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 #245
Travelling Solo
The enveloping comfort of solitude
among strangers, to-do list suspended,
book unopened in my lap. The engine huffs.
Out the window, the station scrolls by.
Figures on the platform wave, turn away.
The urban apron of concrete, abutments,
electric lines and power stations gives way to
shabby backyards, low-rent neighborhoods.
Sofa cushions, a one-wheeled bike,
a blue plastic bucket and orange traffic cone
adorn the embankment. I crack the code in
the balloon letters of the bright, defiant graffiti.
A trance, as if serenity enfolds me as
I become, for once, my own destination.
––Bonnie Bishop
* * *
[Coming to a fork in the path, Alice addresses the Cheshire Cat:]
`Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'
`That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.
`I don't much care where––' said Alice.
`Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.
`––so long as I get somewhere,' Alice added as an explanation.
`Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, `if you only walk long enough.'
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
We’re a particularly directed species, aren’t we? A sense of purpose, forward momentum, clear goals and chosen destinations––these are prized by humans as keys to life-satisfaction. I’m not disputing their importance––I think I’m as driven as the next creature, negotiating the maze or racing down the track––but I do know how beneficial it is sometimes to. . .well, delay, or wander, or even (hope my mother can’t hear me) idle. I remember discussing, with the esteemed poet William Stafford, the power involved in being lost, even momentarily. It’s an image that had frequently found a place in his poems. His response: “I believe it's kind of an emblem for that deliciousness that I was trying to get into my explanation about the 'delicious writing' of the early morning. That if you're lost enough, then the experience of now is your guide to what comes next.” Of course, we have been taught by the Buddhists about the vitality of simply being present to the moment; and from the Taoists, we’ve been counseled on the importance of allowing the way––the cosmic current that shapes creation––to guide our decisions, carry us along. But let’s be honest: when do we actually permit ourselves the luxury of simply going with the flow? One of the few occasions for many of us is when we depart from our homes, our routines, and surrender ourselves for several hours into the hands of the airline pilot or train engineer. We no longer need to steer; we can avoid the requirement of meetings and work product (though laptops and Zoom connections have encroached upon that too much of late.) We get to be ourselves, to sit quietly inside our own consciousness, and simply look out at the world.
Bonnie Bishop––poet, educator, social activist––has authored a chapbook and two full-length collections, the most recent being River Jazz (Every Other Thursday Press,) a portrait of her beloved New Orleans and its music. Her work is included in EOT’s new anthology, The Heart Off Guard. In today’s Letter, Bonnie has indeed “cracked the code,” as she stares out at the landscape rushing past, barreling down an unnamed Amtrak line to some unspecified station. In the small, even shabby, particulars of our daily experience, we know we are alive. In the used-up, broken-down, cast-off ephemera of lives passing, we grasp the commonality of what writers used to call (with fanfares and dramatic lighting) the human condition. Despite the great beauty and insight which might reside within that novel “unopened in my lap,” the speaker opts instead for the wild-style poetry of graffiti scrawled along the railway, or the flickering frames glimpsed on the passing platforms, the cinema of the ordinary. Reading her poem, I actually felt myself exhaling slowly––ah!––as if I were being offered a seat beside her. Then, after three visually-detailed quatrains, the speaker drifts toward the poetic: “A trance, as if serenity enfolds me as/ I become, for once, my own destination.” A lovely thought––but only then it dawned on me: this is an unrhymed sonnet! And here in the volta, or ‘turn’ that’s customary in the closing couplet, a greater meaning is being imposed upon this locomotive idyll. Of course, just like the rest of us, the speaker’s serenity is fleeting; big ideas intrude––and I wonder just when the poet drifted from being a pair of eyes observing to a purposeful mind commanding a ballpoint pen? No longer lost in the moment, she realizes she can employ this lovely now as a ticket to a poet’s much-loved station on the page. Perhaps it is unavoidable; and I’m grateful, not simply for the understated elegance of Bonnie’s verse, but for the honest way she has allowed us the experience of how ephemeral peace morphs into something else. Still, rereading it, the poem remains a space I can travel inside, delaying my arrival at that final couplet. Like Alice, I long to arrive “somewhere”; but perhaps that moment of being “my own destination”––before self-awareness sets in––is what the heart desired all along.
