Red Letter Poem #113

 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 #113

 

 

 

Stasis: “the state of equilibrium or inactivity caused by opposing equal forces.”  Like that brief pause between the back-and-forth of a housepainter’s brush.  Like that childhood urge to climb higher, countered by the unrelenting pull of gravity, leaving you temporarily transfixed on your perch.  Like the need of a conscious mind to hold the world in abeyance at times – even while the poet’s temperament would opt for opening the floodgates and letting thought and emotion come rushing in.  So, in order to claim a moment’s quiet, the speaker in Christopher Jane Corkery’s poem observes the painter at work – not even the whole painter, but that portion visible through the frame of her window.  And the mind is stilled by the simple beauty of perception, by that life-long practice that allows words to coalesce into a clear picture, brimming with possibility.  “Yet briefly, no one is sick, and fate/ declines for this half-hour to announce a thing” – and suddenly the emotional valence is multiplied.  At the time, the poet’s household had experienced its share of calamities, and this thought, this poem, provided something of a respite.  And though this piece – taken from Christopher’s last book (Love Took the Words; Slant Books) – pre-dates the pandemic, doesn’t it resonate with something most of us have been feeling, and far-too-often: a desperate need to make it all stop, just long enough so we can catch our breath?

 

Christopher has the ability to craft poems that pulse with color, action, subterranean streams of emotion while, at the same time, helping the mind to achieve a moment of stasis where it can reflect on that mysterious confluence – observation, memory, and dream – forces that we instantly recognize as human (not to mention the workings of the mind’s own ineluctable machinery.)  She published her first poem in Southern Poetry Review in 1977 and has appeared widely in journals ever since.  She’s been awarded a Pushcart Prize and fellowships from the Ingram Merrill Foundation, the St. Botolph Club Foundation, and the MA Artists Foundation.  She’s currently at work on her third collection, begun at the American Academy in Rome where she was a visiting artist in early 2020 before the pandemic drove us all into seclusion.  In addition to being a poet, she's also a doting grandmother and a sculler who has competed numerous times in the Head of the Charles Regatta.

 

I love how there is often a still point inside my favorite poems, hovering between what we know and what is unknowable – the carefully-crafted language helping us toward a greater acceptance of that decidedly human predicament.  And the emblems of that awareness – two roads diverging in an autumn New England wood; the pale Parisian faces rising from the dark of the Metro; or even a painter’s well-turned ankle glimpsed on a hot summer day – they seem to remain inside our consciousness, almost as they were our own creation.  And now, reading silently, they are.

 

 

Painter on Scaffolding in Summer

 

 

Inside the house, all I can see

are the painter’s legs from waist down.

And I am struck by his delicate ankles;

it is August, and hot, and he wears no socks.

On his feet old lace-up oxfords --

the elegance of it! Strong legs, and the barest

horizontal motions in the torso

as he edges clapboards. Back. Forth.

 

Why this seems hopeful I do not know.

Yet briefly, no one is sick, and fate

declines for this half-hour to announce a thing.

And I remember you standing at ease

after a race, the center of your chest moving,

not seeming to move.

 

 

                         – Christopher Jane Corkery 

 

 

 

 

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

 

* 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/3149-redletter-052722

 

 

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

Somerville Artist Richard Baker: On Closer Inspection

Somerville Artist Richard Baker: On Closer Inspection


By Doug Holder




I met Richard Baker at the Miller Street Art Galleries in Somerville, MA. He is a tall, thin man, with large glasses; that fits his inquiring sensibility. He wants viewers to look closer at his paintings of seemingly ordinary objects, and to realize the high holy of the banal or everyday.


Baker told me he came to Somerville after 25 years in New York City. During this time Baker taught at Rutgers in New Jersey, and had a studio in the DUMBO section of Brooklyn. Baker told me one of the reasons he left the city was to pursue a love interest. But he found fertile ground in our burg, securing an ample and reasonably-priced space at the Miller Street Studios. He discovered living and working in Somerville was a less stressful environment than he found on the mean streets of NYC. He said, " I love the sense of community at Miller Street, and the ongoing conversation with other residents artists."

Baker told me that he has an interest in poetry, especially as it relates to painting. Like Jeannie Mortherwell, who I interviewed recently, he is a friend with the noted poet John Yau. It seems that he worked with Yau at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, as a coordinator of a program that worked with artists, as well as poets and writers. Baker told me he has had many conversations with Yau about the intersection of poetry and art. Baker reflected, "Poetry like painting is a snapshot of experience--it can be episodic and visceral."


Baker told me that he creates paintings of old book covers. For instance, I noticed he did an evocative painting of the " Naked Lunch" by Beat Generation writer and provocateur William Burroughs. Although a book cover painting can be seen on the surface level...there is more than meets the eye. Freud once said, " Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." But in this case it seems that Baker sees the metaphorical aspects of book covers. Baker opined, "Book covers are in essence a face. A face that ages, accumulates wrinkles, dogears, a frayed spine.. So much more is going on than simply a book cover."


