Poetry review – TRACKS IN SNOW: Charles Rammelkamp sees past the superficial assessment that Thaddeus Rutkowski’s poems are light and understated
Tracks in Snow
Thaddeus Rutkowski
Finishing Line Press, 2026
$22.99, 86 pages
ISBN: 979-8-89990-510-0
At the end of the poem, “What to Wear,” in which he considers the clothing he puts on – ‘I rarely think about what I’m going to wear. / I usually wear what’s most comfortable’ – Thaddeus Rutkowski observes that he prefers to wear black when he has to meet people,
because black is a serious color,
and at heart I’m a serious person,
though on the outside I may not show it.
Rutkowski is a great noticer of small things that may seem inconsequential, so at times he may come off as random and whimsical, but underlying all of his poetic ruminations are serious questions about existence and sometimes about injustice. This is not to say that he isn’t amusing; at times he can be downright hilarious. Take the poem “Doctor Urine.” It reads:
My mother says she is going to see her hearing doctor,
whose name is Dr. Urine.
I don’t think I heard her correctly,
but she says she has an appointment with him,
this Dr. Urine.
I don’t know the doctor’s real name,
but I’m pretty sure it’s not Urine.
Maybe I’m the one who needs a hearing aid.
Even without the self-deprecating punchline at the conclusion, it’s hard not to chuckle, but it’s also worth noting his overriding concern about his mother’s well-being. But take the poem, “‘Cherish’ Is the Word,” whose title may be a playful reference to the old Association pop song from the 1960s. Talk about “serious,” here we have Rutkowski pondering profound philosophical questions involving epistemology and consciousness, about community, brotherhood, living in a society, but deliberating in a casual tone, as if merely thinking out loud.
Can I cherish each moment as it is happening?
The question assumes that something is cherishable
and that it can be identified at a particular moment.
Do I have good friends at this moment?
Do I know who they are?
Do I have loved ones?
I might have both,
even if they are not present in my consciousness.
But if they come into my awareness,
then I can find something to cherish in this moment.
The poems in Tracks in Snow are all short, lines and stanzas brief, an economy of words, as is plain from the two already quoted in full. Often they involve a kind of “mystery” that causes the poet to give the matter some thought. In the title poem, for instance, he notices animal tracks that seem to be approaching his house but then stop and go back the way they came. From their appearance they seem to belong to a squirrel (‘hopping, / not walking, not loping, not sprinting’) and he wonders what made the animal turn around. He speculates about food, warmth, family entering into the animal’s calculations. Again, it’s a short poem, two nine-line stanzas, and it comes to no conclusions. The speculation itself is the whole point, Rutkowski’s mind at work.
“Flying Solo” is another poem in which a random incident sparks a meditation. The poet sees one single butterfly zigzagging south, as if headed toward Mexico to join the flocks of monarchs that have already migrated there. He imagines this single insect’s struggle to join its mates, ‘winging its heart out / to get to its wintering ground.’
In several poems, Rutkowski, who lives in New York City, writes about East River Park. In “Scent of Grilling” he smells smoke there, ‘but it isn’t the residue of Canadian wildfires.’ It’s from several groups of people celebrating graduations and birthdays.
In the shade of the tree leaves,
disco beats fill the air
as families celebrate with cookouts
in the sliver of the park
that hasn’t been bulldozed yet.
Yet. Rutkowski laments the destruction of his beloved park. In “Black Squirrel” he observes a black squirrel cavorting in ‘the torn-up park.’ In “Activist” he describes a young woman who wears a deer’s head when she takes part in protests. She has been arrested for jumping the fence to get into the park.
But all was not in vain.
“We saved four trees,” she tells me.
“Looking for Liberty” describes a conversation with a stranger who wants to take a boat to the Statue of Liberty. The conversation takes place ‘At the tail end of the wasteland / that was once East River Park.’ You can feel his foreboding without his having to state it.
utkowski is also fond of the pigeons that live in the airshaft of the apartment building he and his family inhabit. He looks out for them. ‘I may be disconnected from people, / but I’m connected to some birds,’ he says in “Close to Birds,” and in “Trapped Bird,” “Rescue Mission,” and “Nesting Pigeon” he goes on to describe caring for the animals that most others regard simply as a nuisance.
