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Melissa
Gym climber
berkeley, ca
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Apr 10, 2008 - 12:14pm PT
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I desecrated this one many years ago while getting an oil change. Funny thing is, the more time that passes, the more true it is.
Whose crags are these I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To look at them from down below.
Some of my friends would think it queer
To stop without a rope or gear,
But the urge to mount this chossy spire
Is even greater than my fear.
It's cold, and though I start to shake,
Towards the base a step I take.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of wind against a hollow flake.
This line is lovely, smooth, and steep,
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
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Largo
Sport climber
Venice, Ca
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Apr 10, 2008 - 02:32pm PT
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The palm at the end of the mind,
Rising in the bronze decor . . .
JL
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Ed Hartouni
Trad climber
Livermore, CA
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Apr 11, 2008 - 09:22am PT
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Boo, Forever
Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I'm haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.
Richard Brautigan
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Ed Hartouni
Trad climber
Livermore, CA
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Apr 11, 2008 - 09:24am PT
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Soul Kitchen
Well, the clock says it's time to close now,
I guess I'd better go now,
I'd really like to stay here all night.
The cars crawl past all stuffed with eyes,
Street lights share their hollow glow,
Your brain seems bruised with numb surprise,
Still one place to go,
Still one place to go.
Let me sleep all night in your soul kitchen,
Warm my mind near your gentle stove.
Turn me out and I'll wander baby,
Stumblin' in the neon groves.
Well, your fingers weave quick minarets
Speak in secret alphabets
I light another cigarette,
Learn to forget, learn to forget,
Learn to forget, learn to forget.
Let me sleep all night in your soul kitchen,
Warm my mind near your gentle stove.
Turn me out and I'll wander baby,
Stumblin' in the neon groves.
Oh, yeah…
Well, the clock says it's time to close now,
I know I have to go now,
I really want to stay here
All night, all night, all night.
Jim Morrison
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Ed Hartouni
Trad climber
Livermore, CA
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Apr 11, 2008 - 09:27am PT
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from Milton...
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide
Doth God exact day labour, light denied?
I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.
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MisterE
Social climber
My Inner Nut
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Apr 11, 2008 - 09:39am PT
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Here's a couple of mine:
Storm-Driven
Rain cast against us
in head-on storm -
rain castanets
Jazzy,
on roof and hood
pounding steel drum beat.
Wind raves
in waves,
tearing, slamming in staccato beat
Studded tires pound on pavement
keeping frenetic backbeat.
Wipers skip and slosh,
cooling savage tempo
Rain cast against us
in head-on storm
for days and days
we rage to the beat
Ode to Blackberry
Wandering, prickly
insistent force.
Arms bleeding, lips stained:
no remorse.
Chance to dance,
enjoy your fruit
you: never mistaken as
a bearer “cute”.
Telling of battle wounds
wit blackened teeth,
living stories
of reward and grief.
Berries enticing:
plump in the sun.
Price of sweetness
paid in blood.
You ask no quarter
and give not much.
Simple lessons
of taste and touch.
Always surviving
to fight you is futility!
Strong surviving,
your art is utility.
Hail well! Hail Merry!
Bush with the push,
hale berry!
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survival
Big Wall climber
A Token of My Extreme
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Apr 11, 2008 - 09:53am PT
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Nice poems everyone!
The desert quiet overwhelms me
the lost and lonely places, quiet
the scent of juniper and sage, drifting
roasting, freezing and all swings between
the rocks are speaking with the wind, moaning
the awesome terrible beauty astounds me
the quiet
the quiet
the quiet
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Mtnmun
Trad climber
Top of the Mountain Mun
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Apr 17, 2008 - 12:20pm PT
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Fix" by Alicia Suskin Ostriker, from No Heaven. © University of Pittsburgh Press, 2005
Fix
The puzzled ones, the Americans, go through their lives
Buying what they are told to buy,
Pursuing their love affairs with the automobile,
Baseball and football, romance and beauty,
Enthusiastic as trained seals, going into debt, struggling —
True believers in liberty, and also security,
And of course sex — cheating on each other
For the most part only a little, mostly avoiding violence
Except at a vast blue distance, as between bombsight and earth,
Or on the violent screen, which they adore.
