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 #253
Two Poems from As If: Variations on Enrique Anderson-Imbert by Steven Cramer
History
His travel grant came through, so where should he go?
The Roaring 20s? The Enlightenment? The Renaissance?
Because he just turned forty, the Middle Ages maybe?
The morning suddenly went dark. When he looked up,
he expected to see clouds, with a remote hint of thunder.
Instead, he saw a giant hand draw back behind the sky,
as if unsure how to move on history’s chessboard: queen,
bishop, knight, rook, pawn? Or stay unmoved like the king?
In the spirit of this forthcoming poetry chapbook, As If––not to mention the Argentinian microcuentos (micro-stories) upon which the poems are based––please indulge my own fantasy: it’s a crowded gathering in the studio of poet/educator/translator/reader-par-excellence Steven Cramer. In one corner, Basho is serving tea to Emily Dickinson, murmuring provocatively. I believe that’s Rimbaud and Rainer Maria Rilke heatedly discussing ‘lyrical innovation’ with Eric Clapton, sipping from rather more potent libations. Huddled on the couch, laughing, Tomas Tranströmer is showing Philip Guston how to use a cell phone to search for ‘wild images.’ Such is the boisterous salon an hospitable poet like Steven maintains inside his cerebral parlor, entertaining all of the influences (artistic and otherwise) which, even after decades, remain formative for an always-evolving imagination. It’s the confluence of these disparate forces that makes this poet’s writing so unpredictable and engaging across seven poetry collections and innumerable essays. His last book, Departures from Rilke (Arrowsmith Press), attempted something rather unorthodox: he didn’t so much attempt ‘translations’ from Rilke’s Neue Gedichte/New Poems as he wholly reimagined them as contemporary texts––both responding to and transforming the originals by channeling them through his own life experience and out into the atmosphere of our 21st century American life. The work of both Rilke and Cramer felt enlarged by the experience.
Perhaps invigorated by that project––and the critical esteem it garnered––Steven began immersing himself in the microcuentos of Enrique Anderson-Imbert (1910-2000), South American fiction writer and scholar. He was intrigued by the unbridled nature of Anderson-Imbert’s vision which, sadly, did not often find an adequate representation in English translation. In the end, Steven selected twenty-one pieces from three collections of short fiction––and what was born originally as prose reemerges here as succinct lyric poems. As If, the chapbook that resulted, will be published by Lily Poetry Review Books sometime this September. In it, the poet has made sure that the playfulness and imaginative reach of the fiction remained intact; the poetry, while distinct, feels to me like a dream-cousin to the original. And so, in a poem like “History,” why shouldn’t the term ‘travel grant’ inspire a more far-reaching sabbatical journey than, say, a few weeks London or Rome? I love how Steven hints at the literary catalog many of us are still carrying inside our weary minds, decades after college. At first, we smile at the whimsical slide from the personal (“Because he just turned forty”) to the historical (visiting “the Middle Ages maybe?”) But when he follows that with: “The morning suddenly went dark,” it’s not unreasonable to hear a distant terza rima echoing in our ears––“Midway on our life’s journey/ I found myself in dark woods,/ the right road lost…”––and the stakes of this little fantasy are suddenly a bit more dire. Or, in another bit of mythic invention, we meet a decidedly more contemporary teenager in “Icarus” who is, nonetheless, still determined to expand his artistic reach. But is he some thrill-seeking hang glider who needs the possibility of plummeting in order to feel his own life as actual? Might the impulse also be to ensure the abiding attention of the parent who gives order to our universe? Or is the poet reminding us, in that final riven stanza, of something we understood in our youth but tend to forget within our older and more cushioned existence? That some radical surrender may be necessary (at least metaphorically) if we’re to finally step beyond the limitation of our bodies and know the universe from a wholly new vantage? Reading through this set of poems, I believe that Steven does indeed desire to chirrup with invented birdsong and to navigate ocean currents with the fish. His poetry reminds us that there are many more experiences, more guests to invite into our celebratory lives, than we’ve yet to imagine.
Icarus
Dad didn’t get my imagination
whenever I chirruped birdsongs,
broke into a trot during our walks,
or made like a whale vacuuming krill.
The last time we flew together,
I wanted the sun to melt the wax
fastening wings to my shoulders.
To feel how a fish breathes water,
I wanted to plunge into the sea.
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
And coming soon:
a new website to house all the Red Letter archives at StevenRatiner.com
