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
Domicile: Kharkiv, Ukraine Table and chairs; sofa, ottoman, mattress;
wardrobe, bureau, family photos;
garish wallpaper, ceiling, four walls ...
Table smashed/ chairs: snapped matchsticks/
sofa, ottoman, mattress smoldering/
wardrobe disemboweled/ bureau toppled/
wallpaper shrapnel-pocked/ ceiling gaping/
fourth wall sheared away....
Stage set for tragedy awaiting playwright:
title: Domicile.
Enter: woman in babushka with broom.
Sweeps wood (splinters), crockery (fragments),
glass (shards), masonry (chips) into neat piles;
bends to see smiling faces: (charred photos).
––Mark Pawlak Long-time readers of the Letters know that, since 2022––when Russia launched yet another invasion of Ukraine––I’ve featured poems every few months spotlighting this terrible conflict. My goal, quite simply, is to offer a continuing reminder of the suffering this democratic ally is being forced to endure, sadly obscured in our current political wrangling. Most often, I’ve brought you the voices of Ukrainian poets, offering first-hand glimpses of what is going on in their homeland. But occasionally, I’ve featured an American poet bearing witness from afar. Today’s Letter features the estimable Mark Pawlak––author of ten poetry collections, and for decades, one of the editors at Hanging Loose Press– offers us a piece from Special Operation, a long sequence of poems from a forthcoming collection he’s currently assembling. In writing to me about his project, Mark expressed his concern for poems “of faux witness or worse, depictions of voyeuristic violence.” His work is neither. Rather, what Mark is doing is documenting the anguish most sensitive observers experience, overwhelmed by the barbarous aggression of a powerful country upon its weaker neighbor. That, and the sense of despair which results from seeing one’s own country abdicate its position as the ‘champion of democracy’ in favor of the narrowest self-interest––as we watch the current administration callously washing its hands of the matter, leaving Ukraine to its fate. And through this, we can’t help but wonder what we, as a people, are becoming.
Mark’s poem begins with a little catalog of household items, impassively detailed: table, chairs, sofa, mattress––the simple elements that signify home. Then he describes what any careful observer has likely culled from newspaper and network accounts: that same home transformed into a scene of utter destruction by a wanton act. Unlike the more “discursive, observational poetics” (as Mark himself described it) of his recent collection Away, Away (Arrowsmith Press,) these new poems were arriving, unbidden, “in the ironic, mordant mode I had employed decades ago” in his collection Special Handling: New and Selected Newspaper Poems. His direct influences are poets like Ernesto Cardinal, Zbigniew Herbert, Charles Reznikoff and especially Bertolt Brecht. (Mark views Brecht’s Deutsche Kriegsfibel––German War Primer––as a direct antecedent.) Sometimes it is a crucial act of conscience to simply not look away. But then the poem takes a turn, carrying us where straight journalism cannot: “Stage set for tragedy awaiting playwright:/ title: Domicile.” Don’t you remember seeing video of whole apartment buildings sliced open by a missile strike? And didn’t each exposed room resemble a little tableau in the theater of cruelty? The phrase “fourth wall sheared away” prisms the context, focusing on both the missing outer shell of the building as well as the theatrical convention separating stage from viewer. Not only must we must accept our role as audience, we’re aware that our ‘safe space’ can be easily violated. The “woman in Babushka” (a ‘character’ that will become a thread throughout this set of poems) is the stolid protagonist in this one-woman tragedy––and when she sweeps up the ‘smiling faces’ from her shattered life, the wellbeing of our own loved ones feels suddenly at risk.
One of the narratives Mark’s poems seem to be conveying: even the buffering presence of oceans bordering our country is no longer a guarantee of protection––if it ever was. Think of the brutal assault on the World Trade Center, or the far-more elusive invader of a virulent germ hitchhiking inside the body of a traveler. What wall keeps such suffering out? Mark’s own family learned this lesson the hard way. Early in the last century, his two grandfathers emigrated from Galicia as that portion of the Austro-Hungarian Empire was dramatically changing hands. One came to America from Krakow (present day Poland;) and the other journeyed here from Lwow (now Lviv in beleaguered Ukraine.) Historian Timothy Schneider’s book about the region is aptly named Bloodlands because of the 14 million deaths authored there by Hitler and Stalin––a brutal tradition Putin seems determined to continue. Clearly, we ignore the affairs of our near and distant neighbors at our own peril––though that historical lesson seems to have been somehow forgotten. Mark reminded me of an old Polish joke––one that I once heard from my own grandfather (who made a similar exodus fleeing similar wars): a peasant comes in from the cold and snow and says to his wife, "Matka, we no longer live in the Soviet Union. We're in Poland now.” "Thank the Lord," she replies. "We’ll no longer have to suffer those terrible Russian winters." These days, there is harsh weather storming across the planet; no home or household will be insulated from those bitter winds.
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:
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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 BlueSky
@stevenratiner.bsky.social
and on Twitter
@StevenRatiner
And coming soon:
a new website to house all the Red Letter archives at StevenRatiner.com