January 27: "Breaking Up," First Kisses to Final Kisses, Dreaming Up

Billy Collins on heartbreak . . . 

Breaking Up

by:  Billy Collins

Like the nomadic dollar

I pass to the cashier

behind the register

you are off to other hands.

We break up with things and people every day of our lives, from the moment we open our eyes in the morning until we close them again at night.  Some breakups are easy:  dropping your son off at school, knowing that he will be climbing back into your car in the afternoon.  Other breakups are more difficult--watching your daughter drive away from your house with all of her belongings packed up in her car, knowing she will never sleep in her childhood bedroom again.  At the end of every book or poem we read, we break up with its characters or subjects.  When you're done reading this blog post, you'll break up with it, as well.

Of course, breaking up with something or someone doesn't mean you erase them from your mind or heart.  No.  Every individual you encounter or movie you watch or taco you eat remains a part of you.  Forever.  I can still taste the pineapple I ate on a coral bay when I was on my honeymoon.  And I can still conjure up the feelings of standing in line to see the first Star Wars movie way back in 1977.  Nothing is ever lost, from first kisses to final kisses.

A few days ago, I submitted a huge grant to the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA).  It's the third time I've written an NEA grant for the library.  The first time, I requested $20,000 for programming inspired by Joy Harjo's An American Sunrise, and I got it.  The second time, I asked again for $20,000 to fund events focused on Andrew Krivak's The Bear.  I didn't get it.  My latest:  $16,600 for programming based on Roz Chast's graphic memoir Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant?

I truly enjoy dreaming up experiences for people, whether it's an encounter with a U. S. Poet Laureate or an essay on the meaning of joy.  I love the ability of art or music or theater or writing to somehow change a person in a meaningful way.  Of course, the nature of any art is temporal.  It lives for a brief time and then evaporates like frost, leaving behind only memory.

This is true of even seemingly permanent works of art--paintings or sculptures or literature.  For instance, I've read The Catcher in the Rye ten or more times in my life, starting when I was ten or 11 years of age, and, with each reading, I experienced different emotions and reactions.  Because I was a different person each time, and Holden Caulfield meant something different to each one of those different persons.

So, loving any kind of art is about forming a relationship with it, and all relationships are temporary.  Eventually, there will be a breaking up/letting go.  Perhaps you will reencounter and reexperience that work or art again, and you will form a new and different relationship with it.  Or that work of art may just remain a lovely memory, like the taste of fresh pineapple on your tongue as you watch the sun set over the Pacific Ocean.

I've had my fair share of breakups.  Said goodbye to people and things I love.  Perhaps that's why I'm a poet.  I'm keenly aware of the passage of time and the need to preserve experiences in a tangible way through word and image.  That's what all art is about:  trying to capture lightning in a bottle.  Or on a canvas.  Or page.  Or with musical notes.  Or in a blog post.

Saint Marty has a piece of pizza to break up with now.

January 23: "The Code of the West," Piece of Shit, Donald Trump

Billy Collins defends his horse . . . 

The Code of the West

by:  Billy Collins

Say what you want

about me,

but leave the horse

I rode in on out of it.

Billy Collins is playing off on old cliché where you add "and the horse you/he rode in on" to a phrase, like this:  "Screw you, and the horse you rode in on."  It's supposed to be an insult, but, over time, it's become more of a punchline.  Add it to a phrase, and it becomes funny.  For example, "I hate Donald Trump, and the horse he rode in on."  (Of course, Trump riding a horse is kind of a joke anyway.  Think about it--a horse's ass riding a horse's ass.)  However, the horse is an innocent bystander.  It hasn't done anything but be a horse.  It's the person who's a piece of shit.

Human beings fuck things up.  They pollute oceans.  Melt polar icecaps.  Strip mine.  Cause famines, genocides, wars.  You name it, and humankind has exploited it, bombed it, or made it extinct.  We live in a broken world, and we broke it.

That may sound pessimistic.  It is.  

Tonight, for the first time, I read a news article that called Donald Trump the "presumptive Republican presidential nominee."  That's right.  A man facing 91 charges (44 federal and 47 state) across four criminal cases is being allowed to run for the Oval Office.  Each and every charge is a felony.  He encouraged insurrection and murder.  Raped women.  Publicly insulted disabled people and military heroes.  Caused hundreds of thousands of deaths because of his mishandling of the global pandemic.  This wannabe dictator, and not the horse he rode in on, is going to be nominated for President of the United States again.

Now, if you are a Trump supporter and I'm offending your delicate sensibilities, I suggest you stop reading this post, crawl back to your Nazi compound, and write some misspelled social media posts in all caps blaming all of your problems on people of color.  You aren't Christians.  The last time I read the Bible, Jesus told us to care for the old and sick and poor and hungry and displaced.  He didn't sit at home, whining that the Pharisees were perpetrating a witch hunt against Him.

So, to all of you who have voted and are planning to vote again for Donald Trump, I hope your horses kick you in your collective asses, because that's where your heads are.

And that's why Saint Marty prefers the company of his dog.

January 22: "Creative Writing," Grant, John Green

Billy Collins teaches . . . 

Creative Writing

by:  Billy Collins

When I told a student

not to use single quotation marks

around lines of dialogue,

he told me that all our words

are already inside the quotation marks

that God placed around Creation.

I don't often get to teach creative writing at the university.  The administration saves "fun" classes like that for tenured faculty and grad students.  (Yes, you read that right:  grad students.)  So, I don't get to have interesting conversations like this one.  (By the way, the student in the poem is sort of correct, because, in Genesis, God speaks everything into being:  "Let there be . . . "  So, if you're a literalist, we're all just living words straight out of God's mouth.)

Today, for me, God said, "Let there be an NEA grant."  And, because I always follow God's commandments, that's what I did--worked on a grant.  All . . . day . . . long . . .

My mind and body are a little exhausted tonight.  I made a lot of headway on the grant, though, but it's not done yet.  As I worked on it, I kept thinking to myself, This is a waste of time.  You're not going to get this grant.  

When I first started working for the library, I naively agreed to write a $20,000 NEA Big Read grant.  It was so much work, and, when I finally submitted it, I thought that I had wasted 60 days of my life.  Four months later, I received an email from Arts Midwest with the following word in its memo line:  "Congratulations."  

