Red Letter Poem #204

  Red Letter Poem #204

 

 

 

 

Two Poems

 

      ––Yuliya Musakovska

 

 

Year’s End

 

 

The year rolls to its end like a truck on a patch of ice,

stuffed with random junk, dollar store items,

used cartridges, funny figures on strings,

souls sold for nothing,

royal gifts,

burnt-out stars, masks, together with skin.

How much is left here, o universe, trembling and alive.

The smell of ash in the air. Neon signs glowing brightly.

Tomorrow’s rust creeps out on the body of a Christmas tree.

The expiration date will soon pass, relics will lose their value.

Wounds that won’t heal, will become less noticeable.

A stubborn plant in a pot, someone’s snoring in bed––

the landmarks that hold you from flying

off the edge into the void of a new reality, but really

into the river of the blank page,

a milk-honey one, thick and tacky.

 

The year rotates on its axis, back to its start.

The year turns into a wolf, pulling off last year’s sheep skin.

 

 

It was the right thing to do.  And we all knew it was right––Democrat and Republican legislators both, not to mention the majority of the electorate: to support the beleaguered people of Ukraine in the defense of their homeland; to stand in opposition to a Russian dictator whose ravenous ambitions might well thrust all of Europe into peril.  And yet, for six months, the President’s request for additional aid languished––until this very week.  It’s the curse of politics, especially now in these dis-United States.  Our politicians have forgotten that the root of the very word is polis––the citizens of the city; and the will, the welfare––of our people and theirs––ought to be paramount, not power-plays and the prospect of reelection.

 

Not long after the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022, I made a promise to myself that I’d publish a new poem every few months focusing on this harrowing conflict––often featuring the voice of a Ukrainian poet bringing us a first-hand glimpse of life under siege.  It was a small act of solidarity with this nation courageously fighting for its survival against what has, sadly, become a well-documented and utterly inhumane aggression.  I’m proud to have been able to share some amazing talents with Red Letter readers––and one of the most daring is Yuliya Musakovska.  Her poems featured in these electronic pages––“The Spartan Boy” and “Bones”––deeply affected readers; and Yuliya’s work has been hailed, in Ukraine, across Europe, and beyond.  Translated now into over thirty languages, she has earned numerous honors for her five published collections ––the last of which, The God of Freedom, is just now available here from Arrowsmith Press, carried over into English in artful translations by Olena Jennings and the author herself.

 

Originally appearing in 2021, The God of Freedom contains poems that reflect on how life in her country has dramatically transformed following the 2014 Russian occupation of Crimea and continuing with this current attack.  But in addition to glimpses of the bloodshed, Yuliya captures the tremendous emotional cost––on individuals and families, on the national psyche as a whole.  A poem refuses to allow us to view events from a safe distance; it coaxes our consciousness into the thick of things where we can experience that what’s at stake is not mere politics but the lives of families very much like our own.  A poem strips off “last year’s sheep skin” until we can feel the wolf’s hot breath on our own necks.  This is a gift Yuliya is offering––first, to her own countrymen and women, but then to the world (or that portion of the world still capable of listening.)  “How much is left here, o universe, trembling and alive.”  This is certainly one of a poet’s jobs: to be alert to, and take note of, how the world is changing around us.  It’s a problematic offering, to be sure, carrying emotional risks as well as a deeply spiritual rewards––chief among them: for a moment, we may experience ourselves as citizens of this planet, where the mind’s passport easily transcends borders, discovers kinship.  It may even (as in “Pillow”, today’s second poem) lead us toward a gratitude for those whose love is always there in times of crisis, to help break our fall.  It might benefit our political discourse if our leaders occasionally took time from diatribes and position papers to read a poem, to recall the faces of the polis too often obscured by policy.  That, too, would be a gift.

 

 

Pillow

 

The man who takes good care of me

carries a pillow tucked under his arm,

so he can lay it down

every time

before I happen to fall.

Be there for me—I don’t tell him.

Icy roads. Each fall

with a little less fear.

 

 

 

 

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 Twitter          

@StevenRatiner

 

From the Classroom: The Tortured Poet Department

 

Article by Doug Holder

Since Harvard University has a course on Taylor Swift in their catalogue, I thought, " What the heck, maybe I could use Swift as a teaching tool." During class we discussed the Found poem. And our exercise  that day was to create a 'Found' poem based on Taylor Swift's recent album release.  So, I found a video that has Swift singing one of her songs, as a typewriter types out the lyrics. I asked the students to take the lyrics that they wrote in their notebooks, and either rearrange them into a poem, or take a line that strikes them, and make their own poem. Some pretty good stuff came out of the exercise. We also had an interesting discussion if Swift was truly a poet, not just a songwriter.  The students felt that her lyrics wouldn't make it to the poem stage--they are dependent on her music to bring them to life. I talked with them the about the importance of having a poem work on the 'stage' and on the 'page.' Swift herself admits in her song that she is no Dylan Thomas or Patti Smith-- and writes that she and her ex:  "are modern day idiots." Swift in my opinion is hardly an idiot, but a greatly- talented performer. However, she ain't a poet- may be that's why she is tortured..

