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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 22, 2013 - 04:13am PT
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The Great Phil Sentinel.The other day they waited
The sky was dark and faded
Solemnly they stated
He has to die
You know he has to die
And all the children learning
From books that they were burning
Every leaf was turning
To watch him die
You know he has to die
The summer sun looked down on him
His mother could but frown on him
And all the others sound on him
But it doesn't seem to matter
And when the day had ended
With rainbow colours blended
His mind remained unbended
He had to die
You know he had to die
You know he had to die
But they lost their arrows so he lived to climb another day. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ySRB_1Ls8hA
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 24, 2013 - 02:28pm PT
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He had to die, so post a reply.
Rick-ity tick-ity peel...
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Leggs
Sport climber
Home away from Home
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Mar 28, 2013 - 11:40pm PT
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A cherished friend shared this with me last night...
The Highwayman
By Alfred Noyes
PART ONE
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
PART TWO
He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
. . .
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Heartbreaking and beautiful... all at the same time.
*thanks, CXR*
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Fossil climber
Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
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Mar 31, 2013 - 08:16pm PT
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On Biological Terminology
Nomenclature, regardless of whether applied to organisms
vegetable, avian or mammalian,
Often involves Greek or Latin terms which are obscure,
arcane and sesquipedalian.
I find it possible to remember and even blithely to pronounce
The mellifluous and euphonious name of a bat called Myotis,
But I become dyslexic, dyspeptic and apoplectic
trying to recall and pronounce
The prickly polysyllabics of the sea urchin, Strongylocentrotus.
And as for biologic processes, why, the terminology borders on apocrypha!
For example, the strobilation of the scyphistoma
of the Cestoda and Coelenterata,
Which, by division of the larvae into segments,
produces multiple sons and daughta.
There must easier terms to use – or anyhow, there oughta.
WM
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.
~ Mary Oliver ~
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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I'll call your Mary Oliver with one Anne Sexton
THE FISH THAT WALKED
Up from oysters
and the confused weeds,
out from the tears of God,
the wounding tides, he came.
He became a hunter of roots
and breathed like a man.
He ruffled through the grasses
and became known to the sky.
I stood close and watched it all.
Beg pardon, he said
but you have skin divers,
you have hooks and nets,
so why shouldn’t I
enter your element for a moment?
Though it is curious here,
unusually awkward to walk.
It is without grace.
There is no rhythm
in this country of dirt.
And I said to him:
From some country
that I have misplaced
I can recall a few things...
but the light of the kitchen
gets in the way.
Yet there was a dance
when I kneaded the bread
there was a song my mother
used to sing...
And the salt of God’s belly
where I floated in a cup of darkness.
I long for your country, fish.
The fish replied:
You must be a poet,
a lady of evil luck
desiring to be what you are not,
longing to be
what you can only visit.
--Anne Sexton
and raise you one more Anne Sexton, Fletcher.
It's not a macho contest, just a speechy figure.
RIDING THE ELEVATOR INTO THE SKY
As the fireman said:
Don’t book a room over the fifth floor
in any hotel in New York.
They have ladders that will reach further
but no one will climb them.
As the New York Times said:
The elevator always seeks out
the floor of the fire
and automatically opens
and won’t shut.
These are the warnings
that you must forget
if you’re climbing out of yourself.
If you’re going to smash into the sky.
Many times I’ve gone past
the fifth floor,
cranking upward,
but only once have I gone all the way up.
Sixtieth floor: small plants and swans bending
into their grave.
Floor two hundred:
mountains with the patience of a cat,
silence wearing its sneakers.
Floor five hundred:
messages and letters centuries old,
birds to drink,
a kitchen of clouds.
Floor six thousand: the stars,
skeletons on fire,
their arms singing.
And a key,
a very large key,
that opens something--
some useful door--
somewhere--
up there.
--Anne Sexton
Leggs' selection is one of my all-time favorites from Childcraft volume #2.
I found the old illustrations, but there's not a direct link.
Yahoo search:
The Highwayman in childcraft encyclopedia
Click on the item:
The Highwayman - Plasma Dynamics Lab
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Not the Ultimate Haikus
Vision was a climb ascending the entire slab: inexpensive.
Toes experienced pressure that turns coal into gems. It hurt plenty.
Five, seven, and five.
Please, you should take it from here.
I can't count that high.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 10, 2013 - 10:07am PT
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In the Wild Rice
In the wild rice fields two rivers meet:
one from the north bears soil so fertile that the dead
grow
in their graves;
the other carries the cleaned bones
and empty skins
of animals that once lived
inside the mountain snows. When the sun goes,
these old friends stay outside
and exchange
stories of the past and the silent days
when being a river
was something to be proud of.
For warmth, they drink up their own gifts.
Now because they are drunk and tired
of the journey,
they lie down in their beds.
Friendship falls through the heavy water of sleep
like a stone.
--Gary Thompson
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 12, 2013 - 01:29am PT
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An Astonished Listener Hears the Radio Announcer Bat Out the Long Balls of Verbs, Nouns and Adjectives.
Swing on the cripple and hit the dying quail.
The roundhouse curve, the swell wrinkle, and the
Big dead fish all fail if the slugger
Rammycackles a liner over the advertising sign.
At the break of seven spasms take some of that
Good beer, for the Little Professor’s* at bat.
The sprayhitters are breaking out with
five o’clock lightning and the Old Casey the Cagey
Calls in a new repair man. It’s Cautious Joe!**
He’s deep down in the barrel and has to
Swim out of it, but boy he’s swimming!
Watch those fielders put on the chain,
Skid, gobble and throw. They know it’s
Hang tough and root hog or die and they want the
Poke ball hit in the well.
You never know in baseball
In the last gasp or never inning the veterans can
Wield the willow and play some beautiful tunes
On ancient fiddles.
