Red Letter Poem #248

 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 #248







How I Remember You


Standing by a fencepost, puzzled,

Dazzled by its grains worn smooth



From the hairy hides of cows pressing

Against the post as they pass, red white-faced



Herefords, quiet when they walk but for the

Dry hoof-clack in summer, the high-pitched squeak



Of frozen snow under-hoof in winter.

Here you stand beside the corner post



More exposed than most, harvesting your

Delight in the surprise of smoothness, coming



From whatever rough edge has afflicted someone,

Maybe you, your cheek or your palm warmed



By the sun-warmed smooth place, your gaze fixed there,

As though your life depends on it.


––Gary Whited




In the European tradition, poets were generally educated as to what sorts of objects were worthy of our deepest attention––and which might be suitable for carrying the metaphorical cargo our minds wanted to cram in their hold. Think of that fabled Grecian urn, or the stately ruins of Tintern Abbey; that island which the poet declares no man may become, or that prophetic cloud-mind we might wander lonely as. . .. One of the innovations that took place in the American literary enterprise was a broadening of our possible subject matter. After Walt Whitman’s voluminous cataloging of our young nation’s bustling panorama, nothing was off-limits. Today, I think of Ms. Bishop’s metal tubs lined up within her “…Fishhouses” poem, coated with iridescent herring scales; or that “red wheel/ barrow/ glazed with rain/water” that Mr. Williams reminds us we all depend upon. I can now add another iconic object (which a city boy like myself might never have noticed): those serviceable fenceposts that mark off territory or help corral livestock on the prairie lands of Montana that Gary Whited––not yet the poet or student of philosophy or psychotherapist he would become––took as icons, as companions. I imagine him as a young boy, his mind adrift in the flat unending terrain in which he was born, seeking experiences that might ground him, offer stability, and perhaps illuminate the dim longing of his restless consciousness. Judging from the number of appearances in poems throughout his sophomore poetry collection, Being, There (from Wayfarer Books) these fenceposts became resonant with emotional and imaginative possibility.



The speaker of this poem addresses––who? A sibling? A friend? A lost love? To my mind, this is the adult man reaching back to communicate with his former, more innocent self––as if to instruct (with one richly-detailed reminiscence) both of their free-floating minds. After all, the subject in question is experiencing some distress (just feel the buzzsaw of those Z’s in the opening two lines: puzzled…dazzled.) But the smoothness of the post––derived from the simple comportment of cows attempting to sooth an itch––provides an unexpected balm, reflected here in a little rush of S-sounds: the “hides of cows pressing/ Against the post as they pass.” The careful observations make us believe in the authenticity of this speaker, that he has spent more than a little time out on these plains, this farmland. But less clear is the emotional turmoil roiling just beneath the surface. “More exposed than most” may be a description of the fencing or the adolescent. This “someone” who has been “afflicted” by the world’s rough edges is in need of some sensation to assure him he has a place within this existence––and “your cheek or your palm warmed/ By the sun-warmed smooth place, your gaze fixed there” seems to feel almost like divine intervention––or so it may appear, looking back, allowing memory to shine down on the fenced-in borders of the heart.



The adult which this solitary boy has grown into has been shaped by the teachings of the Pre-Socratic philosophers––especially Parmenides, who Gary has translated and woven into many of his poems. Known as the “Philosopher of Changeless Being,” Parmenides argued for Monism, the belief that all of observable reality is a single immutable substance––change being only a harmful illusion that comes from our fallible senses. An alluring idea––but, true? I’m sure this poet has also investigated the antithetical philosophy of Taoism, where the essential nature of the universe is change and transformation. And so, crafting a poem to depict his personal development, we’re left with that provocative “As though your life depends on it.” And perhaps we are being set free to consider this all––clear-eyed as Williams’ observer of wheelbarrows, lonely as Wordsworth’s cloud who crosses––not a field of daffodils (certainly not in Montana, nor here in Boston)––but the prolific flowering of thought inside language. “How I Remember You” seems to maintain the confidence that the mind will uncover those truths it needs to continue growing––its own fence post weathered by the years. Gary, perhaps, has a foot in both worlds––the changeless energy and the constantly-transforming now. A poem, then, might be an attempt to saddle such a wild creature, to ride wherever it might take us.



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[Postscript: by the happy accidents that sometimes seem to play a role in our lives, today, as you read this, Gary will be celebrating his 80th birthday. The Red Letter community can collectively close our eyes and make a wish––for Gary, for all of us.]

 

 

 

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