{"id":75572,"date":"2020-06-28T06:56:13","date_gmt":"2020-06-28T10:56:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/?p=75572"},"modified":"2020-07-24T12:14:56","modified_gmt":"2020-07-24T16:14:56","slug":"hour-22-old-man-under-the-mountain","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/2020\/06\/hour-22-old-man-under-the-mountain\/","title":{"rendered":"Hour 22, Old Man Under the Mountain"},"content":{"rendered":"

Old Man Under the Mountain<\/p>\n

I scrabbled over stones slippery with sea foam,
\nhands and shins bloodied, steadying myself
\nwith a staff from a dying willow tree.<\/p>\n

I approached the stone ruins backwards,
\nat sunset, glancing sideways only
\nand tapped three times with the staff at the gate.<\/p>\n

I turned seven times counter clockwise
\nas I intoned the proscribed words slowly
\n“Old man under the mountain, hear my plea.”<\/p>\n

Just as I finished the final turn,
\nthe last glimmer of sun slipped below the waves,
\nand the gate rumbled open.<\/p>\n

Golden light flooded the opening, an invitation
\nto enter fairy lands. Down I went upon
\nstone stairs to find my fate.<\/p>\n

Old Man reclined on sumptuous fabrics,
\nvelvets, silks, and furs, but what truly amazed
\nwas his visage, unlike any I’d ever knowingly seen.<\/p>\n

Seeming starvation had lent his face, hands, and feet
\ngaunt elegance, and had chiseled musculature
\nthat in a man would be obscured
\njust beneath the surface.
\nHe seemed on the verge of atrophy,
\nbut as he was when seen,
\nhe displayed a beauty angels alone possess,
\ndifficult to behold
\nin its implied suffering.<\/p>\n

He rose, and to my shock he bowed to the floor,
\nexclaimed “My son, you have returned at last!
\nI may now finally die; you have\u00a0 passed the test!”<\/p>\n

Rocks clapped closed over me as he disappeared
\nand so here I remain, elegant, starved, and waiting,
\nwaiting for a successor’s release.<\/p>\n

Tracy Plath<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Old Man Under the Mountain I scrabbled over stones slippery with sea foam, hands and shins bloodied, steadying myself with a staff from a dying willow tree. I approached the stone ruins backwards, at sunset, glancing sideways only and tapped three times with the staff…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":308,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-75572","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-miscellaneous"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/75572","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/308"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=75572"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/75572\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":79315,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/75572\/revisions\/79315"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=75572"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=75572"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=75572"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}