January 6, 2025: "The Death of Marilyn Monroe," Life-Changing, "Recipe for a New Year"

All day, I've been seeing social media posts about the January 6th Insurrection.  (If you are a Trump supporter or election denier, stop reading this post right now.  You're just going to get pissed off.)  I remember watching the news footage of the Capitol under siege by that stupid, angry mob and feeling like I was watching the collapse of democracy.  It changed the way I viewed my country and the people who live here.

We all experience life-changing moments.  Sometimes, they're huge--the Challenger exploding.  Sometimes, they're tiny and personal--the loss of a beloved pet.  And we're never the same again.

Sharon Olds writes about a life-changing event . . . 

The Death of Marilyn Monroe

by: Sharon Olds

The ambulance men touched her cold
body, lifted it, heavy as iron,
onto the stretcher, tried to close the
mouth, closed the eyes, tied the
arms to the sides, moved a caught
strand of hair, as if it mattered,
saw the shape of her breasts, flattened by
gravity, under the sheet,
carried her, as if it were she,
down the steps.

These men were never the same. They went out
afterwards, as they always did,
for a drink or two, but they could not meet
each other's eyes.

                         Their lives took
a turn--one had nightmares, strange
pains, impotence, depression. One did not
like his work, his wife looked
different, his kids. Even death
seemed different to him--a place where she
would be waiting,

and one found himself standing at night
in the doorway to a room of sleep, listening to a
woman breathing, just an ordinary
woman
breathing.

I returned to work this morning after two weeks of being away from it all--library, university, events, responsibilities.  (Okay, I still had responsibilities, but I had a LOT more time to take care of them.)  It was a difficult climb up the stairs to my office, full of anticipatory dread for the unending pile of emails, letters, cards, phone messages.  

But then I rolled up my sleeves and got busy.  By around 4 p.m., after eight-plus hours of steady work, I was pretty exhausted.  I accomplished quite a bit, but it was a like trying to break up an iceberg with a toothpick.  The list of tasks never got any smaller.

The one, tiny life-changing part of today--a Christmas card a wonderful poet friend dropped off for me at the library while I was on vacation.  It contained a simple, handwritten greeting, plus a holiday poem stunning in its love and hope.  It made returning to work almost worth it.  Almost.  At least it buoyed me for the rest of the day.

Now, late at night, sitting on my couch, I'm tired and can only think of my pillow, my blanket, and a few hours of sleep before I have to do it all over again.  Perhaps, when I sit at my desk tomorrow morning, I'll read my poet friend's Christmas card and poem again.  Because they remind me that there is still light and joy in the world.

Saint Marty has a new poem about carving out life in the new year.  It's based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Write a poem that begins with the image of a stone, then add at least five of these words to it:  kamikaze, landslide, spill, bridge, vaccine, read, red, hollow, mismatch, tilt, freeway, pillow, harmonica, fairy shrimp.  For extra credit, have the poem end with a soup image.

Recipe for a New Year

by: Martin Achatz

I remember reading or hearing

a story about Michelangelo

and stone, how he could gaze

at a slab of marble, see muscled

limbs, bridges of noses, pillows

of curly hair, the fairy shrimp

of penis nestled in that hollow

where legs meet.  This may be

a fable told by a bored tour

guide in Florence, but today,

at the cusp of this new year,

I contemplate the stone before

me, try to discern the form

and shape of the next 365 days.

Will it be a landslide, me

buried under rubble by December 31st?

Or a freeway filled with kamikaze

cars trying to get ahead of me,

beat me to Old Faithful, Gettysburg,

Devils Tower?  

But I'm not Michelangelo, can't feel 

a warm hand reaching through 

the veined rock to guide my fingers

as I start chiseling, shaving

away.  Maybe I'll save the scraps

in a bag, put them some place

safe, make soup with them

at year's end, like the hungry 

strangers in the old tale

who convince the townspeople

to share their chicken, barley, rice, 

add them to the marble broth,

make a feast everyone can

savor, like a pond of water lilies 

or the body of a beautiful boy.

January 5, 2025: "Nevsky Prospekt," Last Day, "Walt Whitman Reads a Poem at the Inauguration of Donald Trump"

I woke this morning, the last day of my holiday vacation, confused and panicked, thinking I had Rip Van Winkled myself into Monday.  For several moments, I lay in bed, full of dread, cataloguing a list of duties and responsibilities in my head.

Then, my wife reminded me it was only Sunday.

