Poems to Carry in the Blood

"The Cremation of Sam McGee" as part of a community project by Tara Penry

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Photo by Trust "Tru" Katsande on Unsplash

Hello, all! It’s Friday, not Sunday. And I’m coming to you with something special. This (I hope) delicious deviation from the norm over here at the Rolling Desk was inspired by

Tara Penry

, who’s hosting a community poetry project today. (What’s the norm? you might ask if you’re new here [welcome!]. Two reader favs are “Ghost Rider” and “To the Pain.”)

“If you feel inspired, as I do, to stoke the fire of your soul with fresh verses and bleat them to the skies,” Tara wrote, “come bleat with me.” So maybe it’s not that far off from what we do here really. Aren’t we bleating together, ’round a virtual campfire? Aren’t we coming together to think about living “outside the box” and leaving behind the “shoulds” and shames that bind us? Aren’t we sharing our love for the conversation across space and time that is writing?

If you’re also participating in this virtual poetry recitation jam, please drop a link to your post in the comments so we can see yours. Same if you’re inspired and create one later. Or if you see a favorite writer’s contribution and wanna share. And thank you, Tara! I forgot how fun it is to memorize well-crafted words and to step outside your comfort zone. And thank you, Nathan, for the fire. 🔥

“The Cremation of Sam McGee” has been a hit since Robert Service first published it in 1907, though the literary set of his time dismissed it, partially because of its popularity. Renditions like that of Johnny Cash and Stompin’ Tom Connors have boosted its lure. It’s based on some truth. The real Sam McGee was a road builder but did a bit of prospecting, and his ashes were one day up for sale (by him). And a boat called Alice May did sink in Lake Laberge (Service changed it to LeBarge), though that was ten years after the poem. But I’m getting ahead of the story.

So, I’ll just leave you with this—my contribution and, below it, the words or Robert Service, along with some photos of my travels through the very lands in these prospectors’ tale. Oh and a promise that stories from the people and places I met in the Yukon and Alaska are in the cue over the coming months. It’s a truly wild and magical place.

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The Cremation of Sam McGee

by Robert 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.

The Northern Lights near Fairbanks, Alaska, USA.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the poles, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell.

Though he’d often say, in his homely way, that he’d “sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas day, we were mushing our way over the Dawson Trail.

Talk of your cold; beneath the parka’s fold, it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we’d close, then our lashes froze, till sometimes we couldn’t see.

It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

Root Glacier next to the ghost town of Kennicott, in the heart of Wrangell-St. Elias National Park, Alaska, USA.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’er head were dancing heel to toe,

He turned to me and, “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;

“But if I do, I’m asking that you don’t refuse my last request.”

Well he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

“It’s the cursèd cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.

“Yet ’tain’t being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I wouldn’t fail;

And we started out at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee.

And before nightfall, a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.

A husky who’s part of the mushing team at Denali National Park, Alaska, USA.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the Alice May.

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

My log’s messy. But I’m pretty sure this is East Pine River, just south of Dawson Creek, Yukon, Canada.

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

McCarthy’s version of the burning of the Man, Alaska, USA. McCarthy is a place unto itself. Stories to come.

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.

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These are days fraught with heaviness for many of us waiting on the US elections. We’re on a precipice. I hesitated to take this lighthearted deviation. But levity is a part of hope. And poetry is grace.

For the comments: What poems or places live in your head? Links to recitations! Or anything else you’d like to share.

Up next, a guest post on a stranger arriving in a time of need—a story I’m guessing we all need right about now. Then we’ll jump back on the road and meet some people who call it home.

Don’t miss a thing. And if you can chip in to keep us rolling, please consider a paid subscription. Paid or free, I’m beyond delighted you’re here!