They have taken the cold, red canvas to set it in history;
They have left the body of Malmgren adrift on a solid
But watch, watch, watch as they re willing, no bird
comes out of the track
Where the white winds wail in the Arctic. And
Amundsen is not back.
He is not down on the ices. We have scanned the
ridges and fiords,
We have picked our path in the bowlders with our
parkas frozen to boards.
He is not lost in the blueness, he is not sunk in the
black. . . .
And the wintry gulls can only cry that Amundsen is
not back.
The dogs went out to the endless, the glittering blaze
of white,
With their hard feet bitten and broken by fangs of the
starving night;
And the planes drone over the misting that s frozen
above the ground
But the pilots can only mutter that Amundsen is not
found.
The bosom that gave him muscle, the womb that
sheltered him then
Has taken him back to its secret with bones of forgot
ten men.
And the shrill, sad masts of the vessels that drift in a
far-locked fleet
Could tell that they heard his orders, and felt the
march of his feet!
Tooth and claw of the polars, mail of the wicked wind,
Broke the track of his going, ever his breeze was
thinned!
Malmgren lies in the Arctic and Mobile huddles in
Rome….
Night of the North has fallen and Amundsen has
gone home.
(Mackinlay Kantor)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Night Poems, Sadness Poems, Home Poems, Body Poems, Dogs Poems, History PoemsBased on Keywords: ices, huddles, misting, fiords, bowlders, amundsen