Those who are not Americans think Americans are happy
Because they are so filthy rich, but not so.
They are mostly puzzled and at a loss
As if someone pulled the floor out from under them,
They'd like to believe in God, or something, and they do try.
You can see it in their white faces at the supermarket and the gas station
— Not the immigrant faces, they know what they want,
Not the blacks, whose faces are hurt and proud —
The white faces, lipsticked, shaven, we do try
To keep smiling, for when we're smiling, the whole world
Smiles with us, but we feel we've lost
That loving feeling. Clouds ride by above us,
Rivers flow, toilets work, traffic lights work, barring floods, fires
And earthquakes, houses and streets appear stable
So what is it, this moon-shaped blankness?
What the hell is it? America is perplexed.
We would fix it if we knew what was broken.
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Wade Icey
Trad climber
www.alohashirtrescue.com
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Apr 17, 2008 - 12:38pm PT
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"Dream."
"..Takuan the old rustic abruptly took up the brush."
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Norwegian
Trad climber
Placerville, California
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 17, 2008 - 12:54pm PT
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i wrote this one on the inside cover of my sierra classics guidebook.
there's right now out there,
a beautiful mind beneath the stars,
of someone who knows the truth and glimpses the answer.
of someone who looks inward in awe, and outward in wonder.
of someone who knows that this knowingness and understanding
cannot be recorded or captured for others to behold.
this is the everything that the one things comprise, and it is
not to be held.
his position that exact moment beneath the stars showed him the answer.
as he steps away, that knowingness once again becomes confusion, and this confusion
re-inspires the wonder that will lead him again one day to the dwelling place of transient wisdom.
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Festus
Social climber
Enron by the Sea
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Apr 17, 2008 - 01:17pm PT
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Back in the eighties I had a professor for a British Lit class named Thomas Aninger who, upon beginning a session on poetry said:
"Americans don't read poetry. To the extent they read at all, they read novels."
I've always remembered that, and though it probably doesn't apply as well to the ST group, I think it's truer than ever in general.
I went on to get a degree in English Lit, but, uh, speaking for myself: Guilty as charged.
I've read just enough good poetry to have, at best, a slight if all-too-ill-informed appreciation (and the ability to sometimes mine cheap laughs with half-ass parodies of it). My loss, I'm pretty damn sure...so keep the recommendations coming. For instance, I love Bukowski's short stories but I've never read his poetry. Am I missing out?
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Willoughby
Social climber
Truckee, CA
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Apr 17, 2008 - 01:52pm PT
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...I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world...
Now, am I the only one who appreciates limericks? This month's halfway over; time to sully this thread yet? Here's a variation on one George Carlin used to do:
There once was a Bishop from Birmingham,
Who buttered two nuns while confirming 'em.
They lifted the frock,
And tickled the c*#k,
While he pumped his Episcopal sperm in 'em.
But up spoke the lady from Kew,
And said, as the Bishop withdrew,
"The vicar was quicker
And thicker and slicker,
And longer and stronger than you."
Different format, but here's another personal favorite, courtesy of Gil Scott-Heron:
A rat done bit my sister Nell,
with Whitey on the moon.
Her face and arms began to swell,
and Whitey's on the moon.
I can't pay no doctor bills,
but Whitey's on the moon.
Ten years from now I'll be payin' still,
while Whitey's on the moon.
You know, the man just upped my rent last night,
'cause Whitey's on the moon.
No hot water, no toilets, no lights,
but Whitey's on the moon.
I wonder why he's uppin' me.
'cause Whitey's on the moon?
Well I was already givin' him fifty a week,
and now Whitey's on the moon.
Taxes takin' my whole damn check.
The junkies makin' me a nervous wreck.
The price of food is goin' up.
And as if all that crap wasn't enough,
A rat done bit my sister Nell,
with Whitey on the moon.
Her face and arms began to swell,
and Whitey's on the moon.
Was all that money I made last year
for Whitey on the moon?
How come there ain't no money here?
