May 31: "Nurse," Cellularly Tired, ""Pipe Organ"

Billy Collins talks with a nurse . . .

Nurse

by: Billy Collins

The one who spoke by a window

in a stairwell,

resting her head on her arm,

said she was so many stumbles

beyond tired,

she caught herself 

envying the dead

for looking like sleepers in their beds.

I worked in a medical office and hospital at the start of the pandemic, so I understand the exhaustion the nurse describes here.  Seen it in doctors, nurses, orderlies, cafeteria workers.  Not just bone tired.  Cellularly tired.  

Despite the shortened week, I find myself desperately tired tonight.  Perhaps it's because I tried to cram five days of work into four days in the office.

Friday nights after dinner, I usually go to church to practice for the Saturday and Sunday services I play.  If the music is familiar, it goes very quickly.  If I don't recognize the music, I've been known to sit at the keyboard for several hours.

Tonight, I knew most of the hymns, so I was home and in my pajamas by 8 p.m.  Now, I'm on my couch, fighting to stay awake and losing the battle.

Saint Marty needs to do some jumping jacks or just surrender to the pillow.

Pipe Organ

by: Martin Achatz

The gold pipes climb

upward like the ribs

of a giant ground sloth,

just waiting for me

to flip a switch, fill

its lungs with air

for the first time

in two million years.

May 30: "Avoidance," Introvert Day, "Expressionism"

Billy Collins tries not to be seen . . . 

Avoidance

by: Billy Collins

When I saw him

walking toward me in the city,

I stopped and looked in the window

of a store that had closed.

Turned out, it was only 

someone who looked like him,

but all the way home, I wondered

where in the world he could possibly be.

I understand what Collins is doing in this poem.  There are times when I simply do not have the energy for human interaction.  I call them my introvert days.  (Believe it or not, I am an introvert.  While I can and do socialize with large groups of people, I am usually drained to silence by such interactions.  I have to hibernate for a while afterward.)

I had an introvert day today.  Pretty much, I holed up in my office at the library and worked on my computer for about nine or ten hours, with a few breaks to chat with good friends who stopped by.  I needed to recharge my peopling battery.  Now, I'm sitting in my dark living room, typing this post, enjoying the silence.  

One of my recent guilty pleasures is watching a British show called Portrait Artist of the Year at night.  Basically, every episode consists of nine amateur and/or professional artists who paint famous peoples' portraits for four hours.  After they are done painting, three judges tear their work apart and choose a winner.  I watch this show alone because my wife thinks it's as dull as . . . well, watching paint dry, and my son is gaming online with his friends.  So it's another way for me simply to be still and enjoy myself.

DIGRESSION:  In a lot of ways, I think painting and writing poetry are very similar.  It's all about creating or arresting moments in time.  Artists do it with paints and pencils and pastels.  Poets do it with words.  Perhaps that's why I enjoy this show so much--I get to witness the creation of something artistically beautiful.  And I've been a amateur art enthusiast most of my life, Andrew Wyeth, Claude Monet, and Vincent van Gogh being my three favorite painters.

Hopefully, by tomorrow, Saint Marty will be ready to rejoin humanity.  Until then, it's British painters and darkness.

Expressionism

by: Martin Achatz

My uncle never sold

any of his landscapes,

gave them away as

birthday and wedding gifts

instead.  As far as I know,

he also never shaved off

his ear to give my aunt

on their anniversary.

May 29: "Italian Palindrome," Small Claims Court, "Really Good at Heart"

Billy Collins gets poetic in two languages . . . 

Italian Palindrome

by: Billy Collins

A man.

A plan.

A canal.

Canaletto!

Now, here's a poem that needs a little context.  Giovanni Antonio Canale was an Italian artist who is famous primarily for his incredibly detailed paintings of cities, especially Venice, with its canals and boats.  Of course, Collins is playing in this poem with both Canaletto's name and subject matter, as well as sound and music.  

The original palindrome this poem is based upon goes like this:  "A man, a plan, a canal--Panama!"  (Go ahead, read it forward and backward.)  So, Collins is also doing what poets should do in their work--making something old new again, and he does it in a pretty witty way.

Here is my palindrome for this evening:  Mad dog goddam.  (I'm too tired to come up with something smarter and funnier.) 

Over the past year, I've written about how my little puppy (Juno) was attacked by a much larger dog and severely injured, requiring two major surgeries and hours of physical therapy.  I've also written about my struggles with getting all the medical bills (including my ER visit--the attacking dog did a good job chewing up my hands, as well) paid for by the other dog's owner and the owner of the business where the attack occurred.  It has been a little ugly.

Today, we finally had our day in small claims court.  I had no idea what was going to happen.  The judge asked us once again to sit down together and try to work things out before we moved forward with the case (something that failed abysmally the last time we met with the court mediator) .  I'm not going to go into detail about what was said during the meeting today.  However, we reached an agreement, and it's done.

This whole situation has really tested my faith in the goodness of people.  I always try to believe the very best about every individual I meet.  Unfortunately, I have come to the conclusion that people just plain suck sometimes.

Saint Marty has the scars on his hands to prove it.

Really Good at Heart

by: Martin Achatz

Maybe Anne was right

about people, but tonight

I prefer a dog's soft

chin on my knee to

the traffic jam of words

honking on the interstate

between my ears.

May 28: "Carpe Diem," Long Holiday Weekend, "Manuscript IKEA"

Billy Collins goes a little Dead Poets . . . 

Carpe Diem

by: Billy Collins

As the coffee was brewing, 

I learned from a book

that the trunks of elephants

are sensitive enough

to pick up a coin

and powerful enough to smash

a tiger to the ground,

and that was more than

enough seizing the day for me.

It is the day after a long holiday weekend, and the last thing that was on my mind today was seizing the day.  I simply wanted to sneak into my office, avoid human contact as much as possible, and then sneak out again.

