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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 23, 2013 - 07:29pm PT
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Lament for a Dead Cow
Beautiful was Wetu as a blue shadow
That nests on the grey rocks
About a sunbaked hilltop;Her coat was black and shiny
Like an isipingo-berry;
Her horns were as sharp as the horns of the new moon
That tosses aloft the evening star;Her round eyes were as clear and soft
As a mountain pool,
Where shadows dive from the high rocks.
--Francis Carey Slater
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Sep 24, 2013 - 02:15pm PT
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Not a poem, but prose about storytelling and poetry is often (if not always?) about telling some kind of story:
“When you are in the middle of a story it isn’t a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It’s only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else.”
― Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace
Apropos with this crowd, because she is basically describing the genesis of any good climbing story.
Eric
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Sep 24, 2013 - 02:20pm PT
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"You told me once you believed in God.
The old man waved his hand. Maybe, he said...Oh I'd like to see him if I could.
What would you say to him?
Well,...And then I'm goin to ast him: What did you have me in that crapgame down there for anyway? I couldn't put any part of it together.
Suttree smiled. What do you think he'll say?
The ragpicker spat and wiped his mouth. I don't believe he can answer it, he said. I don't believe there is an answer."
CMC
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Sep 24, 2013 - 02:22pm PT
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"We were the leopards, the lions.
Those who replace us will be the jackals, the hyenas.
And all of us, leopards, lions, jackals and sheep will continue to think we're the salt of the earth."
Il Gattopardo
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Sep 24, 2013 - 04:45pm PT
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Well Grounded
Every time I turn around
Another climber’s in the ground.
If I fall and die today
Please don’t let them hear you say:
“He died doing what he loved.”
Because I hate falling!
MFM
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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An Ode to Nighthawks
I blindly and bravely accept
my inglorious, heroic fate
forcibly tethered to this marine layer morning
of American flapjacks
and ancient retirees
discussing doctor visits
in the leathery booth next door.
I can hear that uncertain future
speechless as the grey undertow
of low running fog
and listless pancakes
staring back at me
with the eyes
of two over-easy eggs
I am still that American breakfast
embodied in my own corner diner
set against the shivering winds of change
wrapped within uncertain renewals
cast beneath Hooper's long-recalled shadow
the shape of an eternally hungry nighthawk
who once chanced never to sleep
W.T.
"Nighthawks"
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Hah! "never to sleep"
...
Thanks, Chongo, for the update, at speed of light or any rate.
See, I met him in the dinner line. He and I, we got along fine.
Diagnostic--Atheistic
= Egotistic
So polite, nothing caustic
Just a cosmic joke
And a rolled-up smoke
Between new playmates
There's no ending to the universe
Just a vast stanza of a poem to be completed
Whenever
Infinity happens
Alone &/or Together
Who cares who or what created it besides Chongo and you others?
"Never say whenever never again."
That's what they may say that they told him to tell you.
Don't let them sell you on that, my friend.
So he shut up and he didn't shut down
And Mum's the WordStill
And Bob's Your Uncle
And he's a garage mechanic
Which makes him a grease monkey.
This is getting slippery...
As if I'm trapping myself on scree
I'll be your mimimonkey's uncle for you
If you'll just wake me the hell up and
Am I even on belay?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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MUTHA OF COUNTIES: A RAP FOR MARIPOSA
The mutha of counties
Sent a battalion of mounties
To arrest a outlaw MiWok
Who just refused to work
For the evil man of the age
(No friend of ‘the savage’)
Known as Ten Hiya
Who thought to himself, as he climbed higher
Good-byeah
See ya hiya
In the skyeah
Over to Mono
I got ta go now
See ya ‘roun’
Ya whitey clown
Takin’ a day’s rest
Peaceably avoidin’ arrest
When up pops whitey
From behind this big pine tree
“Hands in the air!”
I tried not to stare
His hands were so shakin’
I thought, “Cook my bacon”
So I carefully arose
Along came mo’ white hoes
Just howlin’ with glee
And all yellin’ at me.
I just smiled and grinned
They had me strung and skinned.
