Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene: The Red Letters

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

My Dear Readers,

I try my best not to skip Red Letter installments––but as we speak, I’m flying home from a family wedding in California. So rather than leave you Letter-less, I decided to share an older piece that many newer readers will have missed (and old readers will likely savor a second time.) Instead of ‘Throwback Thursday,’ this will be our second Flashback Friday! Enjoy Adnan Onart’s’ richly-emotional time-bending memory

See you with a new poem next Friday!

Red Letter Poem #31

Not the least of poetry’s strengths (and delights) is its ability to allow us access to another reality: to stand for a few moments in someone else’s shoes, viewing the day through a surprising sensibility, our thoughts informed by a radically different sense of history. This is one of the first things that attracted me to the poetry of Adnan Onart. I will never experience the pain inflicted on Crimean Tatars as their country suffered invasions––vivid still in the long memories of his Turkish family––though some of his poems provide me with a mouthful of that anguish. Nor can I feel those American eyes at my back in some street or market––in this, our post-9/11 circumstance––triggered only by the accent of my voice; but Adnan’s poetry has made me imagine what that tremor must be like. Poetry confirms what most of us have long suspected: that our lives are dramatically different from each other and, paradoxically, utterly alike. So it is with “Morning Prayer”––a poem that somehow reminded me of voices as disparate as that of Yehuda Amichai and Wislawa Szymborska. When the young protagonist is instructed in the ways of prayer, I found something of my eight-year-old self re-awakened, and I remembered what I first yearned for in the world. And when the much older speaker (an immigrant now in Boston) repeats that same gesture, I suddenly felt how sweet and unpredictable is the nature of our answered prayers.

Adnan lives in Boston, MA. and his work has appeared in a number of journals including Prairie Schooner, Colere Magazine, Red Wheel Barrow, and The Massachusetts Review. ”Morning Prayer” was published in his first poetry collection, The Passport You Asked For (The Aeolos Press), coupled with Kenneth Rosen’s Cyprus’ Bad Period. He earned an honorable mention in the New England Poetry Club’s Erika Mumford Award, and was one of the winners of the 2011 Nazim Hikmet Poetry Competition. Discouraged from poetry as a young man in Turkey, he has now begun to find an appreciative audience in his adoptive land. Talk about paradoxes.

Morning Prayer

In a poor Istanbul neighborhood,

at the ground floor of our house,

my great-grandmother says:

It is time for morning prayer.

If you pray, she says, pure as a child,

from this corner of the room,

an angel will appear.

I am five years old closing my eyes.

Allahü Ekber.

Essallamü alleyküm ve rahmetullah.

I am fifty opening my eyes.

In Boston, Massachusetts,

in a not so poor neighborhood

at the top floor of our house

praying my morning prayer.

From that corner of the room,

my great-grandmother appears.

–– Adnan Adam Onart

The 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 Twitter

@StevenRatiner

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 #173

A Language for Colors

Asfar she would say

pointing at a yellow tulip.

And the color of grass?

Akhdar.

My young daughter had mastered

not only the colors

but also the throaty KH,

two letters in English

that equal one in Arabic.

I would tell her it’s the same sound

as in khamseh, khubez, sabanekh—

five, bread, spinach

and my favorite name

Khaled, Immortal.

I once confessed to a friend wistfully

that I would not name my son Khaled

because Americans couldn’t pronounce it.

Now I wonder about such wisdom:

even my eight-year-old

could constrict her throat muscles the right way

to say Khaled—

immortal like an ancient olive tree,

a flame that never abates,

a mother’s love.

This spring, I saw a patch

of double hybrid tulips,

asfar tinged with akhdar,

and thought of my daughter’s

satisfied grin at learning those words

thousands of miles away

from her grandparents’ home

in Palestine.

Here we are, hybrid Americans

living between two languages

and speaking in colors,

splendid flowers in a distant field

––Zeina Azzam

“There was a child went forth every day,” wrote the Good Gray Poet, “And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became. . .”. And, upon first reading Leaves of Grass, the truth of that idea struck me immediately, resonating with my own distant memory. In innocence, there seemed to be a much more permeable membrane between our consciousness and the surrounding world. The crossing over from seeing into becoming felt, not only possible, but inevitable, utterly normal. “And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day,/ Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.” I can remember, as a child, watching a grasshopper slowly climbing a waist-high stalk of timothy; eye to eye, we ached with the exertion, the need to ascend. (When was the last time I felt such immersion!) But soon enough (and just like Adam in the Garden) even children feel compelled to name those tangible experiences–– grasshopper, timothy, such words came later. And while language created an almost-visceral power and a certain sense of permanence––after all, I can call up that memory many decades later just by speaking those names–– it also brought with it a separation between the beholder and the beauty beheld.

But how to assess the layers of complexity surrounding such a moment if the very act of naming––and the spoken language that child is inheriting––already involves the experience of expulsion, fixed borders, and innocence lost? Palestinian-American Zeina Azzam has had quite an interesting journey toward becoming the poet she is today. Her family on both sides was rooted in Nazareth, in the Galilee. (If memory serves, there was another child that went forth from that ancient town. . .but that’s for another story.) Her parents fled their home in 1948 as war raged around them––a conflict that would eventually establish Israel as the official Jewish homeland. But one person’s liberation can sometimes be another’s dispossession; as refugees, and empty-handed, her parents made their way to Syria, where Zeina was born. After spending some of her childhood in Lebanon, she and her family emigrated to the United States when Zeina was a ten-year-old. And today––writer, educator, activist–– she is the Poet Laureate for Alexandria, Virginia. Astonishing, yes? Last month, Zeina published Some Things Never Leave You (Tiger Bark Press) from which today’s Red Letter selection is taken. In the memory poem, she is teaching her own young daughter (not to mention her readers) the Arabic words for the colors that surround us in the world. She is also offering us a glimpse of the path––the many interwoven paths––words blaze before us and which guide our footsteps. That is true for all of us but especially so in the hyphenated histories (in this case, Palestinian-American) that are integral in the American experience. We carry within us, embedded in our very words, the lives and landscapes that helped give us meaning and purpose. You might be interested to know that Zeina’s daughter, Lena, will give birth to her second baby any day now. And another child will venture out into this achingly beautiful existence, reaching for fistfuls of the yellow, the green, the red––the asfar, akhdar, ahmar––profuse across the heart’s vast fields.