That isn't exactly the way my day went, of course.  I had work to get done, people to talk to, emails and texts to answer.  Being stealthy just wasn't in the cards for me.  To be honest, it never is.

My favorite part of the day:  working with one of my best poet friends on her manuscript.  I love the process of rolling up my sleeves and getting my hands poetically dirty.  It helps that my friend is one of the funniest people I know.

There it is.  Nothing earth-shattering happened.  Nobody died or was injured.  I am still employed, and I'm still a poet.

Saint Marty survived.  Carpe diem.

Manuscript IKEA

by: Martin Achatz

We lay poems

on the floor

like loose bricks,

begin building

a book without

downloading any

instructions, hoping

none of the pieces

are missing.  Maybe

we should have paid

for the extended

warrantee.

May 27: "Card Sharp," Remembrance, "Memorial Day Cemetery"

Billy Collins meets a , , ,

Card Sharp

by: Billy Collins

He said

he was born, 

raised,

and re-raised

somewhere in Nevada.

Collins can make me laugh.  His short poems, in particular, fill me with admiration for his wit and wordplay.  He's refreshingly honest in going for the punchline.  He just doesn't give a shit about not being taken seriously.  

Tonight, I'm not going to try to be witty or funny in what I write.  Perhaps I'm going to sound sentimental or maudlin, and I, like Collins, just don't give a shit.

It is Memorial Day in the United States--a day set aside to honor our fallen soldiers.  A lot of U. S. citizens treat this day as simply a reason to head out to camp and have a barbecue.  I don't do that.  My father, who was a Private Second Class during the Korean War, taught me to honor and respect the true meaning of this holiday.  

I taught my kids the same, taking them both to Memorial Day services at our local cemetery since before they really comprehended what it was all about.  Now, they stand at parades when the flag goes by.  When taps is played, they remove hats, put their hands over their hearts.

All the freedoms I take for granted every day were paid for in blood by courageous individuals who sacrificed everything to make the world a better place.  I never forget that.

Saint Marty will always be eternally grateful.

Memorial Day Cemetery

by: Martin Achatz

The small flags

on the graves

snap with wind,

sound like distant

gunfire of battles

fought over 80 years ago.

May 26: "Pianissimo," Piano Lessons, "Potato Eaters by van Gogh"

Billy Collins shares some musical knowledge . . .

Pianissimo

by: Billy Collins

At first,

I thought it meant

a really big piano.

Billy Collins knows music and jazz.  I've seen him fiddling around on a piano in videos online.  

Me?  I took piano and organ lessons for almost 14 years.  So, I know my way around music.  My mother started me when I was in middle school because, believe it or not, I was a very compulsive kid, highly distractible, constantly in motion.  My mind wouldn't stop.  She thought it would teach me to sit still and concentrate.  She was right.  

And, many years later, I started earning money as a musician in different churches.  I have my mother (and my wonderfully patient piano teacher) to thank for the extra income.  Just this morning, I played for two different Lutheran worship services.  Last night, I played a Catholic Mass.

In no way am I a gifted musician.  I'm a musician who requires a LOT of practice to sound like I don't practice.  My gift is writing, in particular poetry.  Words have never been struggle for me.  That doesn't mean I don't work constantly on my poems and stories and essays and blogs.  I do.  But it doesn't feel like work.  It feels like a homecoming every time I open my journal.

I'm sure van Gogh felt the same way about oil painting.  I like to think that the only time his restless mind and spirit settled was when he had a brush in his hand and an easel in front of him.  Mozart was probably happiest sitting at a keyboard.  And Emily Dickinson when she was scribbling away at midnight in her room.

Art (any kind) is balm in a world that just doesn't make sense sometimes.

Saint Marty always takes his daily dose of poetry.

Potato Eaters by van Gogh

by: Martin Achatz

I see a hair stuck

in the thick paint

of the canvas, wonder

if it's his eyelash,

whisker from his beard

or paintbrush, or maybe

from his landlady's tabby

prowling for mice

in his shabby room.

May 25: "Page-Turner," Terrible Things, "Mystery"

Billy Collins on reading . . . 

Page-Turner

by: Billy Collins

Desirable

in fiction.

Not so much 

with a slim book of poems.

Collins makes a good point.  Generally, poems are not consumed quickly, like a bag of Cheetos.  When I read a book of poems, even one that is only 15 or 20 pages long, it takes me more than one sitting.  You can't rush through poetry because it wrestles with big questions, often with no clear, definable answers.

One of the biggest questions I've struggled with for years (ever since my sister died of lymphoma of the brain) is why God allows terrible things happen to good people.  Now, my atheist friends will cite science and philosophy, explain the biological causes of dementia or quote Nietzsche ("To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.").

As a Christian, I rely on faith.  As a poet, I rely on words.  However, this morning I found out that a very good person in my life (I'll call her "A."), who has already survived breast cancer, just discovered she has a large renal tumor and smaller tumors in her lungs.  All of my old angers and resentments against God have reappeared.

Now, God doesn't mind if I get pissed at him.  (I use the masculine pronoun here because most of the people who have caused hurt in my life have been men.)  God has big shoulders and understands my frustration.  It's hard to see any kind of divine plan in suffering of any kind.  Yet, faith tells me to put my trust in God.  

I'm having a hard time doing that.  God seems like a playground bully at the moment.  At church this afternoon, I had a little heart-to-heart with the Big Guy, expressing all of my angers and frustrations.  I may have even called God an asshole.  

I've lost a lot of people in my life in these last eight or nine years--decent, good people who went out of their ways to make the world a better place.  Yet those people suffered and died while others like Donald Trump lie, cheat, steal, commit adultery, and incite violence.  I just don't get it.

