Red Letter Poem #95

 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 #95

What should I not say about this poem? 

 

Because, when reading the work of Rae Armantrout – author of ten poetry collections that have brought her such honors as the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Critics Circle Award, and a Guggenheim Fellowship – some of the richest moments are triggered by what is not included within the verse yet somehow materializes in the gaps between lines or even in the magnetic zone between two words.  In the house that is Rae’s consciousness, it seems the walls are paper-thin; strains of poignant music are interwoven with bits of familial patter, pop culture tidbits, solitary reflection – all bleeding through and interacting on the page.  And because of this, her poems can make us feel the current speeding along the skeins of neurons as thoughts leap across various areas of the brain.  In an Armantrout poem, creativity is connectivity and, reading our way inside, we thrill to see where the signals will lead us.

 

Rae was one of the early West Coast practitioners of Language poetry – something of a cross between verse, philosophy, and rarified semiotics.  But unlike many of her New York counterparts, her poems always possessed a sort of ingrained lyricism, and imagery that was less abstract and more intimately connected to our workaday (and contradictory) selves.  As she herself explained, “you can hold the various elements of my poems in your mind at one time, but those elements may be hissing and spitting at one another.”  Today’s poem will appear in her new collection, Finalists, coming from Wesleyan Press early in March.  In some of her recent work, those context-shifting sparks have been muted a bit in the service of a deeper emotionality – and yet we still feel ourselves stepping lightly, sensing the tremors beneath our feet.  So when she says: “I’ll miss you so much when you’re gone”, does she mean the leaves?  The day?  The autumn?  This thinking-aloud on the page?  Or is she seeing right through the page to fix upon our eyes passing over each line, our interaction (our very lives) fleeting?  Saying would only still that tuning fork her words have struck; not saying – even to myself – allows me to feel the vibrations rippling out across my inner darkness where thoughts begin to move in sympathy.  I have the sense I am continually homing-in; and then, exiting the poem, I can see my own home in sharper relief.     

 

I think this points to what, in the past, our educational system has gotten wrong about the teaching of poetry: it conveyed the idea that there was a right answer concerning a poem – an astute and demonstrably correct interpretation that we too would reach – if only we were smart enough.  And who (but those of us already irretrievably addicted to this material) would want to embrace such a calculating intelligence test?  We sons and daughters of Walt Whitman are more likely to believe there are a multiplicity of right answers at work inside any poem containing real power – an overdetermined set of meanings, neither random nor trivial, quietly arising from within the text.  Or put another way: there is indeed a right answer for a poem such as “Crescendo”, and it’s the one that poet and reader alike will conceive of – and continually reconceive – according to their evolving hearts and the passing days.  This is the sense I get from reading Rae’s poetry: that I can shake free from the habits of mind, even if only for a few minutes, and better understand our human circumstance.  In a time when the pandemic has wholly reshaped how we think about our lives, I often feel my mind traversing the suddenly-unstable, then gradually-luminous earth beneath my feet.  As the poet Rilke urged, standing beneath Apollo’s vacant gaze: “You must revise your life.”  I find the work of poets like Ms. Armantrout helps in that re-envisioning.

 

 

 

Crescendo

 

 

   The Light 1

 

Three o’clock, about two hours of light left,

glorious on the ornamental pear,

some leaves grizzled dark red.

The large leaves of what we think is

mock orange— yellow again, as when they first

appeared— and will soon fall.

 

I’ll miss you so much when you’re gone.

I’d miss you if I looked away

or if a cloud covered the sun.

I miss this moment

as it goes on happening.

 

 

   The Light 2

 

That little tree,

leaves now grizzled

gold and dark

red, is past

all transaction––

stiff in crescendo,

praising no one.

 

The gold my people

razed the world for­­––

 

cashed out there.

 

 

  –– Rae Armantrout

 

 

 

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 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/3091-redletter-123121), 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.

