Somerville poet Sarah Beckmann: A poet of water and women's rights

Interview with Doug Holder

I recently caught up with Sarah C. Beckmann, a font of literary energy and activism in our literary community....

Sarah C. Beckmann is a member of the Somerville Arts Council Board, where she promotes arts initiatives in the Somerville community through a local grant program and the SomerWrites event series. In 2021, she published a poetry chapbook, Naiad Blood, and her first full-length poetry collection, The Race for Daphne, is forthcoming in May 2026. She earned an MFA from Emerson College in Boston and works in research communications at the MIT Media Lab.

How has it been for you as a poet living in Somerville?

I moved to Somerville in 2022 while finishing my graduate degree in creative writing at Emerson College. After completing my degree, I wanted to find new community circles where I could continue practicing my art and network with other writers. Somerville ended up being one of the best places I could have chosen to do that! I applied to be a board member of the Somerville Arts Council, and over the past year, I’ve had a wonderful experience meeting new people and garnering a sense of community through my volunteer work.

You have a new poetry series at Portico Brewery in Somerville. How did you come up with the idea? What distinguishes it from other poetry series in the area?

The SomerWrites series is actually for writers of all genres and backgrounds—not just poets! The idea for this series was born during conversations I had last year with Greg Jenkins (former Executive Director of the Somerville Arts Council) and Somerville Poet Laureate Lloyd Schwartz. I enjoyed brainstorming with them, and also enlisted the guidance of a few other writers in the area, like David Blair (who runs a poetry workshop at the Armory). Before my time in Somerville, there were “salons” organized with similar aims, and Greg highlighted the need for a revitalized programming effort focused on writing in the community. I joined the SAC Board as the primary writer representative, so I was eager to capitalize on the opportunity.

I think what sets SomerWrites apart from other events in the area (I hope) is its accessibility—the fact that it’s open to writers of all kinds, no matter where you’re from in the Boston area. I’ve had people from Cambridge, Brighton, and even Maynard (MA) reach out to me asking if they can attend and participate. Sometimes these types of events can be competitive and daunting—which is why the welcoming, kind, and enthusiastic support everyone has shown during SomerWrites has been so special.

Your new collection of poetry "The Race for Daphne" invokes or is inspired by the mythical figure of Daphne, the daughter of a river god. Why is this figure of particular interest for you? We could say your poems are drenched in water...

My latest poetry book talks a lot about women’s rights, women in athletics (specifically in the sport of rowing, which I’m very passionate about), and women writers. In the Greek myth of Daphne and Apollo, she transforms into a laurel tree to escape his advances. Apollo then takes the laurel as his symbol for poetry, for athletic prowess and victory at the Olympics—but not many people realize the true backstory of that symbol. That’s why I chose to highlight Daphne and her story over the more well-known tale of Apollo and his laurels.

Water certainly does “drench my poems,” as you say. I grew up near the ocean on the north shore of Massachusetts and spent many summers going to the beaches on Long Island, NY. And then learning how to row in college completely changed my perspective of the water, in a new way, which is what my chapbook Naiad Blood is about.

You quote Whitman in the collection. Do you feel your poetry is Whitmanesque? Certainly Whitman would embrace the multitudes of imagery and metaphor in your work.

I quote a few different, well-established writers in my latest poetry collection, Whitman being one of them. I do think my poetry can lean towards list-form, documenting things, which is characteristic of his work. However, I mention him in the beginning of my book more for a shared location: Long Island, NY. He’s from there and as I mentioned, I have a deep connection with the area—particularly the North Fork where my grandparents used to live.

Why should we read this book?

You should read this book to, firstly, support a local author; but also because a lot of voices are being censored right now, in our current social and political atmosphere—in this country, and across the world. Women’s voices have historically fallen and continue to fall under this category. My hope for this book is that it becomes a mouthpiece for not only myself, as a woman today, but also for the women in my family, my friends—amplifying the message that we still have voices and we will not be silenced. Women’s rights are human rights, and uplifting women is only to the betterment of humanity as a whole.

Red Letter Poem #291

 

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 #291

 

 

 

 

Prelude

 

 

Before we begin, may I ask you a question?
Would it bother you if at some point
I forgot to remember the illusion that we
are made of solid matter?  That we instead
consist of atoms and electrical charges,
are ninety-nine percent empty space?

Would it bother you to look through
my suddenly spectral form and see
the backrest of this chair?

It wouldn’t be intentional, a parlor trick.
It’s just that when I think about broken children
lying in the rubble of bombed-out buildings
I sometimes find it difficult to remain tied to this world.

So if I seem to fade please don’t judge or be alarmed.
Just hold out your hand. We can touch, palm-to-palm,
to keep ourselves connected to this terrible and beautiful place,
to remind us we are made of the same stuff as the stars.

