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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 22, 2014 - 08:35am PT
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I really only wanted to see how my home haircut turned out.I know how the Kalavela turns out.Poesis doctrinae tam quam somnium--poetry is like a dream of
philosophic love, says the deep-minded Francis Bacon. The
mythical imaginings of savages, those children of nature,
concerning the origins of existence often contain the seeds of a wisdom
which will find expression in the logical forms of a later age.
Philology and comparative religion are taking pains to penetrate
more and more deeply into the mythical origins of faith. Ancient
civilization is now being understood anew in the light of this
fundamental unity of poetry, esoteric doctrine, wisdom and
ritual.
The first thing we have to do to gain such an understanding is
to discard the idea that poetry has only an aesthetic function or
can only be explained in terms of aesthetics. In any flourishing,
living civilization, above all in archaic cultures, poetry has a
vital function that is both social and liturgical. All antique
poetry is at one and the same time ritual, entertainment, artistry,
riddle-making, doctrine, persuasion, sorcery, soothsaying,
prophecy, and competition. Practically all the motifs proper to
archaic ritual and poetry combined are to be found in the Third
Canto of the Finnish epic, the Kalevala. The old and wise
Vainam6inen enchants the young braggart who dares to challenge
him to a sorcery-contest. First they contend in the knowledge of
natural things, then in esoteric knowledge concerning the origins.
At this point young Oukahainen pretends that part of the
Creation was due to him; whereupon the old sorcerer sings him
into the earth, into the bog, into the water, and the water rises
to his waist, his armpits, then over his mouth until finally the
young man promises hiln his sister Aino. Only then does
Vainam6inen, sitting on the "stone of song", sing for another
three hours to withdraw his strong magic and disenchant the
reckless challenger. All the forms of contest we have mentioned
earlier are united in this exploit: the bragging-match, the
boasting-match, the "comparing of men", the competition in
cosmo gonic knowledge, the contest for the bride, the endurance
test, the ordeal-in one wild flight of poetic fancy.
from HOMO LUDENS by Huizinga
http://art.yale.edu/file_columns/0000/1474/homo_ludens_johan_huizinga_routledge_1949_.pdf
and thanks to Sierra Ledge Rat
Nawmean?Of course U NO.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 22, 2014 - 12:39pm PT
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"Playing the Poet"
The ritual of sharpening the pen and the wit.
The entertainment of watching a grown man act like a child and say stupid-sounding wise things.
The artistry of knowing when to pause for breath and how to create tension, causing listeners to squirm and their jaws to drop and older brows to wrinkle and then smile.
The making of riddles is questionable but then the answers are already true or partly so.
The inducktrination of stupid listeners is a form of mass persuasion, especially during the sermons to which we must listen on Sundays or Saturdays; some sermonizers speak to the heart with magical words.
It seems like it's sorcery but poetry is simply a constant way of thinking., consciously or not.
If it's soothsaying, time will tell. If it was not soothsaying, U would NO by now.
In prophecy lies profit, ultimately.
And don't let any competitions end in a draw, a form of art which is discussed in another thread (but with "real" images).
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Jan 23, 2014 - 03:54pm PT
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Great posts Mouse
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 23, 2014 - 09:07pm PT
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HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
FUNNY COUPLETS that i devised yesterday on the way to the forum
by versegood, last man alive on the planet
Shakespeare!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Bacon!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
EE CUMMINGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 30, 2014 - 08:45am PT
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lip gloss
by chucky choss
shave a lip
half a lip
half a lippa
upward
did he move sideward then up then side ward then up
have steppes all the way in winter, bud
bud, the breakfast of diedways champeens
hammered clean climbing
sets the bells to rhyming
but not no make that never
to the colors of the sound of ssssibilant sssstrewberry silentsss
black and white
slowly colorizes
chill thickens
on with ur millars
out the ur doors
out of that six-pack in ur pack
take another
it’s so frosty
now ur all toasty
let’s go play go & see
maybe wee can see mousee
on the travelling butteresssses
there he is
he looks up right
but it’s a fake
he’s going up and now left
he’s running baack baaack baaaack
and catches it fully stretched that hold nobody else seeessss
except in the snow in jersey
it's a bootball game not the leap
did u catch that
no u threw it
how did u do it
norwegians vs the larsons
our sons were tagged by a freeze safety
as they lay with the ball perfectly poised
on their left frickin’ palm
on a dike at the summit
peace and out mouse
game over
we still win because we were already ahead
by being dead
we had the moves from chuck
who threw that ball
we’re not really on the same team
the norskis and the idahoans
it’s just that it makes for a nicer dream
and in colors that shine like lip gloss
there is only wind
and never loss
when u play with chucky choss
to let him throw u let him go
he'll make the call
throw the ball
catch it too
a friendly dream
i got to wear his piss-yellow jersey
it made the hi-lites in their neon reel
to norwegian i kneel
u r my tebow
no i mean it
next time i will check down and throw u a crossing pattern left
no left then...
wait
u know
don't have to say more
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dry Goods
Dry Wells
Adjective tells
Adverb sells
Mouse's nose tells
Foot odor smells
Photo of socks drying in the bath after having had one, in cold water, not hot and no soap, just the hands.
Socks drying
Stars dying
Water loss
Who’s boss?
Mali crying
Dali sighing
First world buying
Third world trying
Never enough
Life’s just tough
And then you die
With your socks on
one hopes
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Yeah, we got it tough in Cliffornia with a drought, a shut down, a huge-ass fire, and high-speed rail a-comin'.
We ain't just a-hummin, Dixie.
We ain't the rest of the world, only a dinky (but wealthy as hell) state in a large country, with friendly neighbors, for now.
