Requiem for Elvira Shatayev (Response Poem)

January 29, 2014

PHANTASIA FOR ELVIRA SHATAYEV, by Adrienne Rich

(leader of a women’s climbing team, all of whom died in a

storm on Lenin Peak, August 1974. Later, Shatayev’s

husband found and buried the bodies.)

The cold felt cold until our blood

grew colder      then the wind

died down and we slept

If in this sleep I speak

it’s with a voice no longer personal

(I want to say      with voices)

When the wind tore      our breath from us at last

we had no need of words

For months      for years      each one of us

had felt her own yes      growing in her

slowly forming      as she stood at windows      waited

for trains      mended her rucksack      combed her hair

What we were to learn      was simply      what we had

up here      as out of all words      that yes      gathered

its forces      fused itself      and only just in time

to meet a No of no degrees

the black hole      sucking the world in

I feel you climbing toward me

your cleated bootsoles leaving      their geometric bite

colossally embossed      on microscopic crystals

as when I trailed you in the Caucasus

Now I am further

ahead      than either of us dreamed      anyone would be

I have become

the white snow packed like asphalt by the wind

the women I love      lightly flung      against the mountain

that blue sky

our frozen eyes unribboned      through the storm

we could have stitched that blueness      together      like a quilt

You come (I know this)      with your love      your loss

strapped to your body      with your tape-recorder      camera

ice pick      against advisement

to give us burial in the snow      and in your mind

While my body lies out here

flashing like a prism      into your eyes

how could you sleep      You climbed here for yourself

we climbed for ourselves

When you have buried us      told your story

ours does not end      we stream

into the unfinished      the unbegun

the possible

Every cell’s core of heat      pulsed out of us

into the thin air      of the universe

the armature of rock beneath these snows

this mountain      which has taken     the imprint of our minds

through changes elemental and minute

as those we underwent

to bring each other here

choosing ourselves      each other      and this life

whose every breath      and grasp      and further foothold

is somewhere      still enacted      and continuing

In the diary I wrote: Now we are ready

and each of us knows it      I have never loved

like this      I have never seen

my own forces so taken up and shared

and given back

After the long training      the early sieges

we are moving almost effortlessly in our love

In the diary as the wind      began to tear

all the tents over us      I wrote:

We know now we have always been in danger

down in our separateness

and now up here together      but till now

we had not touched our strength

In the diary torn from my fingers I had written:

What does love mean

what does it mean      “to survive”

A cable blue fire ropes our bodies

burning together in the snow      We will not live

to settle for less      We have dreamed of this

all of our lives

REQUIEM FOR ELVIRA SHATAYEV

I undertake your challenge

for the final time     although they told me not to

I shift the pack I carry

filled     with my love     my loss

my ice-pick      and I cannot tell if I climb for myself

or for you

As I climb I hear      the mountain’s whispered singing

but cannot interpret the secret language

I hear      in my head your voice      as if

in a diary you might have kept: but till now

we had not touched our strength

and I wonder      as I have always wondered      why this strength

had to be so separate      from mine

The others consoled me      for my loss

but I had lost your love to the mountain      years ago

and yet       I loved that love of yours      I understood

you had the cold      to fight against

as I had you      to fight for

Perhaps now I will find      another woman      a softer woman

one not so mountain-hard

to ebb away      at my own cold

but perhaps     it will not be the same      as watching when

you hung out the wash      picked your onions

fed your chickens      the daylight      shining in your eyes

As I approach the peak      my heart drops

from knowing      what it has known all along      Oh

My dear      Oh my heart      Forgive

the way it ended

I find you      and the others      sleeping

half-crystalized      your hair in icy ribbons

all faces resting      turned skyward as if enthralled

by the clear      cold      blueness

For hours I thrash      against dense ice

to chisel some sort of honor

into this death      something to last      against this loss

I bury you      one      after another

Now you are further

below      than either of us dreamed      anyone would be

You have become

the white snow feathered like down in a quilt

And once you are gone

I cannot feel you here             as you

once      felt yourself      Now

you must be elsewhere

or      at last      inseparable

October

September 16, 2012

October

Day

breaks, and suddenly

the sky erupts in blue, as if

it’s the first sky, as if

the earth died and was reborn

in its sleep.