MY BROTHER IS NOT A MONSTER By Lee Varon

 

MY BROTHER IS NOT A MONSTER, By Lee Varon, Illustration, Alisha Monnin (Rachlee Books, Boston MA) - Available at Barnes and Noble, Amazon, or leesvaron.com

When I began my career as a clinician at a substance abuse program, my treatment team met with an agent from the Federal Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA). I learned that the fastest rising group of drug users was 8th graders - this, in the early 1990’s. 30 years later, the drug epidemic has killed thousands of Americans, including many young. As a comparison, in 2020, 52 people aged 0-39 died from Covid-19. In 2020, there were over 2,000 overdoses, just from opioids, in Massachusetts alone; 554 were under age 35. As I read My Brother Is Not A Monster: A Story of Addiction and Recovery, I recalled many situations from my clinical days - parents dealing drugs hidden in their baby strollers, 4-year-olds babysitting their younger siblings when parents left to get high, empty refrigerators, kids finding their parents or siblings overdosed, or dead.

Lee Varon, Cambridge poet and author, has never been one to shy away from controversial and difficult subjects. Now she has authored My Brother Is Not A Monster: A Story of Addiction and Recovery (Rachlee Books, Boston, MA). This is one of a few (and sorely needed) books I am aware of on the subject of teen drug addiction. Addictions are commonly viewed as moral and/or individual weakness, so it's on the addict and those near and dear to ignore and/or hide it, or deal with it. But, the truth will out, in all its messiness. That is the premise of Varon’s book.

This is the story of Sophia, her friend, Casey, both youngsters, and Sophia's older brother Joey. It’s Halloween night, there’s costumes, and trick or treating. Sophia’s Mom has to work the night shift, so leaves big brother Joey in charge. But Joey, dressed as a monster, meets his pal Harry during trick-or-treating, and up to no good, abandons his two charges. When Sophia and Casey get back to Sophia’s, things go swiftly downhill. They find Joey passed out in his room. Then it’s fear, panic, and calling 911. EMTs arrive, give Joey Narcan and save his life. The artful illustrations by Alisha Monnin are realistic, and do not sugar-coat events. Joey’s ashen face as he is wheeled away, and the worried look on Sophia’s as she talks with her mom, depict the gravity of the situation. Thankfully the story has a positive ending, with Joey heading to rehab and then recovery school. The story is compelling and realistic. If only all addicts were so lucky…

Varon has skillfully woven many facets of addiction into this tale, from common symptoms (Joey’s stealing and skipping family events) to explanations (Mom educating Sophia about addiction). Monnin’s illustrations add to the mix, such as the “One Day At A Time” poster in the illustration of Joey’s recovery school room). The language is straight-forward and simple. Varon avoids a lot of technical terminology so the story will be understandable to youngsters. I’m not a professional educator, but this book seems appropriate for ages 10 (around 5th grade) and up.

I shared this with a “tween” I know, who deemed it “pretty intense” but could see it in a health education class, or read with a parent or caregiver. There’s a glossary, worksheets and a resource list included, helpful for teachers and parents. Personally, I think My Brother Is Not A Monster should be in every school and public library. And for those who think the topic isn’t appropriate for kids, addiction is a topic everywhere - on TV, on-line and on social media, in movies, and in schoolyard chatter. And sadly, it’s often in their own families. Our kids are probably more aware than we think.

****Julia Carlson, MSW, worked as a clinical social worker in addictions for over 25 years.

Somerville’s Denise Penizzotto: An artist of the 'sacred'

 

Somerville’s Denise Penizzotto: An artist of the 'sacred'

by Doug Holder

I met Somerville artist Denise Penizzotto at the Tatte cafe in Harvard Square. Penizzotto is new to this area, and is studying for an advanced degree at the Harvard Divinity School. For a woman with an impressive, and long resume she presents herself in a decidedly unaffected way, and has the sensibility of a serious, working artist… with a good heart.

Penizzotto, who is originally from Minnesota has lived in New York City for the past 30 years. Recently she got a Mellon Foundation grant to explore what makes art sacred, with contemporary art and sacred space in mind. Penizzotto said, “ Historically—art has expressed faith and religion. At times in history, when a lot of folks didn’t read, art provided the narrative and the message of the Bible, Koran, etc…

Before our interview, I looked at her art on her website. One of the many pieces that interested me was a picture-based storytelling project that Penizzotto calls her “Chicken Book.” Penizzotto explains, “ The book has watercolor paintings of a beautiful-looking chicken. This unfortunate bird eventually loses its feathers, and without  her beautiful plumage, well...the center does not hold, and the bird falls apart. This is an apt metaphor for a world that is losing its own ‘ beautiful plumage’ to climate change, and other sins of our fathers, and our sins as a whole. Below is a beautifully, evocative painting by Pennizzotto titled, "12 Birds of Extinction" that has in some ways a similar theme to the " Chicken Book."  The reader see that behind all this floral fecundity, there lies the birds of extinction... avian messengers of impending disaster.