Hmph...what pork and beef does for a body
Illusions of mastery
With no visions of mystery
Can’t keep it up but it won’t go down
Why does he think I think he’s a whitey clown?
The jokes on him, I must predict
See, he believes he’s got us licked
Let him think his thoughts ‘n’ show how wrong’s his creed
In time his kids will curse him for his nasty greed.
Then the mighty circle will close up and sing
And we will dance nightly in it, just my thing.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Sullly.
It must have been a hard life, but loved by the poets:
"The islands have had an influence on world literature and arts disproportionate to their size. The unusual cultural and physical history of the islands has made them the object of visits by a variety of writers and travellers who recorded their experiences. Beginning around the late 19th Century, many Irish writers travelled to the Aran Islands; Lady Gregory, for example, came to Aran in the late nineteenth century to learn Irish. At the start of the 20th century and throughout his life one of Ireland's leading artists, Seán Keating, spent time every year on the islands translating on to canvas all the qualities that make the inhabitants of these Atlantic Islands so unusual and in many respects remarkable.
Many wrote of their experiences in a personal vein, alternately casting them as narratives about finding, or failing to find, some essential aspect of Irish culture that had been lost to the more urban regions of Ireland. A second, related kind of visitor were those who attempted to collect and catalog the stories and folklore of the island, treating it as a kind of societal "time capsule" of an earlier stage of Irish culture. Visitors of this kind differed in their desires to integrate with the island culture, and most were content to be considered observers. The culmination of this mode of interacting with the island might well be Robert J. Flaherty's 1934 classic documentary Man of Aran.
One might consider John Millington Synge's The Aran Islands as a work that straddles these first two modes, it being both a personal account and also an attempt at preserving information about the pre- (or a-) literate Aran culture in literary form. The motivations of these visitors are best exemplified by W. B. Yeats' advice to Synge: "Go to the Aran Islands, and find a life that has never been expressed in literature.""
OT: There's climbing there too (a great link): http://wiki.climbing.ie/index.php/Aran_Islands
About Inishmore:
"The island is in essence one huge limestone crag, with almost 20kms of coastline offering a wide variety of climbing styles covering all grades. The Northeast side of the island is quite low lying but does contain a number of extremely high quality crags up to 10m high nestled in between the numerous beaches and coves. The nature of these outcrops ideally suits them to bouldering, with good level landings, a predominantly overhanging style of climbing and solid top-outs.
At the other end of the spectrum is the Southwest length of the isle, which rises to heights of over 80m in sheer cliff faces and runs continuously from north to south. Until recently the majority of the climbing development on the island was undertaken by visitors from England and Wales due to the intimidating nature of the crags, with only very few routes being established by Irish climbers. 35 or so of these early, pioneering routes were included in the Burren Guidebook published in 1997 by the MCI. The grades of these routes centres mainly around the mid “E” grades with an upper limit at present of E6. These grades were not however a true reflection of the range of climbing on the island, rather more a display of the strength and ability of the climbers who took the time to pursue these new and quite bold lines rather than the more obvious and attainable lower-grade climbs. Since those early explorations of the island, development has been slow and sporadic with handfuls of lines being done in different areas, giving dense pockets of routes dispersed along the coastline. The tendency seems to be to find a previously unclimbed area that suits a personal climbing style and blitz it of it’s obvious classic lines and then move on.
The climbing itself ranges from long exposed multi pitch lines to short, sharp single pitch routes all on good limestone. Stepped Overhangs and impressive sheer walls abound, with most of the established routes taking devious lines of weakness through this improbable terrain. Protection is solid where found, although quite often sparse due to the compacted nature of the limestone. All current routes have been climbed in the traditional Adventure climbing style and only very few routes contain pegs (sometimes placed on lead and by this stage untrustworthy). Another feature of the island is a number of huge and seriously overhanging amphitheatres, which at first seem reminiscent of Muckros head, Donegal until you notice the lack of natural protection available. These will absorb a lot of time and effort (and maybe even bolts!) before they start to release lines, all of which look spectacular and at or above the upper limit of the climbing currently established in Ireland to date (but possible none the less…. What can I say, I’m an optimist!)."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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The poetry itself ranges from long, boring passages to short, stacatto giggles, done by a soloist off-stage, which is difficulty defined since it’s a theater in the round. Two-part harmony and impressive arias abound, with most of the wingnuts assigned to the asylum’s private caged boxes. Protection from slander is sold at the ticket office, and needed. The compacted nature of the projectiles commands you wear a helmet and a thick sweater or even two.