(Hmm! Whitey's on the moon)
You know I just about had my fill
of Whitey on the moon.
I think I'll send these doctor bills,
Airmail special
to Whitey on the moon.
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Apr 18, 2008 - 01:13am PT
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hey there:
CLIMBING AND MINING, IS THE NAME OF THE GAME…
ALTHOUGH, I DO NOT PLAY IT, AS YOU DO, QUITE THE SAME:
The ol’ path is smooth, unpadded dirt before me…
Or perhaps ‘tis fresh meadow grass, untouched, I see…
My heart moves me forward, though, to places yet unseen…
My heart travels more-so, moving onward…
As if part of the force within a herd…
It comes from my spirit, and a phrase, or even, just from a tiny word…
“Move with what is set before thee”…
And there it stands, looming higher still, the closer I approach what there do-be…
It is to be climbed, first as a hill, and then as the foundation’s built-up rock, that stands now higher than any nearby tree…
To climb, it is—yes, it now must be climbed—it is to climb…
Though not like my friends do, shall I climb—as for them, they press-on upon the rocks, they do a’find…
You see, it my spirit yearning to learn-and-grow within this world, and to do the work, that unfolds to be mine…
Yet—that is “heart and sou”l of the climber—to learn and grow, as one feels the magnificence of the massive “structure of challenge”…
It is to know our strength and even our weakness, up there upon the mighty fortress’s “fringe”…
And dare I say, it can surely make one cringe…
But through the climb, whether it be mine, or yours…
Our heart pours-out for more-and-more…
Why, to be able to feel the “pull of the quest”, and even the feel of the “structure’s best ore”…
Whether it be rock, or our life’s personal goals…
It makes us feel whole…
To conquer each quest that we climb, and that taste of victory, upon each high-in-the-sky knoll…
It makes us bow in awe…
At all we have pressed-on to meet, most raw…
Yes, it has now become part of our foundation, and now too, part of who we be and are…
Yes, to climb-it is to climb…
The path we have in life, so fine…
Yet, only those that hit the rocks and love them, and are intimate with each crack and line…
Ever understand the power that unfolds, when we’re earnestly building ourselves…
Since life’s highest goals only come from moving upward in character, as one deeper delves…
Yep—‘tis one of the “mysteries of contradiction”, it appears, as this I do a’tells…
Yep, climbing high and feeling the obstacles, and feeling the rock…
And taking our challenge of life’s path, no matter the block…
Take one to also set one’s soul to mine DEEP DOWN—what a shock...!
Yet, looking back, I’m sure you’ll all see…
The inner treasure we’ve learned of, that was hidden, in us, you see…
And all because we dared to climb, and let none stop us, no matter what be…
© From Neebeeshaabookway…
This April 18th day…
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Raydog
Trad climber
Boulder Colorado
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Apr 18, 2008 - 01:22am PT
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survival
Big Wall climber
A Token of My Extreme
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Apr 18, 2008 - 01:43am PT
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Syyyyyyyylvia!!!
Johnny Panic And The Bible Of Dreams......ho man!
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WandaFuca
Gym climber
San Fernando Lamas
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Apr 18, 2008 - 01:50am PT
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Water
It was a Maine lobster town—
each morning boatloads of hands
pushed off for granite
quarries on the islands,
and left dozens of bleak
white frame houses stuck
like oyster shells
on a hill of rock,
and below us, the sea lapped
the raw little match-stick
mazes of a weir,
where the fish for bait were trapped.
Remember? We sat on a slab of rock.
From this distance in time
it seems the color
of iris, rotting and turning purpler,
but it was only
the usual gray rock
turning the usual green
when drenched by the sea.
The sea drenched the rock
at our feet all day,
and kept tearing away
flake after flake.
One night you dreamed
you were a mermaid clinging to a wharf-pile,
and trying to pull
off the barnacles with your hands.
We wished our two souls
might return like gulls
to the rock. In the end,
the water was too cold for us.
Robert Lowell
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Karl Baba
Trad climber
Yosemite, Ca
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Apr 18, 2008 - 02:30am PT
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From
http://www.yosemiteclimber.com/CravenClimbingPoem.html
THE CRAVEN
Once upon a rockclimb dreary, while I floundered, weak and weary,over many hard and crimpy moves that almost made me soar.
