Red Letter Poem #234

  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 #234

 

 

 

where the words come from

my prayer

is cold sunlight

on forsythia



as the cooke’s hollow brook

burbles and gushes

in the background



as a lone sparrow

bounces along

hard new england soil



like the consonants

in the verb pipiabat

(pipe and chirrup



of his lover’s pet

in that poem

by catullus)



my prayer

is the slouch and slack

of sleepless nights



at the laptop

as i write to a friend

and wonder



where the words come from

––Thomas DeFreitas

I’ll bite: where do words come from? Language––and especially the source of inspired utterance––is at the heart of a perennial mystery; writers endlessly invent new ways to fan the flames of those creative speculations. Of course, since they explore the question within poems and stories, composed of that very linguistic magic, any potential answer will require of us a leap of the imagination. The query, today, is prompted by the title of this new poem from Thomas DeFreitas. Of course, the simple answer is: we don’t really know. And, in fact, many poets profess a desire not to know, fearing perhaps that too careful a psychological or sociological investigation might short-circuit the very processes upon which their work (and happiness) depend. It’s safer, perhaps, to deflect attention toward the ancient idea of an external Muse, a goddess who might occasionally respond to our entreaties while remaining resolutely beyond understanding. Still, I enjoyed investigating the mindset of Thomas’ vivid little text, teasing out some of its insights. Like any good Greek or Roman poet, his poem begins with a kind of a supplication; then it makes its way from the cold sun of a New England landscape to the late-night eruption of song.



This fellow-Arlingtonian poet listens attentively as “cooke’s hollow brook/ burbles and gushes/ in the background”––and, unsurprisingly, his verse bubbles up with similar rhythms and alliterative energy. So perhaps that’s part of the answer we’re seeking: language is an echo of the natural world, an effort to converse with all the beings on this planet (living and otherwise.) Then, fittingly, the speaker notices a lone sparrow hopping along the hard New England soil––and suddenly he remembers a verse from Catullus, one of ancient Rome’s best-known and most-loved poets. One well-known lyric is about the death of his beloved’s pet sparrow; Ad solam dominam usque pipiabat–– “It was chirping constantly to its mistress alone.” Such poems were part of a venerable tradition, writing about the death of a sweetheart’s pet––a way for writers to address their own passionate response to the lover’s emotional turmoil and their own. But modern scholars suggest that Catullus (a master of double-entendre and sexual innuendo) might be using the little bird as a stand-in for, shall we say, that delicate organ of desire (“sweet as honey,” he says of the sparrow which never “moved from that girl’s lap.”) So perhaps that’s the word-source in question: the upsurge of sexual energy––the need for pleasure coupled with the longing to be blessed by new life. But Thomas takes this a step further: the bird “bounces along. . .like the consonants/ in the verb pipiabat”––and these rhythmic and tonal qualities seem to be part of the essential makeup of articulation. (Likely you noticed how our poet can’t resist imitating the Latinate music with his “pipe and chirrup.”) Maybe language and music are intertwined, and both hardwired into consciousness. This can’t help but connect us to our most ancient lineage, to all who’ve walked this earth and spoken of our mortal joys and sorrows.



Thomas has already appeared a number of times in these electronic pages. His three previous poetry collections have all been published by Kelsay Books, the most recent being Swift River Ballad. A new book, Walking Between the Raindrops, is scheduled to appear in 2025 and will contain today’s featured poem. His work has also been included in On and Off the Road: Poems of New Hampshire (from the Peterborough Poetry Project) and the 2017 Poetry Marathon Anthology. I admire how, in Thomas’ books, he finds a way to incorporate everything from intimate longing to youthful rebellion to the deepest of spiritual questions. But one more thing needs mentioning––and it’s how today’s poem moves toward its resolution: Thomas sees poetry as essential human connection. And just as Catullus directs his hymn to his longed-for Clodia, Thomas concludes this poem––laptop clacking beneath fingertips––by directing his words to a distant friend. The hope is, perhaps, that words will keep love’s bond from shattering, despite distance; if the impulse to speak the heart’s truth sustained Catullus, perhaps it will do the same for us––if we’ve honored the commitment to listen as carefully as we speak.

 

 

 

 

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