A Day In The Republic By Tim Suermondt

 

A Day In The Republic

By Tim Suermondt

Dos Madres Press

Loveland, Ohio

ISBN: 978-1-962847-42-1

82 Pages

$20.00

Review by Off the Shelf Correspondent  Dennis Daly

Retying a shoelace in poetic terms can make all the difference. Tim Suermondt in his new book entitled A Day In The Republic celebrates the ordinary progression of life’s footsteps through geography and time. Suermondt, a veritable Everyman, conveys the wonder of inexhaustible routine in poem after poem. His commonplace images surprise with their hidden possibilities and seem to magically flower with each touch or sympathetic attention by the reader.

Clean lines, decency, and simplicity, masking a more complicated reality, dominate Suermondt’s pieces. This straightforward technique propels an imagination of hopefulness and idiosyncratic comfort.

Suermondt’s poetry paean to bar culture, Kennedy’s, salutes the collective way many drinkers sort out or think they sort out their private lives. A close friend of the poet is in love and he has come to Kennedy’s to affirm his new status among friends and familiar furnishings. The tone is upbeat and admiring. The poet says,

… The clamor at the bar

matches the clamor of the city—

this is where we go to take stock,

to repair. To celebrate even better.

All the voices that insist they can change

the world and themselves, words

and beer on lips beautiful and on lips

chapped hard by having to come

from behind just to hang on for dear life—

the photos of the martyred president

watch us from the walls, lamps shining

like little moons, my good friend

luminous in his rumpled suit…

When a poet manages to exude optimism in theses tumultuous times, his readership and beyond should take note. In his poem We All Move On, Somehow, Suermondt deals with the closing of his stalwart hardware store that he has patronized for twenty-five years. Aha a routine broke, you might remark. But this poet, this champion of the ordinary, takes the disappointing news in stride and gives his poem a positive twist. Here is the heart of the piece,

“Can I still buy a big wrench set today,” I say

trying a little positivity. “Buy three,” he says

“and I’ll kiss you on the cheek.”

I buy two and he still insists on giving

me a discount. I thank him and he thanks me,

sunlight on the cash register. I carry my wrench sets,

one under each arm, thinking I’m set for life…

A Day in the Republic, Suermondt’s title poem, details a state of mind. Sometimes believing all’s right with the world can lead to exactly that. Yes, belief can be efficacious. The poet and his wife traverse a friendly city and return to their abode. They seem comfortably in love. At the end of their route, before supper, they espy a nearby park with its embedded problems. But not today. The poet concludes his poem with the highest hopes,

…We make

it back to our front door, in time

to join the dusk as it turns to darkness—

the tiny park almost emptied out,

a police siren, but everyone has been good

and not afraid of asking about justice.

A bit of liquor, cooking on the stove—

my wife and I waiting on the bushel

of stars the weatherman says will come.

Life lived at the ordinary level, when stalling into sluggishness, revolts and spices-up or romanticizes reality. Imagination enables this non-violent phenomenon of sublimation. In Suermondt’s piece entitled Hotel Odessa, the poet daydreams a world of intrigue, which constructs excitement out of nothing and (although often disturbing) physically disturbs no one. Of course, this is what poetry often does. The poem opens with verve,

On my first morning in Paris

I paused at my apartment window,

holding a croissant and a mug of coffee

and watching people go in and out

of the hotel’s entrance, convinced each one

of them was a spy, good and bad—

how the imagination of youth

still clings at the age we should know better.

