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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Aug 30, 2011 - 12:29pm PT
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"Wanderer, who are you? I see you go your way without scorn, without love, with unfathomable eyes; moist and sad as a sounding-lead that has returned to the light unsated from every deep -- what was it looking for down there? -- with a breast that does not sigh, with a lip that hides in disgust, with a hand which now reaches out slowly: who are you? what have you done? Repose here: this place is hospitable to everyone -- refresh yourself! And whoever you may be: what would you like now? What will refresh you? You have only to name it: whatever I have I offer you! Refreshment? Refreshment? O inquisitive man what are you saying! But please give me What? What? Say it! One more mask! A second mask..."
Not my own poetry
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Aug 30, 2011 - 12:32pm PT
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"Your ideas are terrifying and your hearts are faint. Your acts of pity and cruelty are absurd, committed with no calm, as if they were irresistible. Finally, you fear blood more and more. Blood and time."
Not my own poetry
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drljefe
climber
El Presidio San Augustin del Tucson
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I like that one Donald.
Some nice imagery, and I always appreciate place names in poetry for some reason.
Tony, thanks for posting those poems, and your opinion/perspective.
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survival
Big Wall climber
A Token of My Extreme
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Well I'm no poet, but I enjoy reading everyone's great stuff here!
And sometimes I enjoy playing with words, deep in the night.
Funny when I'm there
the mind wanders
to things unrelated
to the place.
My eye wanders
and the mind wonders.
Quiet evening shadow
under the ancient stone,
a twisted old piece
of barbwire
pierces the sand
and whistles a tune.
Tired voices
of bygone times
filter near the ground.
in the back of my mind
sounds of the city.
An old chevy rumbles
and the sounds of
Los Lobos
echo on the breeze
I want to be back
in the Ojito.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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"Screech owls moan in the yellowing
Mulberry trees. Field mice scurry,
Preparing their holes for winter.
Midnight,we cross an old battlefield.
The moonlight shines cold on white bones."
Not my own poetry
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HuecoRat
Trad climber
NJ
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I wrote this for my wife years ago, after a trip that included an ascent of the Triple Direct on El Cap, and several alpine routes on the way back home.
REWARDS
In those peaceful times
When adventure is past
And reflection becomes possible
My thoughts drift
Across the miles
Or across the room
To where you are
And I struggle to understand
What it is that draws me to
Desolate, high places
Of wind and stone and stars
That compels me
To suffer, to strain
To subject myself
To the extreme conditions
That belong to adventure
When all the while
It keeps me away
From the comforts and joys
That life with you brings
I try to weigh the value
Of the elusive rewards of adventure
To compare them with
The very real treasures
I possess in you
And I conclude
That days in your company
Are worth far more
Than anything I might discover
In the wild
So I return home
With my bruised and lacerated body
And my torn and calloused hands
Promising myself with each twinge and ache
That I will never again wander
From you presence
Holding firmly to the passion
That weaves our lives together
Slowly I begin to tumble
Through the pattern of our days
The edges chiseled by a harsher
Way of life
Becoming more and more gentle
My character increasingly refined
And reshaped by our time together
Time ebbs and flows
Around us, over us, through us
And on a peaceful afternoon
When reflection becomes possible
A restless spirit stirs within me
Responding with increasing urgency
To the siren call of adventure
And I know that I must go
For one of the rewards
That I find
Amid ice and stone
And the broad expanse of the sky
Is you
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drljefe
climber
El Presidio San Augustin del Tucson
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I sometimes feel a rush of air
on my back when I wear this shirt
and low light on the adobe plays with the
soft songs from last May or the May before.
And visited again with the smell of spanish rice
with the kitchen dark and oven being cold.
Card stock notes with a slant to the writing used
as bookmarks in a dusty novel that fall
out when I arrange the shelves just so.
Evening gravel arrival in the driveway, then
heels and the happiness of a wagging tail, the energy moves from the outside in and
she is here again, only in the way
a ghost moves without effort from room to room,
barely defined.
