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 #264
Chorale: In April
1
Because pain is colloquial
as every true poem
because I can neither look nor entirely look
away
from myself
2
Two Lebanese boys on a stretcher—
fish in a net show more surprise.
3
I listen
for words rushing
from trees
through the April
staccato of rain:
a finite network of roots
wires the earth
and every caress
carries for thousands of miles.
4
Bewildering,
the mouths of the dead, methodically
stifling their hunger with flowers.
5
Soon these green fists
will open and the veins
of the leaves, hammered daily
by light, will swell until
the leaves themselves begin
to darken, shrivel, fall.
The living brother
must speak for himself.
The rain says nothing at all.
––Askold Melnyczuk
“What else is a poet to do?”
I began Red Letter #263 with that very same question as I considered one writer’s response after receiving a devastating diagnosis. In the end, I made the case that when a clear-eyed poet like Susan Roney-O’Brien invests herself in such a potent suite of revelatory poems, the individual experience cannot help but become universal. But what about the opposite situation? How is a writer to honestly respond when a global crisis, plunging millions into dire circumstances, torments one individual’s conscience? Here, the universal becomes intensely personal, like bright sun focused through a magnifying glass. In Askold Melnyczuk’s just-released collection, The Venus of Odesa (MadHat Press), he explores the suffering of a world where money, power, and politics always seem to trump justice, conscience, and the communal will. How is any one attentive mind, one vulnerable heart, to survive? Of course, the more well-informed we strive to be, the more acutely we feel what’s at stake, and how the powers that be fail to respond to our sincere pleas. So then what’s to be done? Continue marching, making charitable donations aimed at the latest calamity, penning angry letters which our Congressmen and -women will likely never see? Or do we simply surrender and go about one’s personal business, where our actions often have a demonstrable effect, and small pleasures are plentiful? If Askold––who, to my mind, embodies the humanist impulse, the littéraire engagé ––finds himself falling into despair over the unmitigated (and unnecessary) suffering in places like Ukraine and Gaza, things are even worse than imagined.
And forgive me, but here’s a fact that will only amplify a sense of hopelessness: the photograph that prompted this poem was not from a recent front page story but the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in the nineteen-eighties! One is tempted to say that history is not repeating its cycles but madly perseverating. Still, what does Askold offer us in response? It’s a little chorale of voices, a give-and-take of speaking minds––and, from the opening line (“Because pain is colloquial”) we realize he’s writing about the inner dialectic voiced by our careworn selves. But the emotional pendulum swings with its own momentum. The speaker in section 1 turns pain into self-reflection; “because I can neither look nor entirely look/ away//from myself,” we grasp how much his heart identifies with these poor war-ravaged siblings. Almost off-handedly, the poet breaks our hearts with his phrase “fish in a net show more surprise”––but, as quickly, he comforts us with that “staccato rain” and the interconnectedness of the natural world where, within a root system, “every caress/ carries for thousands of miles.” Back and forth, that oscillating heart: “Bewildering,/ the mouths of the dead, methodically/ stifling their hunger with flowers,” followed quickly with “The living brother/ must speak for himself./ The rain says nothing at all.“
Askold has an eye for the telling detail. There is a good chance that if you know his writing, it’s as an acclaimed author of fiction, essay, and memoir. He was also the founding publisher of the literary mainstay Agni Review and, more recently, created Arrowsmith Press to publish books by writers he deems utterly essential, especially in these desperate times. But poetry was his first impulse and, I was delighted to discover, was never drowned out by fiction’s louder applause. And though, in this poem, you can easily replace the nationality of the little brothers with a dozen more from recent conflicts, one crucial fact must be considered as we come to terms with today’s circumstance: a writer like Askold–-like dozens more I can name––have not ceased caring, not turned away from the pain or retreated into silence. So, yes: we march, donate, assail our elected officials, vote for better ones––and yes, we savor the daily pleasures, knowing full well how many are denied them. Kenneth Patchen, in one of his poem-paintings, wrote simply: “The One/ who comes to question himself/ has cared for mankind.” Perhaps that is our number one job as poets, artists. And if we do this publicly, determinedly––in print, paint, marble, sound, and mesmerizing dance––we make it just a little easier for someone coming after us to consider the options and do the same. True, “The rain says nothing at all”––but we do, as loud as possible, for all those poor faces condemned to silence.
The Red Letters
* 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
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