Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Sherpa (Poem 135)

the utter ice of it, the white 
white broken black and blue 
and void unstoppable gaping 
maws sucking souls into unfathomable 
frozen rattling death breath, 
the beating beating beating of feet 
and hearts and minds and the 
clattering lungs and bits of gear 
dangling randomly from ribs 
and packs his is too light 
because his is too heavy 
the cold the cold the 
cold razor blade slicing off lips 
and tongues and toes and ears 
nothing to hear anyway and 
the wet the sickly sweet smell 
of wet always wet and 
light pack overbearing assuming 
ha ha ha in the face 
of majesty tramping over virgin 
snow and humanity so disposable 
unseen unheard a herd 
of silent keepers kept

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six

Note: Today's poem was inspired by this fascinating interview with Grayson Schaffer, a senior editor and writer for Outside magazine, who wrote an article about Sherpa guides on Mt Everest:

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