 

 

                                          ––Charles Coe

                                   

 

 

 

 

 

Like a living organism, a poem breathes, evolves over time, reflecting both its inner and outer landscapes.  And I think that growth occurs for both the poet’s understanding of what he or she has created as well as the reader’s.  I’m not referring to those poets who, late in life, see fit to return to the work of their youth, giving the pieces a new makeover (a practice that seems to me both perfectly understandable and extremely problematic).  I’m saying the work of art itself––without a syllable being altered––seems to emanate a different energy as the years pass, to reveal new dimensions.  Isn’t that why we return many times to a book, a movie, a work of art that has held deep meaning for us?  As we see that emotional terrain newly revealed, we discover that we, too, are not the same people who first sat in rapt attention as the vision unfolded.  And so it is with Charles Coe’s “Prelude.”  I’ve known Charles for several decades and was proud to have featured several of his poems in the Red Letters.  He sent me this piece, and I told him I’d save it for the right time.  Saying that now, I can’t quite remember what sort of rightness I was anticipating––only that I wanted to maximize the poem’s effect for this readership.  But on November 21, Charles passed away unexpectedly.  And it’s been something of a revelation to see how many different communities (not only our literary clan) were heartbroken by his death.  Perhaps this is certainly one measure of a life––the magnitude of its absence 

 

Of course, now rereading “Prelude,” we find everything utterly changed, viewing Charles and his work through the translucence of memory.  The time for spotlighting this spectral poem is, of course, overdue.  A year or so ago, Charles read for the annual Red Letter LIVE event, and he used this piece to open his reading.  “Before we begin,” the poem starts out in his oh-so-casual tone of voice (a common feature in Charles’ poetry––never stentorian or charged with literary affectation), “may I ask you a question?”  And now that intimacy has been established, he confides his deepest sense of wonder: “Would it bother you if at some point/ I forgot to remember the illusion that we/ are made of solid matter?”  Troubling, indeed––that our understanding of the physical world is often little more than a comforting illusion.  That our separateness, our alienation from one another, might comprise the real misapprehension?  And before we dismiss this as either “a parlor trick” or some New Age spiritual effusion, the poet slips into the heart of the matter: “It’s just that when I think about broken children/ lying in the rubble of bombed-out buildings/ I sometimes find it difficult to remain tied to this world.”  Since I first heard this poem read aloud, the scene with those broken children has shifted locales numerous times––and the challenge to our humanity has only increased exponentially.  As for the poet?  Perhaps we now have to concoct new ways to risk that “palm-to-palm” feeling of commonality, “to keep ourselves connected to this terrible and beautiful place”––and to reaffirm that we are, as Charles declares, much more than flesh and blood, than ideology and stubborn habit.  We “are made of the same stuff as the stars.”  

 

If perhaps you were not fortunate enough to know Charles, let me simply say that he was a poet, educator, exuberant baritone, avid blogger, big-hearted individual.  He’s the author of five poetry collections including All Sins Forgiven: Poems for my Parents, and Charles Coe: New and Selected Works––all available from Leapfrog Press.  In addition to being a fine poet, he was a deeply-humane individual; the latter is a good deal harder to achieve than the former, especially in this day and age––and the achievement of both is a piece of good fortune for all the rest of us.  Charles paid as much attention to the lives of his fellow human beings as he did to his own––and somehow he accomplished this with the kind of ease we often term grace.  In this time, when wars seem to be instigated on a cruel whim, I recall the brief text of one of Kenneth Patchen’s poem-paintings (yet another poet-pacifist).  Depicting two of his fanciful creatures beneath a wobbly crescent moon, the poem reads in its entirety: “My program?  Let us all weep together.”  I believe Charles would approve––as long as he could interweave the weeping with a few of his resounding belly laughs.

 

 

There have already been numerous gatherings, readings, and potluck dinners where folks have come together to remember Charles, his poetry, his gentle spirit.  Two additional ones are still coming up––if you’re in the Boston area and would like to hear poets reading his work and remembering his always-generous approach to friends and strangers alike: one will be March 17th, 7 p.m. at Robbins Library in Arlington, MA; and The Boston Mayor’s Office of Arts and Culture and The Boston Public Library will hold a reading at their main branch on Saturday, April 11th, at 1:30 PM.

