Igloo Poem by Tony Jennett

An arctic blizzard whispers in my ear
Twelve inches off, through a block of new-cut snow
Howling, unpenetrating. Does it know
I'm sitting warm and smiling here?

Warm? Well there's no flood of air
To flush away me body heat, but all
Is cold as death to touch, save small
Brief islands; candles and the niche where

The stove sings sweetly underneath our meal
And the unwavering candle flames paint
Grotesques of me, transient and faint,
Upon the walls of my bright ivory cave. Unreal

A nose peeps shy and mouselike between
A balaclava hood and a sleeping bag rim
Airbed isolate from the frozen grim
Bum-numbing trough in the ice floor's sheen

Supper is my chore and, ending this glorious day
Scoffing my chow, I shall sleep like a child
In a white womb, safe from the angry, wild
Wind that growls in frustration twelve inches away

So, sitting and waiting, I ponder and wonder
What Inuit genius should fashion the supreme
Architectural structure by practice and dream
Long before Greek or Roman, stealing their thunder.

And the blizzard still howls his impotent fury
And its echo still permeates scarcely within;
Held at bay by the crystal white innocent skin
Of snow. Igloo I salute you! Supreme in your glory.