UKC

Just wondering if anyone has ever had a dream or premonition about their death - particularly a climbing-related death? With apologies to W.B. Yeats ('An Irish Airman Foresees His Death') here is a poem on this theme.

A Solo Climber Foreeses His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate,
Somewhere among the crags above.
Those back at home will think me late,
Until their fears inflame their love.
My ‘country’ is Snowdonia’s peaks,
My ‘countrymen’ the ghostly sheep.
No shattered end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor friends, nor duty bade me climb
No well-thumbed guides, nor cheering crowds;
A lifetime’s seeking of delight
Led to this meeting in the clouds.
I teetered left, becalmed my mind;
The route ahead dispelled my breath;
No way above, no way behind,
Fingers once clasped to Life, touched Death.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:
dreams about your death aparrently indicate a coming change rather than your iminent demise.

In reply to virgil: new beginnings - ie death of an old stage in your life.....

never dreamed of actually dieing tho - sometimes about to then wake up

In reply to Adders: Jenks had a dream the night before he died riding his bike on the Wall of Death. Jenks WHO?!! Jenks, your SON, remember???

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

thats quite good actually

In reply to Adders:
it happens to me a lot.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Falling swiftly life fell behind
A divers arc, an increasing span.
A greater distance from my kind
And ended up as strawberry jam.

I Like it a lot. Got any more?

Allan

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

On a point of note, surely if someone had an accurate premonition of their own death we would now be discussing the matter with them after the fact?

and in return may I humbly proffer:

The boy clung to the icey crag
crying , shaking, bleeding.
The snow came up and froze him in
whilst he wished he wasn't leading.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:
cracking poem. Good parody

In reply to Allan Thomson:
here's a little missive of my own. It almost scans

Come death to me advanced in years but not infirmity
And find me topping out on Sloth or Strapadictomy!

Let me have a stroke on some famous gritstone crag
After soloing the crux of some ‘ard Don Whillans crack

Or a sudden fatal seizure whilst breezing Marble Wall
Slap the top, then clutch my chest and dramatically fall

And those who gather round as the ‘copter’s winching me
Will say, “he’s dead but bloody hell
That ain’t bad for NINETY THREE!!”

In reply to Duncan Bourne:

Ahh poetry sends chills down my spine.

mind if I join you - thanks!!

His body was a broken shell
the sheep moved on Oh christ the smell
the boat had been pushed out too far
his partner running for the car

Oh youth has been so sadly robbed
the grief oh how his mother sobbed
his father lost
My god the cost

now looking down from on a cloud
playing melodic harp out aloud
is our young lad
feeling rather sad


has it moved ya !!!

In reply to John Rushby:


That reminds me of my first ice lead at Frankenstein cliff in New Hampshire.

For some bazaar reason that I wish to forget I had a tape recorder in my jacket recording myself.....I was in complete fear.

I remember on the second pitch trying to mantle a sloping ledge, and with bad technique....using my knees..with a screw way below me...I thought I was going to die...wishing out loud I was that I be anyplace on earth apart from where I was.

Mick

In reply to Mick - Rockfax USA: Dare I enquire what in heck you hoped to record whilst climbing an ice-cliff?! A kind of New Age update of Tubular Bells, featuring the sounds of an ice-axe hacking and splintering ice, the sighs of exertion, the scrunch of crampons, the squelch of loosening bowels?????

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Ah Tubular Bowels...how very seasonal....

Nick

In reply to poetsanonymus:

Half a lead, half a lead,
Half a lead onward,
All in the valley of Death
Climbed the RT punter.
"Forward, the Trad Brigade!
"I'll mantle for the break!" he said:
High in the valley of Death
Climbed the RT punter.

"Forward, the Trad Brigade!"
Was this a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the climber knew
Someone had sandbagged:
His not to make reply,
His not to reason why,
His but to do and die:
High in the valley of Death
climbed the RT punter.

No gear to right of him,
No gear to left of him,
No gear in front of him
Breathless and pump'd;
Swearing with slip and smear,
Boldly runout as well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Climbed the RT punter.

Slipped from the route so bare,
Flash'd as he turn'd in air,
Scaring the watchers there,
Charging downwards, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged past the belay point
Right thro' his line he broke;
Screaming and cussing
Reel'd from the impact stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Not to come back, oh no
Not the RT punter.

Who can his glory fade?
O the mess he made!
All the world sickened.
Honor the climb he made,
Honor the Trad Brigade,
All red socked punters.

In reply to Nick Alcock: Steady on Nick, Mick might be onto something here. There must be a lot of folk who'd pay good money to hear our rock stars 'climbing' their desperate routes.

e.g. "Johnny Dawes. Live on The Quarryman" £12.99 available CD/Cassette. Complete with bonus tracks.

In reply to Paul not logged on:

Paul - I bow in utter awe to your superior poetic skills

awsome just awsome

In reply to poetsanonymus:

Thank you! It didn't need much changing, seemed to have the right tone already...

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:


What about:

I was climbing one day
Way hey hey,
'twas an ard VS
you'll never guess
who came from below
in the cool evening glow
but a guy from the west
I guess, you've guessed
he asked for a rope
in a desperate voice
i had no choice
'tho it made me sick
it was Mick the voice from the U of S

Anon

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Not that I'm complaining but does anyone else wonder why Marc bothers to post so much stuff like this here? Is it a hobby (like collecting fridge magnets), a strange sado-masochistic release, a nervous disorder (like Torrett's syndrome), a calling to prophesise, fishing for adulation,..what's going on Marc?.

In reply to Offwidth: Dunno mate. Got me thinking now.... Just enjoy writing I guess
+ It's very lonely being a lighthouse keeper.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou: Just noticed I got the rhyming sequence of the original wrong. Pedantic, true - but that's the teacher in me! (to Dazman - I don't literally have a teacher IN me - that kind of thing's all been clamped down on these days - the staff room's a much duller place for it though)

I know that I shall meet my fate,
Somewhere among the crags above.
Those back at home will think me late,
Until their fears inflame their love.
My 'country' is Snowdonia's heights,
My 'countrymen' the ghostly sheep.
No shattered end would bring delight
Or cause their muffled hearts to weep.
Nor friends, nor duty bade me climb
No well-thumbed guides, nor cheering crowds;
A lifetime's seeking the sublime
Led to this meeting in the clouds.
I teetered left, becalmed my mind;
The route ahead dispelled my breath;
No way above, no way behind,
Fingers once clasped to Life, touched Death

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

I wandered once up to Hen Cloud
That floats on high o'er Staffordshire's hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of toproping imbeciles;
Upon the crag, beneath the trees,
Flailing and thrutching in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
From each and every parking bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
striding out with determined stance.

I geared-up, picked my route, advanced; but they
hogged the sparkling lines in glee:
A trad climber could not but dismay,
In such unethical company:
I gazed and gazed but only thought
"Bastards! My winter training brought to nought.":

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with displeasure fills,
And curses toproping imbeciles.

In reply to Marc C:

Enjoying writing is great but publishing here is the strange thing. Or are you going to do a published volume of a collection, like the newspaper columists do. I thought all lighthouses were automated now: you are pretty impressive in your output even compared to the most creative experimental AI.

In reply to DazMan:

Absolutely brilliant!!!!

In reply to Offwidth: I would quite like to publish a collection of my surreal stories - complete with cartoons pr illustrations (Denver?), but I like the immediacy of posting stuff here.

Dazman: Excellent!

In reply to DazMan: Fancy collaborating on a joint project - a climbing version of Paradise Lost?! Lamenting the decline in ethics etc.

In reply to Marc C:

These all need saving in a book, One Mans Mountains part 2?

In reply to sutty:

Maybe molehills would be a better inclusion in the title.

In reply to Marc C:

Only if I can fit it around my current project. My recent emigration to Dublin has prompted me to read Joyce's Ulysees. This has inspired me to start work on a piece with the working title 'Ya'll Luv Dees'.

Ya'll Luv Dees will go head-to-head with Rockfax and the BMC gritstone guides, and will detail a day in the life of Theo Poldbroom as he attempts to scale 100 grit classics on a busy Saturday in June. Stanage, Froggat, Birchen, the Roaches, and Burbage North will all figure in the chronicle, as will The Millstone, The Fox & Hounds, The Grouse, and several other hostelries as yet to be determined.

Do you fancy helping me out with the research? I need somebody to lead Archangel, Downhill Racer, Paralogism, and Long Tall Sally... We'll also be able to split up, in the hope that one of us tracks down a gorgonzola sandwich somewhere in the Peak.

Whaddya say? I'll give you a cameo role in the finished article. I'm going to have to put my foot down and decline to mention Gorple though.

In reply to DazMan: No Gorple, no deal. As for Ulysses, why not The Odyssey - a marathon epic adventure tracing my return from winning the World Climbing Championships and my 10-year struggle to return home - fending off femmes fatales, triumphing over jealous climbing rivals, and climbing on weird crags in exotic locations. I've got a great part for you - as the faithful swineherd who lovingly tends my Nesting the Gear tomb whilst I'm away.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:


Once upon some gritstone dreary, I inched my way up, weak and weary
Up a slab so steep and smeary, the famous Toadys Wall
While I fumbled, nearly slipping, suddenly I heard a tapping
As of some one gently rapping, rapping a bolt into the wall.
“Tis some chipper” I muttered “tapping a bolt into the wall –
dropping my rack on the floor


(with apologies to Poe)

In reply to Alison Bond: Crikey! I seem to have stirred a hornet's nest of secret poets!

Here's a variation on Stevie Smith's 'Not Waving But Drowning' for Deep Water Soloists:

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further up than you thought
And not soaring but falling.

Poor chap, he always loved climbing
And now he's dead
It must have been too hard for him his nerve gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too hard always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too high up all my life
And not soaring but falling.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

On the Mountains of the Peaks,
On the great Grey Millstone Quarry,
Big man John Dunne, the mighty,
He the Master of smears, ascending,
On the grey crags of the quarry
Stood erect, and called the climbers,
Called the tribes of rock together.

From his fingers fell the chalk dust,
Leaped into the light of morning,
O'er the precipice plunging downward
Gleamed like #3, the camalot.
And the Big Man, Looking earthward,
With his finger in the mono
Called to climbers far below him,
Saying to them, "Climb it this way!"

From the grey stone of the quarry
With his hand he broke a fragment,
Moulded it into a pipe-head,
Shaped and fashioned it with figures;
From the margin of his harness
Took a gear loop for a pipe-stem,
With its snapgates still upon it;
Filled the pipe with chalk and resin,
But no bloody pof on gritstone;

From the Vale of swampy boulders,
From the Valley of soaring limestone,
From the blocks of Lakeland granite,
From the far-off Slate strewn Mountains,
From the Northern Scottish chop routes
All the tribes beheld the signal,
Saw the distant smoke ascending,
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe.


Oh shit what have I started! ;o(((((

In reply to Paul Saunders:

Very good! It's addictive isn't it?

Allow me to humbly present a little ode to an epic on a certain Welsh multipitch route.

Bent double, like old beggars under rucksacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on Tryfan's north ridge we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Both marched asleep. One had lost his boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. Both went lame, both whined;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of an eagle owl calling softly behind.

Fags! Fags! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Sucking the noxious fumes sublime,
But hark! someone's yelling out and calling
And shouting "Moutain rescue!" time after time.--
On through the misty rains and thick black night,
I realise it's me!, we go on walking.

In recurring dreams since that fateful plight
I relive the thrutching, flailing, falling.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could place
yourself about the Ogwen Valley, as we were in,
And share the agony of plodding on pace by pace,
your plates of meat, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the curses
Come gargling from our cigarette-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on fingertips and tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To climbers ardent for some multipitch glory,
The old Lie: Grooved Arete? V Diff at best. Go climb there shortly.

In reply to DazMan:

To all the writers:

This is I love in British culture: the informal use of poetry.

I am printing this thread for my kids!

In reply to francoise: Bouldering in Woods on a Snowy Evening (based On Robert Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening)

Whose crags these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To boulder before it starts to snow
The passing cars must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
I give my chalk-warmed hands a shake
And squeak my boots - so no mistake.
The only other sound's the leap
Of soul to rock and hand on flake.
The crags are lovely, dark and bleak.
But I sense my arms are weak
And to trespass seems a cheek
And to trespass seems a cheek.

