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The Mountain Man's Mystic Missive Mountain man, asleep on granite tomb, in crumbled, creviced craters, not forever – how are you within New Hampshire’s sky bin? Dust to dust, they say. And, you? What? Never? Sightless scarecrows stumble, tiptoed tightly, humbled by an image, now nocturnal, seared by youthful candles once lit brightly, long ago when passions flared eternal. Twenty thousand years before the Christ’s mend, glaciers than receded, not revealing sculpted visage till the native’s legend whispered, northward , stood a facial, peeling. Brooks and Whitcomb surveyed such within year Eighteen hundred, Five, this duly dated, but, too, man, like mountain, dust to dust clear, into time’s dustbin, oft berated. Millions died - through Eighteen - Twelve in session, into Civil War, before the Maine’s jar, Yankee Doodle Dandy, the Depression, World War II, Korean, Vietnam War. But, the mountain man remained, relieving, braced by Geggs and lasted - frozen – eighty, countered using wires and rods, believing human will and Nature’s force are matey. Nielsons’ ratings, in the sixties, started, first, with Niels, proceded by son, David. But. for all the Nielsons’ labors, warted, Mountain Man collapsed. and, with it, knaved Id. Third of May, Two thousand – Three, the ending, nose and forehead, absent, found at daylight, Grand ol’ Man in Mountain gone, not pending, buried under granite bones near midnight. Dawn arising, spotlight dimmed, awaking to the cyclic and eternal motion of galactic bodies, seen forsaking due the sightless scarecrows’ prideful notion. Lady, bared, Godiva – mankind, naked; both, ashamed, not, of a watchful witness, real or not, perhaps; but, such is sacred to imagine of creation’s fitness. What is this? Attentive sense, alerting, drawing mind’s awareness toward the portal. Bush in wildness blaring madness, flirting with the Fates! Queue, Mister. Bush? “Immortal?” Not so, Mister Bush, in spite of power. All to all, in dust, the mountain’s missive; for, if Mountain Man can come to cower, who be you, to question God, dismissive? To read with ease; Mountain man, asleep on granite tomb, in Crumbled, creviced craters, not forever – How are you within New Hampshire’s sky bin? Dust to dust, they say. And, you? What? Never? Sightless scarecrows stumble, tiptoed tightly, Humbled by an image, now nocturnal, Seared by youthful candles once lit brightly, Long ago when passions flared eternal. Twenty thousand years before the Christ’s mend, Glaciers than receded, not revealing Sculpted visage till the native’s legend Whispered, northward , stood a facial, peeling. Brooks and Whitcomb surveyed such within year Eighteen hundred - Five, this duly dated, But, too, man, like mountain, dust to dust clear, Into time’s chilled dustbin, oft berated. Millions died through Eighteen - Twelve in session, Into Civil War, before the Maine’s jar, Yankee Doodle Dandy, the Depression, World War II, Korean, Vietnam War. But, the mountain man remained, relieving, Braced by Geggs and lasted - frozen – eighty, Countered using wires and rods, believing Human will and Nature’s force are matey. Nielsons’ ratings, in the sixties, started, First, with Niels, proceded by son, David. But. for all the Nielsons’ labors, warted, Mountain Man collapsed. and, with it, knaved Id. Third of May, Two thousand – Three, the ending, Nose and forehead, absent, found at daylight, Grand ol’ Man in Mountain gone, not pending, Buried under granite bones near midnight. Dawn arising, spotlight dimmed, awaking To the cyclic and eternal motion Of galactic bodies, seen forsaking Due the sightless scarecrows’ prideful notion. Lady, bared, Godiva – mankind, naked; Both, ashamed, not, of a watchful witness, Real or not, perhaps; but, such is sacred To imagine of creation’s fitness. What is this? Attentive sense, alerting, Drawing mind’s awareness toward the portal. Bush in wildness blaring madness, flirting With the Fates! Queue, Mister. Bush? “Immortal?” Not so, Mister Bush, in spite of power. All to all, in dust, the mountain’s missive; For, if Mountain Man can come to cower, who Be you, to question God, dismissive? |
Additional Notes:
Well, it's been a while. Just completed after two days of labor. Normal format is at the bottom of the image. Again, should be viewed with full screen.
Bobby T.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Elaine Marie Phalen On Date: 2003-11-06 19:48:36
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.81250
Hi Bobby,
This one has an extremely pertinent message, considering what's happening in this crazy world right now. Nobody's immortal, of course, and the power-driven are as prone to collapse as that stone face in the mountain. I'd read about this event, but have never actually see the mounatin man's stony visage. His loss, though, is no doubt still being mourned by those living in the area.
"New Hampshire's sky bin" is a great metaphor, as the fragments end up trashed like dust swept before a vast and invisible broom. You pick up the comparison again with "time's chilled dustbin" in S4. "Buried under granite bones" is a vivid image. meanwhile, you present a capsule summary of decades and even centuries, each with its own violent associations. All things must pass; conflicts are resolved or just peter out, and the earth's shape changes beneath implacable forces of weather and gravity.
Pentameter is nicely sustained, a complex task which I'd find daunting. You do shift from iambic to trochaic in spots, but that's actuallyu a positive, because it gets away from any danger of singsong style: "Dawn arising, spotlight dimmed, awaking" or "Lady, bared, Godiva – mankind, naked". These are arresting lines anyway, and the metrical reversal just adds to their impact.
Wish I had more time but I don't; however, I do want to commend you on this most tricky effort. It can't be easy to marry format and text into a single entity; one or the other would seem to be destined to suffer, but neither does in this case.
My Best,
Brenda