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I was teaching Melville's story, "Bartleby, the Scrivener," which concludes with the revelation that Bartleby used to be a subordinate clerk in the Dead Letter Office at Washington DC. Melville uses this setting as a metaphor for mortal hopelessness, misdirected communication, and loneliness.
I thought I knew of a poem about a dead letter office, but I could not find it. What I stumbled upon was the brief anonymous text here.
I found the letter I never gave you
and wondered if anything
would have changed if I did.
The paper felt lighter than I remember,
like time had taken some of its weight away.
I read it again
and so who I was back then
ready to be honest,
just not brave enough to follow through.
I don't know if it was intended as poetry, but it seemed to be a poem the way it appeared online. And that got me thinking about letters that are never received or never sent.
I thought of Emily Dickinson's letter to the world.
This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,--
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!
There are a variety of epistolary poems in the form of letters but the ones that interest us this month are ones that never were sent or received. The reasons why vary. Here are a few examples
"Letter to N.Y." by Elizabeth Bishop is a letter you couldn't send.
In your next letter I wish you'd say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays, and after the plays
what other pleasures you are pursuing:..
Letter Beginning with Two Lines by Czesław Miłosz by Matthew Olzmann:
You whom I could not save,
Listen to me.
Can we agree Kevlar
backpacks shouldn’t be needed
for children walking to school?
It is about gun violence and school shootings, and the title and opening lines invoke Miłosz’s poem “Dedication”, both poems attempting to bridge historical atrocities with modern, senseless acts. Who is it addressed to? All of us.
A famous letter poem is Sylvia Plath's "Daddy." This confessional work is about a daughter breaking free from the painful, controlling memory of her dead father (and her husband). Plath uses nursery rhyme rhythms alongside Holocaust and vampire metaphors in her rejection of male control.
Looking at her poem led me to her poet husband, Ted Hughes. His poem about a letter and his correspondence with Sylvia is contained in "The Last Letter." (More about that on our blog)
For our September issue, we were looking for poems that are letters never sent or never received, or poems about letters never sent
or received. They might be in the form of a letter, but that is not a requirement.
“I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.”
- Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
UNSENT APOLOGY
When I got back home, the sun
rested uneasily over a collar of hills,
warm air wavered, cratering onto the street.
Sparrows winged chaotically from here to there,
visibly frantic over which way to go.
I’ve been moving like them too long,
but unlike them, alone, at times hopeful.
But closer to where I’d see you
again, where your ease could absorb me,
just seemed a fictive oasis to me.
Thoughts of explaining this to you now
mass like the murder of crows outside.
The press to explain not showing up
weakens like the fury of the summer
sun at dusk, setting crows to flight.
Rob Friedman
GHAZAL FOR LETTERS NEVER SENT TO A NOWHERE MOM
I look towards your chair, you aren't there mom.
You say you're leaving, but where mom?
I'm only six years old, just beginning school
and reading chapter books, don't you care mom?
I sink my head into my tattered stuffie.
Who will sew the tie back on my Yogi Bear mom?
Next summer when the days are hot
will you come by and cut my hair mom?
Dad does not speak of you as the years go by
but I see the pieces of your foolish affair mom.
We learned to cook dinners together,
hug tight everyday and share, mom.
Dad married a mother who holds my tears,
so, enjoy your solitaire mom.
I don't want a Dear Leslay letter from you,
my heart is complete, nothing to repair mom.
Leslayann Schecterson
LETTER TO THE BOY WHO LOST HIS CAT
Like everybody else in the world - no matter what they may claim -
I don't know what happens when what was once a living being
that we knew and loved - disappears from life.
It's hard to say what a soul is - where it goes or what
becomes of it. Although "angel" means messenger, I have
more than a suspicion that they do not answer to some
super angel somewhere beyond in the sky or any place else.
What I do have reason to believe is that something like goodness
or gentleness, kindness, care - something benevolent - never dies.
I believe "angels" exist and are, in very down to earth terms,
like a gathering of goodness.
So, lad, to make you perhaps a bit less sad, you might think that
Angel, who your mom describes as a very nice cat, indeed
a very special feline friend, has now joined with other forces
of goodness in the universe to keep goodness alive.
If you like the idea - hold on to it. Nobody really knows for sure.
A LETTER TO THE TWELVETH GRADE WHERE I WAS A HOMECOMING PRINCESS
I wrote a letter to you
but it was all about me
the resting bitch face
in the school portrait
That was me cheering
in the back row of the squad
with undexterous hands
and stiff knees
That was me
at the center of the bleachers
like I owned the school
That was me
drawing the D I got in physics
into a half-moon
That was the me
you can no longer see
who drowned in the mirror
like in a Sylvia Plath poem
DEAR QUIQUE,
How can we thank you for saving us from
the flood? A dangerous job. One slip
of judgment, you could have been swept away
in an instant. It made me realize how fond
we are of you, we’d be lost without you.
