The Red Letter Poem Project

 NOW ONLINE!  I was asked to write an essay for Askold Melnyczuk’s Arrowsmith Journal about what I learned from the first year of the Red Letter Project.  It also became a meditation about the relationship between poet and reader.  If you’d like to take a look, here is a link –

https://www.arrowsmithpress.com/community-of-voices

-- and you’ll also be able to check out the variety of marvelous literary projects that appear under Askold’s Arrowsmith imprint.  Enjoy!

 

The Red Letter Poem Project

 

The Red Letters 3.0: A New Beginning (Perhaps)   

At the outset of the Covid pandemic, when fear was at its highest, the Red Letter Project was intended to remind us of community: that, even isolated in our separate homes, we could still face this challenge together. As Arlington’s Poet Laureate, I began sending out a poem of comfort each Friday, featuring the fine talents from our town and its neighbors. Because I enlisted the partnership of seven local arts and community organizations, distribution of the poems spread quickly – and, with subscribers sharing and re-posting the installments, soon we had readers, not only throughout the Commonwealth, but across the country. And I delighted in the weekly e-mails I’d receive with praise for the poets; as one reader recently commented: “You give me the gift of a quiet, contemplative break—with something to take away and reflect on.”



Then our circumstance changed dramatically again: following the murder of George Floyd, the massive social and political unrest, and the national economic catastrophe, the distress of the pandemic was magnified. Red Letter 2.0 announced that I would seek out as diverse a set of voices as I could find – from Massachusetts and beyond – so that their poems might inspire, challenge, deepen the conversation we were, by necessity, engaged in.



Now, with widespread vaccination, an economic rebound, and a shift in the political landscape, I intend to help this forum continue to evolve – Red Letter 3.0. For the last 15 months, I’ve heard one question again and again: when will we get back our old lives? It may pain us to admit it, but that is little more than a fantasy. Our lives have been altered irrevocably – not only our understanding of how thoroughly interdependent we are, both locally and globally, but how fragile and utterly precious is all that we love. Weren’t you bowled over recently by how good it felt just to hug a friend or family member? Or to walk unmasked through a grocery, noticing all the faces? So I think the question we must wrestle with is this: knowing what we know, how will we begin shaping our new life? Will we quickly forget how grateful we felt that strangers put themselves at risk, every day, so that we might purchase milk and bread, ride the bus to work, or be cared for by a doctor or nurse? Will we slip back into our old drowse and look away from the pain so many are forced to endure – in this, the wealthiest nation on the planet? Will we stop noticing those simple beauties all around us? The poet Mary Oliver said it plainly: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” I will continue to offer RLP readers the work of poets who are engaged in these questions, hoping their voices will fortify all of ours.



Two of our partner sites will continue re-posting each Red Letter weekly: the YourArlington news blog (https://www.yourarlington.com/easyblog/entry/28-poetry/3035-redletter-072921), and the Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene (http://dougholder.blogspot.com). 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.



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 #72





“He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” The aphorism comes from Friedrich Nietzsche’s Maxims and Arrows and strikes me as being particularly appropriate for the grand societal experiment we’ve all been (rather unwillingly) engaged in these past 18 months. Stripped of some freedom and mobility, distanced from loved ones, often estranged from work (or, in the worst cases, lacking work altogether) – and with the emotional valence magnified by a sense of constant but invisible threat – through what purpose do we carry on our lives? Spurred on by what sense of necessity, or joy?



