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 #106
It’s National Poetry Month – and Phil Lewis’ Red Letter poem affords me the opportunity to think about this artform which is currently enjoying a resurgence in public interest. But poet Gary Snyder reminds us that “Of all the streams of civilized tradition with roots in the paleolithic, poetry is one of the few that can realistically claim an unchanged function and a relevance which will outlast most of the activities that surround us today.” I’m thinking now of how composing a poem seems to transform the day in its entirety; of how reading a good poem transports the consciousness to a wholly unexpected destination; and how, sitting at a poetry reading, some stranger’s voice can seize an audience with his or her measured lines and make us aware of those precious materials we humans hold in common. I am imagining also a set of eyes a thousand years in the future reading a poem from our time (just as I read favorite poems from ancient Athens or Song Dynasty China) and wondering for a moment what our days were like.
When, on occasion, young poets ask me for advice about where to publish and how to amass an audience, I’m afraid the counsel I offer them is often not what they’re looking for: I plead for diligent practice, for patience, for deepened attention, for mastering one’s craft, and honestly exploring why you have the desire to compose these inky constructions in the first place (let alone committing to them as a career.) I’m advocating for a poetry that is a vital activity in an individual’s life, as close at hand (and as essential) as breathing – something that will sustain them throughout their years, whether their job title is doctor, lawyer, farmer, carpenter, teacher, or perhaps poet. Phil’s life presents a wonderful example: he remembers first writing poems as a freshman at Dartmouth, describing to me the powerful influence of faculty members like Sidney Cox and poets like Robert Frost and Philip Booth, both frequently present on campus. A stint in the Navy silenced the Muse but later, while pursuing an advanced degree at Harvard and teaching high school mathematics and computer science, he returned to writing. Even today, when Phil reads one of his artful sonnets to the Beehive group at the local library (one of the few enumerated responsibilities of Arlington’s Laureate is to lead this monthly workshop), I can recognize the flinty rhythms and softened vowels of Frost’s reading style. Phil is a clear-eyed observer and a diligent craftsman who subtly maneuvers us through the grammatical twists until we, too, grasp the matter at hand and feel the ah! rising within us.
At this time – when the spring holidays of Easter, Passover, and Ramadan converge – here is a poem of quiet abundance. It hints at the way absence can become a generative presence in our lives – even as what is present is made more precious by the knowledge of its inevitable loss. Taken from what we imagine must have been a ruined church, this statue of Mary now reaches people in a new way within this museum setting. There is a marvelous fullness conjured by those empty arms, by the dust on the stone. No, Phil’s exemplary career as an educator and an early innovator in the use of computers to foster mathematical understanding did not include literary prizes or audiences applauding him at the podium – things, I realize, every poet dreams of to a greater or lesser degree. But through all his years, poems have been a constant presence, illuminating the circumstances of his days, and offering him deep pleasure. This is a poetry that sustains life. It’s what I wish for every poet, old or young, who takes up the pen. Phil Lewis is approaching the close of his 91st year, and this is his newest poem – only the second one published in a public forum. Yet another reason to celebrate April.
Mary
She had, we guess, remained unseen,except by occasional birds, for centuriesbefore today, and now exposed in this eclectic alcove, still cradlesin empty arms her infant sonlong gone. She looks down fondlyon where he was –– and, moved,we wonder if the artisanwho carved for pay, believed beforeaccepting his task — or only after,job done, he dusted off the stone.
– Phil Lewis
The 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
* 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/3132-redletter-040822
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
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