A year later, I submitted another NEA Big Read grant.  This time, however, I actually believed I was a shoe-in for a two-peat.  Four months later, I received an email with the words "Case Number:  00031617" in its memo line.  Translation:  "Sorry, Charlie."

So, I'm batting 500 when it comes to grant writing, and the whole process has become an exercise in self torture.  By around 4 p.m. today, I was feeling more than a little defeated.  So, I went for a walk around the library to clear my head.  And that's when it happened.

As I was standing in the Circulation Department, my friend, Melissa, introduced me to a friend of hers, and I lost my mind.  It was John Green.  THE John Green.  John Green of Turtles All the Way Down and Paper Towns and Looking for Alaska and An Abundance of Katherines.  Oh, also the John Green of The Fault In Our Stars.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I went a little fanboy all over him.  It was a pretty amazing moment.  For people who think that working in a library is not exciting, let me list a few other people whom I've met as part of my job:  Les Standiford, Natasha Trethewey, Joy Harjo, Diane Seuss, and Alex Gino.  That's two U. S. Poets Laureate, the author of The Man Who Invented Christmas, a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, and a bestselling YA writer.  

And now John Green.

I've been riding that wave since this afternoon, and I'll probably be riding it for the rest of the week.  Long enough to get me through the submission of the NEA grant.

Saint Marty has had a pretty good day after a pretty crappy weekend.

January 21: "Headstones," Joseph, Full Life

Billy Collins visits a cemetery . . . 

Headstones

by:  Billy Collins

If the dates show

the husband died

shortly after the wife--

first Gladys then Harry,

Betty followed by Tom--

the cause is often

gradual starvation

and not a broken heart.

It's a funny poem.  No getting around it.  But, as with all poems, there is, at its core, a great deal of truth.  

I worked in the healthcare field for about 25 years, and I've been alive for over half a century now.  I've seen it happen many times with couples who've been married a long, long time--so long that their names are almost always spoken together, in one breath.  When one member of that duo passes, the other usually isn't far behind.  It's called broken heart syndrome--takotsubo cardiomyopathy.  The heart muscle is put under so much stress from the loss that it, quite literally, breaks.

You may remember, back in August, 2023, I believe, I wrote about my dear, dear friend, Joseph.  Joseph first came into my life at a poetry reading I gave just one or two days after my father's passing, before we had even celebrated his funeral Mass.  In the front row at that reading sat Joseph in his long winter overcoat and beret, beautiful cane in his hand, gray hair and beard meticulously groomed.

After the reading was over, Joseph approached me, and I suddenly found myself having the most intimate of conversations with him, talking about my father and family, sharing details about his life and death.  And Joseph stood there, nodding, saying, "yes, yes" as I spoke.  When we parted company, I didn't think I'd ever see him again, but our encounter was a very bright moment in a very dark time for me.

Two days later, Joseph showed up at my dad's funeral.  Before the service, he came and spoke with me again, and then my family.  After the Mass was all over, he came to lunch, sat with me and my family, and it really felt as if he was a part of us.

That was in February of 2017.  Throughout the intervening years, Joseph drifted in and out of my life.  He suffered serious heart issues.  Survived the pandemic.  Fell in love with a woman.  Had his heart broken.  Appeared at readings and concerts and other events.  

This past summer, he told me that he was dying, his internal organs closing up shop.  Yet, when he told me this, he smiled and said, "No, no, no.  Don't be sad.  I've had a good life.  A full life.  There's nothing to be sad about."

Joseph taught me a lot of things in the time I knew him.  Love.  Mercy.  Attentiveness.  Compassion.  For people, trees, creatures, the world.  And in the last act of his life, he taught me about grace.  He kept marching forward, deeply enjoying each and every person and place he encountered.

At 1:45 this morning, Joseph marched forward again, this time right into the open arms of the loving God in whom he believed with his whole heart.  Tonight, the world seems a much darker place to me.

But I can hear Joseph in my ear:  "No, no, no, my friend.  No tears."

And so Saint Marty smiles.  

Rest well, dear friend.

January 20: "Mute Potato," Quirky, My Niece

Billy Collins prepares dinner . . . 

Mute Potato

by:  Billy Collins

Before introducing it to a pot

of boiling water,

I caught a medium-size

Idaho potato

staring up at me

with several of its many eyes.

I've always imagined, since I was a child, that everything had feelings and emotions--dogs and goldfish, grass under our feet, the moon, and, yes, the potatoes we boil for food.  Perhaps this idea came to me watching cartoons--all those anthropomorphized animals, plants, and objects.  Bugs Bunny.  Dancing brooms in Fantasia.  Talking apple trees in The Wizard of Oz.  Not to mention Bambi and Thumper and gang.  Is it that far of a stretch that potatoes look up at us in horror as we peel them and drop them in boiling water?

That's a small glimpse into the convolutions of my mind.  If, after reading the above paragraph, you think I'm weird, that's okay.  I've been this way my whole life.  And by "this way," I mean a little . . . unhinged.  Yet, I've been able to build a career out of my weirdness--as a teacher and writer and poet and actor and musician.

There are politer terms that have been applied to my personality.  Two of my favorites are "eccentric" and "quirky."  I love being a little unpredictable.  (Some of my students at college have told me that they actually show up to class just to see what shit is going to come out of my mouth every day.)  I like to think my quirks make me loveable.

One of my favorite people in the world who completely gets me--in all of my strangeness--is my niece, Aubri.  We have always gotten along really well.  Perhaps we see the world similarly.  (I'm not saying that she imagines her potatoes staring up at her from her soup bowl, but she might.)  Aubri came over tonight to play games with my family.  We had pizza and drinks (I made her my version of a tequila sunrise with peach schnapps), and then we played Jackbox.tv for three hours.  I haven't laughed so hard in a really long time.  

The world is a much better place with Aubri in it.  Not a lot of people get my eccentricities/weirdness, but she is one of them.

Saint Marty is blessed to have her in his life.

January 19: "Flaubert," Sister's Surgery, Daughter's Friend

Billy Collins and Gustave Flaubert are word watchers . . .

