Mahrukh
02-23-2013, 08:51 PM
Please help me find poetic devices in the verse 8 of poem David by Earle Birney
VIII
101Somehow I worked down the fifty impossible feet
102To the ledge, calling and getting no answer but echoes
103Released in the cirque, and trying not to reflect
104What an answer would mean. He lay still, with his lean
105Young face upturned and strangely unmarred, but his legs
106Splayed beneath him, beside the final drop,
107Six hundred feet sheer to the ice. My throat stopped
108When I reached him, for he was alive. He opened his grey
109Straight eyes and brokenly murmured, "Over ... over."
110And I, feeling beneath him a cruel fang
111Of the ledge thrust in his back, but not understanding,
112Mumbled stupidly, "Best not to move," and spoke
113Of his pain. But he said, "I can't move. ... If only I felt
114Some pain." Then my shame stung the tears to my eyes
115As I crouched, and I cursed myself, but he cried,
116Louder, "No, Bobbie! Don't ever blame yourself.
117I didn't test my foothold." He shut the lids
118Of his eyes to the stare of the sky, while I moistened his lips
119From our water flask and tearing my shirt into strips
120I swabbed the shredded hands. But the blood slid
121From his side and stained the stone and the thirsting lichens,
122And yet I dared not lift him up from the gore
123Of the rock. Then he whispered, "Bob, I want to go over!"
124This time I knew what he meant and I grasped for a lie
125And said, "I'll be back here by midnight with ropes
126And men from the camp and we'll cradle you out." But I knew
127That the day and the night must pass and the cold dews
128Of another morning before such men unknowing
129The ways of mountains could win to the chimney's top.
130And then, how long? And he knew ... and the hell of hours
131After that, if he lived till we came, roping him out.
132But I curled beside him and whispered, "The bleeding will stop.
133You can last. " He said only, "Perhaps ... For what? A wheelchair,
134Bob?" His eyes brightening with fever upbraided me.
135I could not look at him more and said, "Then I'll stay
136With you." But he did not speak, for the clouding fever.
137I lay dazed and stared at the long valley,
138The glistening hair of a creek on the rug stretched
139By the firs, while the sun leaned round and flooded the ledge,
140The moss, and David still as a broken doll.
141I hunched to my knees to leave, but he called and his voice
142Now was sharpened with fear. "For Christ's sake push me over!
143If I could move ... Or die. ..." The sweat ran from his forehead,
144But only his hair moved. A kite was buoying
145Blackly its wings over the wrinkled ice.
146The purr of a waterfall rose and sank with the wind.
147Above us climbed the last joint of the Finger
148Beckoning bleakly the wide indifferent sky.
149Even then in the sun it grew cold lying there. ... And I knew
150He had tested his holds. It was I who had not. ... I looked
151At the blood on the ledge, and the far valley. I looked
152At last in his eyes. He breathed, "I'd do it for you, Bob."
VIII
101Somehow I worked down the fifty impossible feet
102To the ledge, calling and getting no answer but echoes
103Released in the cirque, and trying not to reflect
104What an answer would mean. He lay still, with his lean
105Young face upturned and strangely unmarred, but his legs
106Splayed beneath him, beside the final drop,
107Six hundred feet sheer to the ice. My throat stopped
108When I reached him, for he was alive. He opened his grey
109Straight eyes and brokenly murmured, "Over ... over."
110And I, feeling beneath him a cruel fang
111Of the ledge thrust in his back, but not understanding,
112Mumbled stupidly, "Best not to move," and spoke
113Of his pain. But he said, "I can't move. ... If only I felt
114Some pain." Then my shame stung the tears to my eyes
115As I crouched, and I cursed myself, but he cried,
116Louder, "No, Bobbie! Don't ever blame yourself.
117I didn't test my foothold." He shut the lids
118Of his eyes to the stare of the sky, while I moistened his lips
119From our water flask and tearing my shirt into strips
120I swabbed the shredded hands. But the blood slid
121From his side and stained the stone and the thirsting lichens,
122And yet I dared not lift him up from the gore
123Of the rock. Then he whispered, "Bob, I want to go over!"
124This time I knew what he meant and I grasped for a lie
125And said, "I'll be back here by midnight with ropes
126And men from the camp and we'll cradle you out." But I knew
127That the day and the night must pass and the cold dews
128Of another morning before such men unknowing
129The ways of mountains could win to the chimney's top.
130And then, how long? And he knew ... and the hell of hours
131After that, if he lived till we came, roping him out.
132But I curled beside him and whispered, "The bleeding will stop.
133You can last. " He said only, "Perhaps ... For what? A wheelchair,
134Bob?" His eyes brightening with fever upbraided me.
135I could not look at him more and said, "Then I'll stay
136With you." But he did not speak, for the clouding fever.
137I lay dazed and stared at the long valley,
138The glistening hair of a creek on the rug stretched
139By the firs, while the sun leaned round and flooded the ledge,
140The moss, and David still as a broken doll.
141I hunched to my knees to leave, but he called and his voice
142Now was sharpened with fear. "For Christ's sake push me over!
143If I could move ... Or die. ..." The sweat ran from his forehead,
144But only his hair moved. A kite was buoying
145Blackly its wings over the wrinkled ice.
146The purr of a waterfall rose and sank with the wind.
147Above us climbed the last joint of the Finger
148Beckoning bleakly the wide indifferent sky.
149Even then in the sun it grew cold lying there. ... And I knew
150He had tested his holds. It was I who had not. ... I looked
151At the blood on the ledge, and the far valley. I looked
152At last in his eyes. He breathed, "I'd do it for you, Bob."