The frames hang just slightly crooked now, after I made sure they were straight,
she has been here again, maybe
just in that rush of air.
9.4.11
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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HuecoRat and drljefe. Very nice.
You can compare yourself to the author of this any day:
"In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.
Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On me alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down."
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Leggs
Sport climber
Downtown, Tucson
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Beautiful and haunting, Jefe ...
One for you
that you're familiar with
from the first May
when we met:
"Your Feet", by Pablo Neruda
When I can not look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your gentle weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the double purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
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Leggs
Sport climber
Downtown, Tucson
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And now
that I have Neruda
on the brain
The first I'd read
of his
that touched me
and got me
back to writing
and hopefully
sharing with strangers ...
"Poetry", by Pablo Neruda
And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
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Leggs
Sport climber
Downtown, Tucson
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Okay, sharing with strangers ... the first step.
A poem I wrote back in 2001
with Darcy on my mind
as she battled addiction
and I watched her
lose her way ...
Another Line, by LM
My pursuit of destruction
rises early on Friday
as I stir from
Klonopin induced sleep.
My head's lethargic
as scattered thoughts
weave cloudy trails
like cobwebs
in the corners of my house.
It's 7am
as I count money in my head
Planning, scheming
Planning, plotting
on getting that sh#t
that shoots me high and straight
to a stranger's bed
his nasty sheets and soiled walls
like the No-Tell-Motel
on a Tuesday night.
I'll draw the line
then do another
I'll forfeit self respect
then do another
I'll sacrifice true friends
then do another
I'll isolate
with ten of my closest friends
who lack dignity, respect, and self-worth
then do another
to delude myself
for yet another day...
I'll cross the line
then do another.
~I have no idea what happened to Darcy ... but I hope she found peace in the end.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
Placerville, California
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the peace that i know and author
squints this way and that,
in repsonse to
the blinding rays of real life.
peace is not limited to:
sitting cross legged, naked, nekid, nekid;
no expression across the lips,
eyes content with one vision,
and one vision alone.
peace also entails:
screaming dis-ease.
frantic blinks of surrender and panic.
lonliness and fear.
pain and suffering.
these things are also,
part of peace.
peace is lovely,
and sometimes, peace is pissed-off.
some addicts are drug through peace.
some addicts dance to, upon and away from peace.
peace is not enjoyed,
not arrived at.
peace, like everything,
is endured.
regret no one their's journey, no matter how ill it appears.
their peace is theirs,
your peace is yours,
and my peace weaves in and out of it's own disaster.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Leggs,
That is a very good start, go on and polish the poem and work at the ending. Here are some words you can use or not:
My hands are nailed
as I enter the cross
staring into the eyes
of the angel of death
Do you want me now?
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Leggs
Sport climber
Downtown, Tucson
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^^ Marlow, thank you for the input ... That was 10 years ago, and I hope i've "improved" since then.
Seems, since then, i've put my poetry to music, and made them into songs...
More to share in the future...
~peace, LM
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drljefe
climber
El Presidio San Augustin del Tucson
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Thanks for the Neruda, leggs, my lobster.
Your poem too. You HAVE improved and your music is incredible.
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HuecoRat
Trad climber
NJ
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Sep 10, 2011 - 06:56pm PT
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Sometimes I turn to show
or to share
or to tell
and I am surprised
to find myself alone
because
sometimes
I forget that
you're gone
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Norwegian
Trad climber
Placerville, California
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Sep 10, 2011 - 07:32pm PT
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poetry don't float.
it sinks with the soal
that's heavy as coul.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
Placerville, California
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Sep 10, 2011 - 07:36pm PT
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...and the heavens applaud with claps of thunder...
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Sep 11, 2011 - 10:09am PT
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"With heart at rest I climbed the citadel's steep height
Looked down upon the city as from a tower
Hospital, brothel, prison and such hells
Where evil comes up softly like a flower."
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Sep 11, 2011 - 10:09am PT
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"Whore and monk, we sleep
under one roof together,
moon in a field of clover"
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