Posted in Antarctica


It was called Rome
like the city.
Before the reconstruction
before the college dormitoryization of the base
McMurdo Station staff quarters
were uncontrived eclectic
subversive buildings
with wonderfully individualistic names.

A group of half a dozen
known predictably as the six-pack
then following addition, the nine pack.
A trio located on a rise between street and ocean
three by the Sea
two in the middle
one for the road.

And Rome, origin archaeological
rumour said construction was late. Very
not built in a day.
Lounged with large windows framing the sound
landscaping Mt Discovery.
It was ours
designated quiet and non-smoking
two rare species in Antarctica.

Day eight – Friday night
at home
the weekend is born – and drinks.
A C141 squat and green
crawls down the sea ice runway
improbably airborne
heading north
to civilization, fresh food, dark and rain
“wish you were on it,” a man walks by.
I did.

For the back story click Backstage



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.

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