Fourth of July

A poem inspired by a hike up Gothics in the Adirondacks, on the fourth of July a few years ago. I have accompanying pictures of the trip if anyone wants visual aid to go along with the poem.

Fourth of July

On melt-slicked slabs above the forks of Orebed Brook
The green-slopped ladders boot-and-snow-crushed rungs had broke.
Ticking the flanks of earth-slumps, shrub by shrub I took

My course, ascending half a calf-savaging mile,
And there spent my momentum, speed times mass, to spoil
A pace of clockwork legs--no respite, save the col,

The col where June's complicit flies took flight to suck
My salt, while on the Range Trail's ribbon, bright with shock
And pins of sun, summit-drunk hikers worked up rock

So steep, the rock and groaning sprites were parallel.

Then, weakly, branch by branch, I took the slimy trail

And burst out on the warm and flaring western bell

Of Gothics' spread-winged triplet, clasping cables up

Electric dazzled granite, tapered to the top,
While Saddleback with mirroring begrudged each step--

Sororal jealousy unveiled her nestling pride.
Forever and forever curled the glacial grade
Into the western summit's crooked shelf--a glade

Inverted out of alpine scrubs, and there I saw
The earth-streaked bones of Basin, ranging fringes high
And scalloped, ringed above Ausable's yawning maw.

Then east and up away the central spire rose
Of her, the summering cathedral. Through the ways
Of scratching flags I spiraled in and up. The trees

Yielded to sky and stone and summit. So did she
Allow her blanching crown (or so I thought) to me,
While, all below, the world was bubbling rock and clay.

And there I sat, and heard the peaks and valleys yawn.
Though when we'll die, the purple land will be alone,
America will never notice that we're gone.

Author's Note

Ignore the line-spacing weirdness in the middle. I don't know why it's doing that. I can't get it to un-format for some reason.

Reviews

[Muse]

I love your closing...

America will never notice that we're gone.

What a feeling it must be to be able to climb or hike your way...far from civilization. To get away like that and to be totally a lone with nature. This explains why you always seem so ready to write. With inspiration such as this, you could go on penning about mother natures beauty for eternity.

ielded to sky and stone and summit. So did she
Allow her blanching crown (or so I thought) to me,
While, all below, the world was bubbling rock and clay.

You see...you write as if the earth is alive. She feels your presence.

[VennelaMargame]

Wallace Stevens had a poem called "Yellow Afternoon" about the beauty of a responsive earth.

I'm glad you like it. When I get home from work tonight, I can send you the photo album of the hike that inspired this

[Muse]

Please do...

[VennelaMargame]

Will you be on around 11 pm your time?

[Muse]

don't know...if I am I will look you up.

[VennelaMargame]

I'll send it to you either way.

[Muse]

There's a journey in your writing, and it's an adventure worth taking.

Sororal jealousy unveiled her nestling pride.
Forever and forever curled the glacial grade
Into the western summit's crooked shelf--a glade


Nice!

[VennelaMargame]

Thank you. I wanted this poem to simulate the feeling of climbing a mountain, slowly and thudding, step by step.

[Muse]

you did well :))

[VennelaMargame]

I wonder if I should post some more pictures from this hike on here?

[Muse]

yes!

[VennelaMargame]

Comin' right up.

[VennelaMargame]

Alright, they're on my profile.

[not one]

I really enjoyed this piece, love the imagery

[VennelaMargame]

Thank you. It was a beautiful, transcendental day.