Minutes later I got fully clothed\

and made my way to the hotel’s small

lobby, hoping a man with a pronounced

scar or a woman whose beauty is timeless

would show me a folder and say:

“You must get this to the American embassy

in Prague by midnight…

The poet, in his piece The Runners Go by the Apartment, logically mulls over his Everyman role as a spectator, albeit in comparatively great comfort, but also without conceding the hope of artistic immortality. Alas, there are many struggling (or not so struggling) poets in the same boat. Even as academic elitism has been brought to heel, other political hierarchies have popped up with their associated tyrannies. Suermondt puts it this way,

But I’m waiting to see the runners

who will pass by differently, runners of every shape

who will have many go from running

to jogging to walking, some who will

bend over, their hands grabbing their knees

as if begging the earth to filter up a stream of air,

those laters and last of the pack who ask

how they keep thinking they might win one day—

impossible, impossible, until next year for them…

Tim Suermondt’s gentle poems wash over his readers with their lightness and ease. When you think you’ve finished reading, you realize you haven’t and go back to his metaphoric, yet satisfying, surface and stay for a while. It can be illuminating—like life.

Red Letter Poem #285

 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 #285

 

 

 

 

Harmolodic Duende

 

for Maria Golia

 

 

Infant Ornette Coleman heard everyone speaking at once.

The hubbub opened his eyes to the skies of America.

At twelve he told his teacher the books he read did not satisfy

his ear but fed his singing like an evening turning pages

at the piano for Beethoven. When his mother brought home

an alto saxophone he cried like a spanked newborn, like

the girl of his dreams said yes then took a Greyhound to Dallas.

When Ornette Coleman called a tune at the Hillcrest the babes at the bar

put wax in their ears and strapped themselves to their stools.

The guys on the bandstand closed their eyes and prayed.

When out of Ornette’s white plastic alto swirled a kaleidoscope

of monarch butterflies the band painted the melody

yellow and black. Would you spend your life

in Fort Worth, Texas? is not a blues song but a memoir

Ornette played backwards on the banks of the river

of his baptism. At the Five Spot Ornette’s horn

flowed, flowered, flamingoed. Hear red roses opening

in time-lapse to mating calls of sperm whales. Next

a mournful ballad to the tune of Jackson Pollack but with more

color and strange fruit. No one blinked when García Lorca,

dressed in black, his pomade fragrant as lilacs, eased his way

to a front table. He had missed the adoration of a live audience,

the kindness of strangers. He could dig a band that cooked

in their own cauldron, everyone soloing at once.

A gruff yawp set off squeals and honks. Lifting his glass, García Lorca

proclaimed Ornette Coleman duende’s Prince of Peace. A tidepool formed

on the beach of the Five Spot. Ornette closed his eyes and blew.

 

                                                         ––Kenny Likis

                                   

 

 

 

 

 

Let’s start with terminology.  Harmolodics is a word coined by the late- (and certainly) great jazz master Ornette Coleman.  Blending the words harmony and melodic, this concept embodied Ornette’s theory of improvisation, which did away with the idea of lead soloists rotating into the spotlight, and replaced it with an ensemble of musical equals.  Every element––harmony, melody, and rhythm––was ripe for spontaneous invention.  His musical vision encouraged a daring sense of freedom and overlapping improvisational voices which––by being wholly-present and acutely attentive to each other––would somehow become a unified expression.  It also allowed various band members to play in different time signatures and keys at the same time––unheard of at the time!  This sense of ‘sonic collage’ is clearly in the mind of today’s poet, Kenny Likis, as he concocts his own harmolodic offering.  I like imagining this poem as a raucous lyric for one of Ornette’s wordless songs. 

 

Duende is perhaps a more commonly understood term.  Arising from the culture of flamenco song and dance, and rooted in Spain’s Andalucia, it has been called "a state of tragedy-inspired ecstasy.”  Its aesthetics were defined by another immortal talent, the poet Federico García Lorca, and centered on a deeply authentic and unbridled emotional expression, surpassing rational understanding.  In this vision, mortal vulnerability and life’s fiery beauty could be wholly interwoven, elevating both performer and audience into a revelatory experience.  And, rightly so, Kenny sees a kinship between what Ornette Coleman pursued and what generations of flamenco artists have prized.  Perhaps you and I need to take a moment, put a copy of The Shape of Jazz to Come on the old turntable, and prepare to dance ourselves into rapture.