I've never dealt well with transitions, moving from one state of being to another.  Ask anyone who knows me well, and that person will most likely tell you that I'm a creature of habit and routine.  I eat the same breakfast every day.  (Crackers, hardboiled eggs, grapes.)  Watch the same movie over and over for days, sometimes weeks.  (My current obsession--Ken Burns' documentary on the life of Mark Twain.)  Write in my blog about the same poet for an entire year.  (Mary Oliver two years ago.  Billy Collins last year.  This year, Sharon Olds.)  

So, having to establish a new routine after these two weeks of downtime is going to be r-o-u-g-h.  In a week, I start teaching two classes for the university, and, in two weeks, the Felon in Chief becomes President of the United States again.  Can I have some Xanax with a chaser of Prozac, please?

Of course, I have poetry to calm my agitated heart and soul and mind.  When I write, I gain some sense of control over my life.  I don't feel quite so overwhelmed with my pen and journal in my hand.  Usually.

More about the dead from Sharon Olds . . . 

Nevsky Prospekt

(July, 1917)

by: Sharon Olds

It is an old photo, very black and

very white.  One woman

lifts up her heavy skirt as she runs.

A man in a white jacket, his hands

tied behind his back, runs,

his chin stuck out.  An old woman

in massive black turns and looks behind her.

A man throws himself onto the pavement.

A child in heavy boots is running

but looks back over his shoulder

at the black and white heap of bodies.

The wide gray stone square

is dotted with fallen inky shapes

and dropped white hats.  Everything else is

heaving away like a sea from the noise we

feel in the silence of the photograph

the way the deaf see sound:  the terrible

voice of the submachine guns saying

This is more important than your life.

The question Olds' poem poses is pretty simple:  what is something you would die for?  Olds is writing about the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution in Russia, when the government cracked down in a violent way against protestors.  Between 1917 and 1923, seven to 12 million individuals died in the Russian Revolution.  That's a lot of people laying down their lives for what they believed in.  

Me?  I would lay down my life for my kids.  Any parent would say the same.  And I would do practically anything to ensure that my daughter and son have brighter, more promising futures.  The Iroquois have this concept called the Seventh Generation Principle, which basically means that decisions made now should result in a better world seven generations into the future.  It's a pretty powerful concept.

I'm not sure my blog posts are going to make that kind of difference in the world.  Or my poems.  Seven generation from now, I can predict with about 99.99% certainty that nobody is going to be interested in reading my Bigfoot stuff.  But I do recycle, conserve water, support Planned Parenthood, and vote in every election.  I'm not sure all that counts, but it's the best I could come up with tonight.  

Saint Marty has a new poem about the future, based on today's prompt from The Daily Poet:  

Write a poem in the voice of someone other than yourself that offers a glimpse or hints at another possible outcome or future.  Consider going back in history and writing about Abraham Lincoln deciding to stay home from yet another play, or write from the present about an event that has not yet happened or may never happen.  For example, write from the point-of-view of snowboarders imagining all of the snow in the world has melted from global warming or someone preparing for an event (a wedding, an earthquake, a funeral, etc.) that may of may not actually happen.  Allow history to rewrite itself or allow a new future for you or someone else to unfold.

Walt Whitman Reads

a Poem at the Inauguration

of Donald Trump

January 20, 2025

by: Martin Achatz

Mr. President, Mr. Vice President, Americans Everywhere,

At this bright winter moment, with the echo of cannon and gun 

in my ears, smoke stinging my eyes and nose, I wish

to tell again of a vigil strange I kept one night beside a boy 

(for he was just that, with unwhiskered cheeks)

who surrendered his youth, life, kisses unkissed, for me,

for you, for friend and enemy, for Jew, Gentile, dark-skinned,

light-skinned, for the crust of his mother's biscuits, brute

embrace of his father's arms, for all things we hold dear.

Yes, this dearest comrade, this brave child fell, never to rise

again.  I remind you, gentlepeople, of this embracer now

embraced in rib, skull, femur, tibia, fibula by cold, cold

sod so that you might think hard of the hard cost

of pitting brother against brother, child against parent,

neighbor against neighbor, a war terrible fought to bring

us all together, one people, if such a thing possible after so bold

and bloody a conflict.  I commend to you today the memory

of his cold knuckles against my palm, his startled gaze

blind to the rising of another day.  Hold his chill fingers

in yours, stare into his sightless eyes, promise him this teeming

soil that now cradles his perfect, beautiful body is still

free for all--citizen, soldier, tired, poor, wretched, huddled--

whose lips are pressed, hungrily, like a newborn's, against 

the fresh and stinging bosom of this morning's promise.

