Friday 29 May 2020

I am climbing up the poets

I am climbing up the poets

I am climbing up the poets,
hammering my piton words
into the gasps of their stuttering,
sparking my crampons against
the overhangs of their mountainous 
talent, fighting without the oxygen
of their intellect, I struggle upwards,
the view over each mind a vista of
surmise and surprise at how rarefied
the gin clear air of enigmatic thought
is at such altitude. Throwing off the
guide ropes of the leaders, without
point I scramble up the scree of
shifting words, sifting the orientation
of the gravity of my situation of the 
understanding that what is beyond
and above the viewpoints of those
below, I will attain the nirvana of a banana,
and they say ‘how profound’ he is
for I am on solid ground now,
the clouds are my armchairs,
blue my horizoned eyes.
Casting down the safety ropes
I slip the crampons and abseil out,
and out, down and down, upon the drug 
of ages. Plummeting through history I
arrive in poet’s corner to be interred 
immemorial by those who forgot the summit
and buried themselves in my words, and
in the autumn of their desire, they
never flew away except upon my words;
bar one, or maybe two, who started the climb
to a summit higher than time itself. 

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