Then the cripple and the
Dying quail and the big dead fish are all
Stashed in the deep freeze.
--James Schevill, old school poet, formerly a ‘Modern Poet”
*Dom Dimaggio
**Maybe, Joe Page, “The Gay Reliever.”
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 13, 2013 - 09:38am PT
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I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
I see a line of cars and they're all painted black
With flowers and my love, both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a newborn baby it just happens ev'ryday
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and it has been painted black
Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts
It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black
No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not forsee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the setting sun
My love will laugh with me before the morning comes
I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
Hmm, hmm, hmm...
Maybe I'll go up and see Ray.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 13, 2013 - 09:53am PT
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Colloquy in Black Rock
by Robert Lowell
Here the jack-hammer jabs into the ocean;
My heart, you race and stagger and demand
More blood-gangs for your nigger-brass percussions,
Till I, the stunned machine of your devotion,
Clanging upon this cymbal of a hand,
Am rattled screw and footloose. All discussions
End in the mud-flat detritus of death.
My heart, beat faster, faster. In Black Mud
Hungarian workmen give their blood
For the martyrs Stephen who was stoned to death.
Black Myd, a name to conjure with: O mud
For watermelons gutted to the crust,
Mud for the mole-tide harbor, mud for mouse,
Mud for teh armored Diesel fishing tubs that thud
A year and a day to wind and tide; the dust
Is on this skipping heart that shakes my house,
House of our Savior who was hanged till death.
My heart, beat faster, faster. In Black Mud
Stephen the martyre was broken down to blood:
Our ransom is the rubble of his death.
Christ walks on the black water. In Black Mud
Darts the kingfisher. On Corpus Christi, heart,
Over the drum-beat of St. Stephen's choir
I hear him, Stupor Mundi, and the mud
Flies from his hunching wings and beak--my heart,
he blue kingfisher dives on you in fire.
1946
I wonder what the heck Gary's up to today?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 13, 2013 - 10:04am PT
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Mercury
by Josephine Miles
Then have mercy upon me.
Let one who has no care,
Sees not me there,
Likes not if he sees
And would not had he care,
Have mercy upon me.
He is my black mercury
Against the world's glass
By which all figures come and pass
Fair as the are in their own loving sight.
He is the black night
That brings myself to the face of the glass.
In my indelibiity
Have mercy upon me, quick neutral who does me forget.
Stand not
Fast at the sheer glass of my life
To make my life myself.
B'lieve I'll go back home and find Stevie and call Ray, have him come over, too.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 19, 2013 - 12:46am PT
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Way Above Camp 4
In the talus forest
The oaks repeat the wind’s words
Over and over
Across the valley
Sentinel’s water falls down
In deep recesses
Sentinel itself
Is screened by whispering oaks
Who speak of Half Dome
It’s icy up there
Now no trees grow on its head
They’ve mostly been burned
It wasn’t lightning
Sheltering man has done this
Please take a lesson
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 20, 2013 - 10:37am PT
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EXPLODING MYTHS
Myth busters,
Cam busters,
Dam busters:
It’s all Grey Poupon.
To me.
Filibuster,
Attitude adjuster,
Blues by Duster:
Just sing The Beat Goes On.
For me.
La di dah di di,
Lad died dealing meth,
He asked for early death:
Inhaled from his dying breath, it's gone
In me.
Blonde climbers have more fun;
Only pansies climb five one;
It’s five seven now we’re done:
Let’s find a coffee shop.
On me.
--A. Crumbinallo
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Apr 20, 2013 - 11:48am PT
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Benny Andersen in translation. Mouse from Merced will not like the poem The Time at 04:05 or Spirit at 24:50.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Apr 20, 2013 - 11:55am PT
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Sailing To Byzantium
I
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
---Those dying generations---at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.
II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
W B Yeats
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 21, 2013 - 09:38pm PT
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BROKEN RADIO SIGNAL
I loved that little Sony-mine
and the sounds it had on offer.
It nearly died one day at T.I. in May 1968:
A near-fatal discharge under dishonorable conditions following a ground-fall.
Twelve feet to the ground left no doubt—that was all, it was gonna die.
I hope it didn’t suffer.
We were listening to some Zappa
when it got zapped.
It hung around, a one-antenna amputee,
mostly mute and seldom heard,
that later got lost in Yosemite.
Eventually.
If a radio signal dies in the forest and no one hears it, how does this affect the universe?
Heck of a question.
edit a Marlow: As a psa, the time is now officially gone. It was just a baby, too. This was reported in The Times. The time was when an obituary had more people who had time to read it. There is dead air on radio, which is the same as dead time.
I got no dime but I got some time to hear his story.--The Dead, one more time
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Apr 24, 2013 - 11:50am PT
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Well, it's that time of the year:
Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweþ sed and bloweþ med
And springþ þe wde nu,
Sing cuccu!
Awe bleteþ after lomb,
Lhouþ after calue cu.
Bulluc sterteþ, bucke uerteþ,
Murie sing cuccu!
Cuccu, cuccu, wel singes þu cuccu;
Ne swik þu nauer nu.
Sing cuccu nu. Sing cuccu.
Sing cuccu. Sing cuccu nu!
And for those of you not fluent in Middle English (where's a Hobbit when you need one?):
Summer has come in,
Loudly sing, Cuckoo!
The seed grows and the meadow
blooms
And the wood springs anew,
Sing, Cuckoo!
The ewe bleats after the lamb
The cow lows after the calf.
The bullock stirs, the stag farts,
Merrily sing, Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, well you sing,
cuckoo;
Don't ever you stop now,
Sing cuckoo now. Sing, Cuckoo.
Sing Cuckoo. Sing cuckoo now!
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