Some of us have spent the time exhausting the Netflix catalog or devouring every mystery book we could order. Others learned to bake bread or play the ukulele. Thousands of miles were walked through country lanes or city streets strangely thinned of traffic. And many people, who had been living what they once thought were formidable lives, found themselves waking each day to despair. When the sweet habitual of our daily lives is suddenly interrupted, we begin an investigation into what truly keeps us going. For poets – who, through writer’s block, may be forced into such emptiness and doubt for extended periods of time – the expectancy of the next poem is an almost palpable force. And that’s where we find the protagonist of bg Thurston’s poem “Gratitude”: returning home from a yoga class, attending to the household chores, waiting for the first musical sensation that will signal the arrival of a poem’s opening line. After a career in computers and finance, the poet now lives on a sheep farm in Warwick, MA. But poetry was always the spark that lit the lamp that lighted the way forward. Her first collection, Saving the Lamb (Finishing Line Press) received special recommendation by the Massachusetts Book Awards. Her forthcoming book, Cathouse Farm, is centered on the 18th century farmhouse she now calls home. Certainly every writer longs for publication, but it’s those quiet hours working inside the notebook, watching the page fill up with our own glorious scribble – that sustains us and reconfirms the reason for it all.



As a result of this virus, over six hundred thousand families in America alone have suffered the incalculable pain of loss. So how are we survivors to feel as we wait for our cherished why to flourish again in our lives? For the chance to embrace distant relatives or friends? Or to splurge on a return visit to that canal-side campiello in Venice? Or to make that familiar commute to school or office, seeing how much has changed in our absence? Or to invite those much-loved faces to join us around our dining room table? On the morning when the joy returns, the phone rings, the project is completed, the poem arrives: gratitude. And on those darker days when nightmares linger, the headlines are awful, loneliness overflows, and the skies feel barren: gratitude.







Gratitude





After an hour of down dog

and forward fold, we drive



the narrow road home, sun

sinking in a molten sky



where strips of clouds stretch

and wrap around the horizon.



You wonder about squirrels

digging acorns under road salt.



I wonder whether poetry

will ever come back to me.



After the barn chores, feeding

the crew of cats and dogs



I sit waiting, a zazen of hope,

legs crossed and mind open



watching each breath rise

then fall back into the world



which is dark now, but I hear

the muses, quiet, then question



their single syllable that calls

out into the still and cold night.





­­–– bg Thurston



(from: Smoky Quartz – fall, 2019)

 

The Mystic River Festival-- A Showcase for Artists of All Stripes.

Condon Shell

I caught up recently with Laura Brereton, the new director of the Mystic River Celebration that is to be held Sept.25, 2021. This celebration, by the waters of the Mystic River, will be open to Medford and Somerville artists, as well as regional artists. Its main focus is to bring the arts to Medford. From talking with Brereton there seems to be quite an eclectic mix of participants.  For more info about the festival go to:  https://cacheinmedford.org/mystic-river-celebration/

What is your connection to Somerville? 

We are neighbors! And we share some things like the Mystic River and Tufts University, so we feel a special kinship with Somerville.

Can you give me a brief history of the event, and its mission statement?

 The Mystic River Celebration began 11 years ago as the brain child of Allie Fiske who used to be the Director of the festival as well as the Program Director for CACHE, a non-profits arts organization in Medford. She recently stepped down in her role, and I am the new Director for the festival. Allie and the CACHE board members wanted to bring more arts to Medford and also make good use of the Condon Shell, which is a huge asset to our community. The goals for the festival are to highlight local bands and musicians by featuring live music, and to showcase other types of performers like dance troops, poets, and circus performers. We have also included interactive art installations. Additionally, there are many artisan vendors and local organizations who have booths at the event. We also have activities for children and food vendors.

Any Somerville artists of note who participated over the years?

 We have artists from all over the region participating, and I am sure there have been some from Somerville but I don't know specific names.

Why is the Mystic River such an inspiration--in your opinion? 

To me, the river is not only a wonderful natural resource but it also represents life, movement, flow, change, and beauty- all qualities that are equally present in art and community.

This is an outdoor exhibition, as well as a juried event. What criteria will the judges use to judge a painting?

 This is not actually a juried event. Only the application process for artists is juried so that we have diversity and variety in the type of art at the event.

You are a music teacher--any music included?

 I am a musician and teacher. Music is a key part of the festival as it not only makes for a fun and lively vibe, but it also allows us to highlight some musicians from our incredible Boston-area music scene. And, as an added bonus, the Condon Shell has just been updated with a gorgeous new mural by local artist Meagan O'Brien so the stage area looks phenomenal!