But I know there is a reason for everything, even if I don't (and probably never will) understand it.  Prayer is medicine, and it comes in many forms (just read the Book of Psalms if you don't believe me).  Anger.  Joy.  Sorrow.  Love.  Frustration.  Fear.  Courage.  It's all prayer, even if you use the word "asshole."

So, please lift up A. in healing and hope and love.  Say a prayer for her, if you pray.  Wish her well, if you don't.  

Saint Marty will try not to swear at God any more tonight.

Mystery

by: Martin Achatz

Trying to understand why

someone I care about

has been diagnosed with cancer

again, I feel like Columbo

turning to God, saying,

"Excuse me, just one more question."

May 24: "Awake," Sleeplessness, "Doctor Appointment"

Billy Collins suffers from insomnia . . . 

Awake

by: Billy Collins

Dead quiet night--

I lie in bed

waiting for

the other pin to drop.

I am no stranger to sleeplessness.  In fact, most nights, I don't even try to put my head to pillow until well past midnight.  Often, I see one or two in the morning.

It's Friday night.  Raining.  The beginning of a long holiday weekend.  The lilacs in my home town (and in my backyard) are waking up, stretching, yawning purple yawns.  

I had a doctor's appointment today.  Just a six-month checkup.  No earth-shattering diagnosis.  Unlike most people, going to dentists or doctors has never bothered me.  I'm not afraid of shots.  Don't care if I need to be prodded or probed.

That being said, I did work in the healthcare setting for over 20 years, and I've seen some horrible shit.  And when you work in the medical field, you tend to be a little bit of a hypochondriac.  In the past, I've diagnosed myself with testicular cancer, angina, diabetic retinopathy, and complex post traumatic stress.  I've been proven wrong over and over.

The good news is that I will live another six months, at least until my next checkup, unless I have a close encounter with bus or mountain lion.

The bad news is Saint Marty is still a poet.  No cure for that.

Doctor Appointment

by: Martin Achatz

I sit in the exam room,

half-naked, journal

in my lap, pen in hand,

wait for the doctor

to come in, listen

to my lungs, heart,

palpate my stomach,

read these lines I've written,

diagnose what's wrong

with this poem.

May 23: "Deer Hit," New Furnace, "Multiple Choice"

Billy Collins surveys the damage . . . 

Deer Hit

by: Billy Collins

The morning after

the tawny blur

in the windshield,

a sunny breeze

is stirring the woods

as I regard the damage--

a crumpled fender,

and one headlight

with an eyelash of fur.

Living in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, I have had more than my share of close encounters with deer.  In particular, quite a few years ago, after making the last car payment a couple weeks prior, I totaled my Taurus one morning by hitting a doe head-on.

For my disciples who don't live in deer country, I want to make clear that these creatures literally leap across roads and highways, leaving very little time to react properly.  In my case, I barely saw the "tawny blur" before my car collided with it.

There's not much you can do when shit like this happens.  You can cry.  Get pissed.  Take inventory of your body parts to make sure they're all intact.  Or say a little prayer of thanks for not being injured.  If I remember correctly, I did all four.

You may recall, for the past week I've been dealing with no heat in my house.  My furnace did not have an encounter with a whitetail.  It was simply old and tired.  Last night got a little chilly, and, when I woke up, I'd cocooned myself in blankets.  

Now, I could get angry or sad,  or I could be grateful that my furnace held off until May before going to furnace heaven.  I did a little of each.  And I'm happy to report that I am the proud owner of a new, high-efficiency furnace as of today, just in time for the upcoming holiday weekend.

Life always has a way of working things out.

Saint Marty is excited about his new furnace.  Does that make him old?

Multiple Choice

by: Martin Achatz

When writing a poem, you should

A) find your first line by flipping your pillow over to winter.

B) never use the word "love" unless it's coupled with a bee sting and promise of honey.

C) eat kumquats until your ears ring with sour.

D) let your dog lick it off your fingers like peanut butter.

May 22: "Corridor," One of the Elders, "Ageism"

Billy Collins shows his age . . .

Corridor

by: Billy Collins

I've grown old--

now my own name

rings a bell.

Okay, I have reached the age where I get up off the couch in my living room, walk through the dining room into the kitchen, and can't remember why.  Was I hungry?  Thirsty?  Did I have something in the oven?

I still feel as if I should be sitting at the kids' table at family gettogethers, leaving the comfortable chairs and bigger table to the elders.  My reality check came this past Christmas when I realized that I am now one of the elders.  A younger elder, but still an elder.

Funny, I don't feel older, although I do make noises every time I rise from chairs or couches now.  I still get overexcited by new books or writing projects or movies.  And I still am pretty much night owlish, staying up well past 2 a.m. most of the time.  

There is that old saying that you're only as old as you feel.  I've also heard people say, "You have a young mind."  If both of those statements are true, then I'm a 12-year-old boy stuck in the body of an old fart.  

I'm not complaining.  I've been pretty lucky, health-wise and happiness-wise.  My life is good, filled with things that fuel my passions.  Age, for me, really is just a number.  That's it.

Saint Marty's number right now is . . . younger than dirt and older than my teeth.

Ageism

by: Martin Achatz

John Muir counted over 4000

rings on one sequoia stump,

and I have expired milk

in my fridge that still smells good.

May 21: "Celtic Interlacing," Night for Poets, "Palimpsest"

Billy Collins gets a little Seamus Heaney-ish . . . 

Celtic Interlacing

by: Billy Collins

Early horizontal designs

for the rollercoasters of the future.

As I sit typing this post, the world outside is being pounded by rain and wind and lightning and thunder.  A night for poets.  

Poets see the world in a different way.  Billy Collins looks at Celtic designs and sees rollercoasters.  I look at a piece of toast and see the face of Jesus.  (You can laugh.  That was meant to be a joke.)

This morning, when I took a walk through my backyard with my dog, fog had made all the familiar bushes and trees and rocks almost alien, as if I'd just stepped onto another planet.  It was lovely, frightening, and poetic at the same time.

