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!

Red Letter Poem #246

 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  246

Red Letter Poe #246 

 

 

 

 

Little Elegy

****in Memory of Joseph Brodsky





After a night in the shaky

but mysteriously comfortable guest room

bed, he materializes in the kitchen,

still only half-awake.



“How’d you sleep?” “Terrific.”

He sits at the table. Sips a cup

of black coffee, gets up, goes outside

for a smoke or two.



Returns a few minutes later, heads for

the fridge, opens it, stoops into its cold glow.

“I see ham. I see a chicken leg.



Do you have any meatballs?"

And with a grin adds,

“Times like this, nobody dies.”





––Jonathan Aaron

 

 

When it comes to poetry––and especially in the more unorthodox voice of Jonathan Aaron––the math doesn’t always add up. I understand the normal accrual of details within a lyric poem: how images mount to form complex descriptions; musical phrases interlock to intensify emotion; and together a more complete scene takes shape––1+1+1 equals 3. Jonathan seems to take a special pleasure in surprising feints, unexpected detours, elliptical leaps that leave our minds scrambling to fill in the missing pieces. Within his compositions, sometimes 1+1+1 equals 39. Or X. Or “baby ghosts.” But there is such a relaxed colloquial tone to the writing, we can’t help but join that spirit of play. Jonathan is the author of four fine poetry collections, and his work has graced such journals as The New Yorker and the London Review of Books. Five times, he’s been highlighted in the annual Best American Poetry. Typically, he employs a diction so straightforward and unpoetic, we’re caught off-guard when he casually starts up a conversation with Bach in one poem, or in another with his talking dog who happens to be partial to the work of Russian novelists. Raising the dead through verse feels as matter of fact as sipping Calvados. When I received my copy of his brand-new collection, Just About Anything: New and Selected Poems (Carnegie Mellon University Press), I was planning to reprint the poem “Lateness,” a mournful narrative about his childhood friend. But instead, I gravitated toward the much more provocative “Little Elegy;” I simply could not resist investigating why such a devious bit of joy had such a hold on me. So perhaps we can think out loud together, pool our resources, relish the unanticipated delight.



We awaken inside the poem (so to speak) just as the houseguest enters the kitchen––none other than the Russian-exile and Nobel Prize-winning poet Joseph Brodsky. At first, the relationship is unspecified: old friend? Mere acquaintance, crashing after a reading? That “mysteriously comfortable guest room/ bed”––do you think it grants a peaceful night’s rest because of some uncanny cushioning, or the deep affection surrounding it? With the simplest interchange––“How’d you sleep?” “Terrific.”––the ease of the connection is becoming clear. A normal moment: the houseguest sips black coffee, steps outside to smoke (how courteous!) But when the Russian returns, he does something that not only conveys the intimacy of the relationship, it represents the sort of unselfconscious liberty we associate with teenagers: he opens the refrigerator (no permission asked, or needed) and happily gazes at the contents. What gesture better demonstrates one’s membership in a household! That icebox interlude––Brodsky “stoop[ing] into its cold glow”––felt to me oddly magical, like a prophet gazing in toward an oracle. But it also brought to mind a bit of the history of this unique figure.



The very first time I came across poems by Brodsky was in Suzanne Massie’s 1972 anthology, The Living Mirror: Five Young Poets from Leningrad. The once-exquisite city was just being rebuilt from the effects of 20th century devastation. The editor described the thriving literary scene: coteries of young idealistic poets (hundreds of them!) sharing hardships and relishing each other’s new work. Massie recounts how they’d talk deep into the night until, inevitably, they’d end up at one apartment or another where someone would make scrambled eggs, pour glasses of vodka––a poor poet’s feast. It’s an intoxicating combination: hardship plus innocence and a faith in the power of art. Then: deeper crackdowns on dissent, a political trial, and Brodsky is branded ‘a cultural parasite.’ Soon, exile becomes his only option.



Making his appearance in today’s poem, Brodsky was already internationally famous, his fate secured––but does one ever fully outgrow deprivation? (Until the day she died, my mother never had less than five loaves of bread in her freezer, a talisman to ward off the remembered pain of the Great Depression.) And thus Brodsky speaks his holy litany: “I see ham. I see a chicken leg.// Do you have any meatballs?" Ensconced in his new life, face luminous with a cold 60-watt glimpse of the promised land: what a picture! We cannot know whether Jonathan is reporting or inventing the next declaration from the Russian master––“Times like this, nobody dies.” Patently untrue, but emotionally accurate: sometimes it feels as if even our seemingly-simple lives contain an unearthly abundance. How could death dare to exist at such a moment? And yet of course it does. Brodsky’s absence today attests to that. But within Jonathan’s modest unrhymed sonnet––or in all the poems through which we learn to relish our capacity for shared delight––the dark shadow is forestalled. The feast is ours; pass the plates around.

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