[stylist] In the Mists of the Ruwenzories

[Bridgit Pollpeter]

Jackie,

I like the prose-nature of this poem. You have a real flare for setting
a scene even in a poem. This didn't evoke a lot of emotion for me like
some of your other poetry has, but it's good nonetheless, and you've had
quite the life, Lady, smile!

You really use diction to the advantage of a narrative piece. I was able
to visualize each line. You have a strong sense of what works for
crafting a piece.

Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Read my blog at:
http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/
 
"History is not what happened; history is what was written down."
The Expected One- Kathleen McGowan

Message: 18
Date: Sun, 4 Dec 2011 21:18:32 -0700
From: "Jacqueline Williams" <jackieleepoet at cox.net>
To: "'Writer's Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: Re: [stylist] BLP: book review
Message-ID: <ECA376B542934349AD31C08C04A67605 at JackiLeePoet>
Content-Type: text/plain;	charset="us-ascii"

Chris,
Perhaps the reason you all don't get things is because I forget to paste
them in! Here is the one for critiquing. I don't know if the format will
come through right.

36. Ben Lomond Poetry Award				Jacqueline
Williams
								1431 W.
7th
Place
								Mesa, AZ
85201
								AZ State
Poetry Society



In the Mists of the Ruwenzories 

Zed, the head man with his rock hyrax hat, weighed each porter's load- 
seventeen pounds-by lifting it. It then went on a head, balanced by a
hand.

The leader of ten porters, machete in hand, cleared mountain trails, 
Zed in the rear, we made tracks fast through mats of bamboo, steaming
dung. 
Army ants climbed high on our boots, clamped to their death on the
laces. Elephants were near, distressed, moving through the menacing
forests.

The elevation increased rapidly. A race for the bottom hut ensued. My
three well-trained British friends disappeared as I gasped for breath, 
my face red and prickled with heat and sweat, but Zed at my back. They
had tea and "biscuits" waiting, along with plans for the next day.

At morning's light, with cameras, sleeping bags high on our backs, we
were led to the rushing river, a swinging bridge aloft with only 
a ladder leading up to it-no rails or handles. Ropes guided us above 
the gorge with slats nailed from the underside. I wished for Tarzan.

The second hut held "debbies" of cement to prop against the doors 
to keep the leopards out on night forays for tasty hyrax. We quickly 
bathed in the river we would have to ford the next morning-balanced 
on rocks, steadied by poles in rushing water up to our frozen armpits.

At the next to the last hut, exhausted we prepped to cross the
impossible bog. 
For over a mile we jumped from one tussock to another striving to keep
our balance-avoid the sucking mud. Finally at a bubbling, sulphurous
pool, spirits warned our porters to stay in a huge rock cave. Safe. From
what?

High altitude pneumonia. At the top hut we carefully dried our night
clothes, 
sleeping bags, before the frigid night descended. The others climbed
while 
I fed a walnut brown satin rat leftovers from a tin of tuna. That night
soft feet traversed our uneasy sleep. Morning-my knees worked-barely.

With ropes, we clambered up past glacier vistas, approached the Speke
Glacier, converged at the top where mists cleared just long enough for
us to see the
lake-
the pearl of water far down in the distance in the old Congo. Then a
rush- descent. My feet slipped off tussocks causing massive efforts to
pull them free.
 
(stanza break)
In the next highest hut, I balanced on my right foot to pull off my
muddy pants. To me, a pistol shot sounded- A bone in my foot-disbelief
by all. With no plan, Tim laced my boot on tight. In the morning it
acted as a splint because of swelling. I refused to be carried across
the swinging bridge. Zed and Tim stuck with me.

Phil raced to base camp for reinforcements- Paddy and the spindly little
porters- 
to the bottom hut. Pain. In a sling, tied to a pole like a tiger, a
potato sack holding 
my bum high, Zed, in front, quivering arms, snaked through rocks, down
steep trails often with my head first. A crowd moved to one side of a
shed to allow my privacy.

Instant fame accompanied by dancing, much laughter and ululating,
proclaimed to all, Memsahib climbed the Mountains of the Moon and broke
her foot changing her knickers.