Flaubert

by:  Billy Collins

As he looked for the right word,

several wrong words

appeared in his window.

Really, all writers are word watchers, from poets to novelists.  Haiku to Madame Bovary.  We all (yes, I include myself in this group) sit by our windows, waiting for just the right cardinal or bunting to appear.  Then we capture it on the page.

My apologies for being mostly absent this week (and probably in the coming days, as well).  I just started teaching again this past Tuesday, and I've also been working on a huge NEA grant for the library.  Between students and grant verbiage, I've not had a whole lot of headspace for much else.  It literally has felt like I went from riding a tricycle to a runaway train.

And then, this morning, I took my sister to the hospital for surgery.  You may remember that she fell last week in her driveway and fractured both of her wrists pretty severely.  Well, she was supposed to have plates and pins installed.  The procedure is called an open reduction and internal fixation.  (How's that for word watching?)  

Well, after waiting for about an hour because of technical issues, my sister found out that her surgery had to be postponed until Monday.  The reason?  All of the air handlers that control temperature and humidity in the operating rooms weren't functioning.  Because I worked in the healthcare field for over 20 years (most of those years in a surgical setting), I understand why this delay had to occur.  However, it was quite disappointing for my sister, who's been in quite a bit of pain for over a week.

So, instead, I ended up working at the library for quite a while today on details and language for that NEA grant.  Word watching again, if you will.  Sending out emails.  Drafting paragraphs.  Feeling overwhelmed.

That is the kind of week I've had.  Of course, compared to the week my sister has had, mine was, to use a cliché, a walk in the park.  

And now, to close out this week, my daughter just texted me late tonight to tell me that one of her friends--with whom she took dance classes through grade, middle, and high school--died yesterday.  "O" was a sweet, sweet girl who led a very troubled life.  She was living with her boyfriend, and the propane heater in their house malfunctioned.  Both died of carbon monoxide poisoning.  

Sometimes, it feels as if life/God/the universe does things to people that simply don't make a whole lot of sense.  Tragic accidents that harm and/or kill individuals I care about.  And it leaves me watching for words that will somehow explain it all.  Sometimes, though, no words seem adequate.

Writer Anne Lamott says that there are three prayers that people send up to the heavens:  Help, Thanks, Wow.  Those words perfectly express human reactions to almost any situation we may encounter. So . . .

Saint Marty says "help" for all his loved ones who are hurting; "thanks" for him making it through this shitty week, and "wow" for all the unnoticed blessings that have sustained him.

January 15: "From a Railing," Tugboat, Sunrise

Billy Collins watches some boats. . . .

From a Railing

by:  Billy Collins

A long barge

with a helpful

tugboat alongside

pushing parts

of the East River away 

on their way somewhere.

This post will be very short, like Collins' poem.  Sometimes, an image simply speaks for itself--in this case, the barge and tugboat on the East River.  It's probably a scene that Collins has witnessed many times.  Nothing profound or earthshattering.  

I had a friend who knew how to make ordinary things (like barges and tugboats) into great gifts. Her name was Helen, and today would have been her birthday.  So I decided to do something very Helen-esque this morning:  I drove to Lake Superior and watched the sunrise. 

A fair amount of my disciples who read this blog knew/knew of Helen.  She was a joyful force of nature.  Creative.  Artistic.  Spiritual.  A friend to everyone, literally.  If you needed a tugboat to pull your barge, Helen would be that tugboat.  Like Martin Luther King (whose life we commemorate and celebrate today), Helen loved dreaming of ways to make the universe a better, kinder place, too--through art or writing or yoga or food or films or hiking.  

So, as Saint Marty watched the sun emerge over the big waters this morning, he gave thanks for Helen.  For her light.  For her beauty.  For all of the times she was the tugboat in his life.

January 14: "Carbon Dating," Inflated Academics, Steven Wright

Billy Collins tells a joke . . .

Carbon Dating

by:  Billy Collins

He tried it once

as a last resort

but most of the women

were a million years old.

This poem makes me laugh.  It doesn't have deep meaning.  There isn't any serious subtext.  It's just plain funny.  Period.

Collins often gets criticized for poems like this.  He doesn't mind having fun with his art.  I think he revels in popping the balloons of inflated academics.  Don't get me wrong.  Collins can be deadly serious, too.  The poem he wrote for the one-year anniversary of the 9/11 attacks--titled "The Names"--is powerfully moving.  But Collins doesn't like to take himself too seriously.  And, frankly, I don't like being around people who can't laugh at themselves.

One of my favorite comedians in the 1980s was Steven Wright.  He is a master of clever one-liners.  Here's a few of my favorite Wright-isms:

• "Whenever I think of the past, it brings back so many memories."
• "A lot of people are afraid of heights.  Not me.  I'm afraid of widths."
• "If you think nobody cares about you, try missing a couple of payments."
• "I poured spot remover on my dog.  Now he's gone."
• "I was reading the dictionary.  I thought it was a poem about everything."
• "I think it's wrong that only one company makes the game Monopoly."
• "I remember when the candle shop burned down.  Everyone stood around singing 'Happy Birthday.'"
• "I bought some batteries, but they weren't included."
• "All those who believe in psychokinesis, raise my hand."
• "How young can you die of old age?"

I don't care who you are.  That is funny shit.

I can be very serious.  In fact, if you saw me in my natural habitat (sitting in my pajamas on my couch, reading a book or watching TV), you'd probably think my pet goldfish had just died.  I'm not a belly laugher.  I'm more of a shy smirker.

After the blizzard of this weekend--the 50-mile-an-hour winds, four-foot snowdrifts, and below-zero wind chills--I needed a beautiful sunset and a laugh tonight.  Tonight's poem is the laugh.  The sunset is below.

Now, Saint Marty has just one last question:  Why did the mime quit his job?  Because he was feeling boxed in.

January 13: "The Dead of Winter," Old Chestnut, Blizzard

Billy Collins remembers . . .

The Dead of Winter

by:  Billy Collins

We will all die

in one month or another.

Many of the above

left us in December

while others will stay on

to see in the new year.