While I trembled, nearly crapping,
suddenly I dreamt of rapping,
instead of falling, arm’s a flapping,
rapping to the valley floor.
"Let’s bail this epic" thus I muttered,
"let’s rap right to the valley floor!"
"Only bail, and climb no more!"
Ah, distinctly I remember,
it was in the bleak September,
And each separate, desperate pitch,
kicked my ass upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;
vainly I had fought to follow
Splintered cracks that caused me sorrow,
but not my partner Leonard.
The bold and well-honed cranker
whom the devil named Leonard,
fearless here forevermore.
And the sickened, churning brewing,
of my guts before their spewing,
filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart,
I stood repeating,
"Let us get our butts retreating!
Rap down to the valley floor!'—
Deep into that abyss peering,
long I stood there, gripping, fearing,
Visualizing screamers no-one ever whipped before;
Come on Dude, let’s save our asses!
This is not Grandes Jorasses!"
the only other word I mentioned
was my frenzied plea for "Tension!"
This I yelled, and his echo countered back,
the word I feared he said was "Slack!"
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back up to the belay turning,
all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I dreamt of rapping,
to save my life and pants from crapping,
rap down to the valley floor.
Finally then I made the belay,
when, with hardly any delay,
Up there climbed my macho partner
of the old school days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he;
not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with quiet disdain,
he clipped into the bolt belay,
Perched upon a ledge of shale,
mocking me in my dark hell,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this old hardman was frowning,
at the fear in which I was drowning,
By the grave and stern decorum
of the countenance he wore,
"Though your chest is ripped and hairy,
why must we do climbs so scary?
Ghastly, grim, and ancient wall rat,
living like a climbing whore?!"
"Tell me what your ego game is,
on Grade V’s with rock this poor?"
Quote my Partner, "One pitch more!"
"Bullshit!" said I, "the climb is evil!
Bullshit still, if sport or traditional!
If we send this climb or rap and bail,
hang on gear, or aid and nail,
Desolate and fully daunted,
this is not the fun I wanted!--
On this climb by horror haunted,
tell me truly, I implore,--
Are there -- Are there -- brews in store?
tell me,--tell me, I implore!"
Quote my partner, "One pitch more!"
"Bullshit!" said I, "the climb is evil!
Bullshit still, if sport or traditional!
I’m quite finished, no more pitches!,
I won’t climb with sons of bitches,
Tell this soul with sorrow weary,
what’s so fun in flail and fearing?
Will you score a red-hot maiden,
just by climbing like a whore?
No one here will even pay us, greet us, like us,
much less lay us!"
Quote my partner, "One pitch more!"
And my partner, never flinching,
his stubborn buttocks still is sitting,
on the belay ledge, far above the valley floor;
I had to leave his ass up there,
I lost my mind, was so damn scared,
And the headlamp from him streaming
throws light upon the valley floor;
I took my rope and rack to bail,
just survive, admit I flailed,
and I rapped down to the valley floor.
I hope his eyes will see the morrow,
and that SAR his chalk will follow,
and yet I hope and pray
that his vengeance won’t be sore.
If I offer some repentance,
I already hear his sentence,
to amend for rapping down,
after climbing once so poor.
He will get me on the sharp end,
if I want to make his amends,
he’ll demand and I will quote him,
we will just climb "One Pitch More"
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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J.B.
I have lain with you
In fields of flowers
On mountain tops beneath
The murmuring sky
Even on the granite slabs
Heated by the sun
Never feeling prick nor bite
Nor hardness beneath
But only joy above face
Shadowed by sun haloed head
And now you are dead.
I loved you and I love you still’
As you were and are for always
On the rocks and hills
Of memory. Good bye my Jim
Goodbye.
--Hope Meeks (RIP)
(Published in the S.F. Sierra Club mag, Yodeler)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Limericks have their place.
There once was a poet named Bermingham
Whose rhymes all amounted to something like spam
He wrote little ditties
On his lady's titties
And engraved an epic poem on a very wide cam
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