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Eyesight
It was May before my
attention came
to spring and
my word I said
to the southern slopes
I've
missed it, it
came and went before
I got right to see:
don't worry, said the mountain,
try the later northern slopes
or if
you can climb, climb
into spring: but
said the mountain
it's not that way
with all things, some
that go are gone
poem by Archie Randolph Ammons
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Judge Distance
It was impossible to judge distance,
They were professionals, but weird.
But a beard banged on, careers were few,
Never the angers, never the brains of fear.
Volunteering a badge we judged,
And we condemned the few who threw it.
Spears found in the head were taken,
And they abhorred the sheer slopes.
Forcing a mountain and valley
The judgement remained clear
And the steep slopes caused the morning.
The meandering path came to an abrupt hill
And veered into general happiness
After so much mistiness and longing.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The snow
The feel of the snow
Coming down on my face
I must be in another world
The most bitchin' place
The wind in my hair
Oh, the wonderful breeze
My heart is content
My mind is at ease
I'm all alone
By myself on the slopes
It lifts up my feelings
My thoughts and my hopes
The swoosh and the swish
As my board turns
As each day comes
Theres somthing new to learn
Just me on my board
Blazing a new trail
Knowing that together
We could never fail
I live for the slopes
I live for the snow
With out these luxuries
I'd have nowhere to go
Oh, how wonerful
Life can be
With the snow and the board
As you can plainly see
poem by Brittany Marsh
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Emerald Isle
The Emerald Isle
Sailing into Cork I saw green hills, the sea was jade,
I understood why Ireland was called the emerald island.
On the sheer slopes sheep grazed; chancers I thought
the slightest slip and they will fall into verdant waters.
Why not graze on the plateau be happy with modest
fodder if not as succulent as grass too unsafe to get at?
Sheep do fall sometimes they are rescued by a passing
voracious fishing vessels, and end up as Irish stew.
Cork was pretty port it had a no hasty feel back then,
it became a busy place ignoring the hazardous slopes,
but holy is economic progress, lush living for everyone.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Highway
The moon
over the hilly slopes
followed me
very fast.
I didn't seem
to be able to rid
of it
for it was
too bright.
(10-05-'97)
poem by Sangnam Nam
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Hills of Mahabaleshwar (Pune-Mumbai-India)
Passing through a long stretch of woodlands
and fields above the hills,
we saw a terrain with knolls in circles,
where the mountain-rat Shivaji held sway,
with a drawn sword when the Moghuls ruled India.
When we were going up, the shining bunds of lights
one above the other on the slopes of the hills,
made our jaunt fascinating!
A fine morning drizzle fell to make the hills smile
and the spreading mists tried in vain to veil the hills
from our ravening looks.
The mists were wreathing upwards
while our eyes were scaling down the slopes.
And it was a vertiginous dropp to the vales below!
Sparkling sparks of teachers, my friends were,
taking neck or nothing risks
and travelling in routes unheard of
to retreat into hills and forests,
not as jungle bandits with prize catches
or as bogus ascetics with all delicacies
but with passions unbridled
to get wet in the breeze of the hills
and be shrouded in the all pervading mists.
------------
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Obstacles
You never know where you’re going to land
Because we can’t count the slopes of a circle
That gestures, stop
Don’t go on
Is there someone behind it, or is it harmless?
Is the advice that it gives really worth the risk?
Shoulder
A shoulder set amidst the sheets slopes ahead suggestively towards the foot of the bed...
9 February 1995
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Hatred lingers in obscure souls as snow on sunless slopes.
aphorism by Valeriu Butulescu from Immensity of the Point, translated by Eva A. Ziem
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Snow At Fredericksburg
Drift over the sunrise land,
Oh, wonderful, wonderful snow!
Oh! pure as the breast of a virgin saint,
Drift tenderly, soft and slow.
Over the slopes of the sunrise land,
And into the haunted dells
Of the forest of pine, where the roving winds
Are tuning their memory bells.
Into the forests of sighing pines,
And over those yellow slopes,
That show not the work of the cleaving plow,
But cover so many hopes;
They are many indeed, and straightly made,
Not shapen with loving care;
By the souls let out and the broken blades,
May never be counted there!
