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An Analytical Profile: The Life and Enduring Literary Contributions of Dianne Robitaille (1956-2021)

Executive Summary

Dianne Robitaille (c. 1956–2021) was a pivotal figure in the Greater Boston literary scene, best known as a co-founder of the influential small poetry press, Ibbetson Street Press. For 23 years, she was instrumental in the press's editing and production, helping to publish numerous books and magazines. Beyond her work as a literary editor, she was an accomplished poet, nurse, and photographer. Her legacy is sustained by her single published collection, Leaving Only Impressions, which is archived in a major university poetry collection, and by the ongoing influence of the literary community she helped to build. This report provides a comprehensive biography, a detailed analysis of her literary contributions, and an examination of her lasting impact. It also includes a critical disambiguation of her identity from other individuals with similar names to ensure factual accuracy.

The Personal and Professional Tapestry of a Community Builder

The life of Dianne Robitaille was a convergence of diverse professional roles and a deep commitment to fostering artistic community. Her biography reveals a person whose creative pursuits were seamlessly integrated with her professional and personal life, creating a holistic identity that transcended any single label.

Biography and Life Events: A Life of Diverse Endeavors

Dianne Robitaille passed away at the age of 65. This places her year of birth circa 1956. Her family connections are noted in her obituary as the wife of Doug Holder, the sister of Denise and Robert Robitaille, and the daughter of Edna Robitaille. While her contributions to poetry are the primary subject of this profile, her career was multifaceted. She was an "accomplished nurse" who worked at prestigious medical institutions in Massachusetts, including Mass General Hospital, Mt. Auburn Hospital, and McLean Hospital, and served "diverse populations" through other agencies. This dedication to patient care and human service provided a foundation for her life, likely informing her creative work with a profound sense of empathy and observation.  

In addition to her poetic and medical careers, Robitaille was also an "accomplished photographer". Her visual art was prominently featured on the covers of the poetry journal she co-founded,  

Ibbetson Street, and in The Somerville Times. The title of her single poetry collection,  

Leaving Only Impressions, seems to be a deliberate, evocative link between her two creative disciplines. The term "impressions" unites the act of capturing a moment with a camera—a visual impression—with the process of distilling experience into verse—a poetic impression. This connection suggests that her creative process was not segmented but rather a unified expression of her engagement with the world through different mediums. Her ability to observe and document, whether through a camera lens or a pen, appears to be a core aspect of her artistic identity.

The Literary Community Builder: Founding Ibbetson Street Press

Dianne Robitaille's influence on the literary world extended far beyond her own poetry. She was a central figure in the New England poetry scene through her roles as a co-founder of Ibbetson Street Press and as a secretary for the New England Poetry Club.

Ibbetson Street Press was founded in 1998 in Somerville, Massachusetts. The press's origins trace back to a meeting at a Bruegger's Bagel shop where she, her husband Doug Holder, and friend Richard Wilhelm discussed the possibility of forming a literary magazine. The press was named after its first location at 33 Ibbetson Street in Somerville. For 23 years, Robitaille was an integral part of the press's operations, assisting with the "editing and production of many books and magazines". Her husband confirms her involvement was constant "in one degree or the other since its inception". This long-term, foundational commitment was essential to the press’s success. It has since published over 80 poetry titles and 38 issues of its journal and has won awards, including numerous "Pick of" awards. The press's continued influence is demonstrated by its affiliation with Endicott College in Beverly, MA.  

In addition to her work with the press, Robitaille served as the secretary of the New England Poetry Club, serving under the late Diana Der Hovanessian. This role places her at the heart of the regional literary infrastructure, showcasing her dedication to nurturing the broader community of poets and writers. This leadership position, combined with her foundational role at Ibbetson Street Press, underscores her identity as a true community builder who worked to create spaces for other voices to be heard and published. The fact that her creative and professional life was marked by service—as a nurse and as a literary editor and club secretary—indicates a person driven by a desire to contribute and connect with others.  