I breathe in the dry, volcanic blue

and its embers ignite my lungs,

blazing through my bones, and my body

aches to feel the wind through its fingers,

the sunlight coursing through its veins.

My feet slap the hard ground, my

limbs stretch and lengthen,

muscles burning with this

young fire as I

run and run and run

and remember the world:

raw and new and alive.

March

August 27, 2012

March

Spring steps barefoot through the dark woods,

and a dusting of snow clings to her skirts.

She feels the slender bow on her back, barely

bouncing with each footstep, the frozen ground

firm and steady under her feet.

A bird cries out through the early air.

The winter moon,

the westward moon,

the wayward moon,

full and gleaming in its cold light,

leads Spring between the trees,

the snow glittering like diamonds before her.

She marches on. The sun rises slowly, and the world

is beautiful: white as china, paper thin. The trees stand dark

as ink. The sky is clear and forever blue.

And soon, in a clearing:

Winter, the sleeping bear.

Swiftly, Spring nocks an arrow, draws

back the bow, but pauses. A chill breeze

drifts through, carrying scents of wood smoke

and pine: the memory of a smoldering fire, far away,

the last embers drifting up to burn with the stars.

Spring looks down, taking aim again as Winter

snores softly, shivers in his sleep, and her shoulders rise,

and fall, silent as snow. She shifts her stance, preparing

for the bitter chase. And then Spring looses her arrow

and races away.

The Meridian

June 10, 2012

The Meridian

To me, we could be lost at sea, with only the illusion

of land in the distance. The shades of water meaning

nothing to me, I saw only dangerous colors

of unknown depths and darkening clouds. The light

above our sails began to fade away as wave after wave

rose up, close, close beside us; I thought of what a fool

I was, knowing nothing about a storm. But the sky could not fool

my father, who pulled taut the lines as though the clouds were an illusion,

the darkness nothing more than a trick of the mind, and the waves

just the water’s joke. Somehow he understood the meaning

of the seagulls flying above us, knew we had time before the light

disappeared, before the lake put on a foamy dress the color

of midnight, and of stars. My father’s eyes were the same color

as a clear sky in June, and as the sun shone on the water like fool’s

gold, I watched his gaze, navigating our way like a seabird. The last of the sunlight

sparkled on the spray and on the thick, wet ropes, creating illusions

of rainbows. But my father’s corded arms and tough hands knew the meaning

of a hard day’s work, and I knew that no matter how the waves

grew, we would be safe. And sure enough, a buoy rocked and waved

just within sight, a beacon pointing us home, its bright red color

a happy change from the never-ending seascape, a sign meaning

we were close. The dark storm behind our sails, however, would not be outfooled

by the likes of us – the gusts of wind grew strong and fast, sweeping away any illusion

of escape, making the sails billow and snap. As the light

faded into gray, we could just see, on the distant buoy, a seagull had alighted.

Then the storm struck, its heavy rain lashing at us, its wind tossing us about, its waves

crashing into the hull of our sailboat. But once again, the illusion

of the lake did not frighten my father. His face was the strong, solid color

of determination, his jaw set in the effort to evade the inevitable, to fool

fate. I yelled to him through the rain and wind, meaning

to help, if I could. But he looked back at me calmly, and I knew the meaning

of his gaze: the Meridian was my father’s boat, even in light

of this storm’s power. It was his, so he would protect it, no matter the wind or the waves

that faced him. The storm struggled on, but so did he, and soon the harbor was no illusion

to be chased away by a howling gust. I looked back at the water, and perhaps I’m a fool

for thinking so, but it seemed that this was the way my father saw it – its colors

all wild and alive, the meanings of the waves

clear and lovely. Way up through the storm clouds, the sky was the light color

of a gull’s wing; not even a fool could think that this beauty was an illusion.

