> Hello Helen,
              I´m going to offer my comments without looking at what others have said. That´s because it´s so difficult not to be influenced even if one tries not to be. I mention it so that you will know that whether I´m repeating points that others have mentioned, or whether I´m going completely against the flow of opinion, it´s anyway a `pure´ opinion. 
First, I have to say that I think both of these are really fine poems and I would be very hesitant about trying to judge one as better than the other. Since you want us to select a favourite, I would go for the first, Anchor Point. Briefly, I prefer it because there is less detailed description. Belay includes rather a lot of description of the rope and some aspects of climbing that I feel come between the reader and the experience of reading the poem. I can very easily believe that this is a purely subjective reaction, and I think that the section of Belay near the end which describes the experiences of the narrator holding the rope on a climbing expedition and feeling the jolt of the climber´s  slip, all of that has great immediacy and power. What slows Belay down a bit for me is the close-up description of the grit and grime in the strands of the rope interweaved with the development of the scene upstairs in the bathroom. It came over as a bit pedantic, all that explaining. 

 Anchor Point feels much more pared down and lean. It´s  not so clogged up with details that distract my attention as I´m reading. Also, I didn´t connect, on a first reading, the subject of the poem specifically with rock climbing. I had a geographical sense of ´point´ in my mind, as the name of a headland. The `return from the rock´ didn´t dispell that sense so I read the poem imagining just that the man came back late from a trip to some rocky coastline. I think the description of the coldness between the couple is extremely well and economically realised. The final stanza is very powerful, more so, I felt, than the ending of Belay. Again, I didn´t connect it necessarily with rock climbing. The rope whirring through metal could be some sort of pulley, or a boat insecurely moored to a buoy or jetty, for example. I think I found the less specific quality of Anchor Point an advantage because I was less distracted by `real life´ details. There´s also, of course, much more focus on the relationship between the couple. 

So, that´s what I think. I hope it´s useful, even if it´s a very subjective and impressionistic reaction. It may well be that the reasons I have given for not preferring Belay may appeal to another reader as precisely the reason for preferring it. I don´t envy you having to make the final choice. Now I´m going to see what others have said.



best wishes,   Mike



> Lähettäjä: Helen Clare <[log in to unmask]>
> Päiväys: 2004/03/11 to PM 03:02:52 GMT+02:00
> Vastaanottaja: [log in to unmask]
> Aihe: Two Poems to chose from.
> 
> Hi All
> 
> Here's a little problem I need some help with. 
> I'm trying to decide which of these two poem to put in my collection. 
> 
> Both the editor and I are agreed that they are too similar in subject matter to include both but I prefer Anchor Point and he prefers Belay.
> 
> It would really help me to know which ones you prefer and if you have time to think about it, why.
> 
> Thanks
> 
> Helen
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Anchor Point
> 
> At least we're past all that - those days
> when a late return from the rock
> could birth a cry
> that had me on all fours. 
> 
> These days there's no call
> for the splash of cold water, 
> the measuring of steps from the slam 
> of Landrover doors to his voice
> 
> in the stairwell, finding me 
> calm as the chamomile pads
> I kept for my eyes. 
> Something has cooled
> 
> between us. It's easier, now 
> the lie has set like steel, 
> fixed so firm you could hang
> a marriage from it. 
> 
> Only, sometimes I'm woken 
> by the whirr
> of rope slipping through metal,
> faster than a hand's reflex. 
> 
> 
> Belay
> 
> He's home: I leave him in the bath and go downstairs. 
> Everything's still packed. Rucksacks bulge 
> with pitons, clips; the metal nuts that wedge in rock.
> 
> Only the rope spills from its canvas bag, thick
> and muscular. It kinks as if it can't quite shake 
> the memory of the knots that held him.
> 
> Grains of other places chafe between damp threads 
> of lime and black. Upstairs those grains are loosed 
> from skin and hair, eased from the crevices of his nails. 
> 
> I hear him call me; touch the rope. Pluck its weave. 
> Notice how the threads are formed from filaments, 
> fine as hair. I could snap the stray ones in my teeth. 
> 
> I thread it through my fingers, the way I remember - 
> feel again his weight in my hands, my hips harnessed,
> see the rope coil thickening by my feet as he ascends 
> 
> to heights I'd never dare. A slip jars my pelvis, 
> a fall forces a pad of air beneath my heel, 
> before I adjust the centre of my gravity. 
> 
> I let it go. Soon it will dry, release its grit to the carpet. 
> Later, one of us will vacuum, clean the bath. Now 
> I'll climb the stairs.
>