The Poet’s Voice: Analysis of Literary Works

Dianne Robitaille's poetic output, while not voluminous, is distinguished by its focused and observational nature. Her work, primarily contained within her single collection and various literary journals, reveals a voice committed to capturing the essential details of human experience and emotion.

Leaving Only Impressions: A Singular Collection

Leaving Only Impressions stands as Dianne Robitaille's "only one collection of her own poetry". This singular publication marks the culmination of her poetic endeavors and serves as the most complete representation of her body of work. The collection has earned a place of academic significance, as it is archived at the University at Buffalo Poetry Collection. The act of archiving her work at a major university suggests that it is recognized as having scholarly and historical value, a testament to her standing within the literary community. The institutional preservation of her poetry ensures that it will be available for future researchers and scholars, cementing its place in the literary record.  

  

Leaving Only Impressions.

A Portfolio of Published Poems and Thematic Insights

Before the publication of her collection, Robitaille's poetry appeared in a range of journals and publications, including The Christian Science Monitor, Bellowing Arc, and Wilderness House Literary Review. The available snippets of her poetry offer a glimpse into her stylistic and thematic concerns. For instance, the poem "The Creek," published in the Wilderness House Literary Review, uses a natural setting to explore an internal emotional state. The creek itself is described with objective detail—"Stumps, rocks, sticks, dead leaves, mud"—but it is framed by a speaker's subjective perception: "The gray sky bleeds into your water that crawls like snakeskin." The poem culminates in a feeling of emotional weight, where the speaker's shoes "seep into the ground" and their steps "become lead," leading to a sudden, emotional flight "thinking I might be swallowed up by our anger". This short poem demonstrates her ability to ground a powerful and abstract emotion in the tangible details of a landscape.  

Another fragment, "on the motionless room. Humidity gathers, suspended and still. Little moves through its blanketing mass: The cat behind the small floor fan licks her paw," illustrates a different, more domestic kind of observation. This poem focuses on a quiet, seemingly mundane moment, finding a stillness and beauty in the mundane details of daily life. The poetic voice here is one of patient, sensory observation.  

These brief examples align with commentary from within her literary circle. A review of her work on her husband's blog, for example, commends her poetry for containing "more life" than other works, praising its "sensory impression" and its portrayal of "real towns, real families, real jokes, real fears". This suggests that her poetic strength lies in her ability to capture the authentic, unvarnished reality of her subjects. Her poetry seems to find its power in grounding abstract human emotions within the tangible, sensory details of the domestic and natural world. The title of her collection,  

Leaving Only Impressions, is a concise and accurate descriptor of this approach. Her work appears to be less about grand statements and more about distilling the rich emotional and sensory data of life into a lasting poetic record.

Critical and Scholarly Reception

The reception of Dianne Robitaille's work, as documented in the provided sources, is primarily rooted in the community she helped build. Her recognition comes from her peers and loved ones rather than from a formal academic or critical framework.

Community Tributes and Peer Commentary

Following her passing, numerous tributes were made by individuals who knew her. Comments from community members Matt, Sandra Gikas, and Susie Davidson described her as a "gracious and wonderful professional who contributed a lot to the world". The sentiment is one of respect and admiration for her character and her contributions. Her husband, Doug Holder, expressed his personal grief simply but profoundly: "I miss her". This collective voice of remembrance highlights her significant personal impact on those around her. The review of her poetry on Doug Holder's blog, while not a formal academic critique, is a valuable piece of commentary from within her literary circle. It reinforces the idea that her work was valued for its authenticity and its ability to capture the small, meaningful moments of life.  

A Note on Formal Analysis

It is important to state that the provided sources do not contain any formal academic or scholarly analysis of her work. While her collection is archived at a university, there is no evidence of a published, peer-reviewed paper or a detailed scholarly essay dedicated to her poetry. Her reputation appears to be firmly established within the small press movement and the grassroots literary community she helped to cultivate. This is a crucial distinction, as it suggests her legacy is one of direct, personal influence and community building, rather than one of a canonical poet whose work is widely studied in academic circles. Her impact is palpable in the spaces she created, such as Ibbetson Street Press and the New England Poetry Club, rather than solely in the pages of academic journals.

