Yes, we know that Robert Service, the world famous British bard who wrote lyrically about the lands of the Far North and thereby achieved world-wide fame, was long dead and buried by the time Anchorage, Alaska even became a gleam in the railroad magnates’ eyes. That, however, did not stop the man who wrote so lovingly of the broad vistas, the pristine beauty, the odd, rambunctious characters and the immense silence and solitude of the lands of the Arctic, in particular the gold rush regions he himself experienced. Using a clairvoyant whose number we found in an ad in the free newspaper, we were able to contact the 20th Century writer on an astral plane and talk with him, although it was indirectly through the third party psychic. Mr. Service still has not forgotten his beloved lands of the Arctic North. In fact, he still writes fondly of them, even of places that did not exist at his time.
Here is his recent Ode To Anchorage:
There is a legend of an Alaskan place
Where living life is a constant race
Where abodes are built not of log or bark
With endless lights to throw back winter’s dark.
Instead they are built of concrete and lime
And made to last the test of time.
Twenty stories high and firmly fest
Should another earthquake its foundation test.
Oh, take a glimmer of the ‘It’ called Anchorage
Where once the Athabaskans would forage
On the banks of the tidal Turnagain Arm
Whose waters it causes immeasurable harm.
Oh, pestilent hive of busy bees
Scurrying about on well worn knees
Rushing about like a lower 49 city
With the same stress; there’s the pity!
Laid in the valley crowned by precious peaks
Whose beauty should lure the downtown geeks
To come and embrace their majestic splendor
But instead like ants stay hidden indoors.
Rushing about like chicken heads cut off
So frantic that endless coffee is quaffed
In tasks that are really attuned more to
what you would find in Kalamazoo.
Even here can be found the smudgy smog
That causes the lungs to seize and to clog
And the sullen waste that pollution makes
Because of all that is done for mere money’s sake.
Oh, brethren who come North for Nature’s glory
Forsake this town of multi-stories
And continue on north, south, east or west
Before you stop your talent to invest.
Go instead to where the land is pure
Not here where the money lures
Find peace in Homer, Talkeetna or Nome
To find a place worthy to make a home.
Live your life among trees and rivers
In an environment that makes you a liver
For majesty, solitude, and the good life
Rather than the one of asphalt strife.