Can you understand my English better than I
understand yours? A word like “love”
has so many meanings. I won’t send this letter,
it might fall into the wrong hands, might
be investigated by DOJ or ICE . . . who knows,
these days? You’re practically part of
the family, all these years. May you prosper
in what ought to be our land
of opportunity for the good, the skilled,
the faithful, and the brave. May you always
be here as our neighbor.
THE LETTER
remains on the shelf by the mirror
unsent
written in another season
spring
now autumn, world changing
unstoppable
They changed the rate for
stamps
so this one is inadequate
appropriately
It's too late for everything.
letters
apologies
spring
things in the mirror
Brandon Baum
DECEMBER DECEPTION
My daughter has written a letter to Santa
with fat Crayolas in Christmas colors.
She has asked for Legos, stuffies and NeeDohs,
none of which she knows how to spell.
"Santa's not real," her brother scoffs,
but she knows he is wrong,
for just last week at the local mall,
she sat on the lap of the man himself.
To her, the world is a magical place
where fairies frolic in backyard gardens
and slink under pillows late at night,
swapping coins for baby teeth.
But all too soon, she'll discard her wonder
like wrapping paper on Christmas day.
So for now, I give her an envelope,
help her address it to Mr. Claus,
and when she's cozily tucked into bed,
bury it in the recycling bin.
Susan Spaeth Cherry
DEAR PROPHETESS,
I am full of questions, and you are the one
to provide answers. After all, you were there
when God called out the seductive-eyed women
walking trippingly about, ankle bangles tingling,
turbaned heads as prideful as the full-of-attitude
peacock in full Couture fashion; when men acted
as if evil were good and good, evil, heeding not
the covenant established with Father Abraham;
when nations warred against their Creator and
against each other, establishing alliances to devour
vineyards and grind the faces of the poor.
Tell me, what was it like to live in the same house
with God’s mouthpiece, with one who listened
so intently to the Divine? Yielding to his Maker
even when instructed to loosen his sackcloth and
go barefoot for three years? Barefoot and naked
for three years! How humiliating! For him! For you!
Especially for you! And can we talk about the time
he saw the Lord high and lifted-up, in all that glory
and splendor? Holy smoke! For the months
that followed, he must have felt the bed shake,
imagined seraphim singing night and day.
And pray tell, how long did he go about
humming Holy, Holy, Holy? You know,
like we do when a tune gets stuck in our heads.
And that burning coal that touched his lips.
Surely, it scarred his mouth a little—to attest to
the veracity of the vision?
And, Lady Isaiah, we women are dying to know—
were you a real prophetess? Describing doom and
talking in riddles like your husband? We are still
trying to figure out why he would tell the people
to listen but don’t understand. To be honest,
we are thinking you were given the seer title
because you were the prophet’s wife. No big deal
if that were the case because he was so big
you would have lived under his shadow anyway,
even if you had had the gift of oracles.
When we think about it, he might be the biggest
prophet to have ever lived! After all, he foretold
of the child who would be The Wonderful Counselor,
The Mighty God, Eternal Father and Prince of Peace.
And his prophecy held! And is still holding to this day!
Well, I’ve poured out my heart, probably burdening you
with all my questions. But please, prophetess, one more—
for all of us women living here in the twenty-first century.
How did you respond to Isaiah when he told you
your son would be called Maher-shalal-hash-baz?
Sincerely,
DEAD LETTER
In eight short days I’ll be at your memorial.
And, as your oldest living relative, I’ll be called
upon to speak. But after all the years we had together,
I’m afraid I won’t know what to say. I’d ask you
your opinion, if I could. If you changed your mind,
since we talked about this on our last fishing trip.
About which of us would be the first to die, how
the other would be there to help the family say goodbye.
You told me then, you didn’t want a funeral. No high
minded, formal eulogy. You said we ought to have a party
to celebrate the good times that we’d had together and
send you off in style. You’ll be pleased to know that
is exactly what your widow has in store for us.
I sometimes think life’s like a jigsaw puzzle. Each of us
you left behind is like a piece. Some cluster near the center,
some anchor a corner or line up somewhere along an edge.
Each piece is unique; each has it’s own coloring and shape.
Each is a perfect fit. Each piece belongs. There are no holes,
no missing pieces. Although their pieces may be faded, even
those who’ve gone before are still a part of us. If this is true,
whatever I might say next week is less important, than having
all those pieces in one place … to celebrate your life
and our connection ... honor who you were to all of us.
Frank Kelly
LOST LOVE LETTERS
They came too late,
those lost love
letters.
There was no reply.
There could be no reply
when there was nothing to say.
You said
that seeing
the unopened piles
cut you like a knife.
But that was later
when I was deaf
to you
long after
we were over.
And now all is done.
I think it’s done.