 

 

 

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

 

* The weekly installment is also available at

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 visit the Red Letter archives at: https://StevenRatiner.com/category/red-letters/

RED Letter Poem 290

 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 290

 

 

 

 

from: Earth Gates

 

 

&&   &&    ~    &&   &&    

 

 

    it’s my life

 

and I barely

remember it

 

    rain falls

as bits of hours

 

  mornings on the train

puddles on the deck

         

my minute-ridden life

seeps into the garden

 

where a clamor of weeds

escorts singular flowers

 

 

 

&&      

 

 

   the imperative  (Matt says) 

   is to be on the lookout for joy

 

       hopeful expectation

                             is our lot

 

                in the unbidden

           world of God

 

 

&

 

unbidden—

 

(arising free-form

      

           and freely from)

 

 

           spontaneous 

 

            generation 

 

 

&

 

birth is the requirement

in this lifetime on earth

 

               birth-right

 

(cast the lots    the die cast    cast not away)

 

the unbidden guest often proves the most worthy

is my dictionary’s example 

                                    ––Mary Buchinger

                                   

 

 

 

 

There is a tacit bargain between the writer and reader of poetry: each must be willing to feel their way in the dark––trusting that the difficulty, the intellectual restlessness, even the risk of emotional distress will, ultimately, lead to something worth all the effort.  After all, poetry does not proceed along the rational and fairly straightforward lines of sentence-building, meaning-making to which we were first introduced in English class.  Poets apply pressure to language and imagination to both condense and crystallize.  They prize flexibility and unexpected possibilities in order to convey things that had never before been illuminated on the page.  This is true even in the more traditional lyrics of a poet like Mary Buchinger––but more so in her manuscript-in-progress entitled Earth Gates.  Readers who seek out her work believe that being led on these micro-journeys by a vital and vigorous imagination results in inevitable rewards.  (Mary might be too modest to claim those qualities for herself, but I have no hesitation.)  Earth Gates is (as she explained to me): “a book-length sequence of untitled pieces that are separated visually with the ampersands that are rather gate-like in appearance and function. . .The double ampersand ‘gates’ enclose larger sequences, and the single ampersands indicate smaller units within them.  When read aloud, the single ampersands are voiced as and.”  But though the subject matter is vast and eclectic, Mary seems to be engaged in the sort of enterprise central to our human nature: explore Earth’s vast garden, name all you see, savor the gift of being.  Of course, like any individual with an intellectual hunger, she is willing to risk eating from the Tree of Knowledge, despite the consequences.  Or, shifting metaphors––and in true Socratic fashion––she seems convinced that ‘an examined life’ will be worth both the living and the eventual dying––which is, of course, the price of admission exacted from every one of us.  The hope seems to be that Mary’s––and our––“minute-ridden” lives will indeed “seep(s) into the garden,” swing open the gates of wisdom, and illuminate our ephemeral days.

 

The mind we accompany through a variety of natural landscapes (not to mention the thorny terrain of human nature) seems to be trying to simply make connections, deepen awareness, and possibly––as Matt recommends––“to be on the lookout for joy.”  The speaker’s approach is simple: observe, question, and record.  I love how the focus shifts from the seeming solidity of natural objects to the permeability of thought and language.  Words devolve into their derivation, echo with associations; sometimes they spontaneously inflate and float up into our imagination.  Along with the poet, we must contend with that most dire of questions: why?   No one doubts the marvelous nature of consciousness; but are we (as the poet frames it) bidden or unbidden?  Are we the intentional result of some overarching plan or simply a curious bit of fortune?  Do we possess an inherent purpose beyond our understanding?  And will we be satisfied if we, alone, are left to supply the answer?

 

Mary is the author of six full-length poetry collections, including the soon-to-be-published There Is Only the Sacred and the Desecrated from Lily Poetry Review Books.   Garnering honors in numerous competitions (the Permafrost Book Prize in Poetry, the Hillary Gravendyk Prize, the May Swenson Poetry Award, The Journal /Wheeler Prize, just to name a few), her poetry earned awards from New England Poetry Club, the Virginia Poetry Society, and over a dozen Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations.  The poet closes this second selection with the proposition: the unbidden guest often proves the most worthy.  But I was left wondering the source of her allusion.  Is it the passage in J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings where one character opines: "But oft the unbidden guest proves the best company"?  In that case, even if humankind, with our overdeveloped prefrontal cortex, is simply an accident, a party-crasher at existence’s rave, we may yet be deemed honored guests.  Or perhaps Mary is echoing the Bard of Avon who, in Henry VI, has the line: "Unbidden guests are often welcomest when they are gone."  If it turns out that our unbridled greed and our capacity for self-destruction so thoroughly degrade the planet that it sees fit to erase us entirely––maybe, in a hundred thousand years, some aliens will land in one of our deserted cities, sample our artwork, peruse our intricate verse, and decide we were worthwhile after all.  After all––it doesn’t have a very nice ring to it.  Of all the gates Mary is swinging open for us, it’s one I hope we don’t pass through.

 

 

 

 

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

 

* The weekly installment is also available at

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 visit the Red Letter archives at: https://StevenRatiner.com/category/red-letters/