I spent a good portion of my day working on a poem for an event happening at the end of June.  As the Marquette Art Awards 2023 Writer of the Year, I have been invited to write and read a poem for the opening ceremony of Art Week.  So, I've lived in a space of keen observation and imagination for hours today.  

Saint Marty is a little hungry now.  He's going to go eat Jesus' head.

Palimpsest

by: Martin Achatz

Morning fog erases the pines

so they can be revised by day.

May 20: "Charmed," Vena Amoris, "Wedding Band"

Billy Collins leads a charmed life . . . 

Charmed

by: Billy Collins

The tiny figures

on your bracelet

ride around one wrist

while on the other

the hours

circle your pulse.

I have always envied people with charm bracelets for some reason, each tiny metal sculpture carrying its own narrative.  A starfish from your Honolulu honeymoon.  An angel from the gift shop of the hospital where your father died.  A musical note from the person who taught you piano for 12 years.

I don't own much jewelry.  In my dresser drawer, I have a cross on a chain and a gold earring.  I used to wear both all the time, but, over the years, the chain snapped and the post turned my earlobe green.  So now the only adornment I sport is my wedding band.

It's a simple, gold ring with scalloped engraving around the edges.  I've had it on my hand for close to 30 years.  It reminds of good times and bad times.  I remember once hearing a pastor explain at a wedding ceremony that the fourth finger of the left hand possessed a vein (Vena Amoris) that runs directly to the heart.  It's a lovely belief, but is anatomically untrue.  No such vein exists.  Yet, the symbolism, originating in ancient Egypt, persists.  It's a good narrative.

The ring on my hand tells a story, too.  It's not a fairy tale.  I'm certainly no Prince Charming.  (Maybe Prince Mildly Amusing.)  There are struggles and heartbreaks in the story.  Moments of great joy and intense sorrow.  A beautiful daughter.  A funny-as-hell son.  A puppy that embodies unconditional devotion.  A woman who puts up with all my faults and failings.

It's a love story, warts and all, I guess.

Saint Marty isn't holding his breath for happily ever after.  He'll be satisfied with able-to-pay-all-his-bills ever after.

Wedding Band

by: Martin Achatz

can be on your

ring finger

symbolizing love

without end

or those guys

at the reception

who got drunk, played

"Achy Breaky Heart"

three times

in a row.

The face of love . . . 

May19: "Deep Mexican Night," Cranked Up to Ten, "Trillium"

Billy Collins on vacation . . . 

Deep Mexican Night

by: Martin Achatz

You can hear them playing jai-alai

from this flowering terrace,

the distant rebounding ball,

and the fans with their strange cheer:

"Jai-alia-aiiahh-jaih-jaaiihaahaha!"

At night, the volume of everything seems cranked up to ten.  Crickets.  Barking dogs.  Peepers from a nearby lake.  And, according to Collins, a game of jai alai.

Maybe it's because all the noise of the day has gone to bed, leaving the world empty as the Grand Canyon.  Everything becomes amplified, even the stars and moon and trees.

I often stand in my backyard at midnight or later, just to be a part of the show.  I've seen skunks and deer, meteors and auroras.  Nearly drowned in an ocean of lilacs.  Whistled with crickets.  Wondered at a galaxy of dandelions under my bare feet, making me feel as if I was strolling through the universe.

I have a patch of trillium that blooms on my property line.  No idea how they came to be there, but they return year after year, multiplying like life-sick ghosts.  They are blooming now, singing their spring song.

Saint Marty is heading outside now to listen to them.

Trillium

by: Martin Achatz

On this Pentecost night,

I mistake them for

tongues of white flame

preaching to the dark

in the language of grass.

May 18: "Departure," Almost Summer Day, "Spring Fever"

Billy Collins is haunted . . . 

Departure

by: Billy Collins

I wonder--

did you happen

to play something new

on the piano

just before you left

or was it the breeze

from the door

you left open

that turned the page?

An almost summer day.  I spent most of it practicing music for the church services I have to play this weekend.  Piano and pipe organ.  Lots of new songs (Lutheran hymns) that I didn't recognize.  

It is mid-May.  Prom season.  On my walks and travels today, I saw lots of teenage guys washing and vacuuming their dad's convertibles, lots of teenage girls walking freshly coifed out of beauty salons.  Spring and hormones are in the air.

Usually around this time, I make big plans of what I hope to accomplish during the summer.  I call them my spring resolutions.  I'm not going to do that this year, because it only leads to guilt and disappointment at the end of August.

Instead, Saint Marty is just going to savor each moment, one dandelion at a time

Spring Fever

by: Martin Achatz

I walk under

the branches of an apple

tree, stare up into

its blossoms, stunned

as a teenage boy seeing

his date all decked out

for junior prom.

My 17: "Orphans," Day Two, "Without Heat"

Billy Collins studies astronomy . . . 

Orphans

by: Billy Collins

Earth and moon

pulled through space,

a boy and his pale sister

forever spinning in a darkened room.

It is Friday night, day two of having no heat.  Thank goodness the weather has been warm.  It is strange how 50 degrees outside seems like summer, but 60 degrees inside seems almost arctic.  

Unlike Collins, I've been too distracted by my furnace situation to do any moon- or stargazing.  Friends have been posting gorgeous pictures of auroras over Lake Superior.  I have no such pictures saved on my phone's camera roll.  Like I said, my mind's been a little preoccupied. 

It looks as though I will be getting a new furnace next week.  Just in time for spring.  Everything is greening and yellowing and pinking and purpling up in my backyard.  

Saint Marty is pretty exhausted tonight.

Without Heat

by: Martin Achatz

I sit in a room above

my broken furnace,

think of an old bear

who forgot to set

his alarm clock for spring.

May 16: "Poetry Collection," Furnace and Friends, "Working on a New Poem"

Billy Collins edits . . . 