Understatement is a prominent characteristic of Rutkowski’s poems. This is especially affecting when he writes about his family, his Chinese mother and Polish father. “Where My Brother Went” is a short poem in which he talks to his daughter about his brother’s sea burial (‘I remember pouring his ashes off the side of a boat / a mile or so off the California coast’). “How to Get There,” “Mother Knows Best,” and “Freedom of Choice” (not to mention “Doctor Urine” and others) are about his mother, who is clearly diminishing with age in the poems. “Freedom of Choice” begins:
My mother asked her doctor,
“How long do I have?”
Then she explains to me why she asked:
“I believe in freedom of choice,
the freedom to choose when to end it.”
The doctor said, “You could have six months,
or you could have six years. We really don’t know.”
A poem about his father’s alcoholism is no less affecting in its understatement. Similarly, “Two Colors,” “Dark Skin” and “Category ‘Other’” are muted references to his biracial heritage. In the latter, he describes filling out the demographic questions on official forms. If given the opportunity, he will check the “Eurasian” box for ethnicity, but it’s not always available. ‘Later,’ he tells us,
I might see the results of my answer
on a visit-summary sheet from a doctor.
I’ll see numbers for blood pressure, triglycerides,
hemoglobin, potassium, sodium, oxygen,
along with “Race: Refused to disclose.”
I didn’t refuse. I just wasn’t given enough choices.
I’ll tell anyone who and what I am,
but a general “Person of Color” is never there,
and “Asian” is only half the story.
“Asian” describes my mother, not me.
His baffled reaction is apparent, but you can tell he’s not going to make a big deal out of it. Thaddeus Rutkowski’s poems are serious and lighthearted at the same time, elegant statements in which he is able to pack a remarkable range of feeling in just a few lines.
Aug 13 2026
London Grip Poetry Review – Thaddeus Rutkowski
Poetry review – TRACKS IN SNOW: Charles Rammelkamp sees past the superficial assessment that Thaddeus Rutkowski’s poems are light and understated
Tracks in Snow
Thaddeus Rutkowski
Finishing Line Press, 2026
$22.99, 86 pages
ISBN: 979-8-89990-510-0
At the end of the poem, “What to Wear,” in which he considers the clothing he puts on – ‘I rarely think about what I’m going to wear. / I usually wear what’s most comfortable’ – Thaddeus Rutkowski observes that he prefers to wear black when he has to meet people,
because black is a serious color,
and at heart I’m a serious person,
though on the outside I may not show it.
Rutkowski is a great noticer of small things that may seem inconsequential, so at times he may come off as random and whimsical, but underlying all of his poetic ruminations are serious questions about existence and sometimes about injustice. This is not to say that he isn’t amusing; at times he can be downright hilarious. Take the poem “Doctor Urine.” It reads:
My mother says she is going to see her hearing doctor,
whose name is Dr. Urine.
I don’t think I heard her correctly,
but she says she has an appointment with him,
this Dr. Urine.
I don’t know the doctor’s real name,
but I’m pretty sure it’s not Urine.
Maybe I’m the one who needs a hearing aid.
Even without the self-deprecating punchline at the conclusion, it’s hard not to chuckle, but it’s also worth noting his overriding concern about his mother’s well-being. But take the poem, “‘Cherish’ Is the Word,” whose title may be a playful reference to the old Association pop song from the 1960s. Talk about “serious,” here we have Rutkowski pondering profound philosophical questions involving epistemology and consciousness, about community, brotherhood, living in a society, but deliberating in a casual tone, as if merely thinking out loud.
Can I cherish each moment as it is happening?
The question assumes that something is cherishable
and that it can be identified at a particular moment.
Do I have good friends at this moment?
Do I know who they are?
Do I have loved ones?
I might have both,
even if they are not present in my consciousness.
