After I wrote this, I remembered something similar from a few years ago. And when I checked, realized that I had chosen the same title. So I've included that as well. It's the second poem; newly revised, after revisiting it 4 years later. But I still don't like it as much as the new one:  it seems pretentious; takes itself a little too seriously.

Perhaps the most revealing thing about these two poems is the similar way I've used the dormant volcano as metaphor:  for the essential uncertainty of existence; the awful bargain life makes.

Solid Ground (2)

July 10 2012

Does it feel like this?

Perched on the rim

of a dormant volcano

looking in.

Scorched rock, sulphuric stink.

The blasted caldera,

where tough plants cling

to the cracked and lifeless surface.

You wobble

for one vertiginous second

peering down from the edge

into incomprehensible depths

of earth,

and wonder

is a volcano ever still?

Where cauldrons of magma rumble

and poison gas might erupt

in a flash of sudden death,

after thousands of years at rest.

So you choose to trust the experts,

who tut-tut

their reassurance.

But life is always precarious,

hurtling through space

on a molten planet

on its cool outer skin,

brittle as eggshell.

And precious air

which is just as thin.

You feel short of breath

and infinitesimal.

You feel a quiver

as if rock had shifted

under your feet,

filled

by deep subterranean sound.

And never again will you feel

on solid ground.

Solid Ground (1)

Feb 23 2008

You become complacent

living beneath a volcano;

its gentle slope, fertile soil,

dense green foliage.

Occasionally, the ground will shudder

sulphurous steam erupt.

And curls of toxic smoke

rise-up from the blasted caldera,

the charred rim

that’s been off-limits

since memory exists.

You glance up,

reassured that underground, the fire-god still simmers

content for now.

Entire lives have passed

beneath the volcano,

resigned to its rule.

The cruel symmetry of nature,

blessing us with riches

then making us pay

with blood, and treasure.

The fickle pleasure

of an immature god.

Everywhere, there are dormant volcanoes.

In acts of faith

and appeasement,

the zero-sum games we play.

In the risks we take

for comfort

and love.

But it’s so pleasant living here

where everything grows

in this verdant jungle.

Where succulent fruit

just waits to be plucked

from low-lying branches,

redolent, and ruby red

tempting us to bite.

Or where, left to ripen

the first gentle tremor

shakes them off.

Filling the air

with sweetness,

the sickly scent of rot.