In Loving Memory of Renée Carol Newstein
1941-2012
I See
My sister – a perennialsprung from earth-
enware and grown
under duress. Fast forward:
that inflorescence, once pedicle-heavy
with dew seeping into roots hungry for nourishment,
now rides the tail end of a brusque breeze carrying the
fly-away bloom far from her deep rooted stem. And I
see her soaring and pray she revels in the winged
glide all birds have known, the drift upward,
uprooted, free of a dark sapping found-
ation, her petals flown, destined to
land whole in an unbroken
stream of consciousness
in an everlasting flow
of harmony and
tranquility.
In Loving Memory of Some Fine Poets (Ruth’s tutors and mentors)
Kate Light — she is so missed. Aside from being a fine poet, violinist, and librettist, she was a great poetry teacher. She wouldn’t let you get away with “just so” work. Her critical ear was always on high alert. She was extremely keen and insightful and her sensibilities were so in tune with human emotion, yet her poetry didn’t reflect the maudlin or emphatic or flowery. Her love and adeptness of the formal poem were admirable and are what set her apart from the norm of contemporary poets. Kate died April 13, 2017.
Kate
i wish you had let me know you were dying not to say — not to call — not to… i understand yet wish i’d known i wish i’d told you how much i care not to say — not to call — not to… i hope you understood — wish i’d known wish i’d dared to know how you were doing wish i’d known closing my eyes — my heart against the fear i felt — the fear i felt for you would haunt me all the more not knowing wish i’d known you weren’t getting better so i could have said goodbye without letting on i knew that goodbye was forever
On November 26th, 2006, in Davis Square, Somerville MA, Ibbetson Street Press Pushcart nominees each read their nominated poems. Ruth’s friend and ex-poetry teacher, Sarah Hannah, read Ruth’s poem “on yet another birthday” in her absence — one of the many kindnesses Sarah had shown Ruth over the years. Just six months after that reading, on May 23, 2007, Sarah took her own life.
For Sarah
My friend, mine is a beating heart,
a poem bursting to come forth; yours
has stopped. No writer’s block
induced dormancy. Stopped for good.
Oh, that yours would still beat out poems.
No matter how dark, we’d listen,
we’d learn, we’d understand and maybe
you’d be here now. Perhaps
a Sonnet with its turn moving to depths
of utter bleakness, assonance resounding
in the second stanza. No resolution fit
for dreamy eyes to rest upon.
Blank Verse of rhyme-absent
syllabic runs, each iambic line
symbolic unto itself, each stanza break
a whip crack, a heart breaking.
A Villanelle, whose repeating end-
rhymed lines bleed their way down
to a finale punctuated by a question
mark and dead silence.
A Sestina of razor-sharp repetition
echoing the i in cry — lament that pierces
through stanza upon stanza, until
reaching literary heights of irony.
Oh, that we’d hear more from you. No
matter how dark the sound, we’d listen,
we’d learn, we’d understand and maybe
you’d be here now.
And yet another tragic death by suicide Dec. 24th, 2009: Ruth’s very first poetry teacher (at the 92nd Street Y in New York City), an award winning poet and scholar, Rachel Wetzsteon. Ruth had also studied privately with Rachel, and it was Rachel who’d recommended Sarah Hannah to Ruth.
For Rachel
dare i say
i’m mad so mad
with grief i
can barely speak
much less write the kind
of words meant
to voice what we’ve lost—
what you’ve done
the unbelievable
incomprehensible
the terrible hell thinking
how you must’ve felt
sinking so low you
saw nowhere left to go
no poem left
to lift you back
no earthly poem
you’ll ever write again
your poems now vaporizing
scrawls of clouds across
a slate-gray sky below
a constant class where you
the consummate teacher
teach no lesson we care to learn