If someone asked you, "Why should I attend?"--What would be your answer?

 Now more than ever, we need the arts and a sense of community to bridge divides and help people heal. The Mystic River Celebration strives to do just that. Through music and art we bring a fun, safe, and community-minded celebration of the arts to the banks of the beautiful Mystic River.

The Red Letter Poem Project 3.0: A New Beginning (Perhaps)

The Red Letter Poem Project



The Red Letters 3.0: A New Beginning (Perhaps)

At the outset of the Covid pandemic, when fear was at its highest, the Red Letter Project was intended to remind us of community: that, even isolated in our separate homes, we could still face this challenge together. As Arlington’s Poet Laureate, I began sending out a poem of comfort each Friday, featuring the fine talents from our town and its neighbors. Because I enlisted the partnership of seven local arts and community organizations, distribution of the poems spread quickly – and, with subscribers sharing and re-posting the installments, soon we had readers, not only throughout the Commonwealth, but across the country. And I delighted in the weekly e-mails I’d receive with praise for the poets; as one reader recently commented: “You give me the gift of a quiet, contemplative break—with something to take away and reflect on.”



Then our circumstance changed dramatically again: following the murder of George Floyd, the massive social and political unrest, and the national economic catastrophe, the distress of the pandemic was magnified. Red Letter 2.0 announced that I would seek out as diverse a set of voices as I could find – from Massachusetts and beyond – so that their poems might inspire, challenge, deepen the conversation we were, by necessity, engaged in.



Now, with widespread vaccination, an economic rebound, and a shift in the political landscape, I intend to help this forum continue to evolve – Red Letter 3.0. For the last 15 months, I’ve heard one question again and again: when will we get back our old lives? It may pain us to admit it, but that is little more than a fantasy. Our lives have been altered irrevocably – not only our understanding of how thoroughly interdependent we are, both locally and globally, but how fragile and utterly precious is all that we love. Weren’t you bowled over recently by how good it felt just to hug a friend or family member? Or to walk unmasked through a grocery, noticing all the faces? So I think the question we must wrestle with is this: knowing what we know, how will we begin shaping our new life? Will we quickly forget how grateful we felt that strangers put themselves at risk, every day, so that we might purchase milk and bread, ride the bus to work, or be cared for by a doctor or nurse? Will we slip back into our old drowse and look away from the pain so many are forced to endure – in this, the wealthiest nation on the planet? Will we stop noticing those simple beauties all around us? The poet Mary Oliver said it plainly: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” I will continue to offer RLP readers the work of poets who are engaged in these questions, hoping their voices will fortify all of ours.



Two of our partner sites will continue re-posting each Red Letter weekly: the YourArlington news blog (https://www.yourarlington.com/easyblog/entry/28-poetry/3035-redletter-072921), and the Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene (http://dougholder.blogspot.com). 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.



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 #71





I’m thinking now of those often-quoted lines from William Carlos Williams: “It is difficult/ to get the news from poems/ yet men die miserably every day/ for lack/ of what is found there.” But when I was a young writer just coming of age, the war in Vietnam was raging and all manner of social protest drew attention to the diverse challenges facing society. Our work seemed to contradict the first part of the great poet’s premise. Many of us were producing verse that boldly confronted the news of the day and helped spread the word to readers hungry for more authentic perspectives than what they were finding in mainstream media. Later, and for successive decades, such timely broadsides fell out of fashion and poetry became a much more interior practice. But young poets today have revived this poetry of engagement – and that is clearly the case with Alexandra Huynh who was recently appointed as the new United States Youth Poet Laureate. Her poetry is fierce, lyrically innovative, and not at all shy about broadcasting her startling takes on the issues of the day. Amanda Gorman – Alex’s predecessor in this position – has dramatically raised the profile of this generation of poets; they feel it is their responsibility to express, not only their more personal visions, but the pent-up energies of their contemporaries who fear their voices may never be heard.