All current routines have been unrehearsed for as long as time is old. The redpoint is honored and sacred, but topropes are cool, if you have a good anchor and don’t mind if we use it, too, while you’re rigged? Okay?
What can’t I say? I’m not just another optimist half-full of doubt.
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L
climber
California dreamin' on the farside of the world..
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If I must be wrung through the paradox,
—broken into wholeness,
wring me around the moon;
pelt me with particles from the dark side.
Fling me into space;
hide me in a black hole.
Let me dance with devils on dead stars.
Let my scars leave brilliant traces,
for my highborn soul seeks its hell—
in high places.
Individuation by Avah Pevlor Johnson
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2013 - 03:45pm PT
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"I'll have a Philip Glass of iced tea, please.
Lots of ice, too, thanks."
Water You and I?
We all spring from the same well-head
We all have water in us.
It’s the stuff of life, if not the staff.
I suppose God holds the key.
He’s the conductor of this water music.
O, the water,
O, the water,
It’s given to us for free.
Except for Evian, Perrier, Glacier, and the other glass- and plastic-sellers.
They can’t really sell the H20, so they have to charge for the containers.
It's not like they can just whizz the product right to you out of the air.
Not yet, anyway.
Someday, Jack and Jill won't have to climb the hill.
The water will be right there!
O gee,
Golly gee,
No more broken crowns, Jack!
I have some water inside me right now that was born in Yosemite.
That is, it came down and landed there from its airborne journey.
And it may have run off the South Face of Half Dome.
It may have made the cruise down the Merced to the Nevada and Vernal Falls.
Then it may have been drunk by a deer or by a deer mouse.
Then, who knows? Have I acted rashly in drinking wildlife pee?
O, deer,
O, deer,
What can the water be?
Decades ago, my great-grandfather may have peed that same water.
It may have landed up on the ballast of the Southern Pacific up by Dunsmuir.
From there it may have run into the Sacramento River.
And into the body of a big trout which spawned.
And its babies may have produced roe which produced trout in the Merced.
Cycle, recycle.
Recycled water is all I am.
You may have me in you.
I hope I have you in me.
It’s a warm feeling.
Now I gotta go.
Pee ya later.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 12, 2013 - 05:02pm PT
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The Moldau. My favorite in the whole wide world.
Takk.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Oct 13, 2013 - 06:41am PT
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When I last worked, it was for Jim Barnett at the used book store on Main.
He has a son named James Patrick who spent a lot of time in Prague.
He's fluent in Praguian and can spik a lil Russion.
He's married to a beautiful medical student from Beylorus.
He told me of the Infant Jesus of Prague.
I'd heard of this as a Papal Catholic for years, but never learned anything about the Infant.
I looked it up on Wiki.
And so can thee, thou.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Infant_Jesus_of_Prague
When Jesus was a baby
He was a stinking Jew.
They put Him on his cross
For He was Catholic, too.
You see, it's all about the orbis cruciger.
You can look that up on your own.
In which bishop's see do the Vlatava fish swim?
If you can answer that, I'll tell little Jim.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Oct 13, 2013 - 04:01pm PT
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"And on the far shore a creature that raised its dripping mouth from the rimstone pool and stared into the light with eyes dead white and sightless as the eggs of spiders. It swung its head low over the water as if to take the scent of what it could not see. Crouching there pale and naked and translucent, its alabaster bones cast up in shadow on the rocks behind it. Its bowel, its beating heart. The brain that pulsed in a dull glass bell. It swung its head from side to side and then gave out a low moan and turned and lurched away and loped soundlessly into the dark."
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