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mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Feb 24, 2014 - 01:13pm PT
Chalk one up to Rudyard Kipling, talking about what became known as the "stiff upper lip."

Mar 1, 2014 - 12:22am PT
What true climber
can even find that single moment
that defines
the divine
when every moment
every movement
is the refiner's fire
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Mar 5, 2014 - 10:27pm PT
A Redneck Love Poem

Susie Lee done fell in love,
She planned to marry Joe.
She was so happy 'bout it all
She told her Pappy so.

Pappy told her, "Susie gal,
You'll have to find another.
I'd just as soon your ma don't know,
But Joe is yo' half-brother."

So Susie put aside her Joe
And planned to marry Will.
But after telling Pappy this,
He said, "There's trouble still.

"You can't marry Will, my gal,
And please, don't tell your mother,
But Will and Joe and several mo'
I know are yo' half-brother."

But Mama knew and said, "My child,
Just do what makes you happy.
So marry Will or marry Joe:
You ain't no kin to Pappy."



Sport climber
Mar 8, 2014 - 09:19am PT

Poetry or propaganda?

Lord Tennyson - The Charge of The Light Brigade

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Mar 18, 2014 - 11:21pm PT
The heavy brigades were designed as shock troops to break through enemy lines through force of momentum and terror, they tended to wear body armour of some description and scare the bejeezus out of the enemy.

The Light Brigade were designed for reconnaissance, communications, skirmishing and smaller scale actions.

{See Classical Music thread for the old favorite by Von Suppe.]

Opposing Mars among the stars
Cantos, not cannon, are ours.

Algihieri aligns with love...

The planet Venus (the Morning and Evening Star) is traditionally associated with the Goddess of Love,
and so Dante makes this the planet of the lovers,
who were deficient in the virtue of temperance (Canto VIII):

"The world, when still in peril, thought that, wheeling,
in the third epicycle, Cyprian
the fair sent down her rays of frenzied love,

.. and gave the name of her
with whom I have begun this canto, to
the planet that is courted by the sun,
at times behind her and at times in front."[13]

Folquet de Marseilles [Falchetto] bemoans the corruption of the Church,
with the clergy receiving money from Satan (miniature by Giovanni di Paolo), Canto 9.
Dante meets Charles Martel of Anjou, who was known to him,[14]
and who points out that a properly functioning society requires people of many different kinds.
Such differences are illustrated by Cunizza da Romano (lover of Sordello), who is here in Heaven,
while her brother Ezzelino III da Romano is in Hell, among the violent of the seventh circle.[15]
The troubadour Folquet de Marseilles speaks of the temptations of love,
and points out that (as was believed at the time) the cone of the Earth's shadow just touches the sphere of Venus.
He condemns the city of Florence (planted, he says, by Satan) for producing that "damned flower" (the florin)
which is responsible for the corruption of the Church,
and he criticises the clergy for their focus on money,
rather than on Scripture and the writings of the Church Fathers (Canto IX):

"Your city, which was planted by that one
who was the first to turn against his Maker,
the one whose envy cost us many tears

produces and distributes the damned flower
that turns both sheep and lambs from the true course,
for of the shepherd it has made a wolf.

For this the Gospel and the great Church Fathers
are set aside and only the Decretals
are studied as their margins clearly show.

On these the pope and cardinals are intent.
Their thoughts are never bent on Nazareth,
where Gabriel's open wings were reverent."[16]
Folquet de Marseilles bemoans the corruption of the Church, with the c...
Folquet de Marseilles bemoans the corruption of the Church, with the clergy receiving money from Satan.
Credit: Giovanni di Paolo
All Wiki, all the time.

Apr 20, 2014 - 01:05am PT
Just wrote this one. It probably sucks, but sums up a lot of sh1t:

In my mind

I am already gone - once again.

How many times I have found Shangri La -

chased the dream, found and loved and languished in it

then lost it.

Fleeting though it is at times, once the heart is set

The resolution is only

a matter of time.

Sport climber
May 3, 2014 - 02:07pm PT
"The Speech of the High One" from the Elder Saga

"I know I hung on that windy tree,
Swung there for nine long nights,
Wounded by my own blade,
Bloodied for Odin,
Myself an offering to myself:
Bound to the tree
That no man knows
Whither the roots of it run.

None gave me bread,
None gave me drink.
Down to the deepest depths I peered
Until I spied the Runes.
With a roaring cry I seized them up,
Then dizzy and fainting, I fell.

Well-being I won
And wisdom too.
I grew and took joy in my growth:
From word to a word
I was led to a word,
From a deed to another deed."
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 3, 2014 - 04:39pm PT

"It probably sucks, but" are STupid Words.

"It's probably harder than I can climb, but" are not the words to use to begin a TR, either.

Scary things in the head only come out alone, in bunches, alive or dead,
If you chase them out with words, which is work, let's face it.

You are your father's daughter or you are nought.
I think you have a lot to offer poeti-Cali, mysti-Cali, climbacti-Cali. Just intuition.