HELEN
Two years ago
I sat to write a surprise letter
Our sixtieth years; only 12 days apart
Decades since we’d last met
I needed an address
Instead found an obit
Memories of us
Two women in their twenties
Coworkers then friends
Both different and alike
I sat and made a list
Of all things Helen
Or at least Helen to me
I looked for an address
Of a niece whose name I recalled
No longer the baby I used to hear about
Do I say that I did not respond
To her aunt’s last letter?
That if I look I may still have
the return address
saved in my top dresser drawer
And so what? A letter never sent is still
just that
I should have said
how happy I was for her in her new home
How small I’d been
to have not replied at all
but how very glad I was
to have learned she had found
love and happiness
To what purpose do I write?
For Helen? Her niece? For myself?
Immobilized by uneasy feelings
Will sorry words spill forth?
Is the penance in writing?
Or in holding onto what is regrettable
and shameful?
Ugly, unspoken things
still needing somewhere to hide
Terri J. Guttilla
DEAR MEDEA
I love you—always have. Writing from a jungle bunker
If you’re reading this missive I hoped to never send
then I am dead, another meaningless Vietnam casualty—
just a daily figure newscasters contrast to the number of VC killed.
(Your brother would’ve burnt this had I come home alive.)
I’ve learned to shelter pain transferring debilitating injuries
into visual scars rather than submitting to the clutch
of life’s exhausting open sores, oozing and infected…,
a skill I planned to bring back to you and apply as we
march through the swampy battlefields of our relationship
both of us emerging diplomatic victors from everlasting
unjustifiable conflicts, sidestepping bare-bone beginnings
of societal skirmishes, onslaughts, and atrocities ad infinitum.
At night when artillery fire illuminates ebon skies
I sustained sanity thinkings of festive summer eves
on the Fourth of July when you and I would feed
each other kumquats, swaying in the basket swing
on your disapproving parent’s front porch…kissing
in time to the clink of the hanging chains far above.
When human screams amid earsplitting explosions
and ceaseless shots from automatic rifles, I meditate
on the past and recall you playing me your dulcimer
to ease my stress or lift my all frequent oppression,
never thinking, “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”
would foretell our future bond in time’s vicious cycle.
Forgive me for neglecting replies to your letters.
You deserved better. Ashamed of my military exploits
and the lengths I have gone just to stay alive, I knew
relating a soldier’s realities in world where the daily
sight, sound, smell of bleeding, burning bodies breads
paranoia and encourages drug use would bring you
neither joy nor amusement but possibly push us apart….
I hoped for a homecoming—and your companionship—
sealing my service record, erasing my sins, regrets,
and gun barrel aggression from common memory,
reborn through your intelligence, tender, loving arms
and firm embrace, we’d be complimentary, complete,
as I’d hope to recapture innocence in a country divided.
Dream about me as a worthier person, M.—your Jason
Sterling Warner
DEAR MAGGIE MURPHY
May I call you Grandma,
Though I never saw you, never heard your voice?
Pat, my dad, your youngest son, said you liked to laugh
When you talked to your sister on your new telephones
Even though your big Victorian homes were almost next
Door. Is that how a woman with eight sons, half of them
Alcoholics, survives? “She died before you were born,”
Everyone told me, as if that was all I needed from you.
But I have always longed for your fragrance, tried to find
Scraps, pebbles, petals and floating feathers of who you were.
My father adored you and bragged that the most lucrative
Lead mine in the county, the Maggie Murphy Mine, was named
In your honor by my grandfather before you married him.
Dad also took me to your gravestones in the old cemetery, white
Marble monuments for you and Grandpa and one of your sons who
Died young, overgrown now with weeds and dandelions, their puffy
Seeds floating off in the hot summer wind. Later, we visited Saint
Patrick’s, the little brick church where all ten of you never missed
A Mass, and your sister’s family, boys and girls, filled the pews beside you.
After you died, some of these children, grown up, erected a stained
Glass window in memory of you and your precious sister, Rose Anna.
In the quiet sanctuary, smelling of sacred chrism, the light floated through the
Window, sending colors past the altar rail and on to the statue of Mary,
Hiding in the shadows. The hues came over me in a slide of sight,
Filling the spaces, first with dawn’s deep pink, falling on the old
Roses by your back yard gate, always unlocked so the hungry hobos
During the Great Depression could come in from the alley for a meal.
Then came the intense red of cardinals singing in the catalpas,
The dark green, of spring maple leaves. Were your eyes green like mine?
The blue of summer hydrangeas and jay birds was for you, who never
Saw an ocean, next to golden yellow when morning sunlight poured over
All of you in the happy days of lemon meringue pies and corn from the clean
Fields beyond the lead mines. The last shade is
The poignant mauve of grief and grace in the quiet twilight.
Thank you, Grandma. You are here with me.
Rose Anna Higashi