Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, M.Ed., writing concentration, hails from the Northern Virginia/D.C. metro area. Born in Billerica, Massachusetts, she considers herself a writer by nature and by trade, having begun writing as soon as her mother helped teach her to read. A first-generation college graduate, she received her associates degree from Middlesex Community College, her bachelor’s in English from University of Massachusetts Lowell and her master’s in education with a writing concentration from Cambridge College. Her first published poem, “Remembering Thoreau,” appeared in ELF: Eclectic Literary Forum in in the early 1990s. Since then, her work has appeared in publications such as Yankee, Frogpond, Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Panapoly, North of Oxford, The Southern Quill and in dozens of other journals, anthologies, books and online media. Her poetry has been taught in secondary and post-secondary classrooms and workshops. As of 2023, she has had 12 books published and has received numerous awards and recognition for her work. 

She can be found on Threads, Instagram, Facebook, and LinkedIn.

Visit Katherine’s website to find more information about her, her books, and her work in charity.

Issue 6 of Subtext already! My wife (Erica) and I just got back from a vacation on the Big Island of Hawai’i, and it was marvelous. A much needed rest, relaxation, and unplugging (however brief) from the responsibilities of our normal, working lives. But, vacation is over. We are back home with our dogs, and oh-so-very not ready to head back into work tomorrow. Ah well.

However, we have an exciting issue of Subtext today, featuring a poem by Katherine Gotthardt called “Firefly.” This poem was one of eight honorable mentions in the 2023 Valiant Scribe poetry competition with the theme of “let there be light”, which had received over 1048 entries. So, first of all, a big “congratulations” to Katherine for her accomplishment with this poem! That’s very exciting for her to be an honorable mention in such a large poetry competition. So well done, Katherine. With that, let’s get this issue of Subtext going!

The world could use more fireflies.
Not in a jar, but brightening that space –
you know, the one between the space,
the night we stare into as we begin to meander

I am so in love with how this poem begins: “The world could use more fireflies.” Having rarely seen them myself, I agree. But I love how that line starts to pull us into the poem and what this poem is about. Love the imagery that fireflies evoke: I remember the first time I saw them in the Dakotas. Visiting family and going off into the hills at night and watching the voids and valleys come alive with glowing, flickering, blinking, and living lights. It’s beautiful. And the poem moves us with that image to fireflies in jars. Well, “not in a jar, but brightening that space – / you know, the one between the space.” I really enjoy what these lines are doing. Fireflies in jars is obviously a very common image, and one that I imagine most people have when they think of fireflies. So, I like how the poem moves us past that image very quickly and dismissively: “not in a jar.” But it spans the rest of the poem talking about that space between the space where the fireflies exist.

That image really just grabs me. And it brings me back to how I described the first time I saw fireflies as kind of filling the void between the hills. I know there’s a word for that (valleys), but the idea of the space between, the void between, the hills. Where there is nothing. Where there is everything. The space between is kind of the place in which we exist, isn’t it? You know, birth and death. Life is what’s in the middle of those two states. The space between. That line she wrote, “the one between the space” is probably my favorite line in the entire poem simply because of the image and the feeling that it provides me. For me, it is comforting and relaxing. It takes away stress and worry because they can’t exist in a space between. There’s no room. The space between also makes me think of the space between the lines of a poem, of these paragraphs I’m writing now. Between the letters, between breathes, between it all. It is nowhere and everywhere, nothing and everything. It is all that exists all at once that permeates and blends and folds into everything else.

I’m not sure I can explain the idea of what that line tells me clearly. Or that I’m even getting close. But the idea that the light, the fireflies and what they represent, can be so pervasive and everywhere. Think of all the spaces between: a hug, holding hands, a kiss, a wave goodbye, sharing a bed, shaking hands, an argument, an agreement, breaking up, making up. All of the spaces between. They exist everywhere. And Katherine explores this, as we move further into her poem (past the three lines I’ve looked at so far) and start to move to the following stanzas. And she moves us along:

…the night we stare into as we begin to meander

from metro riots to mom’s cancer,
from dad’s old, cracked belt to some scary president,
from welts, tears, steel words, missiles, earthquakes,
fires, flood, pandemics, and bad memories –
all broken up by a simple beacon:

the not-so-minor miracle of insects
sending love signals.

Here, Katherine brings us into the real world and all the pain and hurt and ache and evil and destruction and sorrow that comes with it. And how the bigness of the world can be countered by something so seemingly small and insignificant. The power of this poem starts to really come alive here. That first stanza is the spark and fire. It gets the imagery going and boiling, and then this second stanza throws in the meat and vegetables and lets the soup begin to simmer. The hot splashes of adding ingredients. The uncertainty of how a recipe will turn out. Because living can be bitter. The pain of politics and ideals and extremism and medical scares and death and abuse (verbal, physical, psychological, and more) and natural disasters. This is a heavy stanza, and it just unloads on you as you read it. And the final line. The reminder that is the space between. “All broken up by a simple beacon.”

But it’s so easy to focus on the big bads in our lives. It’s hard not to when they take up so much space. But Katherine reminds us the importance of the spaces between all the bad. Because even as big as it can all be, there are still spaces. There are always spaces.