Baker often uses the detritus of everyday life in his work. Newspapers, takeout coffee cups, books, etc...can take the stage. " I try to bring meaning to things we don't ordinarily think of," Baker said. And indeed --Baker is enamored with these seemingly banal objects. He told me he comes from "a very working-class background," so instead of focusing on, let's say the fine bone china in a patrician tea service, he may well be more enamored with an old Schlitz beer can. My kind of guy!


In terms of process Baker starts out with an abstract surface, and the often paints realistic objects over it. This is of interest to me because in writing a poem I start with a realistic surface and then transition to the abstract.


Baker can be found in his studio most of the time. He is a very established artist, with exhibits in prestigious galleries around the world, yet he is an affable presence, and welcomes people to visit the studio. Although many of his work are outside the price range of a casual buyer, there are some pieces that may be more affordable..

To find out more about Richard Baker go to:    https://www.richardbakerartist.com/

Red Letter Poem #112

 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 #112

 

 

The Little Book of Cheerful Thoughts.  I’m desperate for this now, crave it – some solidity, reassurance, balm.  And oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if it came between the covers of a small book, a little packet of hope I might slip into my pocket, return to in quiet moments, an all-purpose anodyne always within reach.  After the heartbreaking news about the shooting at the elementary school in Uvalde, Texas.  After that hate-fueled massacre in that grocery store in Buffalo, New York.  After America has reached that grim milestone of a million lives snuffed out by Covid (not to mention the countless losses globally), while reports keep popping up like sparks about new variants on the rise.  After we turn toward our leaders in government, in faith communities, in the arts, hoping for some voice that will guide us and restore our belief in – if not humanity’s ultimate goodness – then at least its impulse toward self-preservation.  And like the children we once were (and ultimately remain) – trusting that some wise parent is steering the car, so we can safely daydream in the back seat – we wait for a sign.

 

Jeffrey Harrison’s poem reflects that desire which, I’m betting, most of you share with me, especially when the week’s dark headlines pile up in drifts.  There actually was such a book displayed by the cash register at Bob Slate Stationer in Harvard Square, one day when the poet was shopping and, for a few dollars, seemed to be offering that promise.  Jeffrey, though, is an honest enough poet to temper that innocent desire with a wry dose of reality.  Because (and you don’t need me to remind you of this) it’s our hands gripping the wheel, navigating the traffic, choosing the way forward.  And our hearts we feel hanging in the balance.  Sometimes we just need to steer ourselves away from the maddening tumult, to create our own quiet clearing, the sanctuary within a single slow breath. . . so we can restore a sense of balance, strengthen our resolve, recognize those faces around us as individuals much like ourselves, acknowledge them with a smile.

 

Jeffrey is the author of seven collections of poetry, the most recent of which is Between Lakes published by Four Way Books.  There seems to be a quietude within the very fabric of his verse as his sly narratives maneuver between grief, joy, and the quiet astonishment of our daily awakening.  He reminds me how fortunate I feel that I have a more encompassing resource to draw upon: three millennia of texts from similarly astute observers, whose poems remind me that – no matter the circumstance – what I am facing is not unique, nor am I alone in what I feel.  Drawing a little strength from those words, it makes me want to work harder to right the course of my own life, to demand more from the folk who have assumed the mantle of leadership, and to be a little kinder to all those whose paths I intersect.  “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you”, declares Walt Whitman, reminding us that to sing a song of praise for what is, in all its challenging complexity, somehow seems to restore, replenish, reaffirm the human community.   And in those instances when the day simply overwhelms, perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to soak in a warm bath, companioned with a good book.  And if you do receive a sign, be sure to let the rest of us know.

 

 

The Little Book of Cheerful Thoughts

 

 

 

Small enough to fit

in your shirt pocket

so you could take it out

in a moment of distress

to ingest a happy

maxim or just stare

a while at its orange

and yellow cover

(so cheerful in itself

you need go no further),

this little booklet

wouldn’t stop a bullet

aimed at your heart

 

and seems a flimsy

shield against despair,

whatever its contents.

But there it is

by the cash register,

so I pick it up

as I wait in line and

come to a sentence

saying ‘there are few

things that can’t be

cured by a hot bath’

above the name

Sylvia Plath.

 

I rest my case,

placing the booklet

back by its petite

companions Sweet Nothings

and Simple Wisdom…

but not The Book of Sorrows,

a multivolume set

like the old Britannica

that each of us receives

in installments

of unpredictable

heft and frequency

over a lifetime.

 

 

 

                         – Jeffrey Harrison

 

                                                (first published in Poem-a-Day,

by the Academy of American Poets)

 

 

 

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

 

* 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/3132-redletter-040822

 

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