A Lasting Impression: Legacy and Honor

Dianne Robitaille's influence continues to resonate through the institutions and honors that carry her name and embody her vision. Her legacy is a powerful and multi-faceted one, extending beyond the pages of her poetry to shape the lives of others.

Institutional Recognition: The Archival Legacy

The archival of her single poetry collection, Leaving Only Impressions, at the University at Buffalo Poetry Collection is a significant marker of her legacy. By preserving her work in an institutional setting, it is made available to future generations of students, researchers, and poets. This act of preservation elevates her from a local poet to a figure whose work is deemed worthy of scholarly attention, ensuring that her voice will not be lost to time. The choice to archive her single work for posterity underscores the belief that her poetic contribution holds enduring value.  

Red Letters: Flashback Friday––RLP#20

 The Red Letters

 

 

In ancient Rome, feast days were indicated on the calendar by red letters.

To my mind, all poetry and art serves as a reminder that every day we wake together beneath the sun is a red-letter day.



––Steven Ratiner



Dear Readers,



I need to offer another Flashback Friday because, at the moment, I am on rustic little Star Island––a flinty bit of rock ten miles off of Portsmouth, NH––on an annual writing retreat. Immersed in the peace of the island––sea sounds, gulls, bell buoys, and time for poetry––I realized I might not be able to switch gears easily and take care of the business of the Letters. So, in a time when even the thought of ‘celebration’ feels alien to most of us, it’s good to be reminded of what our lives are really made of (the headlines can take a back seat for a moment.)



Wishing you a safe and calm conclusion to the summer,

Steven





Flashback Friday––RLP#20



First Chairs



— for Kirk and Julie Bishop



I thought, they seem like violins,

Guarnerii, perhaps,

warm to the touch, full-toned,

impossible not to play.

They must, like violins, be held

in just one certain way.

When stroked by the fiddlers’ bows

they curl uncurl their toes

and sing with a milky sound.

— Con Squires










“Celebration?!” wrote a friend, incredulous after reading my intro to last week’s Red Letter. “Have you been paying attention—these days, what’s to celebrate?” I think he misunderstood me, perhaps imagining something on the order of fireworks, birthday sparklers. But a poet like Con Squires provides the ideal response, again and again throughout his poetry: memory, dogs, New Orleans jazz, a friend’s voice, Atlantic waters lapping below his home, second chances—and, oh yes, the sight of a child—any child—for whom nearly every minute of each ordinary day is charged with awe, surprise, fear, relief, unanticipated pleasure. Deep attention—a poet’s stock in trade — equals, in my mind, celebration.



Case in point: following a divorce, and at a time when his life felt in disarray, Con met his future wife—the partner with whom he still shares his days (and, even better, Bonnie Bishop is a fine poet as well). Later, being introduced to his bride’s brother and sister-in-law, he remembers the couple seated on their couch, each with one of their twin babies held in the crook of an arm, a symmetrical tableau, feeding them from bottles. Con goes home and puts pencil to paper: celebration. I find such simple beauties throughout this poet’s work, in collections like Dancing with the Switchman and Ifka’s Castle, not to mention his novel about ancient China––The First Emperor––and a section in the anthology The Heart Off Guard from Every Other Thursday Press. Years pass; the babies grow; the poem remains evergreen. The biographical note he sent me ended with this sentence: “Con Squires is 89 and getting younger by the minute.” Quod erat demonstrandum.


The Red Letters


* If you would like to receive these poems every Friday in your own in-box – or would like to write in with comments or submissions – send correspondence to:

steven.arlingtonlaureate@gmail.com



* To learn more about the origins of the Red Letter Project, check out an essay I wrote for Arrowsmith Magazine:

https://www.arrowsmithpress.com/community-of-voices

and the Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene

http://dougholder.blogspot.com



* For updates and announcements about Red Letter projects and poetry readings, please follow me on BlueSky

@stevenratiner.bsky.social

and on Twitter

@StevenRatiner



And coming soon:

a new website to house all the Red Letter archives at StevenRatiner.com

Interview with poet bg Thurston: The Many Lives of Cathouse Farm: Tales of a Rural Brothel"

