March 16: Squeaky Cheese, Saint Urho, and Psalm 8

Well, this is going to be a short post.  It is Saint Urho's Day.  You see, the Finns got a little jealous of Saint Patrick's Day, where everyone wears green clothes, drinks green beer, pukes green puke, and, in general, celebrates being Irish.  Saint Patrick, according to legend, drove the snakes out of Ireland.  Finnish Americans wanted their own special holiday to eat, drink, and be sick on, so they invented Saint Urho, who supposedly drove the grasshoppers out of Finland, saving the grape crop.  Now, Saint Urho didn't really exist.  The legend of Saint Urho originated in Minnesota in the 1950s, as far as I can tell.  In the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, however, Saint Urho's Day is celebrated by wearing purple (a hold-over from the grape thing, I suppose) and eating squeaky cheese (don't ask--it's disgusting).

I forgot to wear purple this morning, so I am a huge loser.  I did write a praise psalm, however, that mentions my friend, who is Finnish and lived in Finland as a baby.  I don't think that makes a difference, but I thought it was worth a shot.  Anyway, here is my poem for today.  Hope you enjoy it.

Psalm 8:  Word Made Flesh

Lord, make my poem stretch, yawn.

Descend like the Blue Fairy, take

My words, mutter a blessing

Over them, give them muscle, tendon,

Make them pirouette, arabesque

Into a body on the brink of puberty.

Let my words sprout hair in secret

Places, girl chest bloom into orchids

Or boy sapling swell with resin

To fill buckets at Spring’s first blush.

I want my poem to kiss my lips,

Head out into the world, tote books,

Lunch pail, ready to redeem humankind

Stanza by stanza, line by line,

Syllable by syllable, my word made flesh.

Lord, did You sit at Your desk,

Scribble Jesus on a scrap of paper,

Then fold it, crease it, origami it

Into legs, arms, head, beard,

Let it walk away from Your pen

Into a world of critics, just waiting

To judge Your line breaks, imagery,

Your turn of phrase, your metaphor?

How much did it hurt when the reviews

Came in, when they took Your poem,

Tore it up, used it to wipe their asses?

Did You think of writing something else?

A sonnet that could bound like an elk,

A villanelle that sang like a loon,

A sestina that wallowed like a bison?

My friend, Lydia, makes paper cranes.

Perhaps You could write some haiku,

Give them to her.  She would take them,

Make neck and beak, body and tail.

She could give them wings, let them fly,

Hear them brush the air like jazz:

Praise, praise, praise, praise.



Lydia's Cranes



Saint Marty is going home, putting on a purple thong, and eating some squeaky cheese.  We imaginary saints have to stick together.