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Base camp I could not see the next summit, the gashed gnarl of its face. I guessed only that its steepening inclines had been set against me. I could hear all the echoings of the dead in their ice-tombs where their aims had led them and buried them, then, deeper, the incredible footfall of sherpas, spirited, light and deft, unbetraying. A silence stretched on toward a night long with unhuman testimony. Then it came: the world-clearing hammer-blows of distant avalanches, the palpitations of chaos, one whiteout of potentiality. My tent fluttered and gripped at the snow that stored for spring all paths to the peak, leading through veils of embraces, inconsolable losses, charms, fantastic indictments. Swelling its stormfront, then collapsing into a voice like winter, the wind took up a human song and broke across the horizons. It sang, “You are an unborn fjord, a chasm yet to be. Only water sculpts its beauty: let it pass. Throw no harness over the clouds, they hold no secrets, but are. Here, while you plan your ascent each night, exalting the fey, the indolent, the totemic, you are like a thief on a watchtower. Until every such night has passed you will light, tend, and watch die a small, tense fire, but awake surrounded by footprints.' |
This Poem was Critiqued By: James C. Horak On Date: 2010-03-06 00:34:37
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
A rare poem for online consumption. A quandary thrown me when I'd like better to have
tidy vote. Only that I've been right about you all along and this damn well proves it.
And I don't want to see anymore half-hearted attempts from you after this. Easily the
most attractive to read poem I've read since I've been here. Though you have screwed
up the order of my vote, thank you very much.
JCH