Red Letter Poem #186

 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 #186

 

 

 

 

In this season of celebration and gratitude, may I add one more item for Red Letter readers to what I hope is your very long list: thank goodness for small press poetry!  I’m throwing no shade on the handful of massive corporate publishers who still feature verse among their yearly offerings; they’ve maintained their commitment to the art form when most of the others simply discarded their poet-authors as being unprofitable.  And I imagine every poet publishing today dreams of attaining one of the few glorious spots with a major press like Knopf, Norton, or Farrar Straus––but the vast majority of the fine work being issued these days is done through very small publishing houses or even one-man or one-woman operations.  They are the ones doing the yeoman’s work of combing through floods of manuscripts; discerning what is most accomplished, innovative, or brimming with delight; making arrangements with printers; attending to the tedious task of distribution; ensuring that the artform remains vital.  Small press poetry reflects the diversity of talents writing today, the daring of imaginative voices––from both established figures and young poets just starting their creative journeys.

 

All the bookshelves in our house have long been filled, and so tottering towers of books rise up in corners or on tabletops (much to my wife’s dismay.)  These represent the recent titles I’m still working through––and while my list can only hint at the vastness of literary works being published today, here are some of the names on the thin spines adorning my rooms: there are, of course, the more prominent houses like Graywolf, Copper Canyon, City Lights, Milkweed Editions; but also marvelous presses like Hanging Loose, Four Way Books, Coffee House, The Word Works, Rattle, Tupelo, Cervena Barva, Black Lawrence, Lily Poetry Review, Beltway Editions, Cascade Books, Red Hen, MadHat, Kelsay, and unlikely appellations such as New Orleans’ Unlikely Books.  And I haven’t even tried to tally up the dozens of fine university presses who occupy whole floors in this tower beside my easy chair.  So this is my holiday wish: if your days are nourished, your vision enriched by the work of poets writing today, struggling to be heard––buy yourself a gift of some small press poetry or send presents to friends.  It was Walt Whitman who said that without great audiences, there can be no great poetry.  We are indeed a community of voices––and the hearts and minds that receive them.

 

One of the most remarkable poetry enterprises is Boston’s own Arrowsmith Press.  Askold Melnyczuk’s small team manages to consistently produce handsomely-designed editions that bring us, not only many of the most important figures publishing today, but other great talents whose names were largely unknown to American audiences before Arrowsmith trumpeted their achievement.  They have also demonstrated a steadfast commitment to the writers of Ukraine who are struggling simply to survive the next bombardment let alone captivate an audience.  So today, our Letter will be a poem from a Ukrainian talent who has been gaining a wide audience in Europe but will be, I’m sure, new to some readers here: Halyna Kruk.  Arrowsmith issued a new bilingual collection bearing the rueful title A Crash Course in Molotov Cocktails; it gathers poems dating from the first Russian invasion, but concentrates on the current calamity.  The poems have been beautifully brought over into English by Amelia M. Glaser and Yuliya Ilchuk.  Halyna is the author of five previous volumes of poetry as well as a collection of short stories and four acclaimed children’s books.  Her writing, honored by numerous awards and fellowships, has been translated into over thirty languages.  Vivid, sardonic, startling, wracked with grief, her poems also manage somehow to conjure a kind of dark joy, as the continued brutality of the Russian attacks makes every new sunrise an occasion for celebration.  But while some in our Congress hold support for this beleaguered nation hostage to their political agendas, this poet’s warnings ought to shock us awake.  In “Stus”, she composes a litany of purposes by which her countrymen can contemplate the very real possibility of their impending demise: “make your death speak/ cover your death, like a chasm, with words/ so others won’t fall in.”  Her poems are not simply literary creations; they are artifacts of this historical moment––and, however painful, I am grateful for the opportunity to enter this world she’s working hard to preserve.

 

 

 

and Jesus ascended

 

 

and Jesus ascended at the Mount of Olives

in the city of Bucha, in the city of Irpin,

in the town of Hostomel, in the village of Motyzhyn

in the town of Borodianka

in the city of Chernihiv, in the city of Kharkiv,

in the long-suffering city of Mariupol

and prayed to the Father––

let this cup stop with me,

 

crucified on a bodily cross

on an unidentified mortal’s body

2022 the year of our Lord

in a soulless world

 

heaven and earth walk on by

 

 

––Halyna Kruk

 

 

 

 

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