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Albert Cook, mountain, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeAlbert Cook

Waking in Foreign Mountains

It is like falling and not Being forced to break the fall (for some time hence), So like rising, This arousal, arising in a light Striking through large crystal-edged squares of thinner Glass in a strange land. Water-thin, O salubrious air! Or possibly it is like swimming: I am a fish out of water who gains Through exerting his gills Ability to survive, Learning to love survival as he strives. Accustomed, I gain water to swim in Buoying up theory, imaginary water As the ether of Victorian physicists Or the heavy-air ectoplasmic element
SadAlbert Cook

Sestina I

Stirring to rings the black well of our rage We twitch the elusive scar of our old wound That gushed with fresh blood on the barren mountain Where stumbling we fell (not delicately torn On thorns of rose, but boulders of defeat, And overwhelmed knew perfect our despair. We who across the desert of despair Have shouted till lungs bled our impotent rage And heard unheeded echoes of defeat Fall deadly back, have learned the sorest wound Is not the one time's unicorn has torn With golden horn on the peak of a pine mountain, But one we took when, mid way up the mountain Grey scarped and cold of solitude, despair Like a blind, giant Mars we faced, saw torn Our hope and fed the bonfire of our rage,

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