Although Penizzotto has a definite social message in her art, sometimes... well... it is-- what it is. In one intriguing painting Penizzotto imposes her own expressive face in the John Singer Sargent work -- “Daughters of Edward Darley Boit.” (1882). She told me she simply wanted to feel what it was like to inhabit these flowing dresses, these undoubtedly corseted bodies-- of these very privileged women.

Penizzotto, also told me she has worked at Riker’s Island, the notorious prison located in New York City. In her workshops there --with 17-21 year old inmates, after a bit of trial and error she found success with her students by having them create portraits of each other. According to the artist, this made her classes far more interesting and fun for her charges. This in not to say that it was not a frightening environment. There were many scary things to encounter while working in a prison, such as the time the prison was locked-down because of violence and Penizzotto had to wait for over six hours before she could leave. She reflected, “It was a very., powerful and emotional time for me, but I am convinced that art can be a rehabilitate experience.”

An eclectic woman, Penizzotto has done work in the theater. She talked about her stints at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, where she worked as a set-designer for a joint project with England’s Old Vic Theater. She did set design for these Shakespeare productions, and traveled around with the company. Later Penizzotto worked with BAM’s Harvey Theater, where she worked with the restoration of the plaster-work of its walls to give it, as she put it, “that oddly, romantic and decrepit feel.”

The artist told me she is also at work in Hell’s Kitchen section of New York, to restore the only Arnold Belkin mural in existence now, “Against Domestic Colonialism.”

Penizzotto told me that her main focus is finishing her studies at Harvard, and to also find studio space in Somerville. She also wants to connect with our rich mother-lode of artist that live in our burg. We heartily welcome her!!

Celebrating Voices of Color/Feb 8/ Newton Free Library Poetry Series

 Director: Doug Holder

 Producer: Ellen Meyers

To register for the zoom reading go to:  https://newtonfreelibrary.libcal.com/event/7781303

Red Letter Poem #94

 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 #94

 

During an interview I did with the late poet Seamus Heaney, he commented: “…Poetry is born out of the superfluity of language's own resources and energy.  It's a kind of over-doing it.  Enough is not enough when it comes to poetry…This extraness may be subtle and reticent.  Or it may be scandalous and overdone.  But it is extra...”.  But as Western writers have learned from the sensibility at the core of much Asian poetry, it’s possible to achieve that sense of extra by doing, not more, but less.  The poet Aram Saroyan made that principle central in his career.  I find it curious that, while he is the award-winning author of numerous works of fiction, biography, memoir, drama and, of course, poetry, he is perhaps most famous for a poem consisting of a single word – a piece that became one of the most controversial poems in history.

 

Son of the novelist William Saroyan, Aram’s literary education began early and, during the 1960’s – a time of revolutionary experiments in verse – he began exploring minimalism and concrete poetry, influenced by poets like Robert Creeley and Louis Zukofsky.  Minimalism aims at achieving the maximum compression of a literary experience – not only making every word count, but every line break, punctuation mark, meaning-making device at the poet’s disposal.  The practice of concrete poetry extends far beyond the stereotypical ‘tree poem in the shape of a tree’ some of us remember from school projects; it was concerned with the visual field of the page and how the arrangement of letters and words created different forms of significance.  As the poet remembers the occasion of this groundbreaking piece, he had a friend visiting his Manhattan apartment who was anxious to head downtown to Le Metro Café, a spot where avant-garde artists and musicians hung out together.  But Aram, whose nimble mind was continually turning over possibilities, had an idea simmering, and could not leave before he’d come to a decision.  Once the notion took shape, he sat at his Royal manual and typed this single word in the center of a blank page:

 

lighght

 

Then they left for the café.  Aram was 22 years old at the time; his life was about to be irrevocably changed.