Collins is taking that old chestnut (the dead of winter) quite literally in this poem.  He's talking about people who have died in the cold heart of December.  The actual cliché, however, simply refers to that time of winter that's most lacking in life or activity.  When everything is buried in dark and cold and snow and ice.  

I suppose the deadest time of winter would probably be around the Winter Solstice (December 21st), when daylight is in short supply and night (and snow) is abundant, at least in my part of the world.  My whole life, I've heard people say "I'm buried!" when a big snowstorm unleashes itself.  As a morbid kid with a death fixation, I always pictured icy graves in the dead of winter.  Bodies encased in sepulchers of snow.  Like Poe, I've always nursed a mortal fear of being buried alive.  

Well, the dead of winter arrived in my neck of the woods today.  It roared into town like a locomotive.  When I opened my front door this morning, the snow was drifted up to my chest, I could barely see my neighbor's house across the street.  And there really wasn't a street--just a plane of thick white.  Sustained winds of 30 and 40 miles per hour, with gusts approaching 50.  I wouldn't have been surprised to see a herd of wooly mammoths lumbering by.

Now, if you choose to live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, expect blizzards.  They are inevitable.  That doesn't mean you have to like them.  But most Yoopers take pride at staring into the hungry maw of winter without blinking, myself included.  I don't enjoy icy cyclones, but I know they are the price I pay for living in a place so near the shores of an inland arctic sea.  And there is something wondrous when you witness the real fury of winter.

That is exactly what I witnessed today.  All day.  And I shoveled and shoveled and shoveled.  Then I trudged down to my sister's house (the one who recently fractured both of her wrists) and shoveled some more.  In between all that shoveling, I took ibuprofen and napped.  

I can now say, after more than 24 hours of whiteouts and snow removal (actually, it was more like snow relocation), that it is NOW the dead of winter in the Upper Peninsula.  Everything and everyone is submerged under dunes of white. 

For those of my disciples who've never experienced a real snow event, there is one particular fact that isn't widely known:  snowstorms are practically silent.  Even the wind is muted.  The scientific explanation for this phenomenon is fairly simple.  When snow accumulates, it acts as a sound absorber, much like sound tiles in a recording studio.  So, even when a blizzard is raging around you, the world is silent as the grave for the most part.

It feels like the dead of winter right now.  Nothing is moving.  No sounds.  Just deep, deep white and cold.

Saint Marty is ready to settle down for a long winter's nap.

January 12: "Last to Leave the Party," Blizzard Warning, Christmas Tree

Billy Collins is the . . . 

Last to Leave the Party

by:  Billy Collins

In your white dress

you revolved around me

like the moon

and like the earth

I was spinning,

titled back on my own axis.

I always find myself in a weird state around this time in January.  While other people have taken down their Christmas lights, stowed away their trees, and stopped watching Jimmy Stewart running down the streets in Bedford Falls in a snow storm, I stubbornly refuse to leave the party.

Yes, my Christmas tree is still the main source of illumination in my living room, and my front porch is the only one in the neighborhood still festooned with decorations and colored lights.  Perhaps people walk by my house at night and shake their heads, thinking me lazy.  Christmas is still revolving around me in its moon-white dress, and I'm still spinning on my yuletide axis, unwilling to change orbit.

Tonight, there is a blizzard warning from the National Weather Service in effect for my neck of the Upper Peninsula.  As with most warnings like this, the predictions are not incredibly specific.  Fourteen to 30 inches of snow.  Wind gusts of 35 to 50 miles per hour.  It could last until 7 p.m. tomorrow night, but there could be an additional six to 12 inches of lake effect snow into Sunday.

Having grown up and lived almost my whole life in the U. P. of Michigan, I'm used to these blizzard fetes that never seem to end.  Sort of like Christmas in my house, winter hangs around in its white dress, spinning and dazzling the trees and houses and streets, until well past the time the party is supposed to end.

Tonight, after having dinner with my kids, I headed out into the start of the blizzard to practice music for some church services I have to play this weekend.  The winds were just kicking into high gear, but the snow had already been coming down for a couple hours.  The streets were a little drifted.

First, I practiced at a Catholic church.  When I stepped inside, the thing I noticed immediately was the absence of Christmas decorations.  The manger and trees and wreaths had all been raptured into storage, and the flames of candles cast long, flickering shadows on the walls of the bare sanctuary.  The party was over.  I played through the music, and then I hopped in my car and drove to a Lutheran church.  The first thing I noticed when I stepped into the building?  All of the Christmas decorations had disappeared.  It looked . . . empty.  Sad.  The party was definitely over.  I practiced music and then drove home.

Now, I'm sitting on my couch, typing this post, listening to the blizzard rattle my windows.  My Christmas tree is the only light in the living room, and everyone else in the house has gone to bed.  It almost feels like December 24th instead of January 12th.  

Everyone else has strapped on their 2024 armor.  The upcoming presidential election year is going to be long and ugly, and I'm not looking forward to it at all.  I prefer silent nights to blizzards.

That's why, for a little while longer anyway, Saint Marty's going to hold onto the holidays and the hope that always accompanies them.

January 11: "Limits," Obscurity of Poets, Vulnerability

Billy Collins knows his . . . 

Limits

by:  Billy Collins

Even on a calm day

if you remain quiet

and hold your breath,

you still will not

be able to hear

the singing of the clouds.

It has been one of those days for me.  Quietly busy.  Testing my limits.  I worked from 7:30 in the morning until about 8:30 at night.  Things that filled my time:  writing a $20,000 grant and a meeting of poets.

I love collective nouns.  A skulk of foxes  Colony of bats.  Charm of finches.  Cast of hawks.  Quiver of cobras.  Troubling of goldfish.  The accepted term for a gathering of poets is a "circle."  Compared to a flamboyance of flamingos, a circle of poets or poets circle is kinda . . . boring.

I have found some interesting alternatives.  A quire of poets.  Contest of poets.  Resplendence of poets.  Stanza of poets.  Rhyme of poets.  Iamb of poets.  And (one of my favorites) an obscurity of poets.  

I do love meeting with my poet friends.  They're a diverse group.  Different ages and backgrounds.  Yet, one thing unites us all--acceptance.  It doesn't matter who you are, or how experienced, when you step into the room, you are a poet.  Period.