Poetry Collection

by: Billy Collins

They mutter

in the alleys of the city,

the old ones

who were not selected.

It's a difficult thing, writing is.  It keeps you awake at night, wakes you up early in the morning.  Even when you're taking a break, writing is still always present, like tinnitus, ringing in your brain.

I have been up since before 4 a.m.  The furnace in my house decided to stop working.  Instead of blowing warm air, it was blowing cold.  Constantly.  I turned the furnace off and spent twenty minutes trying to contact a local heating and cooling contractor.  Eventually, I was successful.

The service person came out this afternoon and gave my furnace a fatal diagnosis.  He mentioned fireballs and overheating, cautioned us not to turn the furnace back on.  So, everybody in my house is layered up tonight in sweatshirts and hats and gloves, and two space heaters are cranking out some heat.  (A huge shoutout to my friend, John, who loaned us his heavy duty heater that is now maintaining a steady 68 degrees in the living room and bedroom.

And tonight I hosted a monthly Zoom open mic where some of my best friends warmed me up with their stories and essays and poems.  After a very long day, where I struggled and worried and fretted and worried some more, it was good just to relax and listen to everyone.  

Humans beings are messy creatures.  We worry about things we have very little control over.  We fuck up, over and over and over and over.  That's what life is--a series of mistakes, struggles, and challenges.  And it's our friends who pick us up, dust us off, and forgive us.  

Saint Marty gives thanks tonight for good friends and space heaters.  

Working on a New Poem

by: Martin Achatz

I wake in the middle

of the night when it cries

out, stumble to its cradle,

check to see if it's hungry,

wet, or just wants to be held.

May 15: "Spacing," Sister's Birthday, "Tulip on my Desk"

Billy Collins stuck in traffic . . . 

Spacing

by: Billy Collins

When the traffic

in Los Angeles thickens

and comes to a stop,

the drivers in the other cars

look like they are pretending

to be from earth,

and not from some other planet

where this kind of thing never occurs.

When I am no longer a part of this life, I hope I'm not remembered as a road rager.  Or a grumpy old guy who chased kids off his lawn.  Or a misanthrope who hated human beings just out of principle.  I might as well just say it:  I hope I'm not remembered as a Republican.

Today, I celebrate a person who never had a mean bone in her body.  She loved everyone, and every one loved her.  In her time on this planet, she loved writing letters to friends and family, worked on latch hook rugs, and guzzled Diet Coke.  When you arrived or left any place, she always lifted her arms for a hug.

Her name was Rose, and she was my sister.  Today would have been her 59th birthday.

Rose taught me about a lot of things:  compassion, joy, love, understanding, patience.  On her last morning, she taught me how to die well--surrounded by family, not struggling, breathing peacefully until she simply . . . stopped.

I think of her every day and hope I can live up to the unconditional love she blessed me with.

Here is the poem I wrote for Rose's funeral:

Ascension

by:  Martin Achatz

for Rose, February 5, 2022

I wonder what Jesus did as he ascended
on that elevator of cloud. Did he wave
to the disciples as he rose and rose
like some kite broken free of its string,
becoming smaller, smaller until he
was swallowed by the great blue
throat of heaven? And did the disciples
keep their eyes trained on him,
unblinking, until tears transformed
that mountaintop into the Sea of Galilee?
After he was gone, did the disciples stand
there, look at each other dumbly, try
to recall his last word? Was it
earth or dirt or air or mother?
They didn’t have phones to take
pictures or videos. Weren’t able to
scroll through their albums
to remind themselves how dark
his skin and eyes were or how
laughing made him blaze
like Pentecost. Instead, they gospelled
each other, tried to recall with letters
God’s whiskered face.
                    Today, we gather
in this church for you, dear sister, two
weeks after the metronome of your lungs
ceased and you ascended on that cold
morning. I stood by your bed, held
your hand, mapped its pulse
with my fingertips. I don’t remember
the last word you spoke to me,
or even second to last. It may
have been my name or mother
or ham or simply yes. Like the disciples
now, I’m greedy for every
last scrap of you, your crooked
smile, how you cackled even
when you didn’t get the joke. I
spent my entire life knowing
you, but not really knowing.
Until the end, when you were
rising and rising away from me,
getting smaller, smaller. I
watched until you vanished
from sight, taken back
to that place you came
from, that infinity between zero
and one. Only then did I realize
how lucky I’d been. To have
you with me every day, drinking
Diet Cokes, listening to ABBA
songs, begging me to wrap
my arms around your
shoulders. I could spend the rest
of my days writing gospels and gospels
about how much you loved me.

Saint Marty is going to drink a Diet Coke in his sister's honor tonight.

Tulip on my Desk

by: Martin Achatz

Its head droops down

as if it has just remembered

it's my dead sister's birthday.

May 14: "View from a Bridge," Center of the Universe, "Penny for Your Thoughts"

Billy Collins crosses a bridge . . .

View from a Bridge

by: Billy Collins

I never thought

of myself

as a little universe

inside a big one

until just now.

It's always a little humbling to realize you are not the universe or center of the universe or even an important component of the universe.  Most individuals don't learn this lesson until much later in life.  Children are simply too me-centered to realize that, in the grand scheme of things, we are very small cogs in an infinite machine.  A lot of adults I meet have never experienced this epiphany, either.

I come from a large family, so I had tons of siblings to make me aware of my insignificance.  It was difficult enough getting an extra helping mashed potatoes at the dinner table.  Forget being center stage for any length of time.  Humility was a virtue that was drilled into me from the time I was very young.

Perhaps that's why I have pursued a career in the arts--to get people's attention and recognition.  Although, even now, I try to avoid spotlight situations.  I much prefer to shine the spotlight on other people and accomplishments.  Give me a bag of M&Ms or a slice of pizza, and that's all the acknowledgement I need.  (Really, that's all anyone needs.)