In reply to Marc C: Or Sonnet to an Anasazi Slipper

Shall I compare thee to a worn PA?
Thou art more sticky and more sensitive:
Rough grit doth scrape and scratch and fray
And other boots last for all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And then even is thy sure friction dimm'd;
And even Stealth from fair sometime declines,
By wear or nature's hazards to thy rubber trimmed.
But thy eternal prowess shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that style thou showest;
Nor shall Boreal brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When after innumerable climbs thy fit doth goest;
So long as men can climb up to 7c
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

In reply to Marc C:

STOP IT!!! You've distracted me from tending to my owl chicks.

<ahem!> Bouldering Throng - After Spike M.

Oh the bouldering throng
dyno all day long
and they stick to rock like glue.
There's a beany-wearing thing,
and they like to spring
from problem to problem, don't you?
Oh the bouldering gang
on slopers they'll hang
And you just can't blame 'em when they do!
So join the bouldering throng
You just can't go wrong!
Join the beany-wearing ring
you'll look the thing!
Join the bouldering gang
you'll get to hang!

What a fabulous thing to belong,
Is the Prana-clad, crimping throng!!

In reply to DazMan:

These all need publishing in a RT anthology.

Brilliant.

Mick

In reply to Mick - Rockfax USA: A bit of Byron?

So we'll go no more a-bould'ring
So late into the night,
Though the will be ne'er unyielding,
And the urge be still as bright.

For the rock outwears the man,
And cruel Time wears out the best,
And rock athletes themselves must pause,
And seek their well-earned rest.

Though the day was made for climbing,
And the dusk gathers too soon,
You and me'll go no more bould'ring
Nor the likes of Ben Moon.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:
The Arrest:

He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer
As he gazed at the distant crag
Through the remains of his blood stained hands
He rolled his very last fag

To the right and before him lay the ropes
The harness and rack drenched red
As the snow drifted deep all around him
He thought of his faraway bed

‘I want some more hock in my seltzer,
And Robbie, please give me your hand-
Is this the end or beginning?
How can I understand?

In reply to Marc C:

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when inner whispers doubt you,
Because years of mental training's taught you to;
If you can lead and not be tired by leading,
Or being second, never criticize,
Or fearing falling, don't give in to failure,
Yet don't deal in idle boasts, nor talk too wise:

If you can smear-and not make slabs your master;
If you can crimp-and not make walls your bane;
If you can lead on Rhyolite and Gritstone
And treat those two sediments just the same;
If you can bear to hear the gear you've put in
Twisted by ropes, then come undone ,
Or watch the bolt you banked your life on, broken,
Shrug your shoulders and just carry on.

If you can make a leap to distant handholds
And by such a dyno risk great loss,
And fall, and start again at your beginnings
And never blame wet holds or slimy moss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To crank long after they've cried 'Enough!',
And to hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hang Tough!"

If you can wear tight lycra and keep your street-cred,
Or pose for mags yet not lose the common touch,
If neither dreams of fame or wealth can faze you,
If all routes count with you, but none too much;
If you can brave the unforgiving mountain
With sixty metres' worth of nylon line,
Yours are the heights and all the honour,
And much more - the title 'climber' will be thine!

In reply to Marc C:

There are cracks in the rocks
Where the wires go in
The cracks are small
That's why they make them thin.

In reply to Nick Alcock:

The man stood on the belay ledge
Whence all but he had fled;
The rain that lashed the seashore
Drummed down upon his head.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the zawn;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.

The rope roll'd up...he would not go
Without his leader's word;
That leader, faint in clouds above,
His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud..."Say, leader, say
If yet thy task is done!"
He knew not that the leader lay
Unconscious of his chum.

"Speak, leader!" once again he cried
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shouts replied,
And fast the world roll'd on.

Upon his prow he held his breath,
And tossed his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death,
In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,
"My leader, must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through cloud and storm
The rope began to fray,

He leapt, his heart a beating wild,
As from upon a high,
Came streaming above the gallant child,
rope tendrils in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound...
The man - oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea.

With harness, helmet, and rock shoes fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young and faithful heart

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

‘Twas on the crags that round our coast
From Sennen to Gurnard span
That I found alone on a piece of stone
An elderly climbing man

His hair was thin, his beard was long,
And thin and long was he,
And I heard this fright on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key:

Oh, I am a second and a leader bold
And a mountaineer top flight
And an ace aid man, and a boulderer
And trad climbing is my delight.

And he shook his fists and tore his hair,
Till I really felt afraid,
For I couldn’t help thinking the man had been drinking,
And so I simply said:

Is your name Ken, by any chance?

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Bravo Sir!

In reply to DazMan:

Come friendly bombs and fall on Stanage
It isn’t fit for climbers now,
There’s top ropers and bouldering
And chalk covers every prow!

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

The climber who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said ‘Some day you may lose them all’;-
He replied, - ‘Not an alpinist like me!’
And he grabbed his axe, and his crampons sharp,
To the Eigerwand in winter he was bound,
A fine ascent he made, but I’m afraid
His toes were never found.

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Do not stand near The Sloth and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am the chilling wind that blows.
I am the green-streaked slab below.
I am the sunlight on the moor.
I am the fear of a dropped quickdraw.

When you rack up beneath the roof,
I am the energy of youth,
The soaring wing of a curved arete.
The drifting smoke from a cigarette.

Do not stand near The Sloth and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and bawl.
I am not there, I did not fall.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

I met a climber from Gritstone East land
Who said: Two vast and holdless prows of stone
Stand on the moors. Near them, lies a hand,,
Beside a shattered body, whose bones,
And wrinkled lips, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its owner met a harsh, violent end,
At the hands of a mob who didn’t agree
With one who sought to add holds and nature bend,
With hammer and chisel and a brush of wire -
And chiselled on the rocks these words you’ll see:
"My name is Ossie Mandelson, the Bolt-gun Messiah:
Look upon my climbs, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of those brute-scarred prows, boundless and bare
The lone and level moors stretch far away.

In reply to Percy M.C. Shelley:

Mr J. Climber Dunne, Mr J. Climber Dunne,
Furnish’d and burnish’d by Gritstone sun,
What strenuous routes we climbed after tea
We in the tournament-you before me!

E7, E8, oh, weakness of joy,
The grace of a swallow, the speed of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won.
I am weak from your mantelshelves, J. Climber. Dunne.

Mr J. Climber Dunne, Mr J. Climber Dunne,
How mad I am. Sad I am, glad that you won.
The warm 5.10’s are ripped, I confess,
But my well nourished victor, he loves me no less

The scent of the conifers, the sound of the hawk,
The view from my rock-ledge covered in chalk,
As I struggle with harness and figure of eight,
Oh J. Climber. Dunne. How long must I wait?

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

How did the Devil come? When first attack?
These crags recall lost innocence,
The years fall off and find me climbing back
On moss covered stone and across the cracks
Up this same route, where thirty years ago
My father climbed above me, calm and slow.

I used to fill my hand with sorrel seeds
And shower him from the tops of waterfalls
I used to pull the rope and watch him smile
To make him hurry up those sunny walls
Of granite, grass and ledges, till here
Our route’s end and belay would appear.

How did the Devil come? When first attack?
The crags are still the same, though now I know
Many have destroyed it. Time bring back
The rapturous ignorance of long ago,
The Peace, before the dreadful onslaught starts,
Of unkept promises and broken hearts.

In reply to Nick Alcock: Sorry to interrupt you (!) Nick, but do you have the original sources of your poems? We've had Poe, Shelley, Byron, Owen, Frost, Yeats et al, but I'm unfamiliar with yours.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

I can place three of his, the Slough one, the Pobble one and the Miss Hunter Dunne one are all in Comic and Curious Verse I think. It is buried at the back of a pile of books so cannot bring writers to mind apart from Lear. I am familiar with one of the others, may be Housmans Ploughboy.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Mainly Betjeman, with some help from Milligan (Thin cracks) along the way. Sir W.S. Gilbert for help with "Ken" and some other gentlemen. Hope this helps.

Nick

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Oh, and Lear for "The climber who had no toes"

Nick

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Betjeman was the one whos face I could see but his name would not come.

In reply to sutty:

One of my favourites...

Nick

In reply to Nick Alcock: I knew Betjeman for "Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough" and Edward Lear (my cat's called Pobble!!!)

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

How did the Devil come? Is a killer. Had tears in my eyes doing that one....

Nick

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Saved this thread, some really good stuff on it. I suppose there will be more when the inspiration strikes again.

In reply to Nick Alcock: Was tempted to alter this classic, but others have beaten me to it. Quite funny!

http://braden.weblogs.com/poetry/surlyBonds

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

"The Arrest" Is from "The arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel " another Betjeman beauty. Feel bad about screwing with it really.... Also early on there's an original piece of shite....

Nick

In reply to sutty: Nice idea saving the thread sutty, but please come and put us out of our misery - slip something into our cocoa and take us off to a sanatorium BEFORE 'inspiration' strikes again...please...I beg you!

In reply to Nick Alcock: Yes, it's surprised me how much reverence one feels for the original poem - but most of the poets are dead and can't sue!!!!

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Yes. It's already there, Marc.

Nick

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Thank the Lord for that!!!!

Nick

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:
read your luverly poem while listening to the crescendo bit of Hurt by Johnny Cash. Spinely tingley tangley.

In reply to Offwidth:

One Man's Molehills - now there would be a name for an autobiography!

In reply to johncoxmysteriously1: Well, better than "One Man's Ron Hill's - A Climbing Memoir of the 70s"!

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Or "One Man's Arseholes" The memoirs of an RT poster.........

Nick

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Larkin was obviously a climber too!

They f*ck you up, those who climb trad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they have
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were f*cked up in their turn
By fools despising bolts on routes,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half in one another’s boots.

Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
Boulder, toprope, please yourself

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

To a Coy Buttress

Had we but the weather, and the time,
This stern sequence would be mine.
I would sit down even, do it that way
Or give it best and return another day;
Down by the shaded Churnet side
I shouldst Bunter pebbles find; or by and by
Vital tendons flex and train. I would
pull ten reps before each lap;
And my frustration and ambition hide
Till publication of the Avon guide.

My lactate tolerance should grow
mighty, and my twitch fibres more slow.
An hundred circuits should go to raise
Aerobic fitness, and over many days;
Two hundred pull-ups daily and the rest,
(and results full flaunted in low cut vest)
Structured training to every part,
And a monitor to check my heart.
For, to achieve this well-honed state,
I would have it beat at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
My spotter's crude and callous jeer;
And all around I only see
Blank and stark impossibility.
No purchase have my fingers found,
Nor pliant mat ease my fall to ground,
Curse echoing strong; then shall others try
That over-brushed rugosity,
And so all my efforts come to nought,
And all high resolve and dreams mere thought.
The gym's a hard and heartless place,
But only those who work find grace.

Now therefore, while some dregs of youth
Remain in my limbs, though scarce enough
And while the leaning wall inspires
Every sinew with at least some fire,
Now let us sport us while we may;

And now, perhaps more like careful sloth,
Than the subtle squirrel of our youth,
Let not languish this slow-chapp'd power.
Let us don our beany, cast off else all
Save scant fleece-lined bag to hold chalk ball;
And tear our knuckles with rough grit
Leap at life or what remains of it .
Thus, though our project may ne'er be done
We may, yet, climb toward the sun.

In reply to Dave Garnett, Dazman et al: Very impressive and ingenious!

I've never done this before, but I really feel the contributions to this thread deserve a round of applause (sound of two hands clapping)

In reply to Marc C:

And they get better I'll have to raise my game before posting anything else...

In reply to Marc C:

Best thread in DTP for a long while. (With the contributors here keeping their liberal fluffiness, while all around are losing theirs and blaming it on Moore.)

In reply to Marc C:

Who'd have thought the pub could be so civilised? Where is it do you think? The Eagle and Child?

Oh, and sorry about the dig at the Avon guide. Glass houses and all that, but it just fitted so nicely!

In reply to Dave Garnett: Not a pub Dave. This is the Senior Common Room of Olde Rockfaxians College.
The pipe smoke gets a bit thick sometimes, but the port and conversation are excellent.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou: A Bouldering a High

While out a bouldering wild,
MarC stood at the top move like a lost child,
wondering if he had the strength to hang on or make the move,
to land on top was what he had to prove.

When he started out his 3m x 3m x 300mm 13 tog orthopaedic bouldering mat looked massive,
no way he could miss from a high,
now looking down from the top, he fell with FLOP,
What a way to die,
He was suffocating in his luxury mat,
as no one was around to pull him out,
He only had time to shout,
what a Tw*t

He whent down like a sub
Ho he wishes he was down at the pub.