 

As the poet himself has written: “The difference between “lighght” and another type of poem with more words is that it doesn’t have a reading process…Even a five-word poem has a beginning, middle, and end. A one-word poem doesn’t. You can see it all at once. It’s instant.”  In this piece, he crafted an image that is experienced, much like a painting or photograph, rather than decoded.  And yet a part of our minds still wants to plumb it for meaning.   What did that doubling of the unpronounced gh do to the way we interpret the word?  Is there more pulsing radiation?  More silence?  Something like an elongated sunbeam?  Or are those two g’s staring out at us like eyes from a face, bathed in light?  Is it, perhaps, simply the sort of exuberant play most had schooled out of us during our so-called educations?

 

The story might have played out with far less drama except for the convergence of art and politics.  The poem was written in 1965, the very year a new federal agency was born: the National Endowment for the Arts.  A year or two later, the NEA created its first Literature Program and selected the noted writer/editor George Plimpton to assemble a poetry anthology.  At Robert Duncan’s recommendation, Aram’s poem was among the ones he included.  Each contributor was awarded $750. – one third going to the magazine that first printed the poem, and the remainder to the poet.  But this meant that – to a certain sort of mind – this poet was being paid the princely sum of $500. per word!  And that got under the skin of a few conservative Senators like William Scherle and Jesse Helms, and they used this outrageous waste of money as a cudgel for attacking the young arts organization.  Years after it was written, Ronald Reagan would still disparage the lighght poem as a symbol of elitist posturing.  It seems our culture wars have deeper roots than we may have imagined.

 

Aram eventually published whole books of minimalist pieces, including many one-word poems.  Here are a few favorites of mine:

 

j;u;n;g;l;e

 

and I can’t help but see the eyes, the paws of those beasts hiding in the underbrush.

 

Or this one:

 

Picassc

 

–  and this inventive spelling depicts, what?  An open eye? A Cubist mouth? A simple refusal to play by the old rules (the very spirit of his famous artist-subject?) 

 

Aram even has a poem that the Guinness Book used to call the shortest poem ever written – but, dear reader, I’ve run into a problem in trying to share it with you here.  The image he created is the single letter m except made with three humps.  Aram told me he was “doing paste-up work in the mid-Sixties at Academy Typing Service in New York. This was before computers allowed you to correct any mistake digitally. You had to correct a typing error by cutting it out of a typescript and pasting in a correct version. As I remember, a big m was part of a layout and I thought: how would it look if I added an extra hump.”  It seems the html code just can’t handle this as an image and issues a blank space in its stead.    But here is a link to a wonderful article where you can see the Saroyan m and read more about its significance: https://briefpoems.wordpress.com/tag/aram-saroyan/

 

This one-letter word-sculpture just tickles me to no end.  Am I seeing doorways or mountains?  Is this the depiction of the labial sound simply drawn out in pleasure?  Or, as one writer suggested, are we witnessing the cellular creation of the alphabet, as primordial m and n first pull apart to create their separate selves?

 

These are playful experiences, to be sure – but they’re what a painter-friend terms serious play, her definition for all art-making.  Their purpose is to stretch the boundaries of how we well-trained humans use language as a window on the world – or as a mirror that reflects the inner workings of our own minds.  And, in recent years, after Ugly Duckling Presse and Primary Information released the poet’s Complete Minimal Poems, Aram’s poems began attracting interest from a whole new generation of readers and writers who were, perhaps, less bound by the strictures I inherited from my high school English teachers many years ago.  Few creatures on this planet seem to possess complex and systematic language; and none but we humans have created our diverse writing systems for preserving that speech, that burgeoning thought.  I love how this poet devised his wholly unexpected ways of reminding us of the extra that Mr. Heaney praised, lurking within even the simplest of words.

 

Want to feel the very neurons tingling as you wade into and begin to decipher one of Aram’s minimalist pieces?  I’ll close with another favorite of mine:

 

 

Poem Recognizing Someone on the Street

e y ? h
e ? h e
h e y !

 

                                                ­­–– Aram Saroyan

 

 

 

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 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/3091-redletter-123121), 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.

 

Millrat Poems By Michael Casey

 

Millrat

Poems By Michael Casey

25th Anniversary Edition

Loom Press

Amesbury, Massachusetts www.loompress.com

ISBN: 978-1-7351689-7-5

Review by Dennis Daly

Once upon a time multileveled manufacturing plants with attached smokestacks, called mills or factories grew like mushrooms around waterfalls and river bends. They attracted the able-bodied, both men and women, who sought financial independence and dignity. What these seekers found instead in this soot-filled urban culture was a rite of passage for some, a technological trap for others, and a graveyard or graveyard road for the unlucky remainder.

