[Alex Pepple]

Talcott Mountain


Tramping over talus and roots of hemlock,
mud and dirt, my mongrel and I endeavor,
up this winding ribbon, to reach a summit
looking at Hartford.

Imitating rust-covered swings, two voices
echo off great hickory, oak, and boulders.
Maybe they’re observing us as we listen,
lucky to hear them.

Both my hands push firmly against a birch trunk,
lifeless. Then it quivers as if a mallet
struck a log drum, puffing white powder at me,
wanting my pity.

Wilbur spots a huge, iridescent creature,
hurtles like a meteor rushing Saturn,
pulls up at the edge of a lofty rock face,
losing the turkey.

From the cliff we look at the soaring raptors,
black as thunderheads and as minatory.
Lounging on the rocks, we can see the far-off
hillocks protected

by the mists of distance and time, green bosoms
floating on the planet’s asthenosphere like
clouds that wander over us—all our moments
coming and going.

Early saxifrage, with its sticky leaves, trap
insects which have tickled the mountain’s derma.
Roots crack rock as if they were drilling dentin.
Now we must leave it.

After resting muscles and lungs and heartbeats,
we descend this mountain of clotted lava,
reddish as a rust-covered hunk of metal,
down to the clear lake.

Heublein Tower, perched on the mountain’s apex,
watches as we hop in a cozy Buick,
roll down to our valley, and look back at it
winking like Venus.

.

___________ The plain vanilla repeat below is for those with clunky old browsers ______

Talcott Mountain


Tramping over talus and roots of hemlock,
mud and dirt, my mongrel and I endeavor,
up this winding ribbon, to reach a summit
looking at Hartford.

Imitating rust-covered swings, two voices
echo off great hickory, oak, and boulders.
Maybe they’re observing us as we listen,
lucky to hear them.

Both my hands push firmly against a birch trunk,
lifeless. Then it quivers as if a mallet
struck a log drum, puffing white powder at me,
wanting my pity.

Wilbur spots a huge, iridescent creature,
hurtles like a meteor rushing Saturn,
pulls up at the edge of a lofty rock face,
losing the turkey.

From the cliff we look at the soaring raptors,
black as thunderheads and as minatory.
Lounging on the rocks, we can see the far-off
hillocks protected

by the mists of distance and time, green bosoms
floating on the planet’s asthenosphere like
clouds that wander over us—all our moments
coming and going.

Early saxifrage, with its sticky leaves, trap
insects which have tickled the mountain’s derma.
Roots crack rock as if they were drilling dentin.
Now we must leave it.

After resting muscles and lungs and heartbeats,
we descend this mountain of clotted lava,
reddish as a rust-covered hunk of metal,
down to the clear lake.

Heublein Tower, perched on the mountain’s apex,
watches as we hop in a cozy Buick,
roll down to our valley, and look back at it
winking like Venus.

[Alex Pepple]

Ah, doing the sapphics in the forest! This successfully pulls off the love story with the forest and yes, Wibur, the faithful and sometime mischievous companion. The author shows confident knowledge of forest and geology and carefully peppers it into the narrative with words like ‘asthenosphere’, ‘saxifrage’. This one is full of fun and facts.

Cheers,
...Alex

[Catharine Savage Brosman]

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A good outdoors poem, showing quiet sensitivity to sights and sounds and tactile impressions but with dynamism also. One does not miss rhyme here; the strong trochaic line endings throughout create a formal effect, as does the short fourth line of each quatrain, inviting a pause. Very well done.
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[Richard Meyer]

I recognize the skill and craft of the writer here, and I'm an ardent admirer of strong, vivid description in writing (prose or poetry), but this poem does not grip me in the way many other poems do that are largely descriptive. I don't know if I can articulate exactly why this poem leaves me a bit flat. Perhaps something about the diction and use of modifiers that doesn't always work for me, perhaps a sense that the poem is trying too hard.

Is this poem supposed to have a background picture? None shows on my screen.

Richard

[Richard Meyer]

I have a lovely background picture now!

[Petra Norr]

I like the Wilbur stanza and the following one with the raaaptors blaaack as thunderheads. I was also delighted to find a stanzaic enjambment at the end of the raptor stanza, the only one in the poem. I only regret that the word "by" in the next stanza is a little too soft to start a trochee. That wouldn't cause problems in a strictly trochaic poem where it's easy to get the beat going from the start, but, for me anyway, it took a while to get into the Sapphics rhythm and therefore the start of S6 with "by the" threw me.
The ending of the poem actually made me go and look for a picture of the tower. I wanted to know if the Venus winking could possibly be a play in some way. I'm guessing it's a tower light blinking and that Venus alludes to the planet/'star' blinking (earlier we had Saturn in the poem) but I still wanted to see if there was something "goddess-like" and flirty about the tower (!). I think it really bottoms in a wish on my part that the ending had a little more punch. The poem is well done, though, and if you just sit back and enjoy the trip together with Wilbur and his master, well, then it's enjoyable.

[Ian Hoffman]

Richard, I came away feeling disappointed as well. I really loved the rhythm and description throughout, but was confused by the general themes and how they were woven in throughout. Like you, I felt like some of the descriptors tried to hard.

Ian

[Philip Quinlan]

I don't think I have ever read such prosaic crap in all my life.

This has to be a joke. Actually, it's beyond a joke.

I know exactly who wrote this.

Jesus Christ on a bike, have mercy.

Philip

[David Rosenthal]

I think my reaction is similar to Ian's and Richard's. I felt like the poem meant to lift me away with language and thick description but never quite hit takeoff speed. It may sound paradoxical but it may be that the elevens just weren't "rambling" enough. I also think the tramping toward something sort of ecstatic was muted a lot by cozy warm tones so that I wasn't always sure in which direction I was being carried. I also have to say that it is not my cup of tea formally or topically.

David R.

[W.F. Lantry]

I kinda like it. And honestly, Philip, give the bah, humbug stuff a rest!

In case you haven't noticed, it's christmas season...

Isn't it snowing where you are?

Peace,

Bill