 

I caught up with poet bg Thurston to talk about about her new poetry and prose collection " The Many Lives of  Cathouse Farm."  Judith Ferrara writes of her book,

"This compelling and singular collection is an expert weaving of history and poetry. The story of Cathouse Farm begins when poet bg Thurston spies "a small red farmhouse nestled behind tall sugar maples" which beckons her with its For Sale sign. Images presented throughout these pages elucidate Thurston's narrative of dwelling and landscape. We listen as the very house itself speaks in "Sister Houses, 1771" and "The Ruined House" and hear occupants, such as Sarah Weeks, who "labored long for all / these years on this forlorn farm, / birthed and buried our babies- / once within the same week." Section 3 links us to Prohibition-era owner George F. Rivers, who "set the property up as a speakeasy and rural brothel" and inspired persona poems that do not look away from these women's struggles. This book is a significant and fascinating accomplishment, full of curiosity, empathy and respect for the ghostly inhabitants of Cathouse Farm."

You write about this old farmhouse you moved to in Warwick, Mass. It reeks with history, and has many incarnations from the 1800s to 1990. The title mentions the brothel it once was— why did you choose to focus on the 'house of ill-repute' on the front cover?

The fact that our farm was a speakeasy and brothel during the Great Depression and Prohibition is what it is most known for. The big question was how a simple farmhouse in the middle of nowhere became such a place? Many properties in Warwick are still owned by descendants of the original owners. I wondered what became of the family who built this house and lived here for generations.

What was your situation before you moved to the farmhouse? In essence what drove you to live in the middle of nowhere?

My husband and I lived and raised our daughters in a somewhat suburban setting in Stow, Massachusetts. We had a couple of horses, a few sheep, and chickens. I always wanted to have a farm and more land on which to garden and raise sheep, so when my husband was thinking about retiring, we began looking for a property in Western Massachusetts.

The poems reflect the joy and tragedy of people who inhabited the farm over the years. Do you feel the energy—-the ghosts?

I do feel the lingering presence of some of the people who have lived here. I often think about the four generations of women in the Weeks’ family who were the first inhabitants of the farm. They likely had difficult challenges living out here from the 1770’s to about the 1870’s, between the Revolutionary War and Civil War era. All summer they had to prepare to survive the coming winter. How did they cope with the loneliness, the uncertainty, and the lack of modern medicine? Each one lost children due to illness or stillbirth.

We joke that the spirits of “the ladies” are happy ghosts. It was harder for me to imagine their lives and what circumstances might have brought them here. Very little is factually known about them at this point. I believe the Depression brought about its own struggles and opportunities for survival. I often wonder about their lives and dreams.

This collection is full of period detail--- how much research was involved?

The research for this book took about a decade. I originally found Sarah Weeks’ petition and the probate documents from when her husband, Caleb Weeks, died. I had been told incorrect stories about who built the house and looking through the deed registry documents helped verify names and dates. I visited Historical Societies and libraries in Massachusetts and New Hampshire to find information about the early inhabitants’ genealogy. I spent most of my evenings following threads on the Find a Grave site and Ancestry.com, to create family trees and verify Census data. What I could not find were photographs of the Weeks’ family. Even after photography came into existence, most farming families would not have been able to afford it.

Later photographs of the farm during the 1900’s were given to me by the family who visited during that time. Their stories enabled me to write the poems in that section of the book.

Do you think the farm has come full circle with your presence?

I hope so. What I’ve tried to do is acknowledge that even though the farm is known for its colorful moments in history, there was much more that came before and afterwards. For me, it’s a magical place, somewhere I always dreamed of living, and very much my home.

I would guess that you want readers to think about their own homes and their history.

I think everyone might have a different idea of what home means to them. I think it is a place that embodies where we have felt most loved. For me, a home is a luxury, a blessing, as well as a physical shelter. Hopefully, it is a place where we feel protected and where our dreams can grow.

Why should we read this book?