From the classroom: I am mad as hell and I am not going to take it anymore...

 

om the classroom: 

By Doug Holder

So- I taught Ginsberg's Howl the other day--out of 36 students in two classes--only one knew who he was. So, I was glad to talk a bit about Ginsberg and the Beat Generation, and my experience with him in Buffalo, N.Y. in 1975. ( I tried to get him on my campus radio show " Idea Exchange"--to no avail) So, we read the first stanza of the poem, which is over three pages--discussed it, and then I asked students to 'howl.' There were only tepid Howls. I then let out a howl, that any wolf would be proud of. I told them that Ginsberg's Howl is a loud cry against the things that were going on in 1950s America--the conformity, the concept of the American dream, etc... So I wanted them to write their own Howl poem. I wanted them to write about things that pissed them off, that made them Howl. Before I started the exercise, I used a short clip from the movie " Network" in which a deranged anchor man screams to the screen, " I am mad as hell, and I am not going to take it anymore." He then goes into a litany of ills in society, and interesting-- they haven't much changed from today--even though the film is several decades old. The students did write about a number of things that indeed got them as mad as hell..

Red Letter Poem #203

 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 #203

 

 

 

Dunlin

 

 

Its breeding plumage so bright

it looks like a different bird

 

just as you in rehab,

or soon after,

 

glowed

with light

 

only to twist again,

dun-colored, into addiction.

 

I wanted to keep that light—

you and I circling the rehab

 

by the horse stables

as you tell me your roommate OD’d.

 

Before leaving I stand before the Memorial Wall:

See you in Heaven/Our forever angel/ Miss you, Daddy—

 

hearts cracked in two.

I retrieve my car keys, cell phone, to head home.

 

Stop time, God!

I yell in my empty car

 

as traffic slows on the Mass Pike

and ahead, blue lights flash.

 

 

               ––Lee Varon

 

 

 

In the catalog of human anguish, certainly near the very top of the list must be the experience of helplessness.  And to my mind, that powerless feeling is more painfully acute when it concerns someone we love––even more so than for our own suffering.  Perhaps a mother’s empathetic connection with her child merits its own special category––and it’s precisely what we’re witnessing in Lee Varon’s new poem “Dunlin.”  In a way, addiction is like a slow-motion car crash––a careening toward disaster, drawn out over months, even years––and loved ones are forced to witness the calamity, hearts constantly bracing for what may be that final point of impact.  At the outset of the poem, our hearts lift a bit with the thought of the Dunlin’s breeding plumage, imagining the long-beaked shore bird resplendent with rust and black stippling across his back.  It’s a reminder that love (or the need for it) has the power to transform.  But again and again, it seems, her son slips back beneath the pain-gray cloak of addiction––and the mention of some other unfortunate soul’s overdose can’t help but chill us at the core.  When the narrator is once again alone in her car, the unbearable pain overwhelms and she screams out for some divine intervention, for time itself to cease––a balm which (at least for this poem) is not granted.  Instead, those flashing police lights on the stalled Turnpike remind us that tragedy may befall any fragile being at any moment, though still we must try to continue on our way.

 

Lee is an award-winning writer of poetry and prose, as well as a social worker by profession.  She won the 19th Annual Briar Cliff Review Fiction contest, and her poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous fine journals.  In 2017, Finishing Line Press published her chapbook, Affairs Run in the Family and, the following year, she won the Sunshot Poetry Prize for her book, Shot in the Head.  Today’s poem will appear in a forthcoming collection entitled The Last Bed (Finishing Line Press.)  Lee also authored a children’s book about substance abuse disorder: My Brother is Not a Monster: A Story of Addiction and Recovery.

 

In another of Lee’s poems, these lines appear: “my poems are small flags/ waving on a red hillside”––and I believe that icon speaks to something essential within her work.  Of course, there is a certain ambiguity about the flags in question: are they ‘red flags’ coloring the hillside––a traditional warning about danger, even impending disaster (and today’s poem is certainly intended to focus our attention on the awful cost of not addressing the opioid crisis engulfing our nation.)  But if the hillside is red on its own, then flags fluttering could be a metaphor for the wildflowers in spring, the ultimate sign of hopefulness––and hope is, quite often, the only response to/remedy for helplessness.  In fact, the very act of transforming a moment of suffering into ink on the page displays an ultimate faith in this confounding existence; it imagines that the writer with the pen in her hand is slightly removed from her counterpart on the page (achieving, perhaps, some slight elevation where the shift in perspective can’t help but broaden our understanding.)  It even envisions the possibility of other eyes who will, sometime, confront these written lines and take their bearings from what has been shared.  Some may even be survivors of a calamity like this one (as is, I am happy to report, Lee’s son), and wish to celebrate the fact that those red flags have miraculously evolved into red-letter days. 

 

 

 

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 Twitter          

@StevenRatiner