But if they come into my awareness,
then I can find something to cherish in this moment.
The poems in Tracks in Snow are all short, lines and stanzas brief, an economy of words, as is plain from the two already quoted in full. Often they involve a kind of “mystery” that causes the poet to give the matter some thought. In the title poem, for instance, he notices animal tracks that seem to be approaching his house but then stop and go back the way they came. From their appearance they seem to belong to a squirrel (‘hopping, / not walking, not loping, not sprinting’) and he wonders what made the animal turn around. He speculates about food, warmth, family entering into the animal’s calculations. Again, it’s a short poem, two nine-line stanzas, and it comes to no conclusions. The speculation itself is the whole point, Rutkowski’s mind at work.
“Flying Solo” is another poem in which a random incident sparks a meditation. The poet sees one single butterfly zigzagging south, as if headed toward Mexico to join the flocks of monarchs that have already migrated there. He imagines this single insect’s struggle to join its mates, ‘winging its heart out / to get to its wintering ground.’
In several poems, Rutkowski, who lives in New York City, writes about East River Park. In “Scent of Grilling” he smells smoke there, ‘but it isn’t the residue of Canadian wildfires.’ It’s from several groups of people celebrating graduations and birthdays.
In the shade of the tree leaves,
disco beats fill the air
as families celebrate with cookouts
in the sliver of the park
that hasn’t been bulldozed yet.
Yet. Rutkowski laments the destruction of his beloved park. In “Black Squirrel” he observes a black squirrel cavorting in ‘the torn-up park.’ In “Activist” he describes a young woman who wears a deer’s head when she takes part in protests. She has been arrested for jumping the fence to get into the park.
But all was not in vain.
“We saved four trees,” she tells me.
“Looking for Liberty” describes a conversation with a stranger who wants to take a boat to the Statue of Liberty. The conversation takes place ‘At the tail end of the wasteland / that was once East River Park.’ You can feel his foreboding without his having to state it.
utkowski is also fond of the pigeons that live in the airshaft of the apartment building he and his family inhabit. He looks out for them. ‘I may be disconnected from people, / but I’m connected to some birds,’ he says in “Close to Birds,” and in “Trapped Bird,” “Rescue Mission,” and “Nesting Pigeon” he goes on to describe caring for the animals that most others regard simply as a nuisance.
Understatement is a prominent characteristic of Rutkowski’s poems. This is especially affecting when he writes about his family, his Chinese mother and Polish father. “Where My Brother Went” is a short poem in which he talks to his daughter about his brother’s sea burial (‘I remember pouring his ashes off the side of a boat / a mile or so off the California coast’). “How to Get There,” “Mother Knows Best,” and “Freedom of Choice” (not to mention “Doctor Urine” and others) are about his mother, who is clearly diminishing with age in the poems. “Freedom of Choice” begins:
My mother asked her doctor,
“How long do I have?”
Then she explains to me why she asked:
“I believe in freedom of choice,
the freedom to choose when to end it.”
The doctor said, “You could have six months,
or you could have six years. We really don’t know.”
A poem about his father’s alcoholism is no less affecting in its understatement. Similarly, “Two Colors,” “Dark Skin” and “Category ‘Other’” are muted references to his biracial heritage. In the latter, he describes filling out the demographic questions on official forms. If given the opportunity, he will check the “Eurasian” box for ethnicity, but it’s not always available. ‘Later,’ he tells us,
I might see the results of my answer
on a visit-summary sheet from a doctor.
I’ll see numbers for blood pressure, triglycerides,
hemoglobin, potassium, sodium, oxygen,
along with “Race: Refused to disclose.”
I didn’t refuse. I just wasn’t given enough choices.
I’ll tell anyone who and what I am,
but a general “Person of Color” is never there,
and “Asian” is only half the story.
“Asian” describes my mother, not me.
His baffled reaction is apparent, but you can tell he’s not going to make a big deal out of it. Thaddeus Rutkowski’s poems are serious and lighthearted at the same time, elegant statements in which he is able to pack a remarkable range of feeling in just a few lines.