Humor often got one through the interminable repetitions and the real dangers of modern machinery and toxic chemicals. Michael Casey knows this and nails the details of mill culture in his classic collection of poetic narratives entitled Millrat, which is being republished this year as a 25th Anniversary Edition by Loom Press.

Casey sets the mid-twentieth century atmosphere perfectly by opening with driving while under the influence, a poetic vignette on drunk driving, a common experience, regrettably, for many teenagers of that era. His first-person protagonist is a know-it-all snot-nosed kid, cruising with his friends in what is probably his first car. The car slams into a blinking yellow light, as cars do when driven by snot-nosed kids, who believe they have the grownup world figured out. Casey concludes the poem with just the right amount of irony and gritty dialect,

I get out and hide behind but

by this time I can see the flashing lights

and it was really something

the police cruiser goes around the rotary

takes the exit I took

and comes right to me

I was alone all my friends split

and they get me for leaving the scene

driving under the influence

and being a minor in possession

all kinds of stuff right?

I asked the guy found me

How’d you catch me?

He said he followed the leaking radiator

It leaked after the crash right?

fifty million dumb cops in the world

and this guy

has to be a genius

Throughout the collection Casey positions poems based on company posters intended to boost employee morale and promote work ethics. They effectively deliver their pop psychologies with unintended wry humor. Some are just laugh-out-loud funny. The first of these the poet titles “Positivity Poster.” Here is the heart of the piece,

…just some old fashioned ideas

avoiding waste

pride of craftsmen

work as a team

the worth of experience

all these add to the unequalled quality

at wholesale value

that make our patrons love us so

the new old fashioned

textile business

everyone in the mill

the dye house anyway

reading this stuff

would think of only one word bullshit

you can guess

what wall these posters were on

and without any effort at all

you memorize them

and with some creativity and even art

you write crude phrases

and drawings on them

it was a lot like a team effort

Respect for authority did not jump out at one upon entering the mill culture, and veterans of this work force were even less likely to defer to the demands of a foreman or manager type, at least immediately. Everyone, except new hires, had figured out their place in this society and defined it by the time it took for them to comply with any despotic order conveyed from above. Casey explains this phenomenon in his poem foreman,

Walter walked over to Alfred

and asked him

to mix up the soap

when he got the chance

and Alfred said

sure he’d do it

when he got the chance

but he never did it

so Walter walked over to Ronald

Ron why don’t ya make the soap up

when ya through what ya doin

and Ronald said

fuck you Walter

of course

Ronald went and mixed up the soap

when he got a chance

Between the mill and the neighborhoods that surrounded the mill no clear demarcation existed. Both of these rough-and-tumble inner-city zones fed into each other. Some factories doing government work had hard security to separate the two, like the General Electric in Lynn. Others, like Casey’s mill in Lowell allowed a freer interchange. The poet details a result of this overlap in his poem, the night the fight with Bill happened. The piece opens this way,

that same night

after they beat up Bill

they came back

don’t you know

shithead was mad

because Ray broke up the fight

and so he brought back his gang

a bunch of them

clean out the mill

that’s what he said

I’m gonna clean out the mill

the second shift upstairs

and the dye house

hears all the noise

ands runs down and runs up

and those assholes left fast enough

through the doors

out the windows

Forklifts are not complicated to drive. In any case most company bigwigs assume that their employees have certain basic skills and need not be bothered by training. Of course, postulations like this are terribly wrong and monumental accidents follow. In his poem, forklift driver, Casey laments the havoc that one driver, who guns his vehicle into the elevator door, can do. He says,

do you know how important

that fuckin elevator is?

Gus is up there yelling all over

for yarn and this is holdin up the knitting room

the napping room and the whole place

gonna be backed up now

they tell me Gus is pissin and moanin up there

like he was pissin razor blades

Very few poets chronicle this essential part of our culture’s history, which many of us, or our parents, or our grandparents participated in. Poets who choose mill/factory life and that type of work experience as their subjects are very few indeed. Casey’s wry verse compositions delving into this blue-collar bastion enlighten and exhilarate. His use of local language is spot on. What Casey does, he does very, very well.