ffredricki
I wrote these poems when i had just joined the forum, they are probably too cumbersome, but they do explain why Tintin in is my favorite comic, if anybody cares to know.
The roof of the earth, the emperor of all mountains,
you stand there, a benevolent force,
your arms spread wide encompassing one tall fortress after another,
standing protectively over the lands north and south,
you are not as foreboding as I had thought.
It’s you, every year thousands of people go to meet,
million others live on the foothills at your feet.
So many others want to conquer you,
they take you for granted, scramble all over,
sometimes even have the temerity to trash you.
What do they know?
These pesky trespassers,
for you are the original warrior,
who in the Mesozoic era,
rose triumphantly from the ancient deep bed of the Tethys sea.
Do the mountaineers know they are on a pilgrimage?
After all, you are the abode of Gods,
where the divinity resides,
and watches us mere mortals
go on with our lives.
But you don’t like to blow your own trumpet,
instead, just stand there serenely.
It’s rarely do we hear when you lost your calm,
and a mountaineer was lost in your snow white arm.
Time, spiritual and cultural voyagers
Once I went on a journey on the upper reaches of ,
me and my fellow travelers were no mountaineers,
just a group of tourists on a packaged tour.
It was the month of June.
flora and fauna was abloom,
yet we were pounded by a snow storm
leaving us stranded in an old monastery.
Solitude, fortitude, 16000 feet above the sea altitude.
All of us sat in an old chamber,
a fireplace and coal filled Bukhari heated up the place.
All around sat the enigmatic and austere lamas,
the many modern Buddhas,
shaved heads and gaunt visages,
dressed in maroon robes and one luxury --- Nike sneakers.
The chanting, resonating, matching
with the rhythm of our heart beats.
The old Tankha paintings in faded vegetable paints
radiantly shone almost anew,
in candle flames with muted glow.
There we sat, a group of jaded, mostly westerners, in this magical Eastern land.
Was there a collective sigh?
I do not know.
Were we time and cultural voyagers?
I guess so.
Kanchanjunga
n east ,
on a clear day, you can come across
a magnificent and mystical panorama,
detailed in ancient scriptures by great lamas,
an enchanting sight,
in the glow of dawn’s ruby light,
the strawberry snowy peaks,
the mighty cliffs,
a lofty castle in the sky.
It’s the Kanchanjunga.
Even if I were a hotshot scribe,
the emotion I felt
when I first saw this view would be hard to describe.
Looking at the mountainous shrine,
I felt a good kind of shiver
run up my spine.
For even now just its memory,
the warmth and hospitality,
the starkness and beauty,
of the landscape and humanity
of that pristine land,
brings a whistle on my lips and a certain bounce in my stride.
For some reason, some words kept getting cut, i must have saved the changes zillion times but words still kept getting cut, so i am posting the poems again here in the reply section...Hopefully it will work. No it doesn't work, same thing is happening again, what a pain.
I need to explain in the first poem the word 'Himalayas' got cut, then in the second poem --- the first sentence has 'upper reaches of Himalayas', and in the third poem it is 'Nepal'. And i was also talking about Tintin in Tibet.
, the roof of the earth, the emperor of all mountains,
you stand there, a benevolent force,
your arms spread wide encompassing one tall fortress after another,
standing protectively over the lands north and south,
you are not as foreboding as I had thought.
It’s you, every year thousands of people go to meet,
million others live on the foothills at your feet.
So many others want to conquer you,
they take you for granted, scramble all over,
sometimes even have the temerity to trash you.
What do they know?
These pesky trespassers,
for you are the original warrior,
who in the Mesozoic era,
rose triumphantly from the ancient deep bed of the Tethys sea.
Do the mountaineers know they are on a pilgrimage?
After all, you are the abode of Gods,
where the divinity resides,
and watches us mere mortals
go on with our lives.
But you don’t like to blow your own trumpet,
instead, just stand there serenely.
It’s rarely do we hear when you lost your calm,
and a mountaineer was lost in your snow white arm.
Time, spiritual and cultural voyagers
Once I went on a journey on the upper reaches of ,
me and my fellow travelers were no mountaineers,
just a group of tourists on a packaged tour.
It was the month of June.
flora and fauna was abloom,
yet we were pounded by a snow storm
leaving us stranded in an old monastery.
Solitude, fortitude, 16000 feet above the sea altitude.
All of us sat in an old chamber,
a fireplace and coal filled Bukhari heated up the place.
All around sat the enigmatic and austere lamas,
the many modern Buddhas,
shaved heads and gaunt visages,
dressed in maroon robes and one luxury --- Nike sneakers.
The chanting, resonating, matching
with the rhythm of our heart beats.
The old Tankha paintings in faded vegetable paints
radiantly shone almost anew,
in candle flames with muted glow.
There we sat, a group of jaded, mostly westerners, in this magical Eastern land.
Was there a collective sigh?
I do not know.
Were we time and cultural voyagers?
I guess so.
Kanchanjunga
In east ,
on a clear day, you can come across
a magnificent and mystical panorama,
detailed in ancient scriptures by great lamas,
an enchanting sight,
in the glow of dawn’s ruby light,
the strawberry snowy peaks,
the mighty cliffs,
a lofty castle in the sky.
It’s the Kanchanjunga.
Even if I were a hotshot scribe,
the emotion I felt
when I first saw this view would be hard to describe.
Looking at the mountainous shrine,
I felt a good kind of shiver
run up my spine.
For even now just its memory,
the warmth and hospitality,
the starkness and beauty,
of the landscape and humanity
of that pristine land,
brings a whistle on my lips and a certain bounce in my stride.
i probably don't have to clarify but i just want to say that by writting these poems my intention was not to show off, but just to tell about my roots.
Thanks a ton for your warm response, Chicory! I am so surprised that you actually replied to my cumbersome poems, because usually you don’t consider such long poems worth your salt :0) So I feel greatly honored :) Thanks again!
What I know is nothing new. Everybody in that part of the world considers Himalayas to be the abode of Gods. And it is true --- they are! There are mountains and there are mountains, then there are the Himalayas--- they have a feel and a presence unlike others. They are so alive --- there's so much culture there. It’s strange that nobody believes in the old Greek and Roman mythologies anymore, but in that part of the world, ancient Hindu and Buddhist mythologies (not very different from the western mythologies) are still very much alive and part of day today life. It may be a lot of superstitious mumbo jumbo to the logical and rational modern mind, but I have to say that all these old legends, fables and myths have something about them --- a power to transport anyone to another world.
I have not met Dalai Lama but I have seen him from a distance of 20 feet :)
Don't go insulting SALT because I gave you a compliment ! LOL I am a food snob and a sea salt snob! I have never had Himilaya Pink Salt Will have to try it some day!
I am from the Appalachian Mountains and they may not be as tall but they are beautiful too!
The Breaks Interstate has the deepest verdent canyon east of the Mississippit ! The gods & ghosts frolic in the morning mist.
We have tales & legends galore but not as invientive as the area you wrote of and cumcumber orginated in the area too!
Grin
Chicory