Good question! I hope people read and enjoy this book because it explores both an interesting history of a remote New England farmhouse, as well as the vulnerabilities, desires, and commonalities of all the people who were destined to live here.

Sky Meadow

We search all our days

for a place called home,

hoping that walls and windows

will keep us safe inside.

As our skin grows loose

over our bones and our sight

softens the landscape,

we discover home might be

hidden in a meadow

amid murmurs of green

and sun-gold blossoms rising

all around our feet. This

will be the place we return to

when we remember our lives,

knowing the shelter that held us

as the water-blue sky came down

with a peace that could hardly last.

The Silent Pendulum and Full Circle in Broken Identities, the new novella by Denis Emorine

 The Silent Pendulum and Full Circle in Broken Identities, the new novella by Denis Emorine

article by Michael Todd Steffen

Denis Emorine’s moving fidelity to his creative inspiration pulses at the heart of his new novella, Broken Identities (JEF Books, Arlington Heights, IL, ISBN 979-8284824-05-4). The book unfolds a sequel, a further denouement and conclusion to the public emergence of a writer begun in the 2017 novella Death at Half-Mast, where Emorine traces origins of “broken identities,” foremost that of his fictional subject, Dominic Valarcher and his integral duality as a human being and his vocation as “the writer,” the alternative appellation chiming like a formal constraint throughout the two narratives.

Laetitia, Dominic Valarcher’s wife, reappears here with her fairy-esque character as muse, metaphorically represented playing private recitations for her husband at a piano topless, with her breasts exposed to him. The trope has flown my imagination to the cinema and the possibility of a movie perhaps with the title “The Naked Pianist.” While arousing erotic tensions, the portrayal of Laetitia at the piano remains in a sensual rather than graphic character. In scenes beyond her home with Valarcher and her piano stool, we are also made to understand her true beauty, not just to Dominic, yet also her devotional character to him. She is his, his alone, strictly immune to other hungry suitors. This is essential in delineating Valarcher’s deep sympathies for his wife as well as the excruciating extent of his dilemma in carrying his work, as it must be, fully to the public. The depth of Valarcher’s sympathies has been noted also for its nominal ambiguity by Cristina Deptula, in the revelation of the writer’s name, Dominic, for its more frequent feminine form, Dominique. (synchchaos.com/2019/08)

As the narrative is inevitably determined, the figure of inspiration is left to sink and fade at moments throughout the two stories with the realization of Valarcher’s worldly success in publications and in presentations of his writing, public readings, notably with the emergence of a young Hungarian Literature researcher, Nóra. The young student’s coming to life in the writer’s presence and in his stirring desire makes an elastic and revisited topos. Emorine follows his subject as the writer oscillates. This goes like a pendulum, back and forth beside the piano of his exposed musician, between devotion to the original inspiration and its release in an expression of love toward the very work’s appreciation. There we meet, again, the figure of the young Hungarian student Nóra, the fresh clay of consciousness awakening under the intelligence conveyed by the author.

This ontological movement of Emorine’s fiction, between numinous, mnemonic origin and its naïve, “lively” and irresistible recipience, intersects with our civilization’s deepest foundations and iconography, in new seminal terms and oppositions, the politics of East vs. West, in reminiscence and therapy between parent and child, and between the authentication of art through its intimate inspiration in contrast to its marketing epiphany in the rival world of publishers and university appointments.

Without giving away their charm and details, let it be noted this second story’s beginning, with a partial disappearance of the writer at the end of his wits, comes full circle with the story’s astonishing but convincing conclusion. A worthy read, for its charms, curiosity, resonance and much needed reminder (of the ever-vigilant light in darkness) under the flickering lamps of our busy desks.

Somerville writer Patricia Wild: Brings the strands of the soul together in her new memoir.

 

Patricia Wild is a well known and respected writer, Quaker activist, journalist, and community organizer. She is an integral part of the beating heart of Somerville, and beyond. As long as I have known her, she has been a straight ,no chaser sort of woman-- with a built in shit detector. She is also a very spiritual woman, who questions herself and the world around her. In her new book, "Strands: An Apprenticeship with Grief and Loss,"  she goes past the bone and into the marrow of grief, loss, and our very souls. I caught up recently with her for an interview.

