harper's Ferry, West Virginia - recited Robert Service poems in their deep, booming voices. His poems lend themselves to being spoken aloud, and what a treat that was! Thanks for the reminder!
That's great, Cindy. Yes, the poem was a pleasure to read out loud. I don't know the proper term for it, but I noticed that in the verses of this one, each single line could be broken into three individual lines that rhymed. I can just imagine hearing it in a deep southern voice!
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