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Brian
climber
Cali
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Topic Author's Original Post - Aug 1, 2009 - 06:58pm PT
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It's obviously been a bad year for the climbing 'tribe'...Brutus, Bachar, Copp, Dash, etc., etc. Too many people have died, and too many others have suffered (or are suffering).
However, in the spirit of reminding us about the gift we've got, and the need to luxuriate in it and with each other while we can, I give you the following for your consideration. (Those of you of a less poetic bent might replace "to hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat comes slowly out and then goes back..." with "to watch the sunset from the flanks of El Capitan on a fine autumn evening..." or some similar climbing experience to give the poem a personal touchstone).
I like it because it reminds me of the amazing gift of life (with or without religious overtones) without denying the terrible fecking tragedy of it all. That gift is something that climbers taste more deeply than most folks. How many "once in a lifetime" moments did folks like Brutus, Jonny Copp, et al. enjoy?! How many have you?
“A Brief for the Defense”
by Jack Gilbert (from the collection "Refusing Heaven")
Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have the
stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit that there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafes and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.
Brian
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