In reply to Peeping Tom:

Sorry deleted to correct a typo...

Diary of a Grit Mouse

Here among long ascended classics,
Damp chimmneys, and half-open jam cracks,
Here where the bolter never looks
I work my way through old guide books.
Lean and alone I spend my days
Behind this dreary Peak District haze.
The weather never bothers me,
So here I eat my frugal tea.
Summer and Easter may be great
For limestone granite and for slate,
And so may Whitsun. All the same,
They do not support my meagre frame.
For me the only feast at all
Is Autumn's Friction Festival,
When I can satisfy my want
With smears of joy (just like in "Font").
I climb each gritstone greasy runnel
To burrow through "Helfensteins Struggle".
I scramble up "Appointment with Fear"
And laugh aloud while hanging there.
It is enjoyable to taste
These routes before they go to waste,
But how annoying when one finds
That other folks with simple minds
Come to the Peaks my crags to share
Who have no proper business there.
Two outdoor groups with no desire
To be lead at all, attract my ire.
A rambler (who clearly is a prat)
Comes over to see what I am at.
He says "The Ouzels soon will nest"
"you'd best come down, it's for the best".
This year he blocked access for weeks
(I'd like to kick him "in the Peaks"),
And prosperous men from London way
Come in SUV's and stay all day,
And wearing all the latest gear,
Fill cracks with friends to stave off fear.
A "low traverser", who thinks that I
Am traditional, and climb too High,
Yet somehow doesn't think it wrong
To top rope Great Slab for far too long,
While I, who jam the whole year through,
Must share my crag with climbers who
Except at this time of the year
Not once upon the rock appear.
Within the climbing world I know
Such goings-on should not be so,
For PROPER Climbers only do
What their pure ethics tell them to.
They read their route guides every day
And always, night and morning, train,
And just like me, of gritstone stock,
Worship each week on God's own rock,
But all the same it's strange to me
How very full the crags can be
With BOULDERERS I don't see at all
Except on Tuesday at the wall.

- Apologies to Sir John Betjeman


I'm giving up on The "Climb of Hiawatha" after the start above it's way too long....

In reply to Paul Saunders:

O what can ail thee, Bulging Arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The Edge has closed down for the night,
And The Foundry's emptying?

O what can ail thee, Bulging Arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
Thy boulderer's' chalkbag's nigh full,
And thy 5.10's still on.

I see the sweat thick on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a gritstone rash
Fast withereth too.

" I met a climber in The Queen's ,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, from rizla wraps;
She look'd at me as we did eat,
Our warm chip baps. .

I set her on my Honda twin,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she lean, and sing
A gritstone song.

She found me aretes hellish steep,
Roofs so high, and slabs so smooth.
And she promised me her lovely charms -
If I could their worst subdue.

Victorious! She took me to her cave,
And there she lay and sigh'd full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dream'd - ah! woe betide! -
The cruellest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale youths in baggy clothes,
Pale boulderers, death-pale were they all;
They cried - "La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though The Edge has shut down for the night,
And The Foundry's emptying."

In reply to Gordon Stainforth:

Probably because it's not in DTP

In reply to Marc C:

Oh I hope this thread keeps running on...

One of the best in a while... I've been looking up all the originals to see how each poster changed them so, at least there's some reverence for the original for me...

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The crag was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the mountaineer came climbing-
Climbing, climbing-
The mountaineer came climbing, up to the old inn door.

He’d an old flat hat on his forehead, and a woollen scarf at his chin;
He’d a coat of worn out leather, and breeches of torn moleskin.
On his back he carried a rope, he swung an ice axe high,
His eyes stared into the distance, under the jewelled sky.

Up to the inn he clattered and stamped into the pitch black yard,
He tapped with his axe on shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune at the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
The beautiful landlord’s daughter, combing her long black hair.


To be continued….

In reply to Nick Alcock:
Not up to the standard here - my feeble attempt......

Twas chossy and the slimy rock
Did crack and crumble down the route
All fearful was the climber girl
But the leader, resolute

Beware the nasty start, my friend
The polished rock, no grip to get
Beware the offwidth crack and shun
The ominous arête

He took his trusty rope in hand
Long time the manxome line surveyed
He rested on the first good hold
And looked above, dismayed

As if in uffish thought he stood
The extreme route, protection bare
Rose taunting through the holly bush
And threatened, boy beware

Left, right, left, right! He scaled the height
His rubber shoes went ticky tack
He topped out fine, and viewed the line
And went a’scrambling back

And has though climbed the nasty route?
Come to my arms oh beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy

Twas chossy and the slimy rock
Did crack and crumble down the route
All fearful was the climber girl
But the leader, resolute

In reply to Evil Twin 1:

Don't do yourself down I looked at that and didn't know where to start...

In reply to all:

Brilliant, please do more !

In reply to Simon Caldwell:

Not quite sure why it isn't in dtp. As Dave Garnett has said, 'Who'd have thought the pub could be so civilised?'

But I like Mark C's suggestion most - that this is the Senior Common Room of the 'Olde Rockfaxians College'.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

In the bottom of the old slate quarry, where the rock has been blasted, there is a hole the length of a man’s arm, and a dank pool at the bottom where the rain gathers, and several old cams, which have dropped down. But don’t put your arm down to see, because…

in the bottom of the old slate quarry, where the rock has been blasted, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and dank pools at the bottom where the rain gathers and old cams and wires, and the skull of a sheep whose mouth gapes like a trap. But don’t put you hand down to see, because…

in the bottom of the old slate quarry, where the rain gathers and the rusting wires and cams and sheep skull that gapes like a trap, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and in every crevice there are snails and a rotten chalk bag crawling with worms. But don’t put your hand down to see because…

in the bottom of the old slate quarry, where the chalk bag has rotted out there are holes the length of a man’s arm where the cams are trapped and the tangle of wires are laced with sodden leaves and dead snails there is a climber’s arm.
But don’t put your hand down to see, because…

in the bottom of the old slate quarry, where the rock has been blasted, there are deep holes and dank pools where rain gathers, and if you ever put your hand down to see, you can wipe it in the sharp grass till it bleeds, but you’ll never want to eat with it again.

In reply to Marc C:

Oh dear! What can the matter be?
Eight o’clock in the morning on Saturday,
MarcC, Dazman, Sloper and JCT

Heading to rock double quick.

They rendezvous in the Lakes at Pillar.
Marc’s tall like Jonathan Miller.
Sloper’s more like a pygmy gorilla,

If pygmy Gorillas exist?

Their gear’s racked up. It’s very expensive.
Their use of nuts and cams is extensive.
As weapons, their hexes would be classed as offensive

And put under some kind of a ban.

They slap on the chalk, but here's a misnomer.
DazMan’s no climber, it's not his persona.
Judes’s a second and leading repels her,

She'd rather leave that to a man.

Chorus:
But it’s their day out.
It’s what it’s all about,

Looking for routes, looking for fun,
A tempting arete breaks them into a run.
They’re in the mood
For a fabulous interlude

Of climbing on up, and abbing on down,
Smearing on slabs, flailing around,
But it’s all alright.
It’s what they do of a Saturday, right?

Oh dear! What can the matter be?
What can that terrible crunching and clatter be?
It’s the clinkered boots of our man Marc 'Retro' C

Thrutching his way up and down.

They hit the crag, and Judey’s demeanour
Reminds you of a loopy hyena.
As she spots a boulder, whose problem intrigues her

And calls for a start from sat down.

Sloper dares a bloke from Surrey called Murray
To lead a desperate chimney in a hurry.
He gets wedged up there. It’s a bit of a worry,

We probably won't see him again?

They’re into the groove now and looking fantastic.
Marc’s attired in rubber and plastic.
Jude’s top's a piece of elastic.

It’s under a heck of a strain.

Chorus:
But it’s their day out.
It’s what it’s all about,

Ticking off routes, and writhing up cracks,
Making rude gestures at topropers backs.
They’re in the mood
For a fabulous interlude
Of laybacking flakes, and hanging off jams,
Getting their ropes caught up in their cams,
And it’s all alright.
It’s what they do of a Saturday, right?

Oh dear! What can the matter be?
What can that terrible howling and barking be?
Tis Gorple and Kirk belaying for Marc you see?

He's just dropped his rack on their heads.

They’ve had a great day, there's no regretting.
It's too dark now to see where they’re getting.
Jude’s bra flies off, how upsetting,

And several people are hurt.

Oh dear, oh dear,
Oh dear, oh dear,

Oh dear! What can the matter be?
What can that shouting, and scuffling, and screaming be?
It’s MarcC, Dazman, Sloper and JCT

Getting chucked out of the pub

With miles to go and no chance of hitching,
MarcC's boots have bust at the stitching,
Sloper laughs and says, "Don't start whinging.

I couldn’t give a bugger. Could you?"

In reply to DazMan:
Truely brilliant

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou: No ones doing any work today then?

Happy Christmas a Merry New Year!

Stu

In reply to Stu Tyrrell:

Something festive??

Away in a mountain
No tent for the night
The little lost climber
Sat huddled in fright

The wolves are a ‘baying
The climber she shakes
Alone and unsheltered
No crying she makes

The stars in the bright sky
Looked down where she lay
The little lost climber
Who’s drifting away

We love thee lost climber
And ask you to stay
Go build a snow shelter
And see another day

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Windy Nights
Robert Louis Stevenson

Whenever Ben Moon’s runners are set,
Whenever the rock is high,
All day long and move by move,
There’s a pause to shake out and dry.
Late in the night when his wires are out,
Why does he boulder and boulder about?
Whenever his spotters are crying aloud,
And it’s past the time for tea,
Down on the headwall, steep and cold,
Another new route goes free.
Down on the boulders he goes, and then
Slaps for the break, again and again.

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Hardly adapted, but one of my old favourites.

Halfway down the crag
Is a rock where I sit
There isn’t any other rock
Quite like it

I’m not at the bottom
I’m not at the top
So this is the rock
Where I always stop

Halfway up the crag
Isn’t up isn’t down
It isn’t on a scary route
It isn’t in the town

All kind of funny thoughts
Go running round my head
It isn’t really anywhere
It’s somewhere else instead

In reply to Evil Twin 1:

Nice

Nick

In reply to Evil Twin 1:

Shucks. Why, thank you!

I assume that you've read the Victoria Wood original? Now that IS truly brilliant:

http://www2.prestel.co.uk/cello/SaturdayNight.htm

In reply to DazMan: Brilliant, yes, yes! But, more importanty, I only need another post to take MY thread to the 100 mark - my first ever!!!!!

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Thread counting? You? We can't have you going all JCT on us now, can we?

I'll foil you yet. I'm going to delete all my contributions and knock you back into the 90's.

In reply to DazMan:
Over 100 messages and..............
40 adapted / plagiarised / improved poems!!

In reply to DazMan:
link doesnt work (or am i doing something wrong?)

this is the best thread in a while btw, - a lot of talent around

In reply to Ian:

This is NOT mine, but something I found years ago. I don't know the original author, but I've always loved this little bit o' verse. However, I'm sure that by posting it here, someone will slag me for the last line...



Pull the trigger - put it in the crack.
If either cam or crack is bigger, get another off your rack.
If fumbling you should drop that friend
Reach for another, try again.
Should you find no more that size,
Oh shit, you've got to improvise!
Stack two of those, no, three of these.
Getting pumped, starting to grease.
Wedge the big one, oops it's jammed.
Get it together, or soon you're damned.
Loop a sling around that horn
Two more seconds, then you’re airborne.
Zipper, zipper, clackety clack.
Should have climbed bolts
Instead of a crack.

In reply to Ian:

That's odd. It works okay for me.

Try doing a Google for "Victoria Wood" + "Saturday Night". You'll find some links to the poem that way instead.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Buckingham Palace
AA Milne.

They’re changing the grades, and I think it’s callous,
V this, Font that, it’s done with malice.
Alice is working on 6c, 7a,
“That’s not a Font grade, No way”
Says Alice.

They’re changing the grades, and I think it’s callous,
Headpointed, toproped, soloed with a mattress.
We saw a young man strapped to a mat,
“See how his Mum has knitted his hat”
Says Alice.

They’re changing the grades, and I think it’s callous,
The rocks are covered in plaster of Paris,
We looked in our book for a clean looking crack,
“They’ve given the guidebook writer the sack”
Says Alice.

