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.”

Red Letter Poem #234

  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 #234

 

 

 

where the words come from

my prayer

is cold sunlight

on forsythia



as the cooke’s hollow brook

burbles and gushes

in the background



as a lone sparrow

bounces along

hard new england soil



like the consonants

in the verb pipiabat

(pipe and chirrup



of his lover’s pet

in that poem

by catullus)



my prayer

is the slouch and slack

of sleepless nights



at the laptop

as i write to a friend

and wonder



where the words come from

––Thomas DeFreitas

I’ll bite: where do words come from? Language––and especially the source of inspired utterance––is at the heart of a perennial mystery; writers endlessly invent new ways to fan the flames of those creative speculations. Of course, since they explore the question within poems and stories, composed of that very linguistic magic, any potential answer will require of us a leap of the imagination. The query, today, is prompted by the title of this new poem from Thomas DeFreitas. Of course, the simple answer is: we don’t really know. And, in fact, many poets profess a desire not to know, fearing perhaps that too careful a psychological or sociological investigation might short-circuit the very processes upon which their work (and happiness) depend. It’s safer, perhaps, to deflect attention toward the ancient idea of an external Muse, a goddess who might occasionally respond to our entreaties while remaining resolutely beyond understanding. Still, I enjoyed investigating the mindset of Thomas’ vivid little text, teasing out some of its insights. Like any good Greek or Roman poet, his poem begins with a kind of a supplication; then it makes its way from the cold sun of a New England landscape to the late-night eruption of song.



This fellow-Arlingtonian poet listens attentively as “cooke’s hollow brook/ burbles and gushes/ in the background”––and, unsurprisingly, his verse bubbles up with similar rhythms and alliterative energy. So perhaps that’s part of the answer we’re seeking: language is an echo of the natural world, an effort to converse with all the beings on this planet (living and otherwise.) Then, fittingly, the speaker notices a lone sparrow hopping along the hard New England soil––and suddenly he remembers a verse from Catullus, one of ancient Rome’s best-known and most-loved poets. One well-known lyric is about the death of his beloved’s pet sparrow; Ad solam dominam usque pipiabat–– “It was chirping constantly to its mistress alone.” Such poems were part of a venerable tradition, writing about the death of a sweetheart’s pet––a way for writers to address their own passionate response to the lover’s emotional turmoil and their own. But modern scholars suggest that Catullus (a master of double-entendre and sexual innuendo) might be using the little bird as a stand-in for, shall we say, that delicate organ of desire (“sweet as honey,” he says of the sparrow which never “moved from that girl’s lap.”) So perhaps that’s the word-source in question: the upsurge of sexual energy––the need for pleasure coupled with the longing to be blessed by new life. But Thomas takes this a step further: the bird “bounces along. . .like the consonants/ in the verb pipiabat”––and these rhythmic and tonal qualities seem to be part of the essential makeup of articulation. (Likely you noticed how our poet can’t resist imitating the Latinate music with his “pipe and chirrup.”) Maybe language and music are intertwined, and both hardwired into consciousness. This can’t help but connect us to our most ancient lineage, to all who’ve walked this earth and spoken of our mortal joys and sorrows.



Thomas has already appeared a number of times in these electronic pages. His three previous poetry collections have all been published by Kelsay Books, the most recent being Swift River Ballad. A new book, Walking Between the Raindrops, is scheduled to appear in 2025 and will contain today’s featured poem. His work has also been included in On and Off the Road: Poems of New Hampshire (from the Peterborough Poetry Project) and the 2017 Poetry Marathon Anthology. I admire how, in Thomas’ books, he finds a way to incorporate everything from intimate longing to youthful rebellion to the deepest of spiritual questions. But one more thing needs mentioning––and it’s how today’s poem moves toward its resolution: Thomas sees poetry as essential human connection. And just as Catullus directs his hymn to his longed-for Clodia, Thomas concludes this poem––laptop clacking beneath fingertips––by directing his words to a distant friend. The hope is, perhaps, that words will keep love’s bond from shattering, despite distance; if the impulse to speak the heart’s truth sustained Catullus, perhaps it will do the same for us––if we’ve honored the commitment to listen as carefully as we speak.

 

 

 

 

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