Favourite 3 Writers:
23:07, 3 Apr 2015
On this mountain, this great mountain
Men come to measure themselves.
To steal into its highest reaches
To trace their path across its flank
And stand victor of their own fears.
Pristine, crystal white glacial slopes
Bring them to their knees. Like
Great Apes slain they sink
And slide across the snow
And into their own abyss of
Doubt and shame and wondering.
The ice and wind and fear
Lay bare their animal desire
To conquer? or to discover?
But what? Not the peaks or the summits
Not the ravine or the cliff, not even
The dreadful loneliness, alone
On the ice in the night, bivouacked
With only a rope between life and death
Clinging onto living while slowly the
Cold bites at the cord and you listen
For the sound of it snapping.
Is the mountain inside the man or
The man inside the mountain? Does
It sink beneath his skin till even the
Gentle, seeking, unrequited
Touch of his lovers hand itches?
What is he expecting stood before
Its greatness? There are no
Answers only more questions and
The steady beating of a constant
heart, singing, I want to live
I want to live,I want to live.
23:04, 3 Apr 2015
Rochers de Naye, February 2015
We came for the view
Clear across the Alps,
French and Swiss,
Matterhorn and Mont Blanc both.
And down far below to the fresh
Deep waters of the faraway lake.
Crisp, clean, crystal summits
Shining like angels against the icy blue sky.
And the train, of course,
Tiny feat of engineering genius
Grinding slowly up the slopes
Teeth catching in cogs
Pulling us upwards towards the heavens.
And bringing wonder to your eyes,
My little train man.
We didn't expect the birds,
Great soaring blackbirds,
Casting their haunting dark shadows
Against the pale white snow.
Our lunch crumbs their carrion,
One landing briefly on my wild girl's hand
A memory she'll carry forward forever.
On this mountain, we left behind pebbles
smooth, flat and grey, small, yellow and shiny,
collected on the shore by little fingers
over 1500m below us now, a lifetime away.
Placed them on the Nepalese Stupa,
Precarious pillar of piled stones,
Small fragile trace of our brief touch.
Praise be to the Ouria,
Pamola and Sansin
Jacawitz and Cabrakan,
Great gods of sacred places
We walk here by your grace.