I've taught poetry to a lot of people, from kindergartners to high schoolers to senior citizens. I usually hear one thing come out of every person's mouth:  "I'm not really a poet."  And my response to that statement is "Bullshit."  (Of course, I don't quite phrase it like that for kindergartners.  Contrary to popular belief, I don't like making children cry.)  Everyone has an inner poet.

Poets are people who notice things to which other people don't pay much attention.  A glint of sunlight igniting an autumn maple leaf.  A snapping turtle pacing across a summer lawn.  A quiet wind that seems to be whispering words you need to hear.  Or the singing of clouds.  

Anybody can see and hear and feel these things, but poets go out of the way to take note of them.  Seek them out.  Each day is a hunting expedition for normal, ordinary, everyday miracles.  You don't necessarily have to remain quiet or hold your breath to experience them.  It's more a matter of opening yourself up.

However, it's not easy remaining that open and exposed.  To stand in the backyard, weeping at the sound of loons at dusk.  Bury your feet in the sand and let waves touch you in ways that human hands can't.  Or gaze up at a flock of clouds on a windless day and listen so hard you can hear the music of their molecules.  To be that open requires a vulnerability most people don't feel comfortable experiencing.

Except poets.

Everyone should have an obscurity of poets to hang with.  The world would be a much kinder, gentler place.  There would still be pain and anger and loss, but there would also be more love and understanding and compassion to balance things out.  

And, at night, clouds would lullaby us to sleep.

My name is Saint Marty, and I'm a poet.

January 10: "Look," Lake Superior, Angels

Billy Collins opens his eyes . . . 

Look

by:  Billy Collins

The morning lake 

was smooth as a mirror.

A few angels were even seen

flying down

just after dawn

to check themselves out.

I have lived near Lake Superior almost my whole life.  When I was a kid, it was just a 20-minute drive away.  The library where I now work is just a three- or four-minute walk from the big waters.  There's something incredibly comforting to me in that proximity.  When I was in graduate school downstate, surrounded by asphalt and concrete, it felt as if a part of me was missing--a big, tundra-sized part.

In winter, Lake Superior is rarely smooth as a mirror, as Collins says in today's poem.  There's always wind or clouds or snow, and gray dominates the landscape.  That doesn't mean that angels don't fly down just after dawn to check themselves out in its surface.  In fact, I would say that, when the lake is the color of January, blending with the sky, it's difficult to determine where the world ends and heaven begins.  We all sort of become angels, searching for our reflections in its chaotic cold expanse.

And really, that's what living a good life is all about, isn't it?  Somehow trying to be reflections of the divine here on Earth.  Maybe we're all just Lake Superiors, angels dancing across the surface of our bodies.

Yesterday, one of my sisters fell in her driveway and fractured the radius and ulna in both of her wrists.  A freak accident.  Both of her arms are in casts, with just the tips of her fingers sticking out.  For a person who's used to being self-sufficient, she is now fairly dependent on others.  I stopped by her house on the way home tonight to drop off some pistachios (one of her favorite snacks) and see how she was fairing.

She's frustrated.  In pain.  Coping.  In an instant, her life has gone from Lake Superior on a clear, calm July day to Lake Superior roiling with winter and wind.  It's not easy seeing angels reflected in yourself when the gales of November come early, as Gordon Lightfoot sang.  

However, I've found that angels tend to be much more visible in the midst of struggle and storm.  It's as if a skim of ice melts from the surface of your eyes and, suddenly, angels are everywhere,  Bringing you glasses of water.  Sending you loving text messages.  Helping you in the simplest and most profound of ways.

Like life, Lake Superior's moods are wildly changeable.  They can't be controlled or subdued or trained.  Anyone who has lived near its shores for any length of time understands this.  Respects this.  Finds beauty in this.  And if we open our eyes, we can see angels reflected in its glacial waves.  Sometimes, those angels look a lot like ourselves.

Sometimes, they even look like Saint Marty.

January 9: "An Exaltation of Frogs," Power of Grace, Young Poets

Billy Collins is a little in love with frogs . . . 

An Exaltation of Frogs

by:  Billy Collins

I know it's supposed to be larks,

but their full-throated croaking

early this rainy morning

after a night of more rain

is lifting me slightly off the floor.

I think all of us experience moments like this--times when we're filled with inexplicable joy or longing or fulfillment.  As if we hear angels singing in a winter sky, reminding us of the beauty of the world.  In today's poem, it's the singing of frogs, but it could be anything for you or me.  The wet nose of a dog nudging your hand for attention.  The last Christmas buckeye.  A book of poems.  Whatever the catalyst is, when the moment arrives, it lifts you off the floor, as Collins says.

I would call it the power of grace.

When my friend, Helen, passed away, she left behind an unfinished manuscript of poems that she'd been shepherding into book form.  With the help of one of my (and Helen's) best poet friends, that final poetry collection was published last year.  Helen's family donated the proceeds from the sales of that book for the establishment of some program in her memory.  This afternoon marked the kickoff of that program.

I had the privilege of leading a teen poetry workshop at the library.  The participants who showed up fairly glowed with youth and enthusiasm.  They listened and laughed and shared.  We told them about Helen, how she would have loved every minute of their company and talent.  I could almost picture Helen in the room with us, perched on a chair, barely able to sit still as she listened to what the kids wrote.  Helen would have been lifted off the floor by this exaltation of young poets.

It was a moment drenched in grace.  I was reminded of why I love poetry so much:  how words can be exaltations, too.  Vehicles of transcendence.  I'm hoping the kids felt a little of that grace, as well.  The feeling has stayed with me all night.

Saint Marty's feet still haven't touched the ground.

January 8: "Dog," First Day Back, Dog Dreams

Billy Collins watches his dog sleep . . . 

Dog

by:  Billy Collins

When she runs in her sleep,

eyelids twitching,

legs churning sideways on the floor,

I wonder if she's chasing

a squirrel or being chased

by an angry farmer waving a rake.

Yes, just like Billy Collins, I've watched my puppy twitch and moan in her slumber.  Legs spasming.  Lips puffing and blowing with suppressed barks.  And I've also wondered what dogs dream--squirrels? angry farmers? running with a wolf pack? bowls of cooked hamburger?