They’re changing the grades, and I think it’s callous,
Downgraded routes, it’s a poisoned chalice.
“Do you think Mark Vallance knows all about me?’
“Sure to, dear, but its time for tea”
Says Alice.

In reply to Nick Alcock:
Made my day Nick :O)
I Love AAMilne

In reply to Nick Alcock:
Market Square AA Milne

I had quickdraws
Bright new quickdraws
I took my quickdraws
To the peak district fair
I wanted a sports route
A three star sports route
I looked for a sports route
‘Most everywhere

For I went to a crag called Stanage Plantation
(Loads of lovely E grades at stanage plantation)
Have you got a sports route, coz I don’t like E grades
But they hadn’t got a sports route, not anywhere there

I had quickdraws
Bright new quickdraws
I took my quickdraws
To the peak district fair
I did want a sports route
I nice safe sports route
And I looked for a sports route
‘Most everywhere

And I went to a crag which was called Burbage North
(Loads of short trad climbs at Burbage North)
Have you got a sports route, coz I don’t like trad climbs
But they hadn’t got a sports route, not anywhere there

I had quickdraws
Bright new quickdraws
I took my quickdraws
To the peak district fair
I was finding my sports route
I do like sports routes
And I looked for a sports route
‘Most everywhere

I went to a crag which they called Curbar Edge
Lots of routes to solo at Curbar Edge
Could I try a sports route, coz I’m rubbish at soloing
But they hadn’t got a sports route, not anywhere there

I had no gear
No, I hadn’t got no gear
So I didn’t go down to the peak district fair
But I walked to the Quarry
The old crumbly quarry
And I saw sports routes
‘Most everywhere!!

So I’m sorry for the people who like to go soloing
I’m sorry for the people who climb short trad routes
I’m sorry for the people who climb scary E grades
Coz they haven’t got sports routes, not anywhere there!

(the contents of this poem do not necessarily represent the views of the author!)

In reply to Evil Twin 1:

Lovely

Nick

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Stopping by (Rocks) on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost


Whose rocks these are I think I know
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me climbing here
To watch his rocks fill up with snow

My faithful dog must think it queer
To stop without a pub with fire near
Between the rocks and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives a stick a gentle shake
To ask if there is some mistake
As on the slab the snow slides down
And ice glints off the finger flake.

The rocks are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And moves to make before I sleep,
And moves to make before I sleep.

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Wonderful, Nick. Your 'Changing the grades and I think it's callous' is perhaps the best so far.

There's enough here to keep me reading for hours, it's all great stuff, people.

thanks all

In reply to Gordon Stainforth:

Thanks Gordon. It's surprising what goes through your mind when you're out walking the dog. Parody however, is I think a very fine line to tread... (Hope Mr Dunne doesn't see my "homage").....

Nick

In reply to Nick Alcock: Yeats' 'Who Goes With Fergus?'

Who will go climb with Fergus now,
And hold his rope on Javelin Blade,
And glance upon Cwm Idwal’s shore?
Young man, lift up your furrowed brow,
And pay out the rope - once safe belayed,
Until the rope runs out no more.

And no more turn aside and brood
Upon his subtle mastery;
For Fergus rules the granite scars,
And rules the sky as red as blood,
And the white quartz of the loose scree
And all dishevelled wandering stars.

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Ah come on... he'd love it!

In reply to Paul Saunders: No real changes here - William Carlos Williams' 'This is just to say':

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
your rucksack

and which
you were probably
saving
for the summit

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou: A bit of Blake?

O Rope thou art sick
The invisible tear
Begun with a knife
By a scowling boy.

Has found out thy core
Of perlon joy
And his dark secret gash
Does thy life destroy.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

With abject apologies to Walter de la Mare

The Watchers

'OK, watch me here' said the climber,
Turning to his task once more;
While his dog wandered off hunting rabbits
In the dusk falling over the tor:
And a bird flew out of the chimney,
Above the climber's head
And he drove in the jams again a second time;
'Definitely this time' he said.
But no responded to the Climber,
No second on that heath-ringed hill
Looked up and tended any sturdy line
While he hung, flexed, yet still.
But only a host of phantom watchers
That gathered beneath him then:
Stood watching in the failing of the daylight
With indifference to the fate of men:
Stood thronging the faint footholds in the dark there
And those quiet slabs and walls,
Alert now to the confidence shaken
And the nervous Climber's call.

And he felt now the start of dread weakness,
And knew that his sinews must try,
While his dog returned impatient,
'Neath the blackening sky;
For he suddenly pulled once more, even
Harder, and lifted his head:
'It's OK, I know I can do this,
And I'm on toprope' he said.
Never the least stir made the watchers
Though every move he made
Felt unequal to the sketchiness of that steep wall
To that one man, now afraid
Ay, they heard his foot roll off the step-up
And the sound of skin grasping at stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging fall was done.

In reply to Nick Alcock:

I started to do a parody on e e cummings, but as the content is just so sincere, I gave up after a while, not wanting to debase it. e.g.:

as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right and wrong ..
etc.

(Larkin, though! Someone's already done 'They f*ck you up' superbly)

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

No changes here, it says it all....

A Cliff Dwelling
Robert Frost

There sandy seems the golden sky
And golden seems the sandy plain.
No habitation meets the eye
Unless in the horizon rim,
Some halfway up the limestone wall,
That spot of black is not a stain
Or shadow, but a cavern hole,
Where someone used to climb and crawl
To rest from his besetting fears.
I see the callus on his soul
The disappearing last of him
And of his race starvation slim,
Oh years ago - ten thousand years.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Once I'm sure there's no one climbing
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another climbing wall: mats, walls, and overhangs,
And little holds; sprawlings of boulderers, pent
On the future, amateurish now; some roofs and stuff
Up at the o'erhanging end; the small, neat climbing shop:
And a tense, musty, musclebound silence,
Brewed Squawk knows how recently. Ron-Hill-less, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Few changes to a beautiful poem... (Rupert Brooke)

The Voice (on the crags)

Safe in the magic of the crag
I climbed, above the dying light.
Faint in the pale high solitudes,
Of rock cleansed with rain and veiled by night,

Silver and blue and green were showing.
And the dark grew darker still;
And birds were hushed; and peace was growing;
And quietness crept up the hill;

And no wind was blowing

And I knew
That this was the hour of knowing,
And the night and the moves and you
Were one together, and I should find
Soon in the silence the hidden key
Of all that had hurt and puzzled me -- -
Why you were you, and the night was kind,
And the rock was part of the heart of me.

And there I clung breathlessly,
Alone; and slowly the holy three,
The three that I loved, together grew
One, in the hour of knowing,
Night, and the climb, and you -- ---

And suddenly
There was an uproar above the route,

The noise of a fool in mock distress,
Crashing and laughing and blindly going,
Of ignorant feet and a clanging hex,
And a Voice profaning the solitudes.

The spell was broken, the key denied me
And at length your flat clear voice beside me
Mouthed cheerful clear flat platitudes.

You came and quacked above me on the crag.
You said, "The view from here is very good!"
You said, "It's nice to be alone a bit!"
And, "How the days are drawing out!" you said.
You said, "The sunset's pretty, isn't it?"

* * * * *

By God! I wish -- - I wish that you were dead!

In reply to Paul Saunders:


I could not clip, I dared not lob,
therfore I chipped to do the job,
but now my acts have proved undue
and I must face the men I knew
what tales shall serve me here among
mine angry and defrauded young.

In reply to sloper:

Why, Sloper, you do have a sensitive side!

In reply to Dave Garnett:

Lewis Carroll

‘You are old, Father William,’ the young man said,
‘And your Ron Hills are so passé;
And what’s that thing you’ve got on your head-
Do you think, at your age, it looks fey?’

‘In my youth,’ Father William replied to his son,
‘I climbed every route in the Pass;
From Cenotaph Corner to Route Number One,
Even though they were covered in grass.’

‘You are old’ said the youth, ‘as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you swung on that jug twenty foot from the floor-
Pray, what is the reason for that?’

‘In my youth,’ said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
‘Our boots were not very sticky,
I climbed the hardest routes in my socks-
Try it yourself, it’s quite tricky.’

‘You are old,’ said the youth, ‘one would hardly suppose
That your balance was as steady as ever;
Yet in the rain, you soloed the Nose-
What made you so awfully clever?’

‘In my youth, said his father, ‘I climbed all right
With only slings and stones for protection,
And most of the routes I climbed on sight,
In the end I achieved perfection.’

‘You are old.’ Said the youth, ‘and your arms are too weak,
For anything tougher than drinking;
Yet last year you ticked most of the Peak,
Please let me in on your thinking?’

‘I have answered three questions, and that is enough,’
Said his father, ‘My advice isn’t free!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
It’s like a meeting at the BMC!’

In reply to Dave Garnett: Sloper sensitive? I thought everyone knew his cynical right-wing persona camouflaged his inner child - a shy Keats-reading youth, composing sonnets to shepherdesses and skylarks as he acts out the Heathcliff-Cathy meeting on the moor (using any hapless sheep as a stand-in for Cathy).

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

I'm pretty sure that if I try and go through the Kumbhu Icefall, then I'm gonna die there.

In reply to withey: Like Lennon and McCartney's poem:

(sung to the tune of Ticket to Ride)

I think I'll die in a crevasse
I think it's today...yeah
Or maybe some avalanche
Or ice that gives way

I've got a vision I'll die
I've got a vision I'll die-ie-ie
I've got a vision I'll die
And I so scared.

In reply to Marc C: AE Housman's 'Loveliest of Trees' for cowardly climbers!

Wobbliest of knees, my left knee now
As I approach the holdless prow,
And the sweat pours from my hide
As my boot begins to slide.

Now I'm threescore years and ten,
Boldness will not come again,
And if courage wasn't there before,
I'll never feel the lion's roar.

And since to lead routes so smooth-hewn
Takes raw nerve and va-va-voom,
About the High Peak I will go
To SEE the climbs I'll never know.

In reply to Marc C: T+You bastard, I was thinking of bowdlerisin ghtis last night.

As for the nknees how true, how true,

as they say sic transit, call the AA

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou: Blake's 'Poison Tree'

I was angry with my Friend:
I scoured my rack, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my pro;
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I water'd it in fears,
With my sweat and with my tears;
And it gleamed a steely smile
And mocked me with deceitful wiles.

And it rocked both left and right,
Till it loosed and took to flight;
And my pro began to shine,
For it knew that Death was mine,

And demon-like my strength it stole
Till my last gear ripped from a hole:
And later it was glad to see
My corpse outstretch'd upon the scree.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou: Bit Stephen King/Twilight Zone that last one!

cue short story about an 'evil' piece of pro.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

When I was very young,
I climbed in the sun.
Then I learnt one hard day
That It’s an unforgiving way
To find a thing that
You enjoy
That leaves a friend without a life.

We repeated a climb
Maybe a second ascent
I led it, although, I made use of a peg
My friend came up
But grabbed a block
Which tragically came away.

There wasn’t a sound as he went down
As my belay went tight
Then I fell down as the rope ran through
My hands.

After some time, life came back,
We both hung on my belay,
My friend had fallen the whole rope length through,
And had run through my hands,
I could see the white bones, beneath the pulp,
And my mate he hung just free.

He was one hundred foot above the ground,
I was twenty foot down, both on the same piece of rope.
Both injured, no way up, or down.

Some guys on the crag, called the rescue
By that time we had got ourselves down,
We both ended up in Portmadoc
Hospital, (not the town.)

Apologies to no-one, for this is an attemt at a poem of my own devising. See if you can spot anything.

Rope, bag, harness and cams,
On the climber as he jams.
Climbing both hard and fast,
Killing pain, is gone and past.
Clawing, grasping for each hold,
Limbs unfeeling of the cold.
Intense, focused, deep in thought,
Mind and body together brought.
Belaying partner below stand,
Intent, concentrate rope in hand.
Nothing from the task at hand to sway,
Gifted prodigies indeed at play.

In reply to Allan Thomson: Your own?! Don't be outrageous, man. That's a direct ripoff of Sir Percy Mallander's "Madrigal for Gay Shepherd Lads" (1583)

Here's a real original!

Nesting the Gear -

Store all the chocks, and the Franklin Drop Zone,
Prevent the krabs from rusting, wrap them in foam.
Silence reigns on the edges, fingers too numb,
Bring out the photos, let the memories come.

Let hardier climbers to the ice-cliffs head
Scrabbling up gullies as this ‘tiger’ lies in bed.
Put a pull-up bar in the garage or in the attic above
Let the cagouled morons don their Dachstein gloves.

