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 #316
Yahrzeit
Two glasses of wax,
each with a wick––
my parents, side-by-side
on the stove top.
Next to the kettle
they burn
from sunset to sunset
and I can feel
their body heat
by waving a hand
six inches above.
I don’t fast or recite
the proper prayers
but Mom, didn’t you
enjoy the rasp
of match to flame?
Not sure about you, Dad––
pregnant, I skipped
your mother’s funeral
because she believed
the graveyard full
of seedy souls
prepared to root
in the unborn.
Now the world
has changed its ways
in ways we all
might be satisfied
to leave: whales nearing
net zero, boreal
forests thinned,
robots on mid-century
TV that scared me
now therapists
and travel guides with firm
pleasant voices; pets.
––Joyce Peseroff
Yahrzeit is a Yiddish two-word lexical blend of ‘year’ and ‘time.’ It represents the anniversary of a loved one’s death and is marked by prayer and, in most Jewish households, the traditional thick glass candle that burns from sundown to sundown on that day of remembrance. Having lost my father when I was very young––and my grandfather not long after that––I recall the yearly presence of the yahrzeit lights in our kitchen. I can still picture my mother and grandmother, side by side, reciting the mourner’s prayer together. But, unlike the lighting of sabbath candles, they did not wave the light, the warmth, toward their closed eyes––a gesture of benediction. They prayed and then stood silent. Was such loss simply inconsolable? I watched them, but was too shy to ask questions, to discover what was taking place inside them––something I deeply regret. Perhaps Joyce Peseroff was contemplating all those dangling conversations when she composed today’s poem of mourning. Time escapes us, of course––yet still, we continue to think what we must, say what needs saying, even if only to an empty room. And so Joyce’s piece is part retrospection, part prayer, and part witness to the commonality of loss––one that enlarges the human family far beyond our individual doorsteps.
As with most theological practice, there is a wealth of mystic symbolism in Jewish ritual. Here, the candle flame represents the intangible power of the human soul; the wick, wax, and glass container reflect the materiality of our lives. The day-long flame points to memory’s endurance, while the flickering is a palpable metaphor for our mortal frailty. The simple act opens our minds to subtle layers of meaning. In this regard, the practice of sitting quietly with a prayerbook or a volume of poetry shares a certain commonality. But, as is so often the case, the hold of ritual dissipates from generation to generation, and the speaker here confesses that she doesn’t “fast or recite// the proper prayers.” What she does do is sharpen attention: to the heat rising from the flames; to the companionable presence of this pair of stolid candles; to the mesmerizing cadence of language. And she speaks to that inner sanctuary where our loved ones’ memory persists––which is its own form of blessing. I love that she associates her mother with that “rasp// of match to flame”––the astonishing juncture where matter transforms into pure energy. There’s a more complicated recollection concerning her father: an unfulfilled filial duty comes to mind, having missed her grandmother’s funeral. Was it spiritual belief or superstition, fearing that the “seedy souls” of the dead might endanger her unborn child? But Joyce’s poem recounts all this in so low-key a manner, it feels we must be intimates, sharing these stories at the kitchen table. Inevitably, personal grief triggers thoughts of societal and even planetary loss. And then the poet adds a bit of childhood anxiety about technological encroachment: the “robots” that once scared her as a girl are now commonplace in our lives: mechanical servants, companions, therapists, even pets. Perhaps the poet is lamenting something greater that’s been laid to rest, lighting a candle for who we once were (what innocence!) and can never be again.
Poet, essayist, and educator, Joyce Peseroff’s sixth collection, Petition, was designated a “must-read” by the Massachusetts Book Award. She also edited the collections Robert Bly: When Sleepers Awake; The Ploughshares Poetry Reader; and Simply Lasting: Writers on Jane Kenyon––a continuing effort to pass along our valuable literary tradition to new generations. For many years, she directed and taught in UMass Boston’s MFA Program where she helped fan the flames for many talented young writers. Before closing, there’s a craft element in many of Joyce’s poems that I want to call attention to: the way she trusts the colloquial voice and quiet observation to carry the necessary emotional charge in her portrayals. Many poets––myself included––tend to gravitate toward some sort of verbal flourish at the close of a poem. Perhaps we’ve been seduced by the pyrotechnics of rock-and-roll songs and the climactic finales of Hollywood movies. But Joyce rarely reaches for the ‘big finish.’ In the intimacy of a heart-to-heart, such a gesture might undercut the authenticity, kill the mood. More often, she concludes with a modest diminuendo, an exhale of breath. I don’t know about the ‘world,’ (as in T.S. Eliot’s formulation), but ‘this is the way the poem ends––not with a bang but a whimper.’ There is the striking of the match, the momentary eruption of light––but eventually, the guttering hiss as the wick gives way and a wisp of smoke rises. Still, looking up from one of Joyce’s poems, I trust what has taken place, and sense that it has managed to penetrate my critical defenses, engage emotion, and cross that invisible membrane into memory.
The Red Letters
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