13 November 2008


Here's a poem I wrote years ago with a rather bitter pill in my gob: I imagine I'd been dumped or indeed was considering dumping myself off the edge of a cliff. Luckily, and as usual, a couple of choice words soon had me chortling and the Climber was born. These days I see things rather less dramatically, but perhaps darker - through a lens darkly, as the phrase goes - as you can see from 'Futurism', an earlier post, that is apocalyptic in tone and has no time even for the failings of romance. And is rather cruel about Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, and these were the days pre-TomKat, when even that diminutive Scientologist seemed alright, despite the ginger nutcase on his arm. I include a photo of a rock similar to that climbed by the Cruise-meister in "Mission Impossible" - a theme, bloggers, a theme!

On corner
Of peak, snow-clouds gather.
O fragile shape, hung and
Framed in huge mottled spaces of
White and rock, seek not
The echo on your mind, that
Sorry burden of loss that is
Pushing you into space.
A soft wind whistles, suspending
You on surfing lip of rock, as your
Vision of lost love
Shimmers in the snow-light.
It is now that you let go
The sick gods of Romance
Have chased you quite far enough.

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