Red Letter Poem #266

  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 #266

 

 

 

Prayer


With the swimmers, swim,

with the travelers, travel,

as they say in church.



With the one who was raped

and is expecting a child,

breathe, breathe, breathe.

With the child whose hair has gone grey,

prepare a backpack for school.



With the frostbitten, freeze,

with the shellshocked, vomit in the trench.

With the tank commander,

who's been missing since October,

be found, be pieced together

from scattered body parts.

Consecrated particles

as they say in church.



And also be

with the one who eats pot noodles with cold water;

with the one who was captured but will never talk;

with the one who was conceived

but never got born.

And be with the one

who never got to give birth.



And also be

with the two girls

somewhere in the Rivne region, do you remember?

We were driving to the east, in a convoy,

and they stood watching at the roadside,

and put their hands on their hearts.



And then I understood everything.

 

 

        ––Artur Dron’

 

(Translated from Ukrainian by

Yuliya Musakovska)

 

 

 

 

It would be funny––were not so stunningly awful: the prospect of two imperious old men pretending they are not subject to time’s sovereignty, despite all evidence to the contrary. These commanders-in-chief, representing two of the most powerful nations on Earth, are meeting in a hastily-convened summit, to decide between them the fate of Ukraine, Europe and (it’s not too much of an exaggeration to claim) the world. By the time you’re reading this, these two ‘leaders’––one, an absolute tyrant and the other a shambling acolyte––will be meeting in Alaska. Surrounded by the ceremonial trappings of statesmen, their conference will possess all the political nuance of Mafioso bosses dividing up territory. How can they even pretend to be discussing peace when the country who suffered the barbarous invasion in the first place is not party to the negotiations? As much as possible, I try to screen off my politics from the Red Letters, but my own humanity demands that I speak frankly. The President of my country––who declared on the campaign trail that he’d end the war in Ukraine on his “first day in office” (seven long months ago), will now make statements like: "There'll be some land swapping going on. . .Good stuff, not bad stuff. Also, some bad stuff, for both." Setting aside the power of Trump’s almost-Churchillian rhetoric, his breathtakingly simplistic mindset makes it sound as if he’s trading land parcels for a new shopping mall, rather than determining the future of a people who have fought and bled for three long years against the naked aggression of a colossal superpower. And only the truly naïve would think this President can possibly match wits with the ex-KGB master manipulator in what will play out like some absurdist drama. Try not to stare at the blood pooling beneath the scenery. Where is Samuel Beckett when you really need him?



Now, let’s compare the tone of the President’s language with that of a young poet-turned-soldier, who volunteered to take up arms in defense of his home and family. Artur Dron’ was a journalism major and event organizer for the Old Lion Publishing House when, after the Russian invasion, he joined the Armed Forces of Ukraine. He’d already published one poetry collection, Dormitory No. 6––and, after being sent home to recuperate from a shrapnel injury, he completed his second acclaimed book, We Were Here. It was issued last year by Jantar, an independent London-based publisher of European Literary Fiction and Poetry, and was released in the US in May. Sometime back, his translator, the noted poet Yuliya Musakovska, sent me the manuscript; I published one poem as Red Letter # 244, and I’m honored now to be able to offer this second. It’s immediately evident that someone who has seen, up close, the brutality of this war cannot help but speak with an altered gravity:



With the swimmers, swim,

with the travelers, travel,

as they say in church.



With the one who was raped

and is expecting a child,

breathe, breathe, breathe.



If human life still has any sanctity––and if human suffering still has the power to shame anyone with even a teaspoonful of decency––that’s what we experience right from the outset of this poem. That repetition of “breathe” takes on a variety of meanings: is it a doctor coaxing the mother during a difficult birth? Is it the soldier trying to remind himself not to fail in his duty as a witness? Or might it be the mantra of an entire civilian population, just trying to endure another day of wanton destruction? The poet vacillates between the objectivity of a journalist (that “child whose hair has gone grey,” preparing a backpack for school as if it were any ordinary day!) and the prayerful litany of the faithful:



And also be

with the one who eats pot noodles with cold water;

with the one who was captured but will never talk;

with the one who was conceived

but never got born.



And when, in the end, he spots the two girls beside the road, watching his convoy drive past, their simplest gesture––placing “their hands on their hearts”––cannot help but break ours. Artur has said of these poems that they “were written at the front, but they are not about the war. They are about people who love more than they fear.” I am wondering now which spokesperson better speaks for us.

 

 

 

 

 

The Red Letters

 

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* 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

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and on Twitter          

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And coming soon:

a new website to house all the Red Letter archives at StevenRatiner.com