I survived my first day back at work.  Not gonna lie--I eased back into my duties.  Edited and published a podcast.  Answered a pile of emails and phone messages.  Put together a monthly board report.  Messed up a monthly board report.  Put off fixing a monthly board report until tomorrow.  Hosted an event in the evening.  Drove home.  Collapsed on the couch.

Last week, I spent a lot of time with my puppy.  Taking her for walks.  Watching movies with her.  (Turns out, she's a big fan of Christmas with the Kranks and The Bishop's Wife.)  And napping.  Dogs like their naps, especially on furniture they're not supposed to be on.

I watched my puppy twitch and run in her sleep, her little paws working across some dreamscape of snow or dirt or grass.  Little grunts and groans and sighs escaping her snout.  And I did what Billy Collins does in the poem--tried to imagine what she was chasing or being chased by.

I like to think that she was dreaming of me throwing her ball.  Or of the rabbits that haunt our backyard all year long, leaving evidence of their leaps and startles in the fresh snow or mud.  Of long walks around Lake Bancroft, barking at geese and blackbirds.  I want her dreams to be of things that fill her tiny body with joy.

And really, isn't that what we all want and deserve?  To have our days and nights brimming with people and places and experiences that make us feel completely happy.  We all deserve dog lives and dog dreams.  Getting and receiving unconditional love.

At the end of this very long day, Saint Marty is ready to curl up on the back of the couch and bark at some passing cars.

January 7: "The Mohawk Diner, 3 AM," Carrot Cake, Time of Retreat

Billy Collins being (un)observant . . . 

The Mohawk Diner, 3 AM

by:  Billy Collins

Has that revolving cake stand

always been there

or did some men install it

while you and I sat here

at the counter not saying anything?

It is pretty damn easy to be completely oblivious to the world.  Most people go through life with tunnel vision:  focused only on what personally affects them.  The revolving cake stand didn't really interest Collins when he got to the Mohawk Diner, so he ignored it.  For some reason, he suddenly became aware of the stand, perhaps because it held a piece of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting (his favorite).  Presto!  A revolving cake stand materializes before his eyes.

On this, the last day of my vacation and hermithood, I already feel the squeeze of tomorrow.  I will no longer be able to ignore completely the world, as much as I'd like to.  And today seemed like a prelude for what I'm going to encounter this coming week.  I played two church services, shopped for groceries, cleaned and straightened the house, cooked a spinach/artichoke bomb, hosted my book club's monthly meeting/dinner, and then led an online poetry workshop.

Now, I thoroughly enjoyed my time of retreat.  My mind needed the rest.  So did my body.  Today reminded me of how busy my hour-to-hour (sometimes minute-to-minute) existence really is.  I just sat down on my couch after the poetry workshop.  All the lights in the house, save the Christmas tree, are turned off.  As I stare at the ceiling, I'm slipping slowly into madness,  (That's an allusion to Jim Carrey as The Grinch, in case you didn't catch it.)

I'm going to need to conserve my peopling energy this week because I don't even want to be around myself.  Sometimes, I think authors like J. D. Salinger and Thomas Pynchon got it right.  Become successful, then disappear from the world, leaving everyone puzzled and hungry for more.  If, or when, another J. D. Salinger book appears, it will be an literary event akin to Harper Lee publishing another novel.  (Of course, Lee's Go Set a Watchman was terrible and sort of soiled her reputation.  She should have stopped at To Kill a Mockingbird.)  

I will be back, full-time, at life tomorrow morning.  If you run into me, tread lightly.  I may just grunt or nod at you.  Possibly smile, depending on how things are going.  Above all else, know that, if I'm acting stand-offish and/or antisocial, it's not you.  It's me.  Give me time and space while I get in touch with my inner extrovert.  (Yes, that's a thing.)

In the mean time, enjoy this pine tree that materialized in front of Saint Marty this morning.  Tall.  Dusted with winter.  Alone under a blue, blue sky.  A happy, little tree, as Bob Ross said.

January 6: "New Calendar," Epiphanies, New Year

Billy Collins on new calendars and years . . . 

New Calendar

by:  Billy Collins

The poem of next year--

every week a line, 

every month a stanza,

and a tiny sun 

rising and setting

in every numbered square.

The poem of next year--that's what Collins calls his new calendar.  At the beginning of every January, we start composing this poem, week by week, line by line, month by month, and stanza by stanza.  We have no idea whether the poem will end up being a love sonnet or elegy.  A psalm of praise or a psalm of sorrow.  Each new year is a revelation.

This weekend, Christian churches celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany:  the appearance of the magi and the unveiling of hope for a broken world.  There are tons of synonyms for "epiphany":  insight, realization, oracle, discovery, shock.  Each of these words is about peeling the scales from your eyes and seeing the universe clearly, maybe for the first time.

Not all epiphanies are earthshattering.  In fact, most, I would say, are pretty ordinary and personal.  For instance, realizing you don't like guacamole.  Or that Carrie Underwood's "Underneath the Tree" is a better Christmas song than Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas."  (Listen to it if you don't believe me.)

After having a week off from work and teaching, I have come to some epiphanies about myself.  I am just one step away from being Howard Hughes.  I enjoy being by myself, and large groups of people make me incredibly anxious.  Now, I'm not going to lock myself in my bedroom and fill empty milk containers with urine.  Nor will I let my fingernails and toenails grow so long that they need to be registered as concealed weapons.  However, having minimal human interaction sounds quite appealing at the start of this presidential election year.

As I emerge like a wintering groundhog from my week of blissful disconnection, I know that my life will become very complicated very quickly on Monday, and there's no way I can avoid it.  That's the way things have been for a very long time for me.  Peace and quiet are distant cousins who live in a remote Scandinavian village without internet or cellular service.

But I have one more day before my vacation ends and 2024 begins in earnest.  I will still be ignoring most texts and phone calls tomorrow.  I may even wear sunglasses and a fake moustache when I go grocery shopping.  And, if you insist on posting Trumpian conspiracy theories about stolen elections and the "patriots" who stormed the U. S. Capitol Building and killed police officers, I will most likely unfriend and block you on my social media.  Not because I think everybody should agree with me 100% of the time.  I just don't want racists, homophobes, xenophobes, transphobes, and traitors as friends or acquaintances.

