Red Letter Poem #95

 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 #95

What should I not say about this poem? 

 

Because, when reading the work of Rae Armantrout – author of ten poetry collections that have brought her such honors as the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Critics Circle Award, and a Guggenheim Fellowship – some of the richest moments are triggered by what is not included within the verse yet somehow materializes in the gaps between lines or even in the magnetic zone between two words.  In the house that is Rae’s consciousness, it seems the walls are paper-thin; strains of poignant music are interwoven with bits of familial patter, pop culture tidbits, solitary reflection – all bleeding through and interacting on the page.  And because of this, her poems can make us feel the current speeding along the skeins of neurons as thoughts leap across various areas of the brain.  In an Armantrout poem, creativity is connectivity and, reading our way inside, we thrill to see where the signals will lead us.

 

Rae was one of the early West Coast practitioners of Language poetry – something of a cross between verse, philosophy, and rarified semiotics.  But unlike many of her New York counterparts, her poems always possessed a sort of ingrained lyricism, and imagery that was less abstract and more intimately connected to our workaday (and contradictory) selves.  As she herself explained, “you can hold the various elements of my poems in your mind at one time, but those elements may be hissing and spitting at one another.”  Today’s poem will appear in her new collection, Finalists, coming from Wesleyan Press early in March.  In some of her recent work, those context-shifting sparks have been muted a bit in the service of a deeper emotionality – and yet we still feel ourselves stepping lightly, sensing the tremors beneath our feet.  So when she says: “I’ll miss you so much when you’re gone”, does she mean the leaves?  The day?  The autumn?  This thinking-aloud on the page?  Or is she seeing right through the page to fix upon our eyes passing over each line, our interaction (our very lives) fleeting?  Saying would only still that tuning fork her words have struck; not saying – even to myself – allows me to feel the vibrations rippling out across my inner darkness where thoughts begin to move in sympathy.  I have the sense I am continually homing-in; and then, exiting the poem, I can see my own home in sharper relief.     

 

I think this points to what, in the past, our educational system has gotten wrong about the teaching of poetry: it conveyed the idea that there was a right answer concerning a poem – an astute and demonstrably correct interpretation that we too would reach – if only we were smart enough.  And who (but those of us already irretrievably addicted to this material) would want to embrace such a calculating intelligence test?  We sons and daughters of Walt Whitman are more likely to believe there are a multiplicity of right answers at work inside any poem containing real power – an overdetermined set of meanings, neither random nor trivial, quietly arising from within the text.  Or put another way: there is indeed a right answer for a poem such as “Crescendo”, and it’s the one that poet and reader alike will conceive of – and continually reconceive – according to their evolving hearts and the passing days.  This is the sense I get from reading Rae’s poetry: that I can shake free from the habits of mind, even if only for a few minutes, and better understand our human circumstance.  In a time when the pandemic has wholly reshaped how we think about our lives, I often feel my mind traversing the suddenly-unstable, then gradually-luminous earth beneath my feet.  As the poet Rilke urged, standing beneath Apollo’s vacant gaze: “You must revise your life.”  I find the work of poets like Ms. Armantrout helps in that re-envisioning.

 

 

 

Crescendo

 

 

   The Light 1

 

Three o’clock, about two hours of light left,

glorious on the ornamental pear,

some leaves grizzled dark red.

The large leaves of what we think is

mock orange— yellow again, as when they first

appeared— and will soon fall.

 

I’ll miss you so much when you’re gone.

I’d miss you if I looked away

or if a cloud covered the sun.

I miss this moment

as it goes on happening.

 

 

   The Light 2

 

That little tree,

leaves now grizzled

gold and dark

red, is past

all transaction––

stiff in crescendo,

praising no one.

 

The gold my people

razed the world for­­––

 

cashed out there.

 

 

  –– Rae Armantrout

 

 

 

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/3091-redletter-123121), 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.