Uphill Climb
Uphill Climb
The snow holds no planks
unlike the floor we couldn’t walk clothed
when you first came,
and I move slowly through it, thinking
of sex and missiles,
poems and my head
by the TV table–sometimes we’d get all the way
to the kitchen and I’d grip the width of wall
of the doorless door, warmth spilling
over the fridge, its magnetic words
cock-eyed–
But wait–I trudge the snow-heavy
hill, good exercise
for a Lutheran–and remember how I had to shut
all the windows at a certain point
in that apartment, for weeks
after 9/11, there in downtown
NYC, trying to keep the seep of smoke out of
the old jambs, and the service at the church down the street
the first Sunday after, so crowded we had
to sit behind the altar, shaded
by the pomegranates, the ultramarines,
the too-stark whites
of that anglo-american
stained glass–so much brighter
than the wax pages of hymnal, ash of notes, blurred words
that we sang–
that we all sang–though we trailed the melody
like the heft of the organ,
only it was not a mishmash of chords
that held us back
but the difficulty of singing
weeping–
and I’m not really sure I’m still writing
about 9/11 but about some generalized
feeling of pain–the problem somehow being that I, you, we
have tasted
the apple and that it tasted so very sweet
we even bit
again, and somehow we, must all pay
for this–especially we, who are women–
with our breasts so capable of
pleasure and
of tears,
with our breasts that breath hard
uphills and tighten
touched, with our mouths
that taste and give
sweetness.
The sky turns dark
overhead except where there
are clouds that seem to carry light
along with fresh snow, and this burdened brilliance, I think,
is something to remember.
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A draft/scribble/what you will for Real Toads, inspired by Grace’s (a/k/a Heaven’s) prompt on With Real Toads about the wonderful Cuban poet, Carilda Olivar Labra.
Explore posts in the same categories: poetry, Uncategorized
Tags: "Uphill Climb", burden of the apple, I admit the pieces don't really fit together, manicddaily, poem after Carilda Olivar Labra, poem with some sex and violence but also church
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ManicDDaily 
February 7, 2015 at 9:12 pm
This is brilliance that I’ll remember.
February 7, 2015 at 9:23 pm
Ha. Well, thanks, MZ. I wasn’t actually so sure about that word! But didn’t want to repeat lightness. Thanks much. k.
February 7, 2015 at 9:58 pm
This was beautiful!
February 7, 2015 at 10:05 pm
It would be difficult singing weeping but I love the brushstrokes of blurred 9/11, women with mouths that taste & give sweetness ~
Thanks for participating K & wishing you happy weekend ~ Enjoy the snow, lots of it ~
February 7, 2015 at 10:40 pm
Superb k — I shall return to this one — over and over
February 7, 2015 at 10:48 pm
Hey Polly, thanks! k.
On Sat, Feb 7, 2015 at 10:40 PM, ManicDDaily wrote:
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February 8, 2015 at 1:34 am
The difficulty of singing weeping.. That is strong.. Despite all the beauty and stain-glassed windows, the smoke reminding.. What a beautiful day you seem to have though. Snow and sun is a favorite combination for me..
February 8, 2015 at 1:47 am
To have lived through even a single day of holocaust proportions must affect the consciousness forever. I admire your ability to sort through the memories and commit them to poetry without sentiment. Your final stanza is a perfect summation of experience.
February 8, 2015 at 7:55 am
I still remember one of the lines from one of her poems: Me desordeno amor, me desordeno (I fall apart, my love, I fall apart). I lvoed your poem, too. Thanks.
Greetings from London.
February 8, 2015 at 8:01 am
Thanks. She is so good. One– meaning me– feels a little reluctant to try to emulate such passion on a blogged poem though! Even if I could! But am definitely going to think about her wonderful work which was new to me. Thanks, Cubano. K.
February 8, 2015 at 7:56 am
“loved”, sorry.
Greetings from London.
February 8, 2015 at 9:18 am
that next to last stanza where you blend in 9/11, your own doubts..and correlating it to the fall in the garden and temptation…is solid k
February 8, 2015 at 10:11 am
Thanks, Brian. k.
February 8, 2015 at 9:32 am
You’ve taken the jumping off point of this poet’s work to your own place here, k. yet managed to keep a lot of the spontaneous and sensuous–and I mean all senses, good and bad–feel of it at play while drawing up a lot of personal-to-universal metaphor that works to drive both mood and message–which is just to say that this is very well-written, developed in stages, like chapters in a book, or the sprouting and opening of a flower, but never loses a sense of originality and immediacy. I love phrases like ‘he doorless door’ and “burdened brilliance,’ especially.
February 8, 2015 at 10:11 am
Thanks. It didn’t seem to me that it could ever hang together but decided just to go with it; and try to be direct. The Cuban poet’s work is beautiful–but maybe hard for someone who stayed practicing law (she left the field, I notice), to blog! (Ha!) k.
February 8, 2015 at 10:41 am
“especially we, who are women…” Awwwn. This is so beautiful. Great poem, really strong writing. ❤
February 8, 2015 at 10:47 am
Thank you, Kenia. k.
February 8, 2015 at 12:33 pm
Excellent poem. That last stanza really grabbed onto me.
February 8, 2015 at 4:15 pm
Oh! My! Goodness! What a spectacular write this is…….fantastic! culminating in “this burdened brilliance”. A wowzer of a poem!
February 8, 2015 at 6:45 pm
Thanks so much, Sherry. k.
On Sun, Feb 8, 2015 at 4:15 PM, ManicDDaily wrote:
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February 8, 2015 at 7:45 pm
Amazing!! You rang in Carilda’s tone and flavor but yet in your own poetic voice…your opening lures one right in…excellent work, K!
February 8, 2015 at 7:56 pm
Thanks so much, Hannah. K.
February 9, 2015 at 5:29 am
Yeah, such a fine response to the prompt — a Cuban’s ache on the eve of the Cuban Missile Crisis in ’63 has a direct link to a New Yorker’s ache in the days and weeks after 9/11/01. Maybe its as old as Dido’s lament, you know, the archetype of the woman betrayed by her lover Mars, hallowing that time when the weeping was swept over by rage. It’s archetypal back to Eve, to that moment that when the gates lifted showing us the possibility of love, it also revealed the inevitability of death, and a certain lust for it as well. Yep, we’re still slogging forth from that season, still waking to the resonance of those towers’ fall. My father lived in NYC back in the ’70s, I stayed with him one summer in ’75 and we’d go to Trinity Church on Sundays, there in the shadows of the great Towers, singing of Resurrection with the graves of our founding fathers just outside.
February 9, 2015 at 5:57 am
Thank you, Brendan. I really loved your piece with the cat! k.
On Mon, Feb 9, 2015 at 5:29 AM, ManicDDaily wrote:
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February 9, 2015 at 4:45 pm
wow. You really captures her drama and also managed to leave room for hope with the last stanza.
February 9, 2015 at 7:38 pm
Thanks, Margaret. k.
February 10, 2015 at 5:01 pm
Thoroughly got caught up in your recollecting and where you took it. I “heard” Carilda’s style but with your voice and I enjoyed it immensely.
February 11, 2015 at 8:34 pm
What a wonderfully moving piece. You have taken the war and peace of the situation and given it a beautiful, poetic voice.
February 12, 2015 at 6:31 pm
Thanks, Susie– your piece was wonderfully vivid.