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 #235

 

 

 

 

Because Delicious!


--after Dorian Kotsiopoulos

What if I drank tankards,
dyed my hair black,
gave up on whiteness?
What if I tossed my bra—
nothing against being female,
but fifty years of itching,
yanking? Enough!
What if I stayed awake
late every damn night,
proudly ate poutine

because delicious?
Would I even know
whether that glee
shortened my life
by an inch, a mile?
Fuck doom!

––Cammy Thomas

 

 

 

I don’t know about you, but I needed this!



Recently, I hear similar stories from most of my friends: waking from uneasy dreams with that closed-fist-acid-surge in the stomach––and, first thing, flicking on NPR or reaching for those cell phone headlines, wondering just what calamity has already befallen while we slept. Is our democracy still tottering on the brink? Do the wildfires continue to rage? Is that hurricane plowing inexorably toward someone’s destruction? It feels as if we’ve been living beneath a toxic cloud of anxiety for. . .well, so long that it’s become the normal weather. But what long-term effects does dread have on the nervous system? And that sense of constant vigilance––as if our acute attention might somehow shield us from threats like the slow-motion disaster of climate change, the proliferation of hate-disguised-as-politics, not to mention the more immediate concern from our doctor about our salty diet and spiking blood pressure––mustn’t all this, too, come at a price?



The preponderance of my weekly reading comes from books of poetry––and the lion’s share of those poems (especially of late) tend to focus on varieties of doom, both personal and societal. And I must confess that my own poetry generally explores those darker terrains as well. So sometimes I have to make a conscious choice and add a measure of joy to my literary diet; I have to seek out those poems that maintain praise and delight as their central impulse. To be clear, I wouldn’t call Cammy Thomas’ work more optimistic than most––though I do return to her poems for their clear-eyed vision and nuanced language. Her most recent collection––Odysseus’ Daughter (Parkman Press), a handsome letterpress production––grew out of her many years teaching Homer’s epic to students and adults. Like the Greek bard, Cammy has produced a chorus of voices that rail against the way war ravages the living as well as the dead. Prior to that, she published three full-length (and well-praised) collections: Cathedral of Wish was chosen for the Norma Farber First Book Award from the Poetry Society of America; and Tremors received Poetry Honors from the Mass Book Awards. Her poem “Far Past War” grew into a collaborative project with her sister, the composer Augusta Read Thomas; the choral work premiered at the National Cathedral in Washington DC. Still, sometimes a poet must simply break loose of all constraints––and when I received this new piece from Cammy in the mail, I knew instantly it belonged in the Red Letters, a tonic offering reserved for one of those troubling weeks when the heart threatens to founder.



“Because Delicious!”––even its curious title (a little flag waving from the staff of that unapologetic exclamation mark) both entices and brandishes hope. “What if I drank tankards”––and right from the rat-a-tat consonants of that opening salvo, sparks fill the atmosphere. Possibility flourishes: dying her hair black and defying age––why not! And did I blush, perhaps, when Cammy suggested discarding her bra like one of those militant women’s lib-ers from the Sixties? “nothing against being female,” the poem’s narrator reassures us, “but fifty years of itching,/ yanking? Enough!” The old inhibitions are giving way and joy is threatening to burst through its dam: staying up until all hours, eating whatever food delights us, allowing free rein to our wildest thoughts! Would such behavior result in a diminution of her life by any appreciable amount? And even if so, would she simply respond with a brazen: worth it! I found my own heart wanting to storm the barricades with this revolutionary spirit. Of course, after a few readings, I had to remind myself that this entire piece is framed as a thought-exercise, a mammoth “what-if.” Still, as my heartbeat slowed and the smoke cleared, I was left with the residue of the poet’s elation––how far words can take us, how an upsurge of imagination can shock the mind awake! And so I hope you’ll join me in applauding Cammy’s insistence on life over fear: Fuck doom! Put up a fresh pot of coffee! There’s work to be done!

 

 

 

 

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

Review of Lee Varon’s new poetry collection – The Last Bed, Finishing Line Press, 2024.

 

Review of Lee Varon’s new poetry collection – The Last Bed, Finishing Line Press, 2024.

Review by Jean Flanagan

Lee Varon’s fourth poetry book, “The Last Bed” published by Finishing Line Press is a stunning and intimate portrayal of a mother who never gives up on her child with substance use disorder.

Varon shares heart-wrenching images of every step in her courageous battle to save her child. She is thrown into an unknown world we would never choose for our children.

In Varon’s poetry, we feel the extremes of hope and despair that hit a family confronting the complexities of substance use disorder. Varon proceeds with sensitivity to reveal her story with no embellishments. She never loses her focus. Her poetry embraces love in the midst of agony, and light in the middle of the darkness. The poem “The Last Bed” is gripping. The tension in this poem builds and we are alongside Varon, praying with her, the last bed will go to her son:

Through blood and splinters

I grip the edge.

of the last bed.

The book is divided into three sections “At the Soup Kitchen,” “The Last Bed” and “Birds.” Varon has volunteered in a soup kitchen for many years and has become acquainted with many of the guests who come in for meals. She has certainly helped others often living unseen on the most painful edges of our society. Her poetic view is authentic and, in the poem, “I Know Your Name” dedicated to Colleen, she writes:

Your beauty is dissolving.

into night---

smack, snow

taking you.

One of the most effective literary devices is Varon’s use of birds to tell the story. Varon cleverly weaves in warblers, crows, peacocks, egrets and hummingbirds to name a few. For example, in the poem “Seagulls” she writes:

High above gulls cry

holding to hope

By using the different birds, she is able to balance the harsh realities of substance use disorder with the life of birds. This connects us to the vulnerable in nature, as well as to our own vulnerabilities.

Lee Varon is a social worker as well as a writer. Her personal experiences are often reflected in her writing. She has shared with us both miracles and despair with a keen eye and honest emotion. Varon’s book is available through Finishing Line Press (www.finishinglinepress.com). She is also the author of two children’s books dealing with addiction : “My Brother is Not a Monster : A Story of Addiction and Recovery,” and “A Kids Book About Overdose.”