Red Letter Poem #233

  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 #233

 

 

 

 

Geese

 

                “Sometimes a long-dead friend stops by for a while.”

       –Wislawa Szymborska

 

 

I climb the branches

& disappear into white pear blossoms

                                          for a while.

 

I listen to the low honking of geese

flying through opaque clouds

                                          for a while.

 

I pretend your hand turning the doorknob

as you come to see me will last

                                          for a while.

 

 

                                     ––Lee Varon

 

 

I'd like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over. . .

 

This is, of course, from Robert Frost’s “Birches.”  Overwhelmed by the world’s unrelenting claim upon him, the poet entertained the desire to simply flee, to create a momentary mindscape he could occupy in order to gain perspective, soothe the heart, breathe slow.  Perhaps you’re feeling something similar these days––shaken by extraordinary circumstances that seem to, from time to time, define our personal and family lives.  Or, if you’re enjoying one of those marvelous periods where the path ahead is broad and sunlit, and simple delights abound, all it might take is a glance at the morning headlines to send you toppling, fearful for what’s happening to our country as a whole, let alone the beleaguered planet.  And so Lee Varon’s diminutive tercets might be just the thing to calm your throbbing head and palpitating heart.  Having read this (seemingly) simply poem a dozen times, I find I am hesitant to say too much about it, for fear of chasing the magic away.  But perhaps, if I confide to you just a few of my responses, I‘ll gain a bit more clarity as to why this poem has touched me as it has––and you’ll let me know if you too fell under its spell.

 

Right from the title, the scene is being set.  The sound of the geese leaving: here in New England, that hollow-sounding haronk signals the inescapable approach of winter.  We’ll often stop what we’re doing and look up––and, watching that wavering V arrowing across the gray skies, it always seems to me like a signature, an official seal on a document the body’s already been studying for weeks. Then there’s the Szymborska epigraph, a poet who always makes dazzling leaps of the imagination seem matter-of-fact.  And right from there, I knew which imagined faces I might be seeing on my front step, expecting entrance.  I was so glad that Lee never specified who it was she envisioned in her doorway, making that shadowy visit––she leaves that detail and others for the reader to supply.  Then I picture myself climbing into the blossoming pear, and the surrounding cloud of white petals brings to mind both beauty and oblivion.  I find myself entering the what-if of the verses––branches, geese, and then that hand on the doorknob––and there are so many possibilities for healing, hope. . .but each of the stanzas concludes with that simple refrain, “for a while.”   What we desire is held in abeyance, set to the side, yielding reluctantly to reality.  A dream, a memory, a poem can restore that irretrievable loss––but only for the briefest of moments.  Then the geese vanish, the clouds cover over, and we return to the work at hand.

 

Frost spoke of the desire to make one’s vocation and avocation a single enterprise; most of us strive for this with varying degrees of success.  I think Lee’s occupation as a social worker and her work as a poet and prose writer have allowed her to practice a similar sort of attention to the world, its suffering and tentative joys; and it underscores the need for compassion throughout.  Lee was the winner of the 19th Annual Briar Cliff Review Fiction contest, and her poetry and short stories have appeared in a host of literary venues.  Her collection Shot in the Head was awarded the Sunshot Poetry Prize.  Finishing Line Press, who published her very first chapbook, has just brought out The Last Bed, a volume of poetry that deals with “the roller coaster ride” that is living with a family member suffering from what’s now termed ‘substance use disorder.’  Perhaps the entirety of this new collection serves as a sanctuary from some of the pain and losses she’s experienced––but I am pleased that, in the end, Lee arrived where Frost did: at reengagement and renewed love.  “May no fate willfully misunderstand me/ And half grant what I wish and snatch me away/ Not to return.  Earth’s the right place for love:/ I don’t know where it's likely to go better.”  And neither do I.

 

 

 

 

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 BlueSky

@stevenratiner.bsky.social

and on Twitter          

@StevenRatiner