Those are most of Saint Marty's thoughts for today.

Penny for Your Thoughts

by: Martin Achatz

She tasted like Superior,

her skin a glacier under

the current of my tongue,

pushing her closer and closer

to the edge of the world

where whales moan all night.

Did you get your money's worth?

May 13: "Empty House," Mondays, "Funeral Lunch"

Billy Collins enjoys the view . . . 

Empty House

by: Billy Collins

After the old man died

but before the house was torn down,

the windows continued to enjoy

a view of the meadow and the woods beyond.

Monday is never anyone's favorite day of the week.  Often, when I get to my office on Monday morning, I spend several minutes staring out the window at the church across the street, as the sunlight transforms it from orange to gold to brindled sand.  Like the old man in Collins' poem, I never get tired of the view.

It was a really good Monday for me.  I don't say that very often.  About midmorning, I received news that a grant on which I worked for the library in January received funding.  (Unfortunately, I can't go into more detail until the official announcement at the beginning of June, but I worked my ass off on it.)  I never thought my application stood a chance.

So, I've been sort of basking in quiet celebration for most of the day.  Enjoying the view from my window, so to speak.

Saint Marty is done patting himself on the back now. 

Funeral Lunch

by: Martin Achatz

We sit around tables, eat

lasagna, chicken wings,

Aunt Polly's pink lady salad,

drink strong, black coffee,

and start forgetting

the dirty joke about a turkey

and a donkey the dearly departed

told last Thanksgiving.

May 12: "Covid," Mother's Day, "Mother's Day Shopping"

Pandemic Billy Collins . . . 

Covid

by: Billy Collins

Another long day

at home.

I set my phone

on Airplane Mode.

I know this is a strange poem to include in a Mother's Day post.  (For my international disciples, the United States sets aside the second Sunday of May as a day to celebrate mothers and motherhood.)  Yet, there's something in this poem that makes me think of my mom.

Even before the pandemic forced us all into isolation, my mother wasn't doing well.  If memory serves, she fell at home some months into COVID and ended up in the hospital.  From there, she was transferred to a long-term care facility.  So, I didn't see much of her near the end of her life.

It's hard for me to believe that she's been gone for almost three years.  In temperament and personality, I think I take after my mother more than my father.  She was open-minded and loving.  I rarely saw her get angry.  And she was quick to spot the ridiculous in life.  I once read her an Anne Sexton poem when I was an undergraduate, and she laughed her ass off.  (My mom was the first person who taught me that poetry can be funny.)

Every Mother's Day, I share a poem I wrote many years ago for my mom.  It ended up being the poem I read at her funeral:

Heart to Heart

by: Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants. Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast. My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest. Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems. Yes, I told
her. I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said. She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts. This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
me for Mother’s Day. Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm. They
will find a diner to have
coffee together. They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

I know most kids say this, but my mom was a hero, raising nine kids, helping my dad run his plumbing business, volunteering at church, advocating for parents with special needs children.  She did it all with grace and compassion.

Saint Marty wishes all the hero mothers reading this post a Happy Mother's Day.

Mother's Day Shopping

by: Martin Achatz

I stand in front

of the Mother's Day cards

the day before, feeling

like a hyena sniffing

a zebra carcass, knowing

all the good parts have

already been scavenged

by vulture sons for their moms.

May 11: "Wet Morning," Artists at Work, "Rabbit in the Morning"

Billy Collins has a green thumb . . . 

Wet Morning

by: Billy Collins

The big red bougainvillea

is drooping,

an effect of last night's

wind and rain.

Thunder too,

but plants don't have ears,

or is that

what the petals are for?

We got some rain last night.  Not a lot.  However, it was cloudy and wet enough to obscure the auroras that were blazing all over the heavens.  I don't have any bougainvillea in my backyard, but I'm sure my lilac bushes enjoyed their shower.

It is Mother's Day weekend.  I took my son Mother's Day shopping this afternoon.  He wasn't happy about it, but he picked out a card and a present without bloodshed or violence.  That's a win in my book.  This evening, my wife and I attended a fundraiser for a local theater group we support.  My wife drank an overpriced pop.  I drank two glasses of overpriced wine.  And we listened to really good music sung by some talented friends.

My wife is now sleeping.  My son is playing online video games upstairs in his bedroom.  My puppy is in her crate.  And I am getting ready to watch an episode or two of my latest obsession--a British competition show called Landscape Artist of the Year.  My wife hates the show, but I find it endlessly fascinating watching artists at work.

It almost makes Saint Marty want to take up oil painting.  

Rabbit in the Morning

by: Martin Achatz

He watches the dog

from a hunch of dewy grass,

waits for her to charge

or bark.  Instead, she lifts

her snout, sniffs, looks

away, like an old 

girlfriend at a 50th reunion

who can't remember 

your name.

May 10: "Neighborhood," Lovely Man, "Legacy"

Billy Collins has a beautiful day in the . . . 

Neighborhood

by: Billy Collins

What do I care

that they're tearing down

the nice old houses

and putting up brutal ones?

Before very long,

I'll be just a breeze

blowing around town,

trying to avoid all the wind chimes.

Yes, as you age, you do figure out that most things that get people angry or upset don't really matter all that much.  That's what Billy Collins is getting at in this poem.  In the end, it doesn't matter whether you're a billionaire or homeless, a great poet or a great bartender.  What matters is whether you loved and were loved in return.

This afternoon, I learned that a friend from my wife's church passed away on May 4.  His name was Joel, and my best memories of him involve sitting around a table before worship, listening to his stories and jokes.  He always had a smile on his face and loved his family and friends dearly.

Saint Marty knows Joel is probably sharing a beer with Jesus right now.

Legacy

by: Martin Achatz

Will my kids feel my breath

in this poem when I'm gone?

Will they press it against

their cheeks, let my lips

kiss them one last time?