And so I’m pleased to share Alex’s bracing long poem “It Does Not Matter…” (which first appeared in the Washington Post.) Timely? Just yesterday, watching a strange burnt-orange sunset – and feeling how hard it was to simply draw a deep breath – I learned that our atmosphere in Boston was congested by the smoke from the wildfires raging on the other side of the continent. But those headlines were already being trumpeted in Ms. Huynh’s poem. Raised in Sacramento in a Vietnamese-American family, Alex began writing song lyrics at an early age. Now, an incoming freshman at Stanford University, Alex still thinks of herself as a soft-spoken introvert – but all that changes when she is on-stage performing her poems. Then she is powered by a pure passion and a sense of the utter necessity involved in shaping thought into language.



It’s clear to me that such art-making does indeed affirm the second part of Mr. Williams’ proposition: that men and women suffer greatly when such revelatory expressions – of joy as well as righteous anger and grief – are not readily available to all sorts of readers. When we feel so exhausted by work, or numbed by the roar of partisan media, that we can hardly hear our own self thinking, we each desperately require a sort of clearing amid the dense woods. Often a poem can provide just such a mind-space. And comforted, fortified, perhaps spurred to action, we are heartened by the reminder that we’re not alone in this morass – no matter where on the planet we might live.

 

IT DOES NOT MATTER ANY LONGER WHERE YOU LIVE

 

from news reports on the fires in California and the floods in Vietnam.

 

 

I. THEY WAITED FOR THE ANSWERS THEY DIDN’T WANT TO HEAR

BUT KNEW WERE REALITY

 

from my living room

i watch as tiny yellow men

march into the worst darkness

 

& pretend not to hear

when they have names

 

witness an unprecedented use

of the word unprecedented

 

—the state of California

has swallowed Connecticut

like fever

 

leaving behind

a scorched footprint

the shape of neglect—

 

there are streetlights in the forest now;

the forest is a city

with wildfire for veins

& a steady churn of smog

 

vehicles spill onto highways

to escape the color of death, but

 

even the lucky ones

wake up to smudged sun

& sepia

 

classic Western:

villainize nature

defend your honor

reduce the brown people to

accessory

 

this is the work

of a century’s suppression

 

of a creature that feeds

on its own dead

 

when there is nothing

left to breathe, you produce

the opposite of oxygen

 

don’t need a crystal ball

 

return the trees

to their cradles

 

burn the land

clean of history

 

 

seethe warning

blaze insurrection

do not slow, do not slow

 

let them see

the inferno they created.

 

 

II. LOCAL RESIDENTS NOW LIVE IN A WAY THAT IS PREPARED FOR

NATURAL DISASTER

 

in the country my mother loves

in its naked heart

 

coastlines unravel

into starving hands

 

drawing anything with mass

into wet embrace

 

include the slippers:
whose tattered pockets
kept our feet from catching wind

 

& the plastic:

collected to prove

we exist

 

include the caution tape,
the bamboo, the dining tables,

the books, the altars, the rice,

the fields they grow in,
the ao dai, the photos

 

& the children:
who have now found mothers

in this soft earth.

 

they say it sounds like a bomb

when the mountain
that is not actually a mountain

explodes

 

& it weeps burials
for the willowed bodies

 

who watch water rise

to fool their conscience

 

who recite Buddha’s name until

synonymous with mosquito hum

 

who hold real hands
in the dark of electricity

 

while millions of hummingbirds

crash into sheet-metal roof
& herds of baby elephant

swarm at the ankles

 

which, of course,

the meteorologists

will call rainfall

 

& the parents
will call temporary,

will call home.

 

 

III. THEIR ONLY DESIRE WAS TO BE TOGETHER IN THE HOME

THEY LOVED

 

the structures are empty now

either because            the people fled

or endured baptism by flame/flood

 

an elderly couple is found

in the charcoal of their farm

 

a boy recognized

under comic shop sludge

 

the men on the news

say climate change isahoax

 

i talk back:

hold the objects they inhabit

break them

 

 

                        ­­ — Alexandra Huynh