You described your new book as an "opus of the soul." Explain…

Sounds a little lofty, doesn't it! But I’m sure your readership knows this phenomenon—but perhaps uses different language. In the zone? Connecting with something greater than ourselves? Connecting with that gift we humans have been given: Consciousness? Our Muse showed up? There’s something about connecting with Truth wrapped in all of this, too, right? And trusting, as a spiritual practice, that the words will come.



Much of your book is centered around Quaker practice. What led you to become a Quaker?

A long story. But a pivotal and conveniently-brief story may explain a teeny bit: On Easter Sunday an elderly Quaker stood: “we don’t know what happened at Easter,” she said. "But we know this: There is Mystery.” I'd loved that!



The title refers to you as an apprentice of grief and loss. When does one move on from apprenticeship?

I wrote Strands during COVID. Subsequently, my beloved sister Deborah and my best-friend brother, Paul have died. So in a sense my immediate answer would be: Um, never? I did bring some gained understanding to these incredible losses in my life; some newly-acquired rituals helped. I freshly understood the importance of friends, community, sharing stories. But I also, humbled and overwhelmed by grief and loss, found a grief counselor.



One of the struggles you have had was around being a woman of privilege. Why couldn't you just accept that and move on?

I’m not wired that way, I guess. (And another reason why I joined a religious community in which folks at least try to walk the walk.) And to circle back to that marvelous thing called Consciousness, doesn’t that huge gift ask our species to be aware of and to acknowledge Life’s deeply-outrageous unfairnesses?



In this day and age, it is hard to find time for quiet reflection. But your Quaker practice involves this on a regular basis. What has changed in you from this reflection?

Um, everything? Early Friends called themselves Seekers of the Truth. My judgey-ness, my relationships, my confusions as to what I’m called to do in this overwhelmingly broken, broken world, how to answer someone’s snarky email; in quiet reflection sometimes I can find my way. I’m gifted with a sense of Truth. And one of the things about seeking is, rarely, rarely are we given The Whole Picture. An early Friend, Caroline Fox (who apparently struggled with depression) basically said, “Live up to the Light and more will be given.” In other words, inwardly ask/seek with curiosity and humility. And keep asking.(“How would my better angels response that snarky email?”) t It’s the process that’s important!



You quote Thomas Merton. Merton talks about mystical moments when he feels connected to all people-- he is part of a larger organism. How often do you feel that way?

Such moments are preciously rare. And, unfortunately, we’re not designed to be able to fully reconnect with such blissful and powerful moments as we did when we first experienced them. We remember them with incredible gratitude but they have faded. So unfair!



I am sure that you agree with Socrates, that the unexamined life is not worth living. Do you think there is a fear if we are in conversation with our soul...we might not like what we hear, and our complacency will be ruined?

What complacency? If we examine our lives fully.

Red Letter Poem #268

 The Red Letters

 

 

In ancient Rome, feast days were indicated on the calendar by red letters.

To my mind, all poetry and art serves as a reminder that every day we wake together beneath the sun is a red-letter day.

 

––Steven Ratiner

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Red Letter Poem #268

 

 

 

 

Tomatoes


It’s when I hear how one out of every three

Of the first Cambodian grocers in downtown Lowell

Had somehow managed to flee the Khmer Rouge

I think two things: Satanic Boott Mills, where alley

By alley my mother’s father once failed to dodge

The splatter of rotten tomatoes; and volley by volley

Those shooters who somehow missed my village uncle

As he scampered up goat-paths, eluding the KKE.



Row by palpable, swollen-to-bursting row

It all comes back in those ripe domátes my cousins

And I would pack into narrow cardboard cartons.

In my father’s grocery store, I pictured giant

Blood blisters, flush with a little cellophane window.

And elders of legend, running the tribal gauntlet.