Look Here

Look here, what you think you gon' be doin' next year
No lie, how you know you not gon' up and die
No doubt, soon enough your friends will find you out
Take care you know you might not have much time to spare

I say, how long have you acted up this way
What know, when you gonna get your own floor show
I'm hip, you could use a button on your lip
Look here, what you think you gon' be doin' next year?
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 5, 2014 - 01:05am PT
A Canadian neither ignored nor dismissed, Wilson MacDonald.

Boulder climber
May 5, 2014 - 04:12pm PT

An Ode to Meditation . . .

When seen through Zen
the world we know
from quantum flux
doth seem to flow

Just as the sun
sets on the seas
we watch in vain
as reason flees

The sleepers dream
and sit so still
while Earth succumbs
to those with will

Jake the Corgi ("I arf, therefor I am!")

Sport climber
May 5, 2014 - 04:30pm PT

Dylan Thomas — Lament

When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.

When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of bitches),
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling beds of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.

When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood creeps cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!

When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.

Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 8, 2014 - 07:32pm PT
Fickle fate at work.
Quoth the piglet...
Quoth the piglet...
Credit: EweNorker
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
May 13, 2014 - 11:01am PT
by William Blake
from Songs of Experience

"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
but for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

So sang a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet.

"Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavean's despite."

Mariposa churchyard.
Mariposa churchyard.
Credit: mouse from merced

Mckinleyville, Ca
May 13, 2014 - 12:16pm PT
Found this in some journal in an Arcata coffeehouse in the late '80's. Not certain of its authenticity, and I've probably screwed-up the original verse layout, but always liked it anyway.

The Oregon Trail by Jack Kerouac

someone came this way before.
someone ventured down these same,
nonexistent roads
and stopped to smell the forests
that no one had cut down.
someone sipped the water from streams
that didn’t cost a cent.
in his quivering reflection he recognized
a frightened visitor of himself.
perhaps he even dreamed of building a makeshift house
on the shore of some river.
someone used the precarious magic of his native tongue
to establish and defend a space
that was denied him in other lands.
someone travelled with a son on his back,
a son whose country was being made on the road.
someone had these eyes that today try to capture
a remote landscape
that should have been here
if it had not been erased by these highways
where I circulate at high speeds

Sport climber
May 16, 2014 - 03:15pm PT

In dawn there is a man progressing over the plain by means of holes which he is making in the ground. He uses an implement with two handles and he chucks it into the hole and he enkindles the stone in the hole with his steel hole by hole striking the fire out of the rock which God has put there. On the plain behind him are the wanderers in search of bones and those who do not search and they move haltingly in the light like mechanisms whose movements are monitored with escapement and pallet so that they appear restrained by a prudence or reflectiveness which has no inner reality and they cross in their progress one by one that track of holes that runs to the rim of the visible ground and which seems less the pursuit of some continuance than the verification of a principle, a validation of sequence and causality as if each round and perfect hole owed its existence to the one before it there on the prairie upon which are the bones and the gatherers of bones and those who do not gather. He strikes fire in the hole and draws out his steel. Then they all move on again.

Epilogue, BM, CMC.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jun 14, 2014 - 07:05am PT
by George Sterling

Credit: see link
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jun 16, 2014 - 09:35am PT
by Robert Rorabeck

God touched the
Charismatic youth on
His subtle shoulder and spoke,
“I like this one.”

And his light came down
And inhabited flesh

So very swiftly the young
Man ripened into a
Gifted artist
Whom the world adored
And remembered his name
In the vociferous gardens of
His art,
For centuries onward to
This day,
God's fond love still lingers for him

Passed from female vessel
Through womanly chalice….

That is the one I both
Admire and despise
As my hours anguish onward,
The futile trajectory of my
Spend toiling the dry and
Brittle pages of the earth,

My back bent and aching from
False labors,
Beseeching God wordlessly
To reach down and bless me
As a father remembering he had
A second, less gifted son.

Aristotle, the sage at two.
Aristotle, the sage at two.
Credit: mouse from merced

Gym climber
Jun 16, 2014 - 10:00am PT
Really excited to see my favorite stage actor deliver this speech tomorrow night:

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barded steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain ...

Dan Donohue in Shakespeare roles:
photo not found
Missing photo ID#362730
Richard III
photo not found
Missing photo ID#362731
Prince Hamlet
photo not found
Missing photo ID#362732
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Missing photo ID#362733
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Missing photo ID#362734
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jun 16, 2014 - 10:45am PT
Have some fun this midsummer, I say!

Play the sprite,
Enjoy the night.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act II, Scene I [Over hill, over dale]
William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616
A wood near Athens. A Fairy speaks.

Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits: I’ll be gone;
Our queen and all her elves come here anon.

And drink Seven Up, not Sprite, because it likes you best.
Fresh up on hot August nights in Ashland.
Fresh up on hot August nights in Ashland.
Credit: mouse from merced

Gym climber
Jun 16, 2014 - 10:57am PT
Mouse, I finally discovered the open source Shakespeare website this past year. Really cool how you can find every line and every speech. Here's the link:
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