It was my Gritstone East, my Gritstone West,
My play after work, my Sunday test
My High, my Rocktalk, my beer, my song.
I thought summer would last forever – I was wrong.

The guidebooks are not wanted now – rest every one.
Pack up the ropes, now the season’s done.
Pore over the videos, and train on the wood.
Let the project patiently wait until the daffodils bud.

In reply to Marc Larkin Chrysanthou:

Stop all the clocks. Lovely....

Nick

In reply to Nick Alcock: Anyone want to volunteer for a variation of Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale"? I have in mind an epic camping trip entitled "Ode to a Night in a Gale".....

In reply to Marc Poet Laureate Chrysanthou:

You start, and I'll finish?

Nick

In reply to Marc Poet Laureate Chrysanthou:

It's probably best that I let you know before 'tongues start wagging'
That last night my computer was involved in what I can only assume, was an alcohol fuelled declaration of love for a Ms. Dinkypen. The standard of verse was, as you would expect, quite mechanical, and the spelling atrocious.

When the said Ms. Dinkypen (nice name, don't you think?) brought this regretable incident to my attention, I immediately ran the good Dr. Norton's Disk Doctor. I also gave the laptop a very stern talking to.

I hope this will have gone some way to repair the inevitable damage which, no doubt, will have been incurred.

I understand that Ms. Dinkypen (quite charming, wouldn't you say?) Will be communicating with me, in no uncertain terms, on this Sunday evening.

Given all of the above 'trouble' I find the muse has left me somewhat. I wonder whether you know of a sober laptop, suitable for a striving Bard?

Nicholas.

In reply to Nick Alcock: Why must we poets suffer so at the hands of cruel Love? And yet, from the forest of our tortured anguish great art leaps forth like a wild torrent of unrequited passion! O Muse, take me where thou wilt!

BTW I have the first 2 lines (not much I know, but it's a tricky poem to 'improve'!)

ODE TO A NIGHT IN A GALE
"My tent shakes, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, from all the cider that I’ve drunk..."

In reply to Marc Larkin Chrysanthou:

LOl. It is actually of my own devising, but have you had a look at the first letters of each sentence? Read them downwards.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Why Oh why, indeed?...


I will of course will strive to add some lines to your excellent opening...

Nicholas

In reply to Allan Thomson: That is very clever Allan! Unfortunately, you may have added more misery to an activity that was already bordering on obsessive - I refer, of course, to the poetry writing obsession. That was bad enough, but now I've spent 2 hours trying to 'adapt' Milton's Paradise Lost so that the first letters of every line spell out the names of all the Munros, and the last letters of every line spell out the names of all the climbs in Rockfax Grit East. Devilishly difficult......

But, hey ho, back to work I go!

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:


Angst ridden poems are the best sort of poems!!!!

In reply to Allan Thomson: Certainly some great poems on the themes of depression - e.g. John Clare's "I Am", Shelley's "Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples" - and unrequited love - Yeats' "When you are old and gray" - and lost love - Hardy's "After a Journey", and, of course, "Greensleeves".

In reply to Marc C:

Oh fellow bard. I feel at present, given the circumstances aforsaid, that "An Ode To A Night in Jail" may be more appropriate.

I will, of course, continue to work to your original title....

Nicholas

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Why? Was she too young?

In reply to Allan Thomson: Steady on, a fellow poet is suffering! At least he's not working on Ode to a Night in Wales (a B&B in Aberystwyth on a wet Sunday really would depress him!).

Sorry to hear about your travails, Nick. Maybe I should have suggested something lighter?

In reply to Marc C:

So Far...

ODE TO A NIGHT IN A GALE
"My tent shakes, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, from all the cider that I’ve drunk..."
My mind is in turmoil about the drains,
One minute past, and I’ll be sunk:
‘Tis my bladder, not my happy lot,
To leave the tent and all happiness-

(I’m exhausted)-Over to you Mark

Nick

In reply to Nick Alcock: You bastard! I was saving myself for the "Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!" stanza later on!!!

Speaking of poetry, I think I had a "Radio 4 Near Death Experience" a few moments ago. I'd just been on my attic climbing wall, ran a bath, turned the radio on, got in the bath, and promptly dozed off. I came to to the sounds of bamboo flute music, and people with Lancashire and Yorkshire accents droning on about such esoterica as bird droppings on church towers and fishmarket blood on herring gulls' bellies. When I'd fully regained my wits, I became aware that this was a poetry programme about the Northern Chapter of the British Haiku Society. How very bizarre! The secretary's a civil servant from Prston and the expert on the trendy one-line Haiku is an IT person from Sheffield. Apparently, they have a Haiku HIke every August Bank Holiday.

And, there was I, for a moment, thinking I'd died and crossed over into another world!

In reply to Marc C:

Ahh. A radio 4 moment I missed while walking my dog, and musing on the "Wet tent " experience...

There are a few stanzas to go before we reach "Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird... I will, therefore endeavour to comlete the first....

Nicholas

In reply to Nick Alcock: Please don't mention the Wet Tent Experience. I'm sure every man has had one. Mine was a long time ago. My scoutmaster seemed such a decent chap - his invitation - "Marc, your tent's leaking; why don't you come and sleep in mine?" - sounded like a genuine offer at the time....... My mother was furious - my woggle (that she'd scrimped to buy me) was twisted beyond all recognition.

In reply to Marc C:

Yes, reminds me of the incident with Akela and Ka the snake woman, on annual camp in the Trossachs...
It left scars, that even now are a burden.

Nick

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Tell me about it, you poor soul... I may help to ease this dreadful burden that you have borne so manfully for so long....

In reply to dinkypen:

Oh...If only you could....

Nicholas

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

In Sheffield town did Jerry M
A stately pleasure dome decree
Where Alf, a hopeful climber, can
Traverse walls measureless to man
At grades up to 8c.
So twice ten yards of old waste ground
With walls and caff were girdled round.

In reply to Meg: Ah, Coleridge! Any more ?

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

(An excerpt - aknowledging Sir Philip Sydney)

My true chum belays me, and I belay him,
By just exchange, one for the other given.
He leads, I second, at times it can be grim ,
There never was a better bargain driven.
The trust we share keeps me and him in one,
Our faith, our thoughts and senses guide;

In reply to Tiggs: Ah, "My true love hath my heart..."
Welcome to the Not Quite Dead Poets Society!

For your next assignment - successful completion of wghich will gain you admission to the hallowed sanctum of the Senior Common Room of the Olde Rockfaxians College, please let me have (by the end of the week) a climbing version of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner - perhaps, The Crime of the Flagrant Toproper???!!

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou: BTW There are no women currently in the SCR of ORC. Of course, we allow women in -but only if they're carrying a tray of drinks, or cleaning (Dazman has a cleaner in specially to dust his owls), or they've been specially ordered by Nick for personal services (he's insatiable).

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

I was musing on something based on Dylan Thomas 'Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night'. EvilTwin1 is a woman.

In reply to Tiggs: So he fooled you too did he? Certainly fooled me! (took me ages to live the whole sorry episode down - the chaps ribbed me mercilessly).

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou: A sort of animal rights protest poem about a pet rabbit vcalled Gentle?

Do not tow Gentle to that great height,
Old hares should eat hay at close of day,
Caged! caged! Not climbing like a kite...

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou: I'm so prousd of you son. I never dreamed - when you were hauled up before the scgool authorities for stabbing the Tuck Shop assistant for running out of Wagon Wheels - that one day you'd have a thread on Rocktalk with nearly 200 posts. I'm so proud....

In reply to Marc C:

Phew. This is a tough one (as my old poetry teacher Mr. Piles used to say)

However, I have struggled and burnt some "midnight oil" and I offer the following stanzas for your perusal:

I look forward to your input.

ODE TO A NIGHT IN A GALE
"My tent shakes, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, from all the cider that I’ve drunk..."
My mind is in turmoil about the drains,
One minute past, and I’ll be sunk:
‘Tis my bladder, not my happy lot,
To leave the tent and all happiness-
To venture to that Dryad of the trees,
In some malodious plot ,
Of dark and gloom, and sheep shit numberless
Without a torch in winter, ill at ease.

O, for a down jacket! That hath been
Warmed a long age by love within my berth,
Smelling of perfume and wintergreen,
Deep Heat, Chanel , and sunburnt mirth!
O for ablutions from the warm south,
Full of true Andrex and Nivea cream,
With hot running water and a shower trim,
And a brush to clean my mouth,
That I may pee, and leave the world unseen
And fade back to my tent in forest dim.

Nick (I think the next stanza may be yours, feel free...)

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

What life is this if in our prime,
we have no time to walk or climb.

No time to traipse across the hill,
forgetting all about that bill.

No time to tick in our Rockfax,
all of the classic gritstone cracks.

No time to crimp or fingerlock,
upon our favourite type of rock.

No time to quell with a quick smear,
that momentary sense of fear.

No time to sit and chat with friends,
in the pub when the daylight ends.

A poor life this, if in our prime,
we have no time to walk or climb.

In reply to gizmo:

Fine stuff Mr. Gizmo. More, please.

Nick

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Paul Simon


A Man climbs up a route
He says why is it soft in the middle now
Why am I soft in the middle
The rest of the route is so hard
I need a photo-opportunity
I want a shot in the magazines
Don’t want to end up in a guidebook
In a guidebook, graveyard
Headpointer Headpointer
Bolts in the moonlight
Far away from my well-lit crag
Mr Beerbelly Beerbelly
Get these cams away from me
You know I don’t find this stuff amusing any more

If you’ll be my belayguard
I can be your long lost pal,
And Dinky when you call me
you can call me Al.

A man climbs up a rock
He says why am I short of protection
Got a short span of protection
And wo ,my run out is long
Where’s my girl and dog
What if I die here
Who’ll be my role model
Now that my role model is
Gone ,Gone,
He ducked back down the
Crack, with some dodgy, dodgy,tatty kind of gear
All along there were incidents and accidents
There was bad gear and nasty placements

If you’ll be my belayguard
I can be your long lost pal,
And Dinky when you call me
you can call me Al.

A man climbs a piece of rock
It’s a rock in a strange world
Maybe It’s a rock in the third world
He doesn’t speak the language
He knows nothing of it
He’s a foreign man
He is surrounded by the rock
The rock
Cattle in the marketplace
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around, around,
He sees angels in the rock formations
Spinning in infinity
He says Amen! And Hallelujah!

If you’ll be my belayguard
I can be your long lost pal,
And Dinky when you call me
you can call me Al.

Nickers

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Wow, Nick, that is just brill!

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Probably been done lots of times and in far better style than this but I can cope with the derision....

Choose climbing. Choose a crag. Choose a mountain. Choose a boulder. Choose a f*cking big hex, choose friends, nuts, carabiners and nice shiny rocks. Choose Limestone, Yorkshire Grit and Cornish Granite. Choose toproping at the indoor wall. Choose a first lead. Choose your belayer. Choose a t-shirt and matching beanie. Choose down the pub on Rocktalk and read the range of f*cking drivel. Choose RT picnics and wondering who the f*ck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on your bouldering mat watching talented, mind blowing climbers, stuffing f*cking junk food in your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, non-climbing brats you spawned to replace yourself.

Choose your future.

Choose climbing.

In reply to cleddy:

The best choice, Cleddy.

Nick

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Paul Simon's got nothing on you, Nickers.... But why would I want to call you Al, even if he has got a nice bum?!

In reply to dinkypen:

Because Nick doesn't rhyme with Pal. Silly.

Nickers

In reply to Nick Alcock: 'You can call me Al' = superb.

I'll have a go at the next bit of 'nightingale', though, 'had I world enough and time' I'd love to do The Crime of the Flagrant Toproper (to the Rime of the Ancient Mariner)!

In reply to Marc C:


That would certainly be a "tour de force".

Good luck with " Fade far away, dissolve etc"....

NickersThePoet

In reply to Marc C:

Verse 3 (we'll put them all together when we've finished!)

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What those cosy in the pubs have never known,
The weariness, the stench, and tummy upset
Here, where I sit and hear my fellow climbers groan;
Where socks grow stale, and optimism dies,
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And hollow-eyed despairs;
Where Beauty shows off her lustrous thighs
From a Playboy that we chanced to borrow.

In reply to Marc C: Shows how sad and addicted I've become: I tried to look up 'My tent shakes' rather than 'My heart aches' in the Index of First Lines!!!!

In reply to Marc C:

First class, Marc. And," Away! away".......?