Or will they pack it in a box,

haul it to Goodwill where

it will sit on a shelf, whispering

to grandma's old reading glasses?

May 9: "Tom Thumb's Thumb," Son's Middle College, ""Luke S."

Billy Collins contemplates . . .

Tom Thumb's Thumb

by:  Billy Collins

was so small

it failed to get the attention

of passing cars and trucks.

And what was he doing

out there anyway,

hitchhiking all by himself?

There's something almost paternal in this poem, Billy Collins worrying about Tom Thumb's fate at the hands of strangers.  Another way of phrasing his question is, "Where the hell were his parents?"

We live in a world where children are exposed to adult situations and problems at younger and younger ages.  My son and daughter know a lot more about this weird world than I did at their ages.  My biggest worry when I was a kid was whether or not I had collected the entire series of bubblegum Star Wars trading cards.  In summer, I could disappear from the house after breakfast and not come back until dusk, and nobody worried about me.

I never really appreciated the breadth of freedom I had when I was younger.  It was only when I started working, bought a house and car, became a husband and father that I developed nostalgia for those long July days filled with the buzz saw of insects.

But that's the truth about any life experience.  It's only in memory that it becomes poignant and wonderful  Childhood (for most people) takes on the gold tint of a daguerreotype.

I've been thinking a lot about my kids today.  (I use the term "kids," even though my daughter is 24 years old and my son is 15.)  Their young childhoods have taken on the patina of nostalgia for me now.  It seems like just yesterday they were staggering around in their diapers.  This afternoon, my son found out that he was accepted into middle college for next year.  That means, by the time he graduates from high school, he will have earned an associate's degree, with all of his expenses (tuition and books) paid for.

My little boy ain't so little any more.

And Saint Marty couldn't be prouder of him.

Luke S.

by:  Martin Achatz

If I was him,

I'd have stayed put,

drank my blue milk,

picked sand out of my ears,

written poems

about twin suns

opening like lizard

eyes on the horizon.

May 8: "Zen Backfire," Mindless Activities, "Existential Sundae"

Billy Collins gets all philosophical again . . .

Zen Backfire

by: Billy Collins

The only time

I cut myself shaving

is when I'm aware

that I'm shaving.

Most of the things I do in a day are mindless activities, including shaving.  I don't think about how to shave each time I lift a razor to my face.  And I don't review all the rules of driving before I sit behind a wheel and turn the key in the ignition.  I rely on muscle memory.  My body, through continuous repetition, simply knows how to shave in the morning and drive to work.

Billy Collins is right, though.  The moment you start thinking about shaving or operating a motor vehicle is the moment bad things happen.  I tie my shoes all the time, but, when my daughter was young and asked me how to tie her shoes, I had a hell of a time explaining the steps.

It is one day past the end of the semester now, and I had to think, really think, about what I was going to do today.  After having the same routine for almost five months, I now need to retrain my mind and body.  I'll have to do the same at the end of August when I start teaching again.  Every three or four months, I have to reinvent myself.

In a lot of ways, writing a poem has become muscle memory for me.  I've been creating poetry for so long that I almost immediately recognize things like weak verbs, trite imagery, clunky lines.  That doesn't mean every time I sit down with my journal I write "The Emperor of Ice Cream" or "The Pope's Penis."  But I can and often do avoid very common mistakes made by less-experienced poets.

When I meet a stranger, usually one of the first question I get asked is "What do you do?"  There are easy answers to that question.  I teach at a university.  I schedule programs at a public library.  I play the pipe organ at a few different churches.  But the answer that is closest to who I am is:  I am a poet.

Try saying that to a complete stranger and see what kind of reaction you get.  If you're at a party, suddenly your conversation partner becomes infatuated with the bean dip.  If you're on an airplane, your seatmate will begin staring out the window at the clouds.

Truth frightens people.

My name is Saint Marty, and I am a poet.  Run for the hills.

Existential Sundae

by: Martin Achatz

If I define a sundae

as ice cream with hot fudge,

is it still a sundae

if I add whipped cream

and a maraschino cherry?

May 7: "Junior Philosopher," Blink of a Cursor, "Peace of Mind"

Billy Collins philosophizes . . .

Junior Philosopher

by:  Billy Collins

I'll have this figured out in no time,

he announced,

as he faced the Cosmic Void.

He was wearing

a clean white shirt

and holding

the tool kit of reason

by its handy leather strap.

On the day Final Grades are due, I always face the Cosmic Void.

At around 11 a.m. today, I clicked the "submit" button, and just like that, the life I've been leading since January vanished in the blink of a cursor.

And now I face the summer, which resembles the Cosmic Void, as well.  I didn't receive a summer class to teach (those having been gobbled up by full-time professors who are looking to make some extra bucks), so the next four months are going to be very lean.

I'm trying to come to terms with the impending financial struggles in June, July, and August, wondering if I have a spare kidney or lung I can hock on the black market for five or six thousand dollars.  I can do nothing to change the situation.  It is out of my control.

So the best Saint Marty can do tonight is become one with poverty.

Peace of Mind

by:  Martin Achatz

I once had a friend

so Zen

she'd actually

heard the sound

of one hand clapping.

May 6: "Dictionary Wanderings," Strange or Dirty Words, "Final Exams"

Billy Collins checks his spelling . . . 

Dictionary Wanderings

by: Billy Collins

The two silent "els"

in talk and calf

find a place

of prominence in llama.

As a kid, I loved wandering through the dictionary, window shopping for strange or dirty words.  I learned a lot about life (and sex) by doing this.  And I probably doomed myself to be a poet.

I spent most of the day and night grading papers and exams.  Final grades are due by noon tomorrow, so I'm under the gun, so to speak.  Currently, I'm wading through my students' essay exams for Intro to Mythology.  Prior to that, it was reading journals for my Good Books class.

