Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene: The Red Letter Poem Project

The Red Letter Poem Project

The Red Letters 3.0: A New Beginning (Perhaps)

At the outset of the Covid pandemic, when fear was at its highest, the Red Letter Project was intended to remind us of community: that, even isolated in our separate homes, we could still face this challenge together. As Arlington’s Poet Laureate, I began sending out a poem of comfort each Friday, featuring the fine talents from our town and its neighbors. Because I enlisted the partnership of seven local arts and community organizations, distribution of the poems spread quickly – and, with subscribers sharing and re-posting the installments, soon we had readers, not only throughout the Commonwealth, but across the country. And I delighted in the weekly e-mails I’d receive with praise for the poets; as one reader recently commented: “You give me the gift of a quiet, contemplative break—with something to take away and reflect on.”

Then our circumstance changed dramatically again: following the murder of George Floyd, the massive social and political unrest, and the national economic catastrophe, the distress of the pandemic was magnified. Red Letter 2.0 announced that I would seek out as diverse a set of voices as I could find – from Massachusetts and beyond – so that their poems might inspire, challenge, deepen the conversation we were, by necessity, engaged in.

Now, with widespread vaccination, an economic rebound, and a shift in the political landscape, I intend to help this forum continue to evolve – Red Letter 3.0. For the last 15 months, I’ve heard one question again and again: when will we get back our old lives? It may pain us to admit it, but that is little more than a fantasy. Our lives have been altered irrevocably – not only our understanding of how thoroughly interdependent we are, both locally and globally, but how fragile and utterly precious is all that we love. Weren’t you bowled over recently by how good it felt just to hug a friend or family member? Or to walk unmasked through a grocery, noticing all the faces? So I think the question we must wrestle with is this: knowing what we know, how will we begin shaping our new life? Will we quickly forget how grateful we felt that strangers put themselves at risk, every day, so that we might purchase milk and bread, ride the bus to work, or be cared for by a doctor or nurse? Will we slip back into our old drowse and look away from the pain so many are forced to endure – in this, the wealthiest nation on the planet? Will we stop noticing those simple beauties all around us? The poet Mary Oliver said it plainly: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” I will continue to offer RLP readers the work of poets who are engaged in these questions, hoping their voices will fortify all of ours.

Two of our partner sites will continue re-posting each Red Letter weekly: the YourArlington news blog (https://www.yourarlington.com/easyblog/entry/28-poetry/3035-redletter-072921), and the Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene (http://dougholder.blogspot.com). 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.

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 #77

Shopping in the vegetable aisle of Trader Joe’s, comparing the relative merits of two tomatoes, I heard someone behind me cough. And turning, I noticed that I was not the only pair of eyes searching out the culprit. That look we shared: was it concern? Fear?

It strikes me that, just a few years back, such an incident would have been so unremarkable as to have passed unnoticed. And a poem like Susan Donnelly’s “Mortality” might have seemed merely wry, quizzical, with only the slightest hint of menace. What a life-lesson we’ve all been forced to undergo in the past year-and-a-half! The fragility of our lives – which, as adults, we certainly understood before this, at least intellectually – was now a visceral presence, never all that distant from our thoughts. But what Susan employs in her poetry, to masterful effect, is that slight disconnect between the nature of our inner discourse and the way we nonchalantly face the daily travail. She can modulate tone of voice in order to reap the maximum effect from seemingly simple statements. That muted threat (“Remember me?”); the quiet entitlement (“to my credit surely”); and that quick hint of self-satisfaction (“and a prayer or two/ behind my hands at church”): because we can’t help but identify with her speakers, we’re gently eased into a new awareness. Susan is the author of six poetry chapbooks and four full-length collections, the newest being The Maureen Papers and Other Poems (Every Other Thursday Press) whose title poem was co-winner of the Samuel Washington Allen Award from the New England Poetry Club.

Having made my selection, I brought the tomato close to my nose: if sunshine had a smell…! I paid attention to the redness, to the silkiness of the skin. And for a moment I considered the weight of such simple earthly pleasures – magnified by the stunningly clear notion that I would, one day, have to relinquish them all.

Mortality

strode in one day and said

Remember me? I hadn’t really.

Figured, if I thought at all,

that he was occupied with others.

Felt kind of smug about that.

It was to my credit surely

that years had passed

without my being sick?

I sympathized, of course,

sent Get Well notes,

murmured a prayer or two