N

In reply to Marc C:

I know. Kind of gets to you.... aaargggg. Poetry ruined for ever....

Nickers

In reply to cleddy:

Cleddy - do you mind if I put this one the wall at The Orange House, we have a fabby collection from you guys already, they make brill reading on the walls in the large bunk room.

Ta Sam Orange House

In reply to Nick Alcock: Yes, I'm working on it!

In reply to Sam: We members of the Senior Common Room, whilst not wishing to appear greedy, would advise
you that any publication or performance of any of our poems will incur copyright fees. We feel that £5 per rendition and £50 for publication (in any form - toilet walls, whatever) is fair.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

A cautionary tale:


The chief defect of Henry King
Was, he could not climb anything
No matter what grade route he found
He simply could not leave the ground
Or if he did, he quickly fell
And all around would hear him yell
Until one day he found a cliff
(Whose hardest route was just V Diff)
Of well-protected, friendly grit
Oh, how he longed to climb on it!
And so one day he took his sack,
His climbing rope, his boots, his rack,
His sandwiches, his little flask,
He was quite ready for the task
But just to make his heart feel gladder
He took along a little ladder

The other climbers watched, amazed
As Henry King his ladder raised
And, while a deathly silence hung
He climbed the ladder, rung by rung
Alas! his plan it was a flop
The ladder didn’t reach the top!
He quickly felt the ladder’s lack
Of height, and wedged into crack
A Friend (it was a number four)
Then swiftly placed a couple more
This gear so highly raised his hope
He quite forgot to clip the rope!
But all oblivious to this state
And unaware what was his fate
He laybacked off a sharp arete
(A better hold you could not get)
And for the first, and only, time
Henry King began to climb!

He handjammed boldly up a crack
A chimney led with foot and back
Though tension heightened every sense
He was so full of confidence
But as he dyno’d for the top
A voice below him shouted, “Stop!
You fool, you haven’t clipped your gear!”
And Henry’s heart went cold with fear
He very soon began to quake
And both his knees began to shake
‘Til from his holds he nearly slipped
He was most definitely gripped!
Then, just as he was losing hope
Somebody lowered him a rope
And would have saved him from his fate
If they had not been just too late
For Henry’s feet slipped from the ledge
His fingers uncurled from the edge
And with a most blood-curdling yell
Henry to the bottom fell
Almost from the very top
And landed with a sort of “Plop!”

All you who listen to my tale
Be sure you never, ever fail
To clip your gear when you do climb
Be sure you do it every time!
But there is one more lesson clear
For climbers with the sense to hear:
Always keep tight hold of grit
For fear of ending in the ...

In reply to Marc C: Verse 4!

All day! All day! Without a cup of tea,
Nor Walkman nor e'en a pack of cards
Trapped like a clueless thing of Destiny
Who my dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already hungry! Endless is the night
Unhaply, none of us has a mobile phone,
So there's no chips or curried takeaways;
And here there is no light
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through endless driving rain and choking, foggy haze

In reply to Howard: Good stuff and educational too! I'm going to read that out to my scout pack before I take them climbing next week.

In reply to Howard:

In my opinion, anyone venturing on gritstone should learn that by heart....

Nick

In reply to Nick Alcock: Do you want me to continue Nick? I don't want to steal it all from you, but I've practically done " I cannot see what flowers.."

In reply to Marc C:

No you go ahead Marc. You're on a roll. I'm toying with a few ideas at the moment....

Nickers

In reply to Marc C:

A.A.Milne is going to be turning in his grave! I'm addicted!

Little boy kneels at the foot of the crag
Drops on the ground his little rope bag
Hush, hush! Whisper who dares
Another climber is saying his prayers

God bless gritstone. I know that’s right
So much fun, I could climb all night
The cracks are so cracky, and the grit’s so grit!
Oh, God bless Limestone, it’s not that sh*t

If I open my fingers a little bit more
I can see my gear bag, just there on the floor
It’s a beautiful gear bag, but it hasn’t a zip
Oh, God bless my quickdraws, may they always clip

Oh, thank you God for a beautiful day
And what was the other I had to say
I said ‘Bless Limestone’, so what can it be?
Oh! Now I remember, God bless me.

Little boy kneels at the foot of the crag
Drops on the ground his little rope bag
Hush, hush! Whisper who dares
Another climber is saying his prayers

In reply to Evil Twin 1: Just checked your profile. So, Tiggs was right, you AREN'T a man! You certainly fooled us all - especially Dazman - who'll be mightily embarrassed after propositioning you.
Anyway, can you please leave your Olde Rockfaxian tie, blazer, cummerbund and key to the wine cellar with Smithers? Your poetry's fine (for a member of the fairer sex), and I can foresee a time when women may be admitted to the Senior Common Room, but the time's not quite right. I trust you understand

PS re your photo - That's not the left Red Chili rockboot I lost a month or so ago is it?

In reply to Marc C:

Propositioning? Moi? Non, Non, au contraire. I merely asked whether she'd be interested in accompanying me to Tufts (raptor equivalent of Crufts) early next year. It'll be ever so exciting. I reckon that I'm in with a strong shout in the Screech Owl category. Little Mo has the most splendid plumage that I've seen in a long time.

Anyhow, you'll have to forgive the dearth of poetry contributions on my part. The muse has temporarily flown the roost, following my first leader deckout yesterday. I'm mulling over putting together something dark and sinister. A bit of Poe perhaps? Can you think of any other suitable poets?... I've got to express sentiments of bewilderment, pain, anguish, and a deep and abiding hatred of gravity.

In reply to Marc C:

Nope - not a man

You certainly fooled us all - especially Dazman - who'll be mightily embarrassed after propositioning you.

Did Dazman proposition me?? When, Where, Why?



Anyone got the number of the Equal Opportunities Commission?!


Erm, aha (clears throat and looks shifty) - well I could only afford one, not being as privaleged as you old boys, and then the solitary right one was getting lonely on it's own - sorry guvnor - don't call the coppers, didn't mean nuffin by it!

In reply to DazMan:

This is obviously War Poet territory. Wilfred Owen etc.

Ask not for whom the helicopter flies, it flies for thee.
(that's not mine, I think it's the title of a short story by that marvellous French female climbing writer...)

Dulce et decorum est, you know the genre.

Y

In reply to Yanchik:

Indeed I do, but I've already covered that particular one earlier in the thread.

Allow me to humbly present a little ode to an epic on a certain Welsh multipitch route.

Bent double, like old beggars under rucksacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on Tryfan's north ridge we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Both marched asleep. One had lost his boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. Both went lame, both whined;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of an eagle owl calling softly behind.

Fags! Fags! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Sucking the noxious fumes sublime,
But hark! someone's yelling out and calling
And shouting "Moutain rescue!" time after time.--
On through the misty rains and thick black night,
I realise it's me!, we go on walking.

In recurring dreams since that fateful plight
I relive the thrutching, flailing, falling.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could place
yourself about the Ogwen Valley, as we were in,
And share the agony of plodding on pace by pace,
your plates of meat, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the curses
Come gargling from our cigarette-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on fingertips and tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To climbers ardent for some multipitch glory,
The old Lie: Grooved Arete? V Diff at best. Go climb there shortly.

In reply to DazMan:

You did. Beg pardon, the "Kipling" got me all choked again.
Exceedingly good verse.

In reply to Yanchik: Here is the full version of Keats' "Ode to a Night in a Gale" (the first openly gay poem we've essayed thus far?)

ODE TO A NIGHT IN A GALE
My tent shakes, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, from all the cider that I've drunk.
My mind is in turmoil about the drains,
One minute past, and I'll be sunk:
'Tis my bladder, not my happy lot,
To leave the tent and all happiness-
To venture to that Dryad of the trees,
In some malodious plot ,
Of dark and gloom, and sheep shit numberless
Without a torch in winter, ill at ease.

O, for a down jacket! That hath been
Warmed a long age by love within my berth,
Smelling of perfume and wintergreen,
Deep Heat, Chanel , and sunburnt mirth!
O for ablutions from the warm south,
Full of true Andrex and Nivea cream,
With hot running water and a shower trim,
And a brush to clean my mouth,
That I may pee, and leave the world unseen
And fade back to my tent in forest dim.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What those cosy in the pubs have never known,
The weariness, the stench, and tummy upset
Here, where I sit and hear my fellow climbers groan;
Where socks grow stale, and optimism dies,
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And hollow-eyed despairs;
Where Beauty shows off her lustrous thighs
From a Playboy that we chanced to borrow.

All day! All day! Without a cup of tea,
Nor Walkman nor e'en a pack of cards
Trapped like a clueless thing of Destiny
Who my dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already hungry! Endless is the night
Unhaply, none of us has a mobile phone,
So there's no chips or curried takeaways;
And here there is no light
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through endless driving rain and choking, foggy haze.

I cannot feel my half-frostbitten feet
Only the immense weight of gloom upon my brow
But in the becalmed darkness , I retreat
To where my feverish mind allows
A lass, a whiskey, and a plate tall-piled
With roast beef, served with the finest wine;
Followed by biscuits and crumbly cheese
And The Green Man's finest mild
Then a perfumed bath, with bubbles divine,
Soap scented with honey from murmuring bees.

Wand'ring I listen; and for many a time
I have been mad in love with peaceful Geoff,
Called him soft names in many a muted rhyme,
To take into my heart his manly breath;
Now more than ever seems it time to try,
To reach under his duvet with no shame,
While he is snoring upon his back so broad
And I'm in ecstasy!
Hitherto my love had anguished in vain
Till now my love was only known to God.

"Thou wast not born for Geoff, infernal cur!"
So came vibrations from the eiderdown;
The voice I heard give me a fright was her,
Geoff's fiancee, who slowed us as we hurried down:
The hag, the self-sure wench who lost the path
Through the mist - Well Done Ruth!' - when sick for home
We stood in tears amid the alien zawn;
The dame that oft-times hath
Charmed Geoff's Rohan breeches open, for his foam,
On perilous climbs, as I looked down forlorn.

Forlorn! The very word is like a bell
To toll me back from cruel dreams to myself
Adieu! I unzip the flap, lurch into Hell,
As the downpour makes treacherous the shelf
Adieu! Adieu! Geoff's memory fades
I crawl through meadows, vault a wild stream,
Up the hillside; and now tis very steep
Till the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision or a drunken dream ?
Long fled is my Vango - do I wake or sleep ?

In reply to DazMan: Sorry to hear about your Near Death experience (I had one listening to Radio 4 in the bath last night!)

To fully express your anguish I fear we need to go all continental and start translating German (Rilke, Heine, Schiller, French (Baudelaire, Verlaine) and Scandinavian (probably loads of doomy cross-country skiing types called Jan or Edvard or Ragnar) poets - maybe, even better, Russian (Mandelstam, Akhmatova, Pasternak).

BTW JCT eat your heart out - 200 posts coming up!!!!

In reply to Marc C:

And very good it is too, but I'm confused. Nothing new there you might think. After all your recent re-enactment of General Custer's role in the charge of the light brigade left me similarly perplexed?. The question is, did I miss the covertly gay poems? Whose were they?

In reply to Yanchik: The Kipling got you all choked again?! Take it back to the Mr. Kipling factory. I did. They gave me a full refund and a new box of Almond Slices - it's those flakes that get stuck in your throat.

PS I wrote a tragic poem about my experience - I can send you a copy if you like. It's called 'Mr. Kipling makes exceedingly fine flakes......that catch in your throat and make you choke etc. etc.")

In reply to Marc C:
This thread is now sooo long - has anyone done Kubla Kahn? If not - please will someone with more talent than I take up the challenge.
Likewise - The Walrus and the Carpenter.

In reply to DazMan: Of all people on here to masquerade as innocent !! YOUR poem - Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori - is latin for "Sweet Young Boy, your decorous thighs make me glow with pride"..........

In reply to Evil Twin 1: I think you'll find someone did the first bit of Kubla Khan, but then stopped....

My dream poem would be The Crime (rime) of the Flagrant (ancient) Toproper (mariner) - but again, that would be too long.

In reply to Marc C:

Marc, I don't mean to sound unkind, especially not in such a public realm as this, but how many times have I had to provide you with the correct translations for various Latin phrases? How many times have I told you that your old Latin Master was nothing but a sexual deviant?

Remember that awful incident at Farnborough Airshow a few years ago, when you innocently enquired of a passing Air Vice Marshall "Excuse me. Per Ardua ad Astra is, of course, the motto of the Royal Air Force. What relevance do choir boys and hamsters have for the service exactly?"