I love teaching, but I'm not a big fan of grading.  I may be in the minority of educators, but I truly believe that grades interfere with a student's ability to learn.  Instead of trying to grapple with course content, students spend their time worrying about what they need to do to earn an "A" from their instructors.  It's pointless.

I would much prefer a Pass/Fail system of evaluation.  If a student demonstrates mastery of the course material, the student passes.  If the student still doesn't know the difference between "to/too/two" at the end of the semester, the student fails.  Simple and easy, eliminating all the stupid competition that occurs in higher education.

Of course, Saint Marty has been grading for about 16 hours today, so that may be influencing his judgement a little bit right now.

Final Exams

by:  Martin Achatz

Grading them

at 1 a.m.

reminds me

of cramming for them,

minus the gin and panic.

May 5: "Octopus Sonneteer," a Little Fun, "Lilac Poetry"

What do you get when you cross Billy Collins with a mollusk?

Octopus Sonneteer

by:  Billy Collins

He wrote the octave

all at once

the dashed off the final six

while uncorking a bottle of champagne.

Billy Collins is having a little fun with this poem.

I did not have a whole lot of fun today, aside from leading a lovely poetry workshop with some friends this evening.  Spent the day grading and wishing I wasn't grading.

However, when I took my puppy out for a walk around my backyard this afternoon, I did notice that my lilac bushes are sprouting green leaves and purple buds, which means the summer is closer than I thought.

When Saint Marty submits his final grades, that will be the official start of summer.

Lilac Poetry

by:  Martin Achatz

I watch the bushes

revise my backyard

into bruised monostiches,

couplets, tercets

until I wake one morning

to the perfume of a purple

Paradise Lost.

May 4: "Face Up," Relativity, "Trampoline"

Billy Collins plays cards . . . 

Face Up

by:  Billy Collins

The jack of diamonds

lying supine

on the table,

a prince sleeping

in a pasture--

fifty-one cows.

I haven't had a whole lot of time for cards or poetry or anything else today.  It's the end of the semester, so my focus was grading papers and exams.  About the only other things I did was play the pipe organ for Mass this afternoon and take my puppy for a long walk.

I remember how weekends seemed to last forever when I was a kid--from Saturday mornings watching Bugs Bunny through Sunday evenings and the The Wonderful World of Disney.  These days, if I blink on Friday, it's already Sunday with the work week looming over me.

It's all about Einstein and relativity.  The older you get, the less time you seem to have.  More grading tomorrow.  Poetry workshop in the evening.

Saint Marty sure misses having a whole lot of time and a whole lot of nothing to do.

Trampoline

by:  Martin Achatz

The trampoline has stood

for two years in my backyard,

abandoned by my kids

who used it to touch

the sun until they came

down with a case 

of gravity.

May 3: "Divorce," Marriage, "Bliss"

Billy Collins on unwedded bliss . . . 

Divorce

by:  Billy Collins

No more heavy ball,

just the sound

of the dragged chain

with every other step.

This poem is a little cynical.  I suppose anyone who has experienced marital problems understands Collins' point, though.  Even after a marriage ends, the two people involved will still be linked in some way forever--in memory or children or therapy or photos or music or poetry.

Next year, my wife and I will celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary.  There are some people who would have bet large sums of money that we would never reach that milestone, myself included at times.  It has been a rollercoaster of three decades.  Because of mental illness and addiction, our marriage has teetered on the brink of collapse a few times.  But here we are.  Still together.  In love.  

The term "wedded bliss" paints a landscape of idyllic days and nights suffused with impressionistic light.  But I know that marriage is not a Monet painting of water lilies.  Marriage is hard, hard work.

I say all this with zero cynicism.  It's the absolute truth in my experience.  But that hard work is worth it in my experience, as well.

Saint Marty is blissed out on gratitude tonight.

Bliss

by:  Martin Achatz

Sometimes it's wedded.

Sometimes you follow it.

It's sometimes ignorance.

But tonight it's a woodwind

section of peepers

tuning their voices

to spring.

May 2: "Breakfast," Appetites, "Midnight Snack"

Billy Collins feeds some fish . . . 

Breakfast

by:  Billy Collins

In the hotel restaurant,

orange koi in a pond.

I toss in some corn flakes.

Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day.  It always has been.  I know this doesn't make for exciting blog post reading, but I just had to say it.  

As a kid, one of my favorite dinners my mother used to serve up every once in a while was a huge pot of oatmeal and an even huger plate of toast.  Keep in mind that she was feeding nine kids, my dad, and my grandmother.  She had to get creative with meals.

As a diabetic, I am constantly aware of food.  Sometimes, I have to eat when I'm not even hungry.  It's kind of a pain in the ass, to be honest.  Yet, I'm a slave to my blood sugar levels.  I've woken up way too many times to paramedics in my bedroom giving me glucose through an IV.  So, eating is a huge part of my daily routine.

Everyone is a slave to their appetites, in a way.  Musicians crave music.  Athletes crave physical exertion.  Poets crave poetry.  Donald Trump craves porn stars and Russian money.  Human beings are hardwired to seek out what gives us pleasure.

I'm kind of a night owl, if you haven't figured that out.  I'm often still awake at one or two in the morning, watching movies or reading books or trying to solve Wordle.  I've been like this since I was very young.  And, besides breakfast, my other favorite meal of the day is a midnight snack.  Cold pizza.  Leftover lasagna.  A bowl of Cocoa Krispies.

My current late-night obsessions:  a British show called Landscape Artist of the Year and Cosmic Brownies.  I know, I know.  Not very healthy, but highly pleasurable.

Throw in some great poems, and that's Saint Marty's version of paradise.

Midnight Snack

by:  Martin Achatz

Window a black mirror

behind me, I'm not sure

what to eat:  the leftover

chicken in the fridge

or the David Ignatow poems

and Hershey kiss I found

under the couch cushions.