I want to wake up early with you

April 10, 2012

I want to wake up early with you and walk through the morning village

Dew like silver on the black bridge,

a silent fog on the water, a canopy

softening bare silhouettes along the canal.

The sky, blue-grey,

still sleeping in a warm bed, in a room

where the cold clings to the curtains and walls,

a house with a dark, creaking floor,

the air heavy from a long winter’s night.

Four birds in the distance,

barely separate,

move through the morning and

                                             drift away.

indian-ocean blue

November 17, 2010

indian-ocean blue

i remember one time when we

walked through that abandoned

apple orchard, hand in hand.  it must

have been late summer or early fall

because there were still blossoms

on the branches, pink and soft

as the birdsong and your newspaper poetry. 

we came upon the apples, cold and

hard and bright – peridot; it didn’t matter

that they still had weeks to ripen, because

our rosebud mouths opened, ate them,

and laughed.  we thought

that the clouds gathering were only doves

coming to nest in the sky until it began

to thunder, but even then our eyes

like sunflowers turned to search

for some remaining trace of light

as we held each other close. 

yesterday, we didn’t walk through

apple trees, but through city streets,

and you whispered that you missed

the songbirds because they had all become

pigeons.  our sad talk is of statistics,

not of verse, and our voices fight the steel

and concrete clanging.  construction scaffolds

and littered cigarettes are all we know

of beauty. other people pass on the sidewalk,

keeping their faces down, rushing

off to their challenging jobs and busy

lives.  the rain streaks down our dirty

gray windows, and yet we pull

out those old, perennial smiles and think

about the days when the sky was still

that indian-ocean blue;

we remember, we hope,

and we hold each other close.

dandelion sun - a tribute to my bad memory

May 26, 2010

dandelion sun – a tribute to my bad memory

the halogen lights act like lightning

and shock me. 

I caught that tiger

by its tail,

but then someone forgot

that we're not to slam the doors

and I lost it. 

catch-as-catch-can, I suppose.

oh, and please don’t touch that,

yes,

that right

there,

the poem

next

to my

fingers.

but you go ahead,

and I’ll let you,

because I’m too content to lose

this papercut war. 

my innate sycophancy

manifests itself

in the shape of

sphinxes and

stained-glass and

other daydreams,

and maybe someday I’ll remember the way my

metaphors didn’t used to fall apart.

the blue that I saw today

was blinding, like a full moon,

and as deep as thunder,

and as far as I know,

we’ll hit the ground only running. 

I noticed something:

you look even skinnier without your smile.

skitters as if on snow

November 2009

skitters as if on snow

she can sometimes sense

her muscles tense,

and then, her bones, disjointed, realign.

she reaches up

and tries to touch,

but just can’t find the strength to feel the sun.

frost-bitten lips

under fingertips;

she can’t distinguish these from fragile face.

sympathy, antipathy,

empathy and apathy:

what is this strange disease beneath her skin?

ocean of mine

April 21, 2009

ocean of mine

I know your face well, dark ocean of mine.

I know the touch of your waves against me.

I remember when I wanted to memorize you,

your swirling blue-green, your translucent shore,

until I could paint your image with closed eyes.

that was long, long ago,

before sweet caress turned to harsh embrace;

before loving care became possession.

your colors churn as I approach;

as I traipse across the bone-white sand,

your monstrous roar has already encased my ears.

your cold seascape seems to be ever-present in my view.

today, even the sunlight reflecting on you

looks hard-edged and cruel.

but this is how you call to me;

you know very well how to entice.

even now, I am drawn to your sound, your smell, your sight.

somehow, I cannot resist you

when you beckon like that,

as if my feet still long to tread in your icy water.

I am at your edge now;

I cannot bring myself to hesitate.

I see you grin as I submit, one step, then another.

you rise up; you bring me down.

my lips still curved in a smile.

dream

March 9, 2008

dream

pale hair,
pale skin,

invisible in
the pale snow,

nearly blinding
under the moon,

a glint of silver,
a flicked fish's tail

in a deep blue where
the cold never fades,

and the night-water
crushes against

my bare emptiness