Red Letter Poem #89

 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 #89

 

 

It’s too long a list – all of Rita Dove’s flourishing accomplishments – but let me boil them down to three: recipient of a Pulitzer Prize for poetry; former United States Poet Laureate; and, currently, the Henry Hoyns Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Virginia (representing her life as a private poet, public artist, and committed educator.)  Back when she gave me permission to print a poem from her then-forthcoming collection, Playlist for the Apocalypse (W. W. Norton), as Red Letter #57, I asked if I might follow it up a few months later with a ‘golden oldie’ – one of her signature pieces, and long a favorite of mine: “American Smooth.”  It was the title poem from her 2004 collection, a sort of rhapsody centered around a couple dancing together in the dark.  I always thought the piece operated on two distinct levels: first, as a love poem about that moment when the self-consciousness inherent in our public gestures is somehow surpassed – if momentarily – and we feel our hearts and minds rise into something like the sublime.  But I also took it to be a kind of ars poetica about the years of diligent practice an artist must commit to if she or he is to develop genuine craftsmanship – all so that, at the crucial moment, what might have simply been a workmanlike effort actually elevates both the poet and poem into those rarefied heights to which all art aspires.

 

But then Playlist… appeared and, after reading through a long section – The Little Book of Woe – I turned to the back of the collection to a group of lengthy notes the poet included.  In one entry, I (and all Rita’s devoted readers) received some rather startling news.  Those shocking bits of sentences still echo: “On December 7, 1997…stepped in the shower, and discovered…numb from the chest down…diagnosis…Relapsing-Remitting Multiple Sclerosis.”  This can be a devastating illness and, especially at the time, treatments were not particularly effective.  She explained that, in struggling to comprehend her situation – but “first and foremost, to spare my aging parents” – she decided not to make the news public. . .until now.  She also told how her husband scoured the Internet and came upon an experimental drug for MS that was having promising results.  Eventually the treatment was able to reduce the loss of muscular control and provided tremendous relief.  But my mind leaped when I read how she relearned to walk steadily through, of all things, ballroom dancing “which taught me how numb toes could gauge balance by how much pressure was exerted on the floor.”

 

Now, in re-reading “American Smooth”, I’m engaged by an inescapable third dimension of the poem: of course love is still central in the piece, as is the reflection on all sorts of art-making endeavors.  But I also experience the poem as a very intimate document, a sort of radical declaration of hope.  It strikes me as the sort of transmission the subconscious mind conveys directly to the hand, and which it may take the intermediary mind of the poet months or years to fully comprehend.   Perhaps, when the poem was published, the third set of meanings was only intended for two sets of eyes – her husband’s and her own – buoyed by this swelling music.  But this continued practice helped Rita’s body stabilize its place in the material world so that other dances, other poems might follow – and for that I am grateful.  Decades after that initial shock, this fine writer continues to partner with us across the imagined dancefloor that is each printed page.  Our mortal reprieves, our escapes from gravity are – by their very nature – only temporary affairs.  But at that surprising elevation a fine poem sometimes achieves, we can better understand the larger patterns we’re enmeshed in; and perhaps we return to the dance with just a little more life in our step.

 

 

 

American Smooth

 

 

 

We were dancing—it must have

been a foxtrot or a waltz,

something romantic but

requiring restraint,

rise and fall, precise

execution as we moved

into the next song without

stopping, two chests heaving

above a seven-league

stride—such perfect agony,

one learns to smile through,

ecstatic mimicry

being the sine qua non

of American Smooth.

And because I was distracted

by the effort of

keeping my frame

(the leftward lean, head turned

just enough to gaze out

past your ear and always

smiling, smiling),

I didn’t notice

how still you’d become until

we had done it

(for two measures?

four?)—achieved flight,

that swift and serene

magnificence,

before the earth

remembered who we were

and brought us down.

 

 

­­                       –– Rita Dove

 

 

The Red Letters 3.0: A New Beginning (Perhaps)   

At the outset of the Covid pandemic, when fear was at its highest, the Red Letter Project was intended to remind us of community: that, even isolated in our homes, we could still face this challenge together.  As Arlington’s Poet Laureate, I began sending out a poem of comfort each Friday, featuring the fine talents from our town and its neighbors.  Because I enlisted the partnership of seven local arts and community organizations, distribution of the poems spread quickly – and, with subscribers sharing and re-posting the installments, soon we had readers, not only throughout the Commonwealth, but across the country.  And I delighted in the weekly e-mails I’d receive with praise for the poets; as one reader recently commented: “You give me the gift of a quiet, contemplative break—with something to take away and reflect on.”

 

Then our circumstance changed dramatically again: following the murder of George Floyd, the massive social and political unrest, and the national economic catastrophe, the distress of the pandemic was magnified.  Red Letter 2.0 announced that I would seek out as diverse a set of voices as I could find – from Massachusetts and beyond – so that their poems might inspire, challenge, deepen the conversation we were, by necessity, engaged in.

 

Now, with widespread vaccination, an economic rebound, and a shift in the political landscape, I intend to help this forum continue to evolve – Red Letter 3.0.  For the last 15 months, I’ve heard one question again and again: when will we get back our old lives?  It may pain us to admit it, but that is little more than a fantasy.  Our lives have been altered irrevocably – not only our understanding of how thoroughly interdependent we are, both locally and globally, but how fragile and utterly precious is all that we love.  Weren’t you bowled over recently by how good it felt just to hug a friend or family member?  Or to walk unmasked through a grocery, noticing all the faces?  So I think the question we must wrestle with is this: knowing what we know, how will we begin shaping our new life?  Will we quickly forget how grateful we felt that strangers put themselves at risk, every day, so that we might purchase milk and bread, ride the bus to work, or be cared for by a doctor or nurse?  Will we slip back into our old drowse and look away from the pain so many are forced to endure – in this, the wealthiest nation on the planet?  Will we stop noticing those simple beauties all around us?  The poet Mary Oliver said it plainly: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”  I will continue to offer RLP readers the work of poets who are engaged in these questions, hoping their voices will fortify all of ours.

 

Two of our partner sites will continue re-posting each Red Letter weekly: the YourArlington news blog (https://www.yourarlington.com/easyblog/entry/28-poetry/3070-redletter-111121), and the Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene (http://dougholder.blogspot.com).  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.