January 4, 2025: "Portrait of a Child," Meaning of Loss, "That August Day"

So, four days into 2025--the Year of Sharon Olds on Saint Marty--and the post I wrote last night was placed under a warning by Blogger.  I find that fact a little ironic, since the poem I wrote (which I assume caused the restriction to be placed) was about censorship--the power of words resting in how and by whom they are used.  For example, the phrase "illegal alien" in the mouth of Gene Roddenberry has a completely different meaning when coming from the mouth of Donald Trump.  You see what I mean.

There is nothing inflammatory in my post from last night.  It's safe to read.  Sure, I use words that can be interpreted as "dirty" by some people, but I'm simply examining how language can be weaponized.  Or not.  There simply is no such thing as a good or bad word.  Words are just words, until they are turned into guns or bombs or chains by the people using them.

It was a bitterly cold day in my neck of the woods--the kind of cold that forces a person to wear several layers of clothing just to step outside to get the mail.  I did take my puppy for a couple walks, but those walks were almost painful  to endure, especially with the wind gnawing any inch of exposed skin.  The thermometer didn't climb much about 10 degrees Fahrenheit all day long.  It felt more like the setting of a bleak Russian novel outside than the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

Sharon Olds examines another photograph . . . 

Portrait of a Child

by: Sharon Olds

(Yerevan, capital of a republic 

set up by those Armenians who had 

not been massacred by the Turks. 

In 1921, Turkey and Russia 

divided the republic between them).

His face is quite peaceful, really,
like any child asleep, though the skin
is darkened in places, the curved eyelids
turgid, part of the ear missing
as if bitten off. He lies like a child
asleep, on his side, one arm bent
so the hand curls near his face, one arm
dangling across his chest, fingertips
touching the stone street. His shirt has
two rents near the waist, the slits hunters make
in the stomach of the catch.
Besides the shirt he wears nothing. His abdomen is
swollen as the belly of a pregnant woman
and sags to one side. His hip-joint bulges,
a bruise. His thigh is big around as a
newborn's arm, and from hip-bone to knee
the tendon runs sharp as a crease in cloth,
the skin pulling at it. His knees are enormous,
his feet peaceful as in deep sleep,
and across one leg delicately rests
his penis. Pale and lovely there
at the center of the picture, it lies, the source
of the children he would have had, this child
dead of hunger
in Yerevan.

This is a poem that seems appropriate to read on such an inhospitable winter night.  Unflinching.  Truthful.  Heartbreaking.  For some reason, I imagine the photograph Olds is describing as a winter scene, the body of the child left in a snowbank on a street.

I really appreciate that Olds is able to build to such a tender moment into her final lines when she addresses the sex of the child.  It's about a future cut short by the Armenian genocide wrought by Turkey and Russia.  It puts a wholly human face on atrocity.

Most of the poems I write aren't very happy, in case you haven't noticed.  Yes, I sometimes use humor or juxtaposition to highlight important images or assertions, but, overall, I wouldn't describe my writing as funny in any conventional way.  I prefer poems that are confrontational.  That force readers to examine themselves and their lives.

Today, for some reason, I've been thinking about the meaning of loss.  Perhaps I'm foolish, but I do believe that everything happens for a reason.  (Yes, even the election of a convicted felon to the Oval Office has some kind of meaning, even though I'm still struggling to discern what that meaning is.)  Whether a loss is catastrophic (genocide) or personal (the death of a loved one), there must be some lesson to learn, or else the universe is just a random machine and humankind a failed experiment.  I refuse to accept that.

Yes, human beings do shitty things, to each other and the planet.  Yes, it's easy to get discouraged and sad.  Believe me, I know that.  Yet, in the end, light overcomes darkness.  Spring overcomes winter.  Love overcomes hatred.  Kindness overcomes cruelty.  I have great faith in those statements.

Saint Marty has another new poem to share tonight.  

Here was today's prompt from The Daily Poet:  Write a list of the coldest words you can think of--everything from ice to Ice Capades, snowball to Antarctica.  Once you have your list of at least twenty words, incorporate the most interesting ones into a poem about summer, kite flying, or something else that has nothing to do with freezing temperatures.

That August Day

by: Martin Achatz

I remember visiting you

in the hospital that August day

when a hot glacier of sun crawled

across the blue, blue sky, you

in your bed, face blizzard white,

lips dry and rough as tundra.

You were drifting, drifting toward

that permafrost place where Christmas

never comes, the squalls and whiteouts

of your brain scan telling the story

of how it would all end two or so

weeks later, when the polar bear

of your soul lumbered onto an ice

floe, set sail toward the Northern

Lights as they chewed the distant 

horizon into emerald and rose.

January 3, 2025: "Race Riot, Tulsa, 1924," Point Out Truths, "Sticks & Stones"

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