Reminds me of Zeno’s paradoxes that I learned about in math in high school. Specifically, Zeno’s paradox of dichotomy. The dichotomy paradox basically suggests that in order to cross a distance, you must cross half the distance first, and this continues into infinity: you will always have to cross half the distance first (even as that distance gets infinitesimally smaller). By that paradox, you would never be able to reach your final destination, because you would always have half of the remaining distance to travel. See the Wikipedia article or other sources to get a better visual representation of this. But, it boils down to this: if you’re traveling one mile, you must first travel one half of a mile. And then you have half a mile left, which means you have to first travel one quarter of a mile (half of half a mile). Which means you have a quarter mile left, so you’ll know how to travel half of that. On and on and on. Confused? Great! Anyway, the idea of the space between everything just made me think of that, because sometimes, the space between might be so small we can’t even notice it. But it’s there. And because it’s there, the light and fireflies can be there. By this point, it should be clear that the fireflies and light represent something else (imagine I’ve added a winking face emoji here).

Now that we’ve talked about and learned about a mathematical and philosophical paradox (which is resolved with the introduction of finite distance, time, and speed in case you were wondering), we can get back to Katherine’s poem and talking about the space between. I’m sure I’ve said this many times already, but the concept of the space between really appeals to me. It’s such a fascinating concept and idea. It’s kind of a comforting to know that there is something all around us that’s always with us. And even provides some type of separation from the bad. It can insulate and shield. It can hold in the good.

And, in the poem, all of that bad is “broken up by a simple beacon: / the not-so-minor miracle of insects / sending love signals.” The simple strobe of fireflies looking for mates. But those lines are so powerful. Because it’s not really about fireflies looking for mates. Okay, well, obviously fireflies and their lights are about finding mates, but you know what I mean in the context of this poem. Bad memories are broken by a simple beacon. The miracle. Sending love signals. I love that. It reads different now, right? “All broken up by a simple beacon: / the not-so-minor miracle of insects / sending love signals.” Like the universe (or whatever you may believe in) is talking to us and letting us know it’s going to be okay. The magic of life just existing. Even in the spaces between we still get the signals of love and acceptance. It’s beautiful.

the not-so-minor miracle of insects
sending love signals. Of need meeting need
in empty evening, knowing one way or another,
it will work out, and the answer to everything
lies in a willingness to fly with the lights on.

This is such a great contrast to the previous stanza and its mixture of pain and ache and hurt. This one is soft and tender. Almost like a moment between two lovers. Need meeting need. Knowing it’s all going to work out and be okay. I love those final lines: “the answer to everything / lies in a willingness to fly with the lights on.” There is just something so special and awesome about that line. Flying with the lights on. We share the signal of love. We fill the spaces between and help others through their own darkness. We let them know about the spaces between. Second favorite line. Or maybe even tied for the first. I just love that idea, the “willingness to fly with the lights on.” Because it is such a change in mindset. To accept that things can be better. To accept love and spread love and to be aware of that space between and to embrace it. It’s beautiful. And that’s how the poem closes out.

It seems so simple, doesn’t it?
These bugs we caught as children,
released back into the blackness?
Believing in sparks? Luminous? Certain?
Making more of themselves?

Yes, it does seem so simple. Because it is. Because it’s about releasing that love, the bugs and their light, back into the blackness and the spaces between. Can we talk about how great that line is, as well? “Released back into the blackness.” Great alliteration and such a fantastic image. And the imagination, hope, and joy of a child. “Believing in sparks? Luminous? Certain?” The sparks line brings the warm kind of chill to me. It’s hope. Believing in and knowing that something is better. Being so full and certain to be luminous. To be brilliant and shining and overflowing with joy and love and hope and certainty.

“Making more of themselves?” The final stanza is full of questions. Is only questions. And that final one is a doozy. It’s about fireflies. It’s about love. It’s about joy. It’s about spreading that love and acceptance to others. Letting it grow. It’s fireflies reproducing, because they can’t, kept in a jar. Just like love and healing can’t happen when they are closed off. Gah, this poem is so good. And the choice to end on all these questions?

Throughout this entire poem, I’ve been absorbed by the idea of the space between. And it fills this poem. It runs through every stanza, every line, every word, and every letter. How light fills every crack and space and gap. How stars fill the void of space. How fireflies fill the void of hills. How love and acceptance can fill the void of hate and pain. The first time I read this poem when Katherine shared it, it left an impact on me. Reading through it over and over as I worked on this issue, it leaves an impact on me. This is such a good poem. It explores the darkness and the hurt of the world and relationships and all that exists. But it also explores the sometimes faint and almost non-existent light that’s in the world. In life. And it is everything. It is “the one between the space.”

I don’t think that line will ever leave me. Nor that idea.

I also have “Fireflies” by Owl City stuck in my head now. I’ll admit I almost played that song multiple times while reading Katherine’s poem. Great song, great poem. And there really is something absolutely magic about fireflies. I may go listen to that song now.

But Katherine, this is such a fantastic poem. I don’t think I can say enough good things about it. I appreciate you allowing me to feature you and this poem in Subtext and to really dive into it. I feel like I could keep going; like I could keep finding new things and slightly different readings. This poem shows your mastery and your skill. You packed so much into these four stanzas and it keeps tumbling over and over in my brain. That final stanza is going to stay with me, and the questions that it poses: “It seems so simple, doesn’t it?” Well done.