These are Saint Marty epiphanies for tonight and the coming year.

January 5: "Argument from Design," Higher Powers, Fractals

Billy Collins speaks in fractals . . . 

Argument from Design

by:  Billy Collins

Six petals on each iris,

every other one

with a small yellow streak,

which resembles a tiny vase,

holding a few flowers of its own.

Collins has called himself a "recovering Catholic."  Until he hit graduate school, he attended only Catholic educational institutions.  He still employs Catholic iconography a great deal in his work--the imagery and Biblical narratives--but he doesn't attend weekend Masses or partake in sacraments.  Poetry has become his church, if you will.

In some respects, I'm a lot like Collins when it comes to religion.  I feel closest to a higher power when I have a pen in my hand and am writing in my journal.  Most of the time, I have very little recollection how ideas or images appear on the page.  They just materialize--metaphorically or physically--and I wrestle them to paper.  Explaining the creative process further would be akin to shooting at a flock of angels.

I've experienced too many unexplainable coincidences in my life to reject the idea of some divine hand at work.  For example, one afternoon I dropped my credit card on the sidewalk as I was walking to my library office.  A half hour later, I realized it was missing.  I said a quick prayer to Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost things.  As I was retracing my steps to my car, I noticed a priest walking toward me.  It turned out to be my former pastor who,  without slowing his stride, held out my credit card and said, "Here you are, Marty.  I believe you dropped this."

So, I do believe in an intelligent designer.  The universe is full of amazingly complex wonders, starting with all of the nearly impossible accidents that made life possible on this planet.  You can spout all the scientific explanations you want at me, but I will always fall back on one question:  who or what made that first electron or proton or neutron?  Until that question can be answered with credible proof, it's all a matter of faith in the unknown and unknowable.

Think of those irises that Collins writes about, each one with six petals, every other of those petals containing the image of a tiny vase with more flowers.  My scientist friends would probably use natural selection and genetic mutation to account for this fractal design.  Flowers within flowers.  Collins, on the other hand, uses poetry.

Me?  I think that natural selection and genetic mutation provide the start of a gospel of explanation.  But the iris design is too perfect to be mere happenstance.  That would be like putting a typewriter in a room with a chimpanzee and discovering, three days later, that the chimpanzee has written The Grapes of Wrath or Romeo and Juliet.  Statistically possible, but incredibly unlikely without the help of some kind of higher intelligence.  (By the way, I'm employing the infinite monkey theorem here which states that a monkey, hitting typewriter keys randomly for an infinite amount of time, will eventually type any given text, from The Lord of the Rings trilogy to the Bible.)

This morning, I parked my car by Lake Superior and watched the sunrise.  It wasn't a sunrise to write home about.  It was a gray kind of dawning, without color or flash.  Yet, I was staring at a body of water that contains three quadrillion gallons of water--that's 3 followed by 15 zeros.  And underneath all that water is another underground water system:  Lake Inferior.  That's a lake within a lake--another fractal.

This world is full of miracles within miracles within miracles.

Sure, there are natural laws that govern all of these miracles, but they are still miracles beyond human understanding, no matter how sophisticated the telescope or microscope being used to examine them.

And when Saint Marty or Billy Collins pick up pens to write a poem, they are attempting to touch the face of something miraculous.

January 4: "The Naked Eye," Hard Work, "Kumquat"

Billy Collins writes "naked" . . . 

The Naked Eye

by:  Billy Collins

There was no eye lid

to cover the naked eye

so she covered herself

with some scenery,

a meadow she liked to look at

when the other eye wasn't looking.

Being "naked" can mean a lot of things, from the physical to the metaphysical.  Collins loves word play, as does any poet.  He turns the naked eye into a cheating paramour in today's poem, covering herself with a sexy meadow.

I spent most of today cleaning my house and planning for a Zoom poetry workshop I led this evening.  You see, even when I'm on vacation, I like to be productive--accomplishing tasks every day.  I don't like wasting time, even if it is my own time to waste.

It has been snowing, off and on, all day long.  And it is cold.  Really cold.  Sadly, I think winter has finally arrived and plans to stick around for a while.  Some people are celebrating and welcoming the return of snow and ice.  Me?  Like the naked eye, I love the beauty of winter, could clothe myself in it.  There's nothing like a world transformed into a moonscape of white.  However, there's no getting around the fact that winter is a lot of work.

I'm not opposed to work, having been taught from a very young age the worth of job well done.  Blogging daily is hard work.  Teaching at the university is hard work.  Planning readings, concerts, and events is hard work.  For some of my disciples, sitting for three or four hours to write a poem would be akin to shoving bamboo under their fingernails.  Yet, I love doing all of these things, so I don't consider them work.

That is me being nakedly honest.  Snow shoveling?  No.  Writing poetry?  Yes.

Just to prove that Saint Marty worked hard today, here is something he wrote in poetry workshop this evening:

Kumquat

by:  Martin Achatz

Eating a thing whole

seems like sin, an act

that should be whispered

in Confession to receive

some form of penance:

crawling on hands and knees

around my neighborhood,

dawn to dusk, ringing a bell,

shouting, Glutton!  Glutton!

Yet, I love its dimpled

flesh, gush of sour juice,

how, even after I swallow,

it lingers on my tongue

like a word I shouldn't 

speak.

          And I wonder if

something that gives me

so much pleasure should 

be allowed to exist?

January 3: "Aa," Cloak of Invincibility, Snow

Billy Collins' parenting tips . . . 

Aa

by:  Billy Collins

At school, 

always seen together,

capital and small, 

parent and child

holding hands,

about to cross

the street

in Alphabet City.

I remember those days when my kids always stopped at street corners and held out their hands to me.  It was a supreme act of trust--them expecting me to protect them from any kind of danger.  Of course, as kids grow from "a" to "A," become more independent, they worry less about the danger of busy intersections.  There's a certain sense of immortality that all young people, at one point or another, acquire.  They simply believe they will live forever.

