When I yanked this one out my second-hand IBM electric type writer I thought, "There ain't no way I'm gonna read this out loud at the Green Mill. It's too sappy. Too over-the-top inspirational. Too cornball. They'll snap me down for sure." Well, ... I was wrong. People there (and in a lot of other places too -- from Maine to New Orleans) have caught hold of something in this poem and held onto it.

One of the most gratifying moments in its history occurred at a high-class country club on Chicago's North Shore. A few poet-performers and I were bringing "off beat street culture" to a gathering of some of the city's richest and most privileged.

There they were -- seated sedately at their gourmet dinner tables -- starched, stern, and prepared to be bored.

This irked me. My prejudices flared. I stepped out into the dining room to vent my resentments, pressing close to bodies that were not accustomed to being pressed upon.

Then, I started to touch them. My hands! were all over them. I thought of climbing atop their tables and tramping through their entrees ... but managed to restrain myself.

And, as my passions maneuvered through the verses, transformation took place. I saw that under the crust these well-heeled people were no different than me; day-to-day folks who had lived their dreams and made their money just as I someday hoped to live mine and make a little too.

Smiles broke out everywhere and we finished our performance feeling close, comfortable and welcomed (at least for one night) into a small segment of Chicago's high society.

When you get to the top of the mountain
Pull the next one up.
Then there'll be two of you
Roped together at the waist
Tired and proud, knowing the mountain,
Knowing the human force it took
To bring both of you there.
And when the second one has finished
Taking in the view,
Satisfied by the heat and perspiration under the wool,
Let her pull the next one up;
Man or woman, climber of mountains.
Pull the next hand over
The last jagged rock
To become three.
Two showing what they've already seen.
And one knowing now the well-being with being
Finished with one mountain,
With being able to look out a long way
Toward other mountains.
Feeling a temptation to claim victory
As if mountains were human toys to own.

When you ask how high is this mountain
With a compulsion to know
Where you stand in relationship to other peaks,
Look down to wherefrom you came up

And see the rope that's tied to your waist
Tied to the next man's waist,
Tied to the next woman's waist,
Tied to the first man's waist,
To first woman's waist ... and pull the rope!

Never mind the flags you see flapping on conquered pinnacles.
Don't waste time scratching inscriptions into the monolith.
You are the stone itself.
And each man, each woman up the mountain,
Each breath exhaled at the peak,
Each glad-I-made-it ... here's-my-hand,
Each heartbeat wrapped around the hot skin of the sun-bright sky, Each noise panted or cracked with laughter,
Each embrace, each cloud that holds everyone
in momentary doubt ...

All these are inscriptions of a human force that can
Conquer conquering hand over hand pulling the rope
Next man up, next woman up.
Sharing a place, sharing a vision.
Room enough for all on all the mountain peaks.
Force enough for all
To hold all the hanging bodies
Dangling in the deep recesses of the mountain's belly
Steady ... until they have the courage ...
Until they know the courage ...
Until they understand
That the only courage there is is
To pull the next man up
Pull the next woman up
Pull the next up

Up

Up.