In reply to Marc C:


Yet another mantelpiece!

Pass the port old chap....

Nickers

In reply to Marc C:

It was the memory of The (Coconut) Square That Broke; and The Apricot That Jammed...

Martial, I think, did a short humorous verse about some lad that got skewered by an icicle falling off the biggest acqueduct in Rome. He wasn't even climbing it. Two thousand years later I didn't find it funny at all. Neither would you, had you been translating it.

Hilaire Belloc needs revisiting here. There's surely a racier/Greater Ranges edition to be made of

As a friend to the children I commend you the Yak
You will find it exactly the thing
You can *** it, or *** it, or ride on it's back
Or lead it about with a string

The Tartars who live on the plains of Tibet (etc...)

Y

In reply to Nick Alcock: I think we both need a glass of port after 'translating' that!!!
In reply to Dazman: Very funny!

Here's WB Yeats' love song to a fellow boulderer (male or female).

Had I the heavens' upholstered mats,
Enwrought with stitching and filled with foam ,
The blue and the black and the red mats
S7, Metollius or Franklin Drop Zone ,
I would spread my mats under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Fall softly, because you fall on my dreams.

In reply to Marc C:

A bit more prossaic, in a physics book by the
climber Heniz R Pagels he writes that he frequenly
dreams of falling, and uses the sensations of weightlessness to explain Einsteins theories of gravity etc. Poor chap died in a climbing accident.

S.

In reply to Marc C:

In Argentiere did Kubla Khan
A lengthy Alpine trip decree
Where Arve, the schisty river ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to Chamonix

So twice five yards of sloping ground
With tents and mats were girdled route
And here were climbers fat with freeze-dried meals
Who lay neath the washing-line-bearing tree
And they ate oatcakes ancient as the hills
On which grew spots of greenery

But Oh! that deep romantic cavern which slanted
Down the seracs athwart a snow-bridge cover
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By barmaid wailing for her Preston lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil babbling,
A man with Ron Hill pants was scrabbling
His mighty axes momently were thrust
And planted in the glacier's crust.
Then slid he like a benzedrene snail,
Down the flanks of the glacier so pale:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
Plunged , yetis and all, into the silty river.

Five miles meandering with down the vale
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult past the Bar Nationale:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from the Bar
Ancestral voices prophesying War!

.... (and so on.... I ran out of inspiration - the laudenam must have worn off)

In reply to T Chamberlain:
Fan 'bloody' tastic ....... take more laudenam!!

In reply to Evil Twin 1:

The Owl and the Dazman went to Wales
In a beautiful lime-green jag:
They took some 'stickies', and plenty of biccies
Wrapped up in an old chalkbag..

The Owl looked up to the cliffs above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Dazzy, O Dazzy, my love,
What a beautiful Dazzy you
are,
You are, You are!
What a beautiful Dazzy you are!"

Dazzy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,
You're so cute, with you I'll elope!
But let's try Cloggy;
Before it gets foggy:
But what shall we do for a
rope?"

They clambered away, for the Rest of the day,
To the stance where the Gorple-tree grows;
And there in a hood a Grey Badger stood,
With a rope wrapped around his
toes,
His toes, His toes,
With a rope wrapped around his toes.

"Gray Ruff, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your rope?"
Said the Badger, "I will."
So they took it away,
And climbed Shrike all the way
Till they could see to the top of the hill

They followed the track
To Yr Wydffa's shack
Where they were wed by Marc C the Buffoon.

And hand in hand they danced to a band
Till they floated up in a balloon,
Balloon,
Balloon,
They floated up in a balloon.

In reply to Marc C:

Excellent! You've outdone yourself. This will duly be printed out, framed, and hung in pride of place in my aviary... Not to mention committed to memory, and recited to old people on the bus.

I'll commission somebody to write it up in an elegant script, and have it bound and added to the library in the Senior Common Room.

In reply to DazMan: Good idea - there's a fresh space on the oak-panelled wall (above the hearth) now we've removed the portrait of that impostor, 'Evil Twin1'!

PS Sorry about the ribbing you took off the SCR lads. If it's any consolation, they've all done the same - but the other way round - i.e. mistaken a bloke for a woman (I did it myself in Thailand last year).

In reply to Marc C:
Was the portrait not a give-away!??

Oh damn - i've just remembered, it was the one of me in my best blazer, Old School Tie, Floppy school boy hair..... knew that one would keep you fooled for a while. Lots of intellect..... not much brains!!

In reply to DazMan: I'm sorry Daz, but you better get off that bus - I've just used my scanner to tune in to police radio, and apparently, several OAPs have committed suicide (throwing themselves out of bus windows; thrusting themselves headfirst into bingo-caller machines; turning the single bar of their electric fires off completely) after you recited 'your' poem.

In reply to Marc C:

Love it <jumps up and down, clapping hands, with big smile on face> Lear is a favourite of mine!

In reply to Marc C:
>... after you recited 'your' poem.

Are you sure that these suicides can all be attributed to the recital of the poem? Other factors may be involved, such as my offer to bring your good self around to their houses and introduce you to them?

Maybe your reputation precedes you (again)? Folk in these parts have long memories. They still haven't forgiven our forgotten your stint as head chef at the curry house, and your infamous 'Woodland Special' menu. They also have an appreciation of your somewhat cavalier treatment of your climbing partners. Just a thought. I may, of course, be completely wide of the mark here.

In reply to DazMan: <Completely wide of the Marc>....Hmm. I don't feel this is the forum to bring up the tent episode and your appalling 'markmanship'

PS re the Curry House - great days, great days...sigh (reminds me, must dust off my Indian Restaurant jokes - please refresh my memory about the woodland special menu again - the choices were hilarious!)

In reply to DazMan: cant believe ive missed this thread until now. genius all of you

In reply to Adders: Missed this thread!!!!??????? The Best Thread since What's Your Favourite Biscuit or Anyone Watch the Surfing Programme Last Night?


How COULD you?

PS You're off my christmas card list!

In reply to Marc C:

I'm pleased to say that the finer details of the Woodland Special menu have been completely erased from my mind. It cost me a small fortune in therapy, but it was well worth the money. My shrink compared my mental state to that exhibited by Vietnam veterans after my visit to the Curry House. Severe post traumatic stress disorder etc... Now that I come to think about it, wasn't Rodent Josh a feature of it.... ARGRHHHHHH! It's all coming back to me now!

The Indian restaurant jokes? I think that you offered one about a Lassie (lahsi)? I managed a convoluted pun on fenugreek?... Can't remember the others, but they were very funny. Thanks a bunch, I've not been able to get a seat in my favourite Indian since I 'wisely' decided to share them with the owner.

In reply to Evil Twin 1:

Disobedience
AA Milne (Again)

James James
Morrison Morrison
Weatherby George Dupree
Took great
Care of his belay
Though it was round a tree.
James James said to his partner,
“Partner” he said, said he;
You must never ab down
To the ledge near the ground
If you don’t ab down with me.”

James James
Morrison’s partner
Put on serious frown
James James Morrisons partner
Said to herself said she;
“I can ab right down
to the ledge near the ground
and be back in time for tea.”

King John
Put up a notice,
LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED
JAMES JAMES MORRISON’S PARTNER
SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID
LAST SEEN
BUMBLING VAGUELY:
QUITE OF HER OWN ACCORD,
SHE TRIED TO AB DOWN
TO THE LEDGE NEAR THE GROUND-
FORTY SHILLINGS REWARD!”

James James
Morrison Morrison
(Commonly known as Jim)
Told all his
Climbing buddies
Not to go blaming him.
James James
Said to his partner
“Partner” he said, said he;
You must never climb down
To the ledge near the ground
If you don’t climb down with me.”

James James
Morrison’s partner
Hasn’t been heard of since
King John said he was sorry,
So did the Queen and Prince.
King John
(Somebody told me)
Said to a man he knew;
“If people ab down to a ledge near the ground, well,
What can anyone do?”

In reply to Marc C:
More Lear....... um my friend, he's a bloke, likes port, got a smoking jacket wrote this, just asked me to pop into the SCR and drop it off - hope that's ok.

The climber who has no gear
Had once as much as we
When they said “Some day you may lose it all”
He replied “Fish, fiddle-de-dee!”
And his Aunt JCT made him buy
A gear bag of blue, just like the sky
For she said “There’s nothing to fear,
There’s nothing so good to hold your gear.

The climber who has no gear
Climbed many a route at Cloggy
But before he set out he clipped his rope
To the lead of his doggy
For his Aunt JCT said “No harm
Can come to his gear if attached by a charm
And it’s perfectly known that a climber’s gear
Is safe – provided his dog is near

The climber smeared hard as he did ascend
When cracks or holds appeared before him
He jammed-in, rammed-in, crammed-in a friend
So all other climbers could not ignore him
And all the scramblers and boulderers cried
When they saw him bridging around the side
He’s slightly nutty or that way disposed
He’s following a route that’s far more exposed

But before he reached the top
The top of the route at Cloggy
A nasty young gypsy carried away
His lovely gear-guarding doggy
And when he came to observe his route
Formally guarded with gear absolute
His face at once became forlorn
On perceiving that all his gear was gone

And nobody ever knew
From that dark day to the present
Whoso had taken the climber’s gear
In a manner so far from pleasant
How the nuts or cams of grey
Or crafty hexes had gone astray
Nobody knew; and nobody is clear
How the climber was robbed of his gear

The climber who has no gear
Was thrown down a helpful rope
And they raised him up, then set him down
And a gentle, rocky slope
And his Aunt JCT and all of his friends
Tried to help and make amends
They said “it’s a fact, let all the world hear,
That climbers are happier without their gear”

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Nick - that's made my day! Thank you thank you thank you. I thought about it but nothing came!!

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

RUSHBYMANDIAS
-------------

I met a climber from an Northern land
Who said: Two hairy ginger disco legs
Stand near this ridge, Bert. Belaying from the sand,
Half drunk, a shattered ego lies,
Whose brown ale & crinkled chips
Tell that his cocksure will has died,
Clutching his worn-out slings -
The hand that clipped them and his ginger head.
And on his pedal car these words appear:
"My name is Rushbymandias, King of Kings.
Look at my cat Nevis and despair".
Nothing beside remains.
Round the decay of that rusting wreck,
Boundless and bare, Stoke Newington stretches
Far far away.

In reply to Evil Twin 1:

Takes me back to My dear old Nursie and marmite on toast for tea.....

Nick

In reply to Paul Saunders:

Good one Paul. Maybe he'd like us to send him our collection?

Nick

In reply to Evil Twin 1:

A Xmas AA Milne poem...

John Dunne's Xmas. (I'm so sorry John I haven't got it in for you... really... it's just your name fit's all the poems I'm plagarising... Sorrysorrysorrysorry!)

John Dunne was not a thin man man--
And he had his little ways.
Sometimes no one climbed with him
For days and days and days.
Men who came across him,
When eyeing up new routes,
Gave him a supercilious stare,
Or passed with noses in the air--
Big big John stood dumbly there,
Blushing in his sticky boots.

John Dunne was not a popular man,
And no good friends had he.
He bouldered every afternoon...
But no one came to see.
And, round about December,
The cards upon his shelf
Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,
And fortune in the coming year,
Were never from those he admired,
But only from his sponsors.

John Dunne was not a vain man,
He had his hopes and fears.
They had given him no recognition
For years and years and years.
But every year at Christmas,
While boulderers stood about,
complaining that the friction sucked,
And all the prob's they might have sent,
He stole away upstairs and stuck
A hopeful stocking up.

Big John was not a friendly man,
He lived his life aloof;
Alone he thought a message out
While climbing up "Rays Roof".
He wrote it down and propped it
Against the chimney stack:
'To all and sundry--near and far--
F. Christmas in particular.'
And signed it not "The God of Gritstone"'
But very humbly, 'Jack.'

'I want some camalots,
I need a "beta-stick"!
I think a box climbing chalk
Could save my life when things get slick;
I don't mind quick draws,
I'd love some topo's
And a full page spread in "On the Edge"
With really glossy photos.
And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me a bit,
Please bring me a big, red boulder-beannie hat!'

John Dunne was not a good man--
But still he had his hopes,
And went back to the ground again,
By abbing down his ropes.
And all that night he lay there,
A prey to hopes and fears.
'I think that's him a-coming now,'
(Anxiety bedewed his brow.)
'He'll bring one present, anyhow--
The first I've had for years.

