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 #247
Escapement
Barefoot at the screen door, I watched:
my wife, my son, the blue car driving off,
his arm thrust through the far window,
a single wing beating, and then my own
small tick-tock of a wave in response, bye-bye.
And suddenly it was clear:
This is my life. The maple green
scumbled through wire mesh,
the June sky stirring, the sound
of car wheels hard on a corner, a horn, and then
no sound at all. My life. A quiet jubilance.
Even in its retreat, I could not
keep my eyes from it. And somewhere,
steel teeth on the escapement:
a notch, and no more.
Another incremental breath,
and no less.
––Steven Ratiner
Happy Birthday to. . .Us!
Exactly five years ago––and two weeks after the first Covid lockdown––the Red Letter Project was born. The first installment featured a poem from the estimable Fred Marchant, and it kicked off a project that would become the centerpiece of my work as Arlington’s Poet Laureate. At the outset, I envisioned the weekly Letters as a small antidote for the isolation and fear we were all experiencing at the time: a reminder that we were going through this together; and an affirmation (as all poems, all works of art must be) that we had faced daunting challenges before and survived with our humanity intact. But, shortly after, there was the murder of George Floyd––followed by a succession of transformative crises, some of which defied our very understanding about our country and our place within it. And I realized that this forum might offer more than just comfort; it could inspire, challenge, and help redefine (at least for this growing literary community) the larger conversation as our country struggled with something like an identity crisis. I expanded the geographic reach of the project to include poets from across the United States and far beyond. And I began viewing the Letters as an anthology evolving in real-time, responsive to the emotional and imaginative weather that effects all of our lives. The featured poets have ranged from renowned talents (Robert Pinsky, Rita Dove, Frank Bidart, Jane Hirshfield, Richard Blanco, Martha Collins, and others) to others just starting out. To my mind, it's the quality of the individual poem that matters––each writer hoping to make a mark on the map of our consciousness by which we could all take our bearings, move forward.
Usually once each year, on the Letters’ anniversary, I contribute one of my own poems to the forum, hoping that my voice will also be integrated into the diverse chorus being assembled. Just this month, I have a new collection published: Grief’s Apostrophe from Beltway Editions––and so I looked through the book for an appropriate poem to share. Unexpectedly, I chose one of the older pieces, “Escapement”––but it was because of the profound mark it made on my own life. It might be instructive if I explained just why. Though some will be surprised to hear this, I am by nature quite an introvert; years ago, as a young man, I’d be the one seated at the back of the room at any poetry gathering, observing from a distance the literary community to which I hoped to become a part. I kept thinking that when my work eventually became ‘good enough,’ a door would magically swing open, and I’d be welcomed by my peers. I did not realize at the time that I would have to be the one to construct that door, find the key to unlock it, and to set out my own welcome mat. One of the key experiences which fostered that understanding was an interview series I did for the Christian Science Monitor, their daily newspaper and media outlets. I had the great good fortune to invite myself into the lives of many of the poets I most admired––Seamus Heaney, Donald Hall, Maxine Kumin, Mary Oliver, Bei Dao, and more––and to help create a conversation about the inner and outer landscape of their poetry. It was, without question, one of the best learning experiences in which I’ve ever taken part. I was able to witness how these formidable talents had built their lives using ink and music as the brick and mortar for constructing psychic structures–– encompassing spaces in which they could continue evolving (and which invited readers to enter and do the same.)
What a gift this was––for poet and reader alike––to be reminded that the world must be continually observed, imagined, and then transformed by the work we commit to. Transformed, and then shared with whoever might find value there. And so, on the morning our son Adam was getting ready to take the train back to school, I remember the hugs after breakfast, and that quiet fear that this once-little-boy was slowly preparing to leave our family life for one of his own making. Standing at our front door, I watched my wife’s little blue car pulling away, disappearing around the corner. These two individuals who had taught me the very meaning of love and its responsibilities––including that of letting go. And then, in the quiet, I felt as if a lightning bolt had suddenly struck the top of my head and sent electricity out to the extremities: This is my life! How much time had I spent waiting for ‘real life’ to finally commence? For my brimming heart and unbridled imagination to be turned loose, fully-empowered? And, standing there in my bathrobe, I retrieved paper and pen, and began to write. The poem may not be among the ‘best’ I have written––but none has more power as a marker, urging me to remain present and open to the moment. There is indeed a quiet jubilation when you feel you possess, and are possessed by, this breathing and elusive now. So many times, when troubles have wreaked havoc on my thoughts and emotions, I’ll find myself thinking of that simple declaration, slowing my breaths, gazing at what surrounds me––and deep gratitude begins to well up inside. This is, indeed, my life, and your life––what we are engaged in this very hour––with no promise that we will receive anything more. Fear and celebration. Obfuscation and sudden clarity. This project, this widening community of writers and readers, will now enter its sixth year, still going strong. “Another incremental breath,/ and no less.” Welcome to another red letter day!
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
