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.



* * *



[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.]

 

 

 

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

Capital’s Grave by Jodi Dean, The New Era of Lords and Serfs

 Capital’s Grave by Jodi Dean, Verso Books, London, 2025. 169 pages.

The New Era of Lords and Serfs

Review by Ed Meek

Jodi Dean, an American political theorist and professor in the Political Science

Department at Hobart and William Smith College, made the news last year when she lost her position because she expressed her pro-Palestinian stance on campus. She has since been reinstated. Although Bernie, AOC and the Squad, and other progressive democrats, are characterized by Republicans as radicals, they are really center-left politicians willing to work within the system to enact change. Jodi Dean is a radical who wants a different system. She is not alone. Many Americans on the left and right want major changes. Hence the return of Trump.

In the light of the recent election, it seems like an apt time to consider what exactly has gotten us to this state of affairs. A majority of American voters asserted their displeasure with the status quo and voted for the candidate who promised change including among other things, lower inflation, the deportation of undocumented immigrants, cracking down on crime, tariffs on imports, an America-first foreign policy, banning trans-persons from sports teams and bathrooms, allowing states to determine polices on abortion, and cutting government jobs. The first three of these objectives are the salient ones for his supporters according to polls. Whether Trump will make headway on any of them is up in the air. In any case, Americans, like many other voters in the world, expressed their unhappiness and anger with the government by voting in the opposition.

Jodi Dean in her short book makes an interesting argument as to why this has occurred and what she thinks should be done about it. The title refers to the end of capitalism and the advent of a new era of feudalism. Dean explains that capitalism is based on the premise that we produce goods and sell them for profit. As a company develops, productivity should rise and the company should reinvest to create better products. Workers will be rewarded as profits increase. But global trade destroyed much of American manufacturing, and although it brought cheap goods, it wiped out many jobs. In addition, automation has reduced the need for factory workers. What we are left with is mostly services. Jobs are plentiful in healthcare, education, restaurant work, sales, law. And they include the new “gig” economy of drivers, food and product deliverers, air B&B landlords, influencers, etc. These jobs are touted as side-hustles that afford practitioners freedom and choice, but the workers have few rights and no benefits. The big winners in our winner- takes-all economy are the owners. Meanwhile, the workers are serfs who suffer “catastrophic anxiety” constantly worried about bankruptcy or losing their job or finding the rent raised or dealing with a pandemic. Service jobs are dependent on the economy and the workers are what Marx calls surplus people, needed when the economy is robust and laid off during a slowdown.

In addition, companies no longer invest profits in research and development. Instead, they buy back their own stock raising dividends for themselves, and they use profits to lobby politicians for favorable tax laws. They find no-tax zones like Ireland and move their headquarters there. Amazon gets tax breaks from cities and states for the promise of providing jobs. The latest scam by Musk and Trump involves investing in cryptocurrency and inviting others to do so to increase their own net worth. Sarah Kendzior (Hiding in Plain Sight) describes this as kleptocracy. The point is, this isn’t actually capitalism; it’s the extraction of wealth.

Dean refers to the owners as lords and the workers as serfs in what she calls neo-feudalism. The Trump administration, staffed with billionaires including Elon Musk, the richest man in the world, and Trump himself, a reputed billionaire, are our lords and we are their serfs. The characterization is apt for those millions of Americans who rent an apartment, purchase a car with loans, get health insurance through Obamacare, and live paycheck to paycheck with credit card debt and/or college loans to pay off each month. With an average household income of 80K in the US, this would fit the 50% of the country earning less than the average. With inflation and high interest rates, even Americans earning more than the average income find it difficult to keep up with the bills.

Wealth continues to become more and more concentrated with the top 1% holding 30% of the total net worth. The top 10% holds 60% of the wealth. The bottom half controls less than 3%. Dean’s position is that capitalism just doesn’t work for most of us and needs to be replaced.

The answer, she tells us, is communism with “Universal Basic Services” providing healthcare, housing, education, and good jobs bolstered by unions. Unpaid “reproductive labor” like motherhood and caring for family and elders, and housework, would be included in what constitutes work. A key element of communism is the abolition of private property. Nearly all land is now privately owned: “in the US 100 families own about 42 million acres” according to Dean. How the abolition of private property would work out is puzzling. “From each according to his ability to each according to his needs,” said Marx. Dean claims we will have to make such a radical change to address climate change and thrive in the future.

In the next four years, it will be interesting to observe how Americans deal with the many changes Trump and friends are promising. Whether Americans are ready to demand the government provide us with universal basic services, and whether service jobs will evolve into good jobs with adequate wages and benefits is a big question. Jodi Dean’s new book gives us plenty to talk about.

Red Letter Poem #247

 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

Poet Deborah Priestly returns to the Out of the Blue Gallery in Somerville!

Article by Off the Shelf Correspondent Parma

On March 24, 2025 from 6pm to 9pm EST, Co-Founder of Out of the Blue Community Arts, Deborah Priestly, will host the first of several poetry nights at the Out of the Blue Art Gallery in studio performance space B6 on the Basement Floor of the Armory at 191 Highland Ave,
Somerville, MA 02143. All are welcome to attend, with a $10 suggested donation, but no one will be turned away due to lack of funds. Light snacks and non-alcoholic beverages will be available to all that attend.




During the nights of her poetry series, she will have a couple of her artworks on show which have graced the Gallery for several decades. She will be MCing the night, and call poets up to the stage in the order that they sign up. Please note that we do have a couple of hours for this memorable event, and if time is needed, we can go all the way to 10pm. The gathering is poetry-centered, although light un-amped music is welcome. There is a guitar as well as acoustic hand drums at the Gallery for everyone's use, as has always been customary at the Gallery through its nearly 40 years in the Camberville area. Folks are welcome to bring copies of their poems to distribute to the audience.




Deborah Priestly has a memorable footprint in the Camberville arts scene. She is the author of 
"The Woman Has a Voice" (Ibbetson Street Press) and worked alongside Timothy Gager to produce "Out of the Blue Writers Unite," a collection of short stories and poetry from Boston-based writers. The Out of the Blue Art Gallery hosted Stone Soup Poetry for many years at its former locations in Cambridge, while several of these poets have attended literary events at our newer Somerville location. It hosted literary nights featuring Jack Powers, Brother Blue, and his wife Reverend Blue. It has also worked alongside BARCC, On the Rise, and the Women's Center to develop inclusivity across all demographics.




Deborah Priestly graduated from Emerson College in creative writing and dance. She also worked at Boston University as an office manager, was deemed an "Art Angel" in Harvard Square, giving proceeds of her art sales to the disabled and homeless. She helped found the Gallery in the early 1990s, and since then curated the Open Bark Poetry series for 25 years. For the last 5 1/2 years, and since the Gallery moved from its 2nd location in Allston to its current one in Somerville, she has spent some time working on herself and budding into her future projects! Welcome Deborah Priestly on the 24th, bring your poetry game, and thanks for celebrating the history of Out of the Blue!