April 5, 2025: "Monarchs," Butterfly Moment, "Things I Learned About Politics from My Dad"

Some moments in life change you irreversibly.  Kindergarten.  First crush and kiss.  High school graduation.  First sex.  College.  Weddings.  Funerals.  Parenthood.  Serious illness.

There's the old saying that the only constant in life is change.  As much as I would have liked to stay chronologically around 25 or 30 years old, time marches on, bringing all kinds of transformations.  Chrysalis into butterfly.  Butterfly into sunlight.

Sharon Olds has a butterfly moment . . . 

Monarchs

by: Sharon Olds

          (for P. W.)

All morning, as I sit, thinking of you,

the Monarchs are passing.  Seven stories up,

to the left of the river, they are making their way

south, their wings the dry red of

your hands like butchers' hands, the raised

veins of their wings like your scars.

I could scarcely feel your massive rough

palms on me, your touch was so light,

the chapped scrape of an insect's leg

across my breast.  No one had ever

touched me before.  I didn't know enough to

open my legs, but felt your thighs,

feathered with red, gold hairs,

          opening

between my legs

like a pair of wings.

The hinged print of my blood of your thighs--

a winged creature, pinned there--

and then you left, as you were to leave

over and over, the butterflies moving

in masses past my window, floating

south to their transformation, crossing over

boarders in the night, the diffuse blood-red

cloud of them, my body under yours,

the beauty and silence of the great migrations.

Olds seems to be writing about her first sexual experience--something intimate and universal at the same time.  There's great beauty in what she says.  However, there's also fear and violence mixed in, as well.  I suppose any "first" conjures up these kinds of mixed emotions.

You've probably noticed that I haven't been posting much recently.  I've been finding it difficult these days to put any thoughts on a page/screen.  The reasons are manifold (writer's block, busyness, exhaustion), but they all boil down to one thing:  truth is stranger than fiction or poetry these days.  Each morning, when I perform my first doom scroll, I don't feel inspired to create anything.  Rather, doing this makes me lose focus, enrages, shocks, and embarrasses me.  

Hence, I've been spending most of my days and evenings doing anything to distract myself from this American horror story, mostly by binging seasons of television cooking shows.  Or watching movies I've already seen 500 times.  Or just laying down and closing my eyes.

Of course I have political thoughts.  Yes, I'm worried that Constitutional freedom of speech is going the way of the dodo.  Certainly, the mass deportations sicken me.  Sure, I get physically ill when I read about college students being disappeared for writing an op-ed criticizing #47.   And let's not forget what else is joining the endangered species list now:  the money in my retirement accounts.

So, I've been distracted quite a bit by the collapse of democracy in the United States.  That's why I haven't been blogging or writing much.  I try not to talk politics much during the day.  I'm not afraid of expressing my opinions.  Just ask my wife.  But I'm not a political poet for the most part, and, in my jobs for the library and university, I'm supposed to remain non-partisan.  

Today, however, I was asked by a good friend to speak at the Hands Off protest in Marquette, Michigan.  My topic:  the dismantling of the Institute for Museum and Library Services (IMLS) and the spending freeze of its grants and awards.  Over 3,500 people showed up and marched and chanted and cheered.  (To put that into perspective:  that's about 1/10 of the entire population of the city.)  There were seniors and kids, college students and military veterans, tribal leaders and poets.

Now, by nature I'm an introvert.  I know that's hard to believe.  My jobs require me to do a lot of public speaking, and I love interacting with audience members at events I attend and/or host.  As I stood listening to the speakers and performers before me this afternoon, I found myself becoming quite anxious.  These individuals knew how to fire up a crowd.  Generally, very few people chant and cheer at poetry readings.  (Perhaps this should change?)

Eventually, my friend called me to the mic, and I climbed the ramp to speak, looked out at the crowd, and opened my mouth.  I can't remember exactly what I said or how I said it.  I had my facts and talking points.  Had gone over them.  And over them.  And over them.  Until they were like breath.  So, when the words started coming out of my mouth, it was almost like singing a song from the 1980s.  I didn't really have to think all that much.  Of course, I ended with a poem.  

And people cheered and laughed and applauded.  If you've never had over three thousand people screaming and clapping for you, I highly recommend the experience.

Of course, the message I was delivering was much more important than the messenger.  I was there to ask people to support their libraries and museums and arts organizations.  That's it.  It's not a controversial message.  Everyone (Democrats, Republicans, straight, LGBTQIA+, citizens, immigrants) benefits from these resources.  

I spoke up and out.  Visited with the a few of the rally's attendees.  Grabbed a cookie.  Left.  It felt good.  Hopeful even.  It changed me.

If we have a presidential election in four years, and a Democrat wins, I think I would make a pretty good inaugural poet.  

Saint Marty wrote about this butterfly moment in his life tonight, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Write a poem in which every line begins with the words I remember . . .  Here are some sample lines to help inspire you:  I remember the giant Modess sign on the lawn where we watched fireworks / I remember asking my mother "what's a tampon?" (she did not answer).  For further inspiration, check out Joe Brainard's book, I Remember.  Aim to use fresh, personal, and unexpected language in your poem as you repeat I remember at the opening of every line.

Things I Learned About Politics from My Dad

by: Martin Achatz

I remember him taking me to the John Birch Society

     bookstore some nights, where he would vanish

     into the backroom to listen to someone speak

     while I read Nancy Drew books.

I remember I loved Nancy, her tight-fitting

     sweaters, the mysteries of the melting coins

     or the disappearing diamonds or galloping

     ghost bus.

I remember the radio in the corner playing

     "Wipe Out," its insane laugh, driving drums,

     how I bobbed my head, slapped my fingers

     against my knees, imagined Nancy twisting

     and grinding and jiggling in front of me.

I remember plates of bagels by the store's cash

     register, an old (to me) Black janitor wearing

     a Pearl Harbor baseball cap handing me

     an Asiago dripping with cream cheese,

     telling me how his son loved Nancy Drew,

     too, but was killed by Viet Cong 

     in country, even though I had no idea

     where "in country" was.

I remember my dad collecting me after

     the backroom speaker was done,

     him so angry, talking all the way

     home about commies and pinkos

     and Jimmy Carter.

I remember wondering, in my bed at night,

     if I was a pinko for dreaming of Nancy

     naked while the janitor's son stared up

     at strange, alien stars and surrendered 

     his last breath.

I remember how, when my dad was dying,

     he looked like he was marching

     off to war in his hospital bed,

     his legs kicking, moving,

     his face a loaded gun.

I remember thinking to myself

     this was a case for Nancy Drew--

     The Mystery of the Father's Ghost--

     my dad storming the Pearly Gates,

     trying to Make Heaven Great Again.