 

And, to my mind, rapture is precisely what Kenny is after in this piece, the realm where time and space will warp around us, and a sense of the glorious all-at-once harmolodics will carry us away.  Like some raucous jazz club of the mind, why shouldn’t Coleman be playing for Garcia Lorca, a small glass of absinthe raised in the Spaniard’s left hand?  Why not invite the imagination’s pantheon to share the moment, snag a few tables near the stage?  Beethoven and Jackson Pollock, nodding along to the saxophone?  Just consider what their conversation would be like!  Is that Walt Whitman sitting alone in the back (the word “yawp” is enough to conjure the Good Gray Bard)?  Perhaps he’s bought a round for Billie Holiday, perched at a high top, whose “strange fruit” tempers the celebratory mood.  And the musical bacchanal becomes so intense, the painted ladies at the bar have to borrow a page from Homer and stop their ears with wax for fear of succumbing to temptation.  Kenny has done all this, while sketching the jazz great’s cultural background, and singing of an America in which artists like these might all feel at home––where our cultural centers will not be used as tools for tawdry political propaganda and remain, instead, the temples in which we are reminded of who we truly are.

 

Long ago, Kenny wrote his master’s thesis on Robert Creeley and has been a student of contemporary poetry since.  But it was not until the forced isolation of the Covid pandemic that he got the urge to write poems and, as he told me, “began making up for lost time.”  His work has begun appearing in fine journals like: ONE ART, Paterson Literary Review, Riddled with Arrows, Duck, and the Birmingham Poetry Review. He lives in Cambridge, MA with his wife Lori, where they have “stuffed their home with books, records, folk art, and baseball gloves.”  Sounds like a scene where life’s ephemeral beauty can be celebrated, and Ornette himself might feel quite at-home.  I’m delighted to welcome Kenny’s wild riffing to the Red Letter bandstand.

 

 

   

 

 

 

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

 

* The weekly installment is also available at

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 visit the Red Letter archives at: https://StevenRatiner.com/category/red-letters/

Red Letter Poem #284

 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 #284

 

 

 

 

Spring

 

 

Everything is in such a

 

                        hurry, even though I'm sure

 

            Faulkner was right when he said

 

the past is never dead; it's not even

 

                        past. One day the Serviceberry tree

 

            flashes red and yellow

 

with Cedar Waxwings, and the next—

 

                        nothing but leaves. The squirrel

 

            lies in a bright red halo

 

of blood on the asphalt, its right arm

 

                        still running, even as the halos of martyred

 

            saints Cosmas and Damian keep

 

rolling with their heads

 

                        in Fra Angelico's painting. If they were in

 

            Japan, they could be put back

 

together like broken pieces

 

                        of porcelain, kintsugi, repaired with

 

            a thick seam of lacquer

 

and gold: the past could be

 

                        morning sky or evening sky, even

 

            Evensong—golden caviar on

 

buttered toast—as if Louvre

 

                        and velour had suddenly turned

 

            into each other. The past

 

is so unwilling to stay

 

                        where we put it that we had

 

            to give it its own conjugated

 

tense, past imperfect, in which

 

                        no matter what may happen, the past

 

            continues—as in je désirais: the condition

 

was never-ending.

 

 

                                       ––Angie Estes

                                   

’

 

 

 