I see this in my children.  I see it in the students I teach at the university.  That's why adolescents, teens, and young adults do stupid things like drinking until they black out or jumping off roofs into snowdrifts.  (I may have done both of those things in my foolish past.)  With youth comes the cloak of invincibility.

Me?  I don't recall a time in my life when I wasn't aware of my mortality.  Even when I was a young "a," I was kind of . . . melancholic.  The summer after I graduated from high school, one of my favorite teachers died unexpectedly of a heart defect.  I spent the rest of the year sequestered in my dark bedroom, listening to Leonard Cohen songs.  

This morning, snow started falling.  After a green Christmas and New Year's Eve, my little portion of the world is now veiled in white.  I took my puppy for a walk in the fresh snow, and she attacked it with nose and tongue.  We walked through the neighborhood where I grew up, my Alphabet City, and I found myself haunted by ghosts from my childhood--friends and relatives and memories.  

You see, when you're an "a," winter is kind of magical.  Snow days.  Christmas vacations.  Tobogganing.  Santa Claus.  Snow forts.  Snowmobiling.  Blizzards.

When you become an "A," winter is work and worry.  Shoveling.  Treacherous commutes.  Frozen waterpipes.  Furnace problems.  More shoveling.  

Watching the joy of my puppy on our walk today, I sort of felt like an "a" for a little while, remembering those days when I trooped out the front door, into a snowstorm, looking like Randy from A Christmas Story, all snowsuited and bundled up.  Not a worry in the world, except whether or not there would be hot chocolate waiting for me when I returned.  

I was invincible, and those long winter days were infinite.

There's more snow in the forecast for the coming days.  The "A" that I am now is not excited about that news.  But I'm still on vacation.  No work.  No teaching.  Just a good book to read.  Old movies to stream.  More walks with my snow puppy.  And an Alphabet City that looks like a Tirolean ski resort.

Saint Marty may try to catch some flakes on his tongue if it snows tomorrow.  

January 2: "Highway," Inner Hermit, Hitchhiking

Billy Collins hitchhikes . . .

Highway

by:  Billy Collins

Hitchhiking alone,

I notice an ant

walking in the opposite direction.

I don't know if Collins ever went hitchhiking.  Of course, metaphorically speaking, everyone is on the road to somewhere.  As a poet, Collins certainly understands the need to move from one place to another--from the first word to the last word in a poem, for example.  I've said it before in previous posts, and I'll say it one more time:  change is inevitable.  Nothing stays the same, no matter how much you crave the status quo.

The other part of this poem equation is whether you hitchhike alone or with a companion.  I enjoy being left to my own devices.  However, human beings are social animals.  We all need a certain amount of interaction, even if it's with an ant walking away from you down a highway.  

Today, I spent a lot of time by myself.  I'm on vacation right now from all of my occupations.  For the next seven or so days, I am going to be indulging my inner hermit.  I'm not able to do this very often, as most of my jobs require a great deal of public interaction.  And I enjoy this interaction.  But I truly am an introvert at heart, so it takes a great deal of energy on my part to be in social situations.  At the end of most days, my peopling skills have been pretty much tapped out, and I need to recharge.

That's why I always take this first week of January off.  There's very little I'm doing for the next seven days that requires me to exercise my peopling skills.  I can stay at home, walk my dog, stream movies, read a book, write, and nap.  In fact, I've just listed all of my plans for the coming week.  (WARNING:  If you send me a text this week, it may take a while for me to respond.  If you call me, I probably won't answer.  And if you invite me to any kind of social gathering, I will politely decline.)

Think of me as that ant walking in the opposite direction, trying to escape human contact.

Saint Marty is now going to hitchhike to his couch, turn on a movie I've watched a hundred times before, and let the sun set outside his window.  A-L-O-N-E.

January 1: "Musical Tables," Year of Billy Collins, Musical Chairs

Welcome to the first day of the new year, when people start new diets and exercise regimens.  Resolutions are still in full vigor, and the world seems fresh and new as clean socks.

Having lived in Mary Oliver's universe for the entirety of 2023, it's difficult to step away from her daily doses of grace and wisdom now.  There was something very comforting being in Mary's company for that long--it was almost like a 365-day spiritual/poetic retreat.

This year, I turn to another poet whose work is just as popular as Oliver's.  In fact, I would venture to guess that his name is possibly known even by people who really aren't into poetry.  This poet was once described as "the most popular poet in America" by Bruce Weber in The New York Times.  He served as U. S. Poet Laureate from 2001 to 2003 and was named New York State Poet Laureate from 2004 to 2006.

Now, because of this popularity, he's frequently dismissed as sentimental and easy.  I don't necessarily agree with this assessment.  Yes, his poems are incredibly accessible, and that may be the reason he isn't taken very seriously.  However, as you will discover in the coming days, his poems are many things--funny, ordinary, profound, extraordinary--but they are certainly not lightweight in any way.

The 2024 Poet of the Year for Saint Marty is . . . Billy Collins.

I'm starting this journey with the title poem of one of Collins' most recently collections, Musical Tables . . .

Musical Tables

by:  Billy Collins

No one knew what to do

when the music stopped,

plus, the big tables were always in the way.

But soon it became the new game

in spite of its pointlessness,

or was that the reason for its popular appeal?

Most of us have played Musical Chairs at some point in our lives.  That object of the game is pretty simple:  once the music stops, grab a chair.  If you don't end up sitting in one of the available chairs, you lose.  A seat is removed then, and the music begins again.  One-by-one, participants disappear until only one chair and two people are left, and then Musical Chairs becomes a blood sport.  

Billy Collins changes things up in his poem.  Instead of competing for places to sit, it's all about ending up at the last table.  A pointless exercise, according to the poet, but also an exercise that's full of laughter and enjoyment.

Maybe Collins is creating a metaphor for writing or reading verse.  In a practical world, there's really no intrinsic value in poetry, no matter how well-crafted the poem.  Yet, when the music/poetry starts, everyone dances/circles the table, now knowing where they will end up.

It is January 1st, and the music of the new year has begun.  Listen carefully and start walking.  Perhaps you will find yourself in a place magical and new--like an unopened stocking on Christmas morning.

Saint Marty welcomes you to the Year of Billy Collins.  Pull up a chair to the table and have a seat.