* * *
[Coming to a fork in the path, Alice addresses the Cheshire Cat:]
`Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'
`That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.
`I don't much care where––' said Alice.
`Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.
`––so long as I get somewhere,' Alice added as an explanation.
`Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, `if you only walk long enough.'
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
We’re a particularly directed species, aren’t we? A sense of purpose, forward momentum, clear goals and chosen destinations––these are prized by humans as keys to life-satisfaction. I’m not disputing their importance––I think I’m as driven as the next creature, negotiating the maze or racing down the track––but I do know how beneficial it is sometimes to. . .well, delay, or wander, or even (hope my mother can’t hear me) idle. I remember discussing, with the esteemed poet William Stafford, the power involved in being lost, even momentarily. It’s an image that had frequently found a place in his poems. His response: “I believe it's kind of an emblem for that deliciousness that I was trying to get into my explanation about the 'delicious writing' of the early morning. That if you're lost enough, then the experience of now is your guide to what comes next.” Of course, we have been taught by the Buddhists about the vitality of simply being present to the moment; and from the Taoists, we’ve been counseled on the importance of allowing the way––the cosmic current that shapes creation––to guide our decisions, carry us along. But let’s be honest: when do we actually permit ourselves the luxury of simply going with the flow? One of the few occasions for many of us is when we depart from our homes, our routines, and surrender ourselves for several hours into the hands of the airline pilot or train engineer. We no longer need to steer; we can avoid the requirement of meetings and work product (though laptops and Zoom connections have encroached upon that too much of late.) We get to be ourselves, to sit quietly inside our own consciousness, and simply look out at the world.
Bonnie Bishop––poet, educator, social activist––has authored a chapbook and two full-length collections, the most recent being River Jazz (Every Other Thursday Press,) a portrait of her beloved New Orleans and its music. Her work is included in EOT’s new anthology, The Heart Off Guard. In today’s Letter, Bonnie has indeed “cracked the code,” as she stares out at the landscape rushing past, barreling down an unnamed Amtrak line to some unspecified station. In the small, even shabby, particulars of our daily experience, we know we are alive. In the used-up, broken-down, cast-off ephemera of lives passing, we grasp the commonality of what writers used to call (with fanfares and dramatic lighting) the human condition. Despite the great beauty and insight which might reside within that novel “unopened in my lap,” the speaker opts instead for the wild-style poetry of graffiti scrawled along the railway, or the flickering frames glimpsed on the passing platforms, the cinema of the ordinary. Reading her poem, I actually felt myself exhaling slowly––ah!––as if I were being offered a seat beside her. Then, after three visually-detailed quatrains, the speaker drifts toward the poetic: “A trance, as if serenity enfolds me as/ I become, for once, my own destination.” A lovely thought––but only then it dawned on me: this is an unrhymed sonnet! And here in the volta, or ‘turn’ that’s customary in the closing couplet, a greater meaning is being imposed upon this locomotive idyll. Of course, just like the rest of us, the speaker’s serenity is fleeting; big ideas intrude––and I wonder just when the poet drifted from being a pair of eyes observing to a purposeful mind commanding a ballpoint pen? No longer lost in the moment, she realizes she can employ this lovely now as a ticket to a poet’s much-loved station on the page. Perhaps it is unavoidable; and I’m grateful, not simply for the understated elegance of Bonnie’s verse, but for the honest way she has allowed us the experience of how ephemeral peace morphs into something else. Still, rereading it, the poem remains a space I can travel inside, delaying my arrival at that final couplet. Like Alice, I long to arrive “somewhere”; but perhaps that moment of being “my own destination”––before self-awareness sets in––is what the heart desired all along.
Red Letters 3.0
* 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
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