Angie Estes is a poet’s poet––an honorific term that reflects a general recognition among peers of a writer’s compelling vision and clear technical mastery.  It was supposedly coined by Charles Lamb to describe 16th-century poet Edmund Spenser’s work and his influence on others (including the likes of Milton, Keats, and Wordsworth).  Sadly, the term also connotes an artist who does not possess the sort of broad popularity that less complex talents might enjoy.  In Angie’s case, the former is certainly true, while the latter needs some qualification: after all, her seven volumes of poetry have earned her such honors as: the Kingsley Tufts Poetry Prize; the Audre Lorde Prize for Lesbian Poetry; the FIELD Poetry Prize; and the Alice Fay di Castagnola Prize from the Poetry Society of America.  In 2010, her collection Tryst was a finalist for the exalted Pulitzer.  But, to me, the poet’s poet designation also signifies this: a fellow-writer whose creative abilities function at such a rarefied level, simply reading their work runs a surge of electricity through the mind’s circuitry, intensifying even our own creative processes––much the way playing against a tennis pro sometimes deepens focus, speeds up reaction time, and conjures a devastating backhand slice we didn’t even know we possessed.  The thinking within Angie’s poetry is so rich and compressed, diamonds seem an almost inevitable result.  Let’s start with the title of her most recent collection: Last Day on Earth in the Eternal City (Unbound Editions).  Upon seeing it, my reaction was situated somewhere between a wry smile and a wince of discomfort.  I registered, of course, the playful contradiction, but found myself feeling a certain pang for what was about to be cut short (love, perhaps?) in a city like Rome famed for its timeless vitality.  And indeed, the tension between what seems eternal (like art and poetry and philosophical discourse) and what is painfully short-lived, animates many of the poems in this book.  Perhaps that’s why I keep returning to them to recharge my own cerebral batteries and jump-start the heart when mired in darkness.

 

I have a few literary friends who shy away from what they think of as ‘erudition’ in poems; when they come across obscure references or passages in a foreign language tucked within the more experiential stanzas, I watch them quickly begin flipping the pages.  But Angie’s erudition is bracing, a quality of mind that simply refuses to be harnessed by anyone’s expectations.  She weaves her way between ‘high art’ and ‘pop’; the cultural geographies of America, Europe, and beyond; and, not surprisingly, the contentious relationship between what the head knows and the heart wants.  Reading today’s selection, did you smile at that enjambment between lines 1 and 2––“Everything is in such a/ hurry”?  The unexpected line-break, and then the serpentine form of the poem, force us to veer, tap the brakes, surge ahead, always paying a deeper attention to time (not to mention Time with a capital-T) as the ultimate context for our lives.  How challenging to live in the here and now when, in one instant, Cedar Waxwings adorn a tree limb––and the next, a squirrel’s broken body lies “in a bright red halo/ of blood on the asphalt,” its trembling right arm seeming still to be hurrying off.  I believe this poet’s work is a perfect example of what new research is calling the “Whole-Brain Phenomenon;” it describes intelligence by “global brain connectivity, not just specific regions, indicating a more holistic neural basis for cognition.”  Memory, observation and imagination; leaps between past, present, and future possibility––these are not only inextricably linked in her writing, their interconnectedness spurs tiny eruptions and showers us with sparks.  We leap from that halo of Sciuridae blood to Fra Angelico and her depiction of a pair of martyred brothers (Arabian doctors whose Christian faith had them dispensing medical care for free––a radical concept––and led to their doom).  Then, from beheaded saints to broken pottery, and the desire to repair our fragmented world (though, in Japanese kintsugi, the cracks are emphasized with gold filler, rather than obscured, a reminder of our imperfection and mortality.)   With each new turn of the lens, this kaleidoscopic poem dazzles with surprising new patterns.

 

Feeling for a way forward, language is always the poet’s compass: “the past could be/ morning sky or evening sky, even/ Evensong”––the word play lifting the mood (and who knew the anagram for Louvre was velour?)  Then this literary craftsperson subtly steers the inner conversation toward its true north: “The past/ is so unwilling to stay/ where we put it that we had/ to give it its own conjugated/ tense, past imperfect.”  So when the poem’s speaker concludes “as in je désirais: the condition was never-ending,” I found myself thinking of my own longstanding desires, and that beloved who might inspire in me such blissful grief.  (And just who shared that caviar feast?  Whose skin, the softness of velour?)  Prompted by the title, I intended to share this poem with Red Letter readers next spring.  But I realized the true weather of this piece is a perpetual vernal longing when, outside our windows, bleak winter feels frighteningly permanent.

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

* The weekly installment is also available at

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 visit the Red Letter archives at: https://StevenRatiner.com/category/red-letters/