Hi Arthur,
A long response, this (but, after all, it's a long and complex poem!)And 
there's a few shifts of voice, tone and register here.

I like the first section. It sounds very much like you. It sounds 
contemporary, it feels accurate to what’s there. In the poem I feel the tone 
and texture of the landscape in the way the words work. It's the best imho.

But there’s hints in section 2 of an almost Wordsworthian tone:
“Earth’s tale is written in every rock and read
in any piece I heft, book of ages, that leaf on leaf
shows life that knew the swell of Tethys’ seas
and the slow-pulsed tides of centuries.”
(and the way the next line refers to a curlew is almost Wordsworthian in its 
subject shift...).
I don’t like it. I sense the 2nd section of your poem doesn’t relate to any 
“serious” poetry I’ve read. (If I’m wrong, please point to examples!) I’d 
simply get rid of the whole of it.

The 3rd section is interesting but, again, when you start: “intrepid 
speleologist” I feel I’m reading MacGonnigal! So, again, I’d cut those 
words!

And I sense the words running away from you when you write:
“the huge mass of the fells
pin you
punch inwards on your chest
TREAD UNDERFOOT
YOU
as you slither like a lizard
through the thin mud”
(tread underfoot/you... doesn’t work!)

And how does your use of language in this section correspond to the words 
cavers use? They have their own terms, their ways of describing underground 
features they come across, their own ways of describing what they do. I know 
there isn’t much literature that draws on caving (certainly not as much as 
with climbing and mountaineering) but there’s magazines and guide-books that 
may give flavours of how language is used by those who do it. They may give 
you specific user’s words as well. I want to feel that the language is 
authentic.

It’s again a bit iffy in the 4th section, when you write:
“while over the lip of Ingleborough Hill
the drapes of morning mists in silence spill.” (which sounds almost 
Shakesperean!)
and, again, I’d get rid of it!

What have I got against Wordsworth & Shakespeare? Nothing! But I prefer 
Arthur! And I want to hear Arthur all the way through an Arthur poem. Not 
psuedo-shakespeare, or pseudo-wordsworth - but Arthur! (I'm not saying 
you've only got just "one" distinctive voice - but the other registers you 
try to shift to in the places I'm worried about don't sound genuine... at 
least to me)

And, because you have 2 sections in the 1st person voice and one section in 
the 2nd person voice (and a last section with no "voice present ast all!) 
I'd also think carefully about how that works... The second person voice 
isn't easy to use. (In prose it's harder than in poetry - but, here, you 
simply fling your reader into caving without any warning! So, I’d be 
cautious about the change to the 2nd person voice in the 3rd section, as 
well. The "Intrepid Speleologtist" seems to appear from nowhere! (or is he 
the one who was driving in the 1st stanza and , maybe, climbing to his "pot" 
in the second section? (If he is then it might be possible to indicate that 
he's the caver before the 3rd section begins... But that still doesn't solve 
the change from 1st to 2nd person... Being ruthless? Maybe... But I could 
also be feeling as if, in using the 2nd person, you’re telling me how I feel 
(and I often feel as if I want to say “No” to what I’m being told!). But 
that might just be me...
Bob



>From: arthur seeley <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub: The Aire Gap
>Date: Mon, 16 Sep 2002 08:40:33 +0100
>
>The Aire Gap
>
>
>
>(i)
>
>
>
>I travel into night that thins to dawn,
>
>into the Pennines’ massive shrug of fells,
>
>unwinding light behind, the road trails down
>
>between dark crags and shining walls, then falls
>
>in the valley where rivers gather and rise,
>
>mirror the colours of the changing skies.
>
>
>
>Smooth white limestone blooms
>
>as white as winter, white as wind-stripped bones
>
>of sheep are white, white as the plumes
>
>of plucked fleece that whispers over stones.
>
>
>
>                         (ii)
>
>
>
>I climb the bottom of an ancient sea and tread
>
>the shells and corals of an antique reef.
>
>Earth’s tale is written in every rock and read
>
>in any piece I heft, book of ages, that leaf on leaf
>
>shows life that knew the swell of Tethys’ seas
>
>and the slow-pulsed tides of centuries.
>
>
>
>Above, the curlew cries before the threat of rain,
>
>circles the slopes where draggled ewes will climb
>
>over the glacial gouge and dark moraine
>
>pieced in quilts of settlement and hemmed with time.
>
>
>
>
>
>                         (iii)
>
>intrepid speleologist
>
>once well inside
>
>down that first sudden
>
>d
>
>r
>
>o
>
>p
>
>on twisting r
>
>                    o
>
>                    p
>
>        e
>
>spun like a spider
>
>over a clattering
>
>welter of spray
>
>twinkling
>
>down and away
>
>from you
>
>into the darkness
>
>below
>
>when  the entrance
>
>and the distant day
>
>are long since lost
>
>
>
>                                          put out the light
>
>
>
>feel the mask of dark
>
>utter dark
>
>tightenoveryourface
>
>closein
>
>preisnswards
>
>on your mouth and nose
>
>like a hand
>
>not yours
>
>in the dark
>
>your four senses
>
>explore
>
>reach out
>
>into the cave
>
>hear the trickle
>
>in the blackness
>
>the beast-lick of waters
>
>lapping
>
>twisting past
>
>cold
>
>hard aching cold
>
>shaping the cave
>
>around you
>
>in the thick dark
>
>the huge mass of the fells
>
>pin you
>
>punch inwards on your chest
>
>tread underfoot
>
>                    you
>
>as you slither like a lizard
>
>through the thin mud
>
>taste the grit and ooze of earth
>
>on your lips
>
>coarse sand crunch in teeth
>
>a pass
>
>that
>
>will
>
>not
>
>go
>
>a way that pinches off
>
>narrows
>
>in
>
>womb-tight -womb-night
>
>where it is tomb-dark
>
>your hand
>
>before your face
>
>and wide blind eyes
>
>feels the unseen rock
>
>the ancient life there
>
>that once teemed and turned to light
>
>locked in
>
>the cold the wet and the hardness
>
>pressing
>
>and the throb
>
>of time
>
>be still and know
>
>the suck and pulse
>
>of its dark heart
>
>the loops and whorls
>
>as slow time
>
>transposes
>
>unravels
>
>and folds newness in
>
>hear the bowels of the earth
>
>draining
>
>and replenishing
>
>then turn your face
>
>from the depths and the dark
>
>towards the lost light and the air
>
>somewhere above moving over sweet green dales
>
>fresh and bright with spring flowers under a broad blue sky
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>                                     (iv)
>
>
>
>The Hill of Winds bulks black, its saurian back
>
>and ridge consumes horizons and the dales below.
>
>Threaded with waters, scarred by seasons’ rack,
>
>flanks bared by the scour of gale and snow,
>
>while over the lip of Ingleborough Hill
>
>the drapes of morning mists in silence spill.
>
>
>
>Aproned with scree, low farms and the long green,
>
>green as mossed barns and hart’s-tongue’s fern
>
>are green, as long wet summers are green
>
>as green as new life springing by the quiet tarn.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>




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