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 #220
Lunette 21
Bidden or unbidden, God abideth,
whispers a tomb in the chapel garden,
the man below, uncertainty’s acolyte
who found it in a book, how it spoke
to Spartan worries on the cusp of war.
It spoke to him, no less braced against
a vacant stretch of sky like a moon
that scythes a passage. Make that a lunette
that carries in its lesser half a shadow
sack filled with breakdown and betrayal,
his manic season in his tower, his vision,
as a boy, of God fouling a steeple,
weeping in heaven’s dark confessional.
Once when asked if he believed in God,
the man paused so long the silence began
to honor what no one answer can.
He needed time, space, a breath to weigh
the terms, an address beneath a garden
wall whose hush, bidden or unbidden,
was his own. No, he said, he experienced
God. And the unsaid lingered still.
––Bruce Bond
In the memory, it’s middle school––and, coming into the classroom of our rather dictatorial English teacher, my classmates moan when they realize today’s will be a poetry lesson. As she finishes inscribing a long verse on the blackboard (one of the Romantics, I believe), our teacher turns and reads it aloud to her captive audience. Then she demands: “in line seven, what does the poet mean by ‘the snow?’” Most now have panic-stricken looks on their faces. We thought the poem was about the snow. If it was really about something else, why didn’t the poet just say so? But one bright student confidently raises her hand and, standing, proclaims: by ‘the snow,’ the poet means ‘death’ or ‘oblivion’; and, in line twelve, the ‘greenery’ is meant to symbolize rebirth. Puzzled looks abound: where was she getting this from? Was there some Monarch Notes crib we should have read in advance? The clear implication: that poetry was an intellectual performance, imbued with a secret code intended to differentiate the smart from the dumb––and most had no illusions as to which group they were members. Even I, who loved poetry––who’d been writing secretly since I was nine––felt such trepidation and doubt about my own inner resources.
Bruce Bond’s poems aren’t straightforward but neither are they obscure or challenging for the sake of linguistic performance. Well-read and philosophical, he tackles subjects that engage his curiosity in order to create connective tissue between the various territories of the mind. I feel that he is continually trying to confront the ineffable nature of our deepest experiences––both the individual and the communal––but doing so in such a manner that the words serve as doorways to these little mysterious moments, allowing their luminous ineffability to remain, while still inviting interpretation. And, as one of the most prolific poets I know––his publishing history contains over three dozen titles!––it is clear that the joy of this process continues to sustain him. I was happy to debut two poems from Lunette, a book that pairs Bruce’s poems with photographs created by Walt Cochran-Bond, the poet’s older brother. The collaboration was chosen as the Editor’s Selection from the Green Jewel Prize competition, and was published this year by Green Linden Press. A Regents Emeritus Professor of English at the University of North Texas, Bruce is also an accomplished classical and jazz guitarist; he uses the fullest range of aural textures to deepen what he brings to the page.
We can watch how the enigmatic nature of “Lunette 21” begins to draw us in, starting with the quotation in the opening line: “Bidden or unbidden, God abideth.” It comes to us from the eminent psychologist Carl Jung who had the Latin version carved over the front door of his house in Zurich. It reminded him, and all those who entered, that “Awe of the Lord is the beginning of Wisdom” (Psalms 111.10.) And that’s how those Spartans found their way into this meditation because the quote, by way of Erasmus, was said to originate in ancient Greece. It was the reply of the Delphic Oracle to a question posed by that most martial of city-states as they contemplated going to war with the Athenians. Yes, the Gods will be present––but in what capacity and to what purpose? Jung had the Latin carved on his tombstone as well. (Talk about an entranceway into mystery!) But if the poem leans into the intellect, it quickly veers back toward the sensual: that “vacant stretch of sky like a moon that scythes a passage.” Hasn’t every one of us witnessed such a scene, staring up into the night? And then our thoughts blur just a bit, blending Jung’s tribulations with those we imagine Bruce himself was thinking about, not to mention those experiences of doubt and betrayal we ourselves have suffered. How often do we look to the heavens for answers when confusion hobbles us? Coupled with a photo depicting the dark mandala of a solar eclipse, the poem may be suggesting we will never continue growing if we demand a single prescribed answer to our deepest questions. Perhaps, like Jung, we must become “uncertainty’s acolyte,” make room for those extended silences, and grow comfortable feeling our way in the dark.
Red Letters 3.0
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* 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