Fall over those lonely hero graves,
Oh, delicate-dropping snow,
Like the blessing of God's unfaltering love,
On the warrior heads below!
Like the tender sigh of a mother's soul
As she waiteth and watcheth for One
Who will never come back from the sunrise land,
When this terrible war is done.
And here, where lieth the high of heart,
Drift - white as the bridal veil -
That will never be borne by the drooping girl
Who waiteth afar, so pale.
Fall, that as the tears of the suffering wife,
Who stretcheth despairing hands
Out to the blood-rich battlefields
That crimson the Eastern sands!
Fall in thy virgin tenderness,
Oh, delicate snow, and cover
The graves of our heroes, sanctified
Husband and son and lover.
Drift tenderly over those yellow slopes,
And mellow our deep distress,
And put us in mind of the shriven souls
And their mantles of righteousness.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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A Reply
I have a place on the Chungnan slopes.
Sitting there you can see the Mountains.
No one there, no guests, the gate is closed.
No plans all day, just time and silence.
Nothing stops you gazing and dreaming.
Why not come and try to find me there?
poem by Wang Wei
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The white spruce forest along the banks is most inspiring, magnificent here. Down the terraced slopes and right to the water's edge on the alluvial soil it stands in ranks.
quote by Ernest Thompson Seton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Khaki Hills
khaki hills,
light-washed, bleached
summer clean,
slopes folded
oaken-green
as a horse, mad
in the morning mist,
gallops and kicks
at nothing.
poem by Steven Federle
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Fire trial
The university’s classes close
because the hell of a mountain above Somerset West
is burning.
There’s a alarm ringing without end
to warn everybody to get a beating thing,
while some flee and drive away to Somerset West.
Pine plantations on the slopes
have tongues of orange flames
spreading as if going through bushes of turpentine.
The fire brigade is too small
to fight alone against the fire
and to spray with wagons, just halfway up the mountain.
Male students are equipped with petrol driven saws,
loaded on tractors with trailers and four track vehicles
that crawls up the slopes.
Everywhere there are trees falling
and are sawn down and dragged away,
before they can tumble down burning.
While a helicopter in the air
watches every thing
and everybody pray
for the wind to die down.
It’s a terrible thing to see fire jump
from branch to branch, tree to tree
and spread from east to west.
To see it become
like a big orange see of flames,
that crackling devours every thing that it touches.
It is much better when the last flames are dead
and you come half scorched and utterly tired
down from the mountain
and know that you helped to stop the fire.
[Reference: Helderberg mountain.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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And from a poise at this station the plane may swoop down, at great disadvantage if close to the back of the wave, at various slopes and directions till it cuts into the air that is being raised by the face of the following wave, which again enables it to resume its velocity.
quote by Lawrence Hargrave
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mount Avarim
Shalom, Mount Avarim. Blessed be your slopes.
Somewhere on you the greatest of men was gathered,
Sacred bones now buried deep in your side.
If you do not know him, ask the Red Sea,
Ask the green bush, ask Sinai, and they will tell you:
“He was not a man of words, but he did God’s work.”
I have vowed to visit you soon, God willing.
Translated by Robert Mezey
poem by Yehudah HaLevi
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A Stone Tear
unswum it beats in the rocks
it spells the drops down the wants
emerging from an eye
fall thirsty down the slopes of the cheeks
that cheek that's being endlessly turned
facing a burning hand
a stone tear in the accusation silence
forever stopped
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A Poem to a Taoist Hermit Chuanjiao Mountain
My office has grown cold today;
And I suddenly think of my mountain friend
Gathering firewood down in the valley
Or boiling white stones for potatoes in his hut...
I wish I might take him a cup of wine
To cheer him through the evening storm;
But in fallen leaves that have heaped the bare slopes,
How should I ever find his footprints!
poem by Wei Yingwu, translated by Witter Bynner
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Every one knows how the snow lies in the valleys of the Alps, forming a plain which slopes gradually downward towards the outlet Imagine such a valley ten miles across, with just such a sloping plain, not of snow but of earth.
quote by Edward Burnett Tylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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