Forget about the camalots,
I don't need a "beta-stick"!
I think a box climbing chalk
Won't make a difference on grit; (I mostly use POF)
I've got some quick-draws,
I'll use my old topo's
And a in a full page spread in "On the Edge"
I look rotten in the photos.
But, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me a bit,
Please bring me a big, red boulder-beannie hat!'

But John Dunne was not a good man--
Next morning when the sun
Rose up to tell a waiting world
That Christmas had begun,
And climbers seized their stockings,
And opened them with glee,
And quickdraws, nuts and friends appeared,
And grit with sticky boots was smeared,
Big John said grimly: 'As I feared,
Nothing again for me!'

'I did want Camalots,
And a "beta-stick" as well
I know a box of climbing chalk
helps when the friction goes to hell;
I do love quick-daws,
I did want topos.
And a full page spread in "On the Edge"
With really glossy photos.
And, oh! If Father Christmas had loved me just a bit,
He would have brought a big, red boulder-beannie hat!'

That's right. You remembered that, didn't you?

Big John stood by the window,
And frowned to see below
The happy bands of climbers
All playing in the snow.
A while he stood there watching,
And envying them all...
When through the window big and red
There hurtled wooly past his head,
And bounced and fell upon the bed,

Guess what?

A big, red boulder-beannie hat!'

And oh, Father Christmas,
I wouldn't have expected that.
You brought him a big, red,
boulder-beannie hat!'

In reply to Paul Saunders:

How did I post that before you did....I's all getting a bit wierd in The Common Room tonight.....

Nickers

In reply to Nick Alcock:

See above....

N

In reply to Nick Alcock:

LOL

I corrected a typo!

In reply to Paul Saunders:

Thought for a moment I'd got caught in a space-time poetry paradox. Anyway do you think Mr. D would appreciate a Christmas gift of our "homage"?

Nickers

In reply to Sam - The Orange House:

No worries, go ahead.

In reply to Marc C:
Grit Fever

I must go out to the peak again, the lonely peak on high
and all I ask is a gritstone slab and a bouldering mat nearby,
and the slipper smear and the sidepull and the crystal pinch biting,
and a clear day and a cold day and the clean boot striking

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:
2nd verse
I must go out to the peak again, for the call of the gritstone kiss
is a wild call and a painfull call that may not be dismissed
and all I ask is a midge free day with the soul and spirit soaring the scarlet heather, kestrels hover and the black crows playing

In reply to simon j: Blame Radio 4 (and its programme on the British Haiku Society), but here's a haiku (3 lines, 17 syllables in 5-7-5 sequence):

Fly smeared on cold glass
A climber of kindred blood -
Pray no-one swats me

In reply to simon j:

Hey that is plagiarism of MY PLAGIARISM,from my youth

In reply to Nick Alcock:

I dunno he's a big man...

Anyway you're the one writing love sonnets... Oh J Climber Dunne... I ask you?

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou: For Joe Brown (based on Blake's 'Jerusalem' - sing it if you like!)

And did Joe's feet in 'ancient' time
Walk upon England's moorlands green
And was the holy jamming god
On England's gritstone's rough cracks seen?

And though a mountaineer sublime
Who shone in Karakoram hills
He carved a true hard man's career
Amid the scars of mines and hills

Sing me of Joe, master of old
Sing me of Joe, gritstone messiah
Sing me of Joe, of climbs so bold
Sing me of Joe, ascending higher

He did not cease from mental strife
Nor did the skin stay on his hands
He put up routes that we still fear
He's England's greatest mountain man

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou: Just wondering...Is this the looooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggest thread ever on RT (in terms of wordage)?

In reply to Marc C's Mum:

Good Morning Marc C's Mum. Marc has always told me that length doen't matter.

Best regards

Nickers

In reply to Nick Alcock:
MEG - where did it go - it was brilliant!!!!!!

In reply to Evil Twin 1:

Sorry - spotted a typo!!

The Marmot And The Alpinist

The Marmot and the Alpinist were walking hand in hand
Along the narrow trodden path which crossed the snowy land.
Across the darkened glacier their head torch bobbed and dipped
Beside the steady Alpinist the Marmot danced and skipped.

The stars were fading in the sky. The Marmot looked forlorn
Until a brush of snowy pink proclaimed the coming dawn.
The sky changed from a chilly grey to an alcoholic blue
The Marmot lay down on its back, and watched the heady hue.

The Alpinist looked down his nose, at the Marmot lying there
Its fur all matted in the snow and its paws up in the air.
"Oh Marmot," said the Alpinist, "We must be moving on."
The Marmot turned the right way up, and quickly they were gone.

The Alpinist soon had to pause, and looked down at his foot.
Then knelt and strapped his crampon more tightly to his foot.
The Marmot watched in mild surprise, and wiped a snowy paw.
"Oh tell me, my dear Alpinist, just what are crampons for?"

Up on the col the sun was strong; the heat was very hot.
The Alpinist slowed down his pace, and mopped his brow a lot.
He stopped to put on glacier cream, and donned a shady hat.
The Marmot merely preened its tail and smirked a bit at that.

The Alpinist marched up the ridge, his pace was firm, refined.
The Marmot twitched its furry ears, and scampered up behind.
Up on the ridge the wind was sharp, the snow was white as snow.
"Oh Marmot," said the Alpinist "There's not much more to go."

They walked along the summit ridge, and did not take a rest
Till they stood among the orange peel upon the mountain crest.
The Marmot and the Alpinist stood there hand in hand.
With proud but tired eyes they gazed, down at the snowv land.

In reply to Nick Alcock:

Can't believe the muse has persisted so long and that you guys are still at it. Great stuff. I really do have work to do today but I'll have another think...

In reply to Meg:

Beautifully done, but strangely revisionist with its new, happy Hollywood ending.

I missed the seven guides with seven snow shovels

In reply to Meg:

Lovely picture. I can see the film. Shall I draw up the storyboard?

Nickers

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou: What about some Burns:

Ode to a Winter Climber

Big, hairy, smelly beastie
Where are ye gaun sae hastie
Thou need na start, nane will chase thee
Tae yer hill
Tha route is yours lane, it's virgin tae
Go, tak thy adrenalin pill

The hills is empty, nane is there
So thee can enjoy, wi time tae spare
The red deer an' white mountain hare
Afore they startle
When thy reach's snow, ice and mair
Thou'll ken thy's mortal

Pitch after pitch, upwards ye'll go
'Til thou's hangin' on a dice, an it's thy throw
Ane mair heave wi axes, a bawl, and 'lo
'Tis a braw sight
The summit, 'tis cover'd in snow
On this glorious, moonlit night

Descent is slow on legs sae wearie
Adrenalin gone noo, vision's blearie
Energy sapped, but thou's content and happy
No longer feart
Warm feelin returns, thou'll soon be cosy
Thee, whae have the mountains sae close tae heart

In reply to Anita: "What about some burns"?! No way! I got mixed up with a wild kinky woman like you once before - once burned twice shy....

Nice one though. I'd thought of that poem, but couldn't see how to pull it off.

PS The pedant in me has spotted that in one verse of my "And did Joe's feet in ancient times", the line should have read 'Amidst the scars of mines and mills'.

In reply to Nick Alcock: re length comment, I was trying to be kind!!!

As I did when I saw you climbing (ahem) and I consoled you by saying 'strength doesn't matter'.....

In reply to Gordon Stainforth:

Hollywood ending, eh? That's put me in my place. I actually wrote it years ago, after a brilliant alpine day. Luring defenceless sea creatures to their death didn't seem to fit the mood.

However, you've got me thinking now... watch this space.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

Anyone for Tennyson?

Crossing the Bar


Sunset and evening star,
And one last route for me!
And may there be no moaning at the bar,
Can all the drinks be free?

But the chosen route is a gritstone crack,
The holds unchalked and green
The cams are stacked around my back,
I think you know the scene.

Twilight and, Oh dear,
I’ve got a jam, I can’t let go,
To reach the pro, I’ll have to get a smear
But there’s lichen on my toe

For though the darkness falls on Time and Place
The rope might hold me far
I hope to see my Maker face to face
When I lean across the bar.



Nickers.

In reply to Meg:

I'm looking forward to it. Something that'll make me turn a little blue and hold my pocket handkerchief before my streaming eyes.

In reply to Marc Chrysanthou:

What about Chaucer? Here's one the BBC unaccountably failed to dramatise:

The Climber's Tale

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And fromme the Ynland Revenue we here
To welcome inne the new fynancial yere
Then alle the clymbers they have hadde enough
Of clymbinge onne the artyficial stuffe
Atte the Foundry or the North West Face
And they are all fulle sicke of Rope Race
But soone, whyle alle the people lye aslepe
Bright Phoebus forward in his course doth leepe
To summon inne the British Summer Time
And itte is then thatte folkes go forth too clymbe
From far and near they go on pilgrymage
To Stoneye Mideltonne and Hathersage
Whyle somme do turn their faces further west
To Cloggy, Tryfan, Idwal and the reste
But tho the shoures swete falle on the toun
Upon the hilles itte generally pysseth down

A manne there was, in Manchester did dwelle
Who liked to clymb upon the rocks fulle welle
This manne, of hwom I telle to you my tale
His clymbinge loved, but better loved hys ale
For even tho the sunne was past the prime
He stille would notte bestir himself to clymbe
Butte satte alle inne the tavern supping beer
He had no monnaie left to buy his gear
Some Rocks he had, some hexes, and namo
Some tatty slyngs, and eek a Friend or two
Butte tho of clymbinge gere he sore did lacke
A vow he made that he'd clymbe Kern Knotts Crack
And so onne daie he walked up to the route
Altho he was as sober as a newt
And tho he hadde a bellyful of beere
He started on the clymb without a fere
Butte when he cam unto the tricky bitte
He could notte fynd a piece of gere to fitte
And he was so befuddled by the booze
That hys balaunce he very soone did lose
And so before too longe itte came to passe
This manne fell doune, and landed on his arse
He lowd did groan as onne the grownd he layed
And piteouslie did crye out for first ayd
He loudlie called for somebodie to come
And putte some stickinge plaster onne hys bumme
And before verie longe, I'm gladde to saye
The Mountayne Rescue carryed him awaye

The moral, if a moral there shold bee
Iffe you wold clymbe, then always sticke to tea
For iffe onne bere or whisky you shold sup
You may fynd thatte your lucke is alle used up
But iffe you cannot do without the pubbe
Thenne joyn Innominata Mountain Clubbe *

*www.innominata-mc.org.uk

In reply to Howard: Brilliant! But Captain Howard, can you now please start taxi-ing and then get your plane off the runway ? There are people flying to Tenerife who've been held up for 11 hours (on the pretext that the runway's icy)!

In reply to Gordon Stainforth:

Here you are then. An answer to Gordon's distaste for happy endings and a solution to the freshers' meet problem...


The sun was shining on the peak,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The snow slopes smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The snow was white as white could be,
The rock was dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Marmot and the Alpinist
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of snow:
"If this were only cleared away,"
It would set my heart aglow!"

"If seven guides with seven spades
Shovelled for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Marmot said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Alpinist,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O freshers, come and walk with us!"
The Marmot did implore.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
And peaks to bag galore:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a rope to each."

Last year’s freshers looked at him,
But never a word they said:
Last year’s freshers winked their eyes,
And shook their heavy heads--
Meaning to say they did not choose
To leave their squalid beds.

But four young freshers hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their duvets brushed, their faces washed,
Their boots were clean and neat--
This wasn’t odd, because, you know,
They hadn't used them yet.

Four other freshers followed them,
And more beyond all hope;
And thick and fast they came at last,
- the pair could scarcely cope -
All hopping off the minibus,
And tying on the rope.

The Marmot and the Alpinist
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little freshers stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Marmot said,
"To talk of many things:
Of crampons, pegs, and belay plates
Of harnesses and slings -
And why you can’t climb up the rope -
And why a rockfall stings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Alpinist.
They thanked him much for that.

"A deep crevasse," the Marmot said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
A weakened snow-bridge too besides
Is very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, freshers dear,
We can begin the deed."

"Don't drop us please!" the freshers cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Marmot said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Alpinist said nothing but
"Belay us to the ice:
Make sure those ice screws are secure--
and tie us to them twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Marmot said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Alpinist said nothing but
"The snow here is too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Marmot said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O freshers," said the Alpinist,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd pushed down every one.

In reply to Meg:
Truely truely brilliam - except in verse 8 - the freshers for some inexplicable reason turn into oysters....