Eisenstadt Awards for best photojournalism, from the nineties, Life Magazine special.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Fiction, poetry, the lines often blur. I know. I'm a born-blind mouse, learning to see by saying, learning to be me by not straying too far from the bounds of...what is that thing? What the heck is that dang deal there?
Poetry. Lack of. Live love leave word when you get work as a writer. Then get a real job.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 24, 2014 - 01:13pm PT
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Chalk one up to Rudyard Kipling, talking about what became known as the "stiff upper lip." [Click to View YouTube Video]
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MisterE
climber
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What true climber
can even find that single moment
that defines
the divine
when every moment
every movement
is the refiner's fire
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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A Redneck Love Poem
Susie Lee done fell in love,
She planned to marry Joe.
She was so happy 'bout it all
She told her Pappy so.
Pappy told her, "Susie gal,
You'll have to find another.
I'd just as soon your ma don't know,
But Joe is yo' half-brother."
So Susie put aside her Joe
And planned to marry Will.
But after telling Pappy this,
He said, "There's trouble still.
"You can't marry Will, my gal,
And please, don't tell your mother,
But Will and Joe and several mo'
I know are yo' half-brother."
But Mama knew and said, "My child,
Just do what makes you happy.
So marry Will or marry Joe:
You ain't no kin to Pappy."
*snicker*
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 18, 2014 - 11:21pm PT
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The heavy brigades were designed as shock troops to break through enemy lines through force of momentum and terror, they tended to wear body armour of some description and scare the bejeezus out of the enemy.
The Light Brigade were designed for reconnaissance, communications, skirmishing and smaller scale actions.
{See Classical Music thread for the old favorite by Von Suppe.]
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Opposing Mars among the stars
Cantos, not cannon, are ours.
Algihieri aligns with love...
The planet Venus (the Morning and Evening Star) is traditionally associated with the Goddess of Love,
and so Dante makes this the planet of the lovers,
who were deficient in the virtue of temperance (Canto VIII):
"The world, when still in peril, thought that, wheeling,
in the third epicycle, Cyprian
the fair sent down her rays of frenzied love,
.. and gave the name of her
with whom I have begun this canto, to
the planet that is courted by the sun,
at times behind her and at times in front."[13]
Folquet de Marseilles [Falchetto] bemoans the corruption of the Church,
with the clergy receiving money from Satan (miniature by Giovanni di Paolo), Canto 9.
Dante meets Charles Martel of Anjou, who was known to him,[14]
and who points out that a properly functioning society requires people of many different kinds.
Such differences are illustrated by Cunizza da Romano (lover of Sordello), who is here in Heaven,
while her brother Ezzelino III da Romano is in Hell, among the violent of the seventh circle.[15]
The troubadour Folquet de Marseilles speaks of the temptations of love,
and points out that (as was believed at the time) the cone of the Earth's shadow just touches the sphere of Venus.
He condemns the city of Florence (planted, he says, by Satan) for producing that "damned flower" (the florin)
which is responsible for the corruption of the Church,
and he criticises the clergy for their focus on money,
rather than on Scripture and the writings of the Church Fathers (Canto IX):
"Your city, which was planted by that one
who was the first to turn against his Maker,
the one whose envy cost us many tears
produces and distributes the damned flower
that turns both sheep and lambs from the true course,
for of the shepherd it has made a wolf.
For this the Gospel and the great Church Fathers
are set aside and only the Decretals
are studied as their margins clearly show.
On these the pope and cardinals are intent.
Their thoughts are never bent on Nazareth,
where Gabriel's open wings were reverent."[16]
All Wiki, all the time.
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MisterE
climber
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Apr 20, 2014 - 01:05am PT
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Just wrote this one. It probably sucks, but sums up a lot of sh1t:
In my mind
I am already gone - once again.
How many times I have found Shangri La -
chased the dream, found and loved and languished in it
then lost it.
Fleeting though it is at times, once the heart is set
The resolution is only
a matter of time.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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"The Speech of the High One" from the Elder Saga
"I know I hung on that windy tree,
Swung there for nine long nights,
Wounded by my own blade,
Bloodied for Odin,
Myself an offering to myself:
Bound to the tree
That no man knows
Whither the roots of it run.
None gave me bread,
None gave me drink.
Down to the deepest depths I peered
Until I spied the Runes.
With a roaring cry I seized them up,
Then dizzy and fainting, I fell.
Well-being I won
And wisdom too.
I grew and took joy in my growth:
From word to a word
I was led to a word,
From a deed to another deed."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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SisterE,
"It probably sucks, but" are STupid Words.
"It's probably harder than I can climb, but" are not the words to use to begin a TR, either.
Scary things in the head only come out alone, in bunches, alive or dead,
If you chase them out with words, which is work, let's face it.
You are your father's daughter or you are nought.
I think you have a lot to offer poeti-Cali, mysti-Cali, climbacti-Cali. Just intuition.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Look Here
Look here, what you think you gon' be doin' next year
No lie, how you know you not gon' up and die
No doubt, soon enough your friends will find you out
Take care you know you might not have much time to spare
I say, how long have you acted up this way
What know, when you gonna get your own floor show
I'm hip, you could use a button on your lip
Look here, what you think you gon' be doin' next year?
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jgill
Boulder climber
Colorado
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An Ode to Meditation . . .
When seen through Zen
the world we know
from quantum flux
doth seem to flow
Just as the sun
sets on the seas
we watch in vain
as reason flees
The sleepers dream
and sit so still
while Earth succumbs
to those with will
Jake the Corgi ("I arf, therefor I am!")
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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[Click to View YouTube Video]
Dylan Thomas — Lament
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of bitches),
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling beds of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood creeps cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Fickle fate at work.
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