Desert Ascent
St. John Climacus
I. At eighty he still scales the ladder to God; so long spent
on the thirty rungs that he begins to doubt visions of angels--
all halos and no legs, until demons take over
his dreams-- all ebony silhouettes-- equipped
with lassos and bows. He longs for solitude.
II. No wooden ladder mine, but metal, too short
for heaven and leaning against the house in the rain.
Once again I delay clearing the gutters until
water drips down the bedroom wall.
Alone, I scrape leaves from roof, gutter, downspout,
shove them over the side, wondering if I can manage
to hold the ladder steady as I step over the parapet
to back down. All I want is down.
III. In the icon, those eager to be near
Christ jostle John up his ladder. Do you recognize
your face among the monks tumbling from the rungs?
How high had you gone before a devil fluttered
his wings and lured you off? Did he need
his lasso or his bow and arrow? Or were you pushed?
There are no temptations visible in the burnished gold leaf,
just your reflection, created by protective glass--
the monks and their companions held in the climb
towards heaven,
where it feels as though I intrude
(my eyelashes as long as the monks are tall)
though I’ve plenty of company: The patriarchs in the corner,
the pilgrims behind John, angels and demons, museum guests,
the priest who traveled from Sinai with the art.
Assured of one companion, dwelling in awe, and a panoramic
view of the rigorous Sinai, I might find it possible to grasp
a rung at shoulder height, put my foot on that first step.
Previously published in St. Peter’s B‑List:
Contemporary Poems Inspired by the Saints
QUINCE, ROSE, GRACE OF GOD collected poems that were written during the ten or so years I lived in my Craftsman bungalow in Richmond, where I learned the intricacies of wiring doorbells, installing double-paned windows, and replacing leaking roofs. (For all but the first, I also had to learn how to hire contractors.) The selection of poems included were winnowed from a much larger number, and I continued to write about life in the Bay Area long after I moved away. I set the parameters which, for the book, meant excluding poems that were written after that era. But shadows of the excluded poems tease me.
Desert Ascent is an ekphrastic poem written years later when I lived in Southern California and attended an exhibit at the Getty Museum It was inspired by The Heavenly Ladder of Saint John Climacus, an icon from the late 1100's, on loan from the Holy Monastery of Saint Catherine, Sinai, Egypt.
It stayed with me, the ladder so crowded with aspirants, the devils so dark and intent on their task, saints and angels so intent on the competition, Satan’s maw so insatiable.
Climbing to a great height is on the list of actions I avoid unless there are solid steps with substantial railings. I tried to imagine pushing and jostling my way up the ladder, my hand resting on the back of the man ahead of me. I tried to imagine being one of those pushed and jostled by the people behind me, not being able to see if my foot landed securely on the rung. I would be far more worried about breathing in that crush, than of falling. (For in dreams, when I fall I either wake or fly.)
As I researched his life I discovered and downloaded a translation of his Ladder of Divine Ascent at http://www.prudencetrue.com/images/TheLadderofDivineAscent.pdf, by Archimandrite Lazarus Moore (Harper & Brothers, 1959.) The language is beautiful, the challenges posed there too daunting for me to absorb.
I turned to writing the poem, a less daunting task. The earliest notes are on yellow graph paper. These later became part of the third section, which speaks to the self and other viewers, Do you recognize your face among the monks tumbling from the rungs? In that section I would later break away from the right margin, hoping to give the reader a feeling of moving into new space while shifting the perspective from an interrogation in the second person to a statement about where I stood.
So I began with the concluding stanza. Then I went back to set the scene. His age put the enormity of his task in context. I introduced the images in the icon and tried to identify what John, and I, might have wanted most in the middle of that chaos. Originally in the past tense, I shifted to the present. His climb had become so real to me that I wanted that immediacy from the start.
In the second stanza, which became the second section, I was seeking to understand his struggle from inside myself. I did have an experience to draw on: Climbing the ladder to my bungalow roof, in a panic, in the rain, to fend off damage my negligence caused. Too late. Too alone.
The poem’s division into three parts was a late development, meant to provide inflection or resting points after the strongest statement in a stanza. I chose capital roman numerals because of their upright strength.
When Mary Ann B. Miller put out a call for contemporary poems inspired by Catholic saints, I responded with this and several other poems I had written trying to understand what the church defines as a godly life. When it was accepted, I had no idea what stellar company I would be keeping, including Paul Mariani. Or that Mary Ann’s generous spirit would include me in a reading at the University of Southern California. She is an advocate for the poetry of spiritual exploration, who does not limit herself or her publications to the confines of Catholic tradition. It was a privilege to have a poem recently accepted by Presence, the journal, after rigorous editing.
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