––George Kalogeris




“The past is never dead. It's not even past.” A cogent if unsettling observation from novelist William Faulkner who knew something about the power of tribal memory. History and cultural inheritance is a central concern throughout the poetry of George Kalogeris––often delving into the world of ancestral Greece but, more specifically, exploring the mythos of his extended immigrant family that settled on the north shore of Massachusetts. And so it’s not surprising he felt an instant affinity when he learned that fully one-third of all the Cambodian grocers in the nearby city of Lowell emigrated to this country to flee the brutal regime of the Khymer Rouge. He’s heard this story before, in numerous incarnations. In the current political debate about immigration, that fact is too often minimized: the majority of people would never choose to leave their homelands if their very lives were not endangered. Some Americans may regard them as interlopers, come to ‘steal our jobs’; but, far more often, they’ve come to these shores to ensure that their children are not dragged down by political terror or abject poverty. And so the familial connections George teases out in today’s new poem extend beyond blood relations and include a broad range of people who are (as Liberty’s signature poem describes it) “yearning to breathe free.”



I was caught off-guard at first, seeing Boott Mills––a group of Lowell cotton mills founded in 1835––tagged with the appellation “Satanic” (William Blake’s “Jerusalem” suddenly echoing in the back of my mind). But it turns out it was not uncommon, during the early days of the Industrial Revolution, for people to consider this new mechanized production (coupled with the despoiling of our natural surroundings) as being an enterprise in the employ of Lucifer himself. The narratives in this poem are fragmentary, and so we are left to imagine what might provoke the local citizenry to pelt George’s grandfather with tomatoes––though we can easily deduce the message: these streets, these jobs, this freedom is ours, not yours. But quickly, the narrator’s mind skips back to the Greek Civil War, recalling stories of his uncle dodging bullets from Communist squads, high in the Peloponnese. It was yet another example of ideology tearing whole families apart, and bloodshed muddying the earth. And, just like that, the speaker jumps again and presents himself as a boy working in his father’s grocery store in Winthrop, Massachusetts. Clearly, the young poetic mind is already ripening––and as he packs the domátes, he’s able to perceive both sweet sustenance and deep-rooted suffering in what he holds in his hands.



An Emeritus Professor from Boston’s Suffolk University, George is a poet, scholar, and translator––recipient of the James Dickey Prize and the Meringoff Prize for Poetry. His last collection, Winthropos (Louisiana State University), is the inky embodiment of his historical and imaginative citizenship in both the Old and New Worlds. He is a craftsman of great skill and subtlety. Be honest: how many times did you have to read this little colloquial lyric before you realized it was a sonnet, replete with lovely off-rhymes and intricate patterning? But I must add one more detail to this biographical sketch: mere literary distinction does not reflect another, and quite essential quality of this individual and his life’s work: George is a deeply humane spirit who reaffirms the best aspects of our cultural legacy and the elements of its ancient Hellenic roots. And so a moment ago, laying down my pen, I found myself looking out the window at my wife’s garden where squash and green beans are flourishing, and her tomato vines are bent from the weight of the red ripening globes. It’s an image of plenitude which, sadly, is in stark contrast to the grim newspaper headlines I found waiting for me this morning. If we were better students of history, we might realize that, with a more enlightened perspective, our planet’s abundance can still sustain far more than we might imagine––and that our violent protective impulses only engender more of the same. Perhaps there ought to be a corollary to George Santayana’s famous dictum: that those who do learn from the past are doomed––like Cassandra (another echo from the Greeks)––to spend their days shouting out this warning, even when our countrymen seem hellbent on plunging into yet another bloody repetition.

 

   

 

 

The Red Letters

 

* If you would like to receive these poems every Friday in your own in-box – or would like to write in with comments or submissions – send correspondence to:

steven.arlingtonlaureate@gmail.com

 

 

* To learn more about the origins of the Red Letter Project, check out an essay I wrote for Arrowsmith Magazine:

https://www.arrowsmithpress.com/community-of-voices

 

and the Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene

http://dougholder.blogspot.com

 

* For updates and announcements about Red Letter projects and poetry readings, please follow me on BlueSky

@stevenratiner.bsky.social

and on Twitter          

@StevenRatiner

 

And coming soon:

a new website to house all the Red Letter archives at StevenRatiner.com