Okay, it is a significant day in the history of the United States. If I didn't write about it, it would be like ignoring the elephant in the room, if you'll pardon my use of that old cliché. So, for better or worse, this post addresses the topic, starting with:
Sharon Olds writes about an aging poet friend . . .
Absent One
(for Muriel Rukeyser)
by: Sharon Olds
how white you are, how thin you are.
I have not seen you for a year, but slowly you are
forming above my head, white as
petals, white as milk, the dark
narrow stems of your ankles and wrists,
until you are always with me, a flowering
branch suspended over my life.
In this poem, Sharon Olds celebrates a writer friend who is important to her. Today, an important person was celebrated all over my country. A historic individual who really tried to make the United States of America better, greater.
There is a polar vortex sitting on our shoulders right now. Most Upper Peninsula schools were closed, and most of them (including the university where I teach) will be closed again tomorrow. With a 40 below zero wind chill predicted, nobody is taking any chances.
This morning, I took a shower because I didn't have to rush off anywhere. The library and university were closed because of the federal holiday. As I was toweling off, I noticed that the bathtub wasn't draining. There was a good five or six inches of water just sitting there, unmoving. I plunged the drain. Many times. It didn't help.
Therefore, around 8:30 a.m., my wife called a plumber to come out and unblock the blockage, and I spent most of the day praying the pipes weren't frozen solid.
I also worked on a poem, met a friend for lunch, read a book, wrote a script, and recorded a podcast episode. I haven't turned on the television all day long, not wanting to watch any news reports, and I avoided most social media, as I will probably be doing for the next four years.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., once said, "We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope."
While much of what happened today was disappointing, I never gave up on hope. There are still good people out there. Decent and compassionate people. Jimmy Carters and Martin Luther Kings.
Saint Marty wrote a poem today about a great man's dream, using the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Write a poem where the first word of a line begins with the same letter as the last word of the same line. Have the poem be about a reoccurring dream you have or had as a child. For example, the first line could be My dream hinted at mailboxes as my and mailbox both begin with the letter "m."
Psalm for Martin
January 20, 2025
by: Martin Achatz
Dreams never hang around, disappear
as soon as my eyes open, me already
thinking about the day's worries, tasks,
pushing aside all the lingering phantoms
of my subconscious, even the ones
where my dead sister presses her warm
fingers against my cheek, me feeling
in just-waking moments as if I've
forgotten something important, filling
my atria with an aching melancholy,
hollow as bells pealing the Angelus hour.
I don't keep a dream journal to scribble in
early morning dark, don't press escaping
visions like daisies between vellum
pages to preserve their summer petals.
Rather, I swing my bare feet to floor, rise,
step into the coming day, all specters
of night burning off like fog. On
this January morn, I prefer to think
of another man's dream, filled only
with hope for a better life. Wondrous.
Beautiful. A promised land burning
in the distance, a bright island
where all God's children will
join hands, sing joyfully
together. Free. Together.
At last. Alleluia. Amen.
❤️
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