As a poet, I’m constantly on the lookout for magical, poetical moments. They don’t have to be huge. I can put myself in a state of nirvana simply by eating a homemade chocolate chip cookie. That’s the mistake most people make. They think magic has to make elephants disappear into thin air. Really, magic is a cold drink of water, a favorite song on the radio, or a phone call from an old friend. It can be that simple.
In the strange quiet, I realize
there's no one else in the house. No bucktooth
mouth pulls at a stainless-steel teat, no
hairy mammal runs on a treadmill—
Charlie is dead, the last of our children's half-children.
When our daughter found him lying in the shavings, trans-
mogrified backwards from a living body
into a bolt of rodent bread
she turned her back on early motherhood
and went on single, with nothing. Crackers,
Fluffy, Pretzel, Biscuit, Charlie,
buried on the old farm we bought
where she could know nature. Well, now she knows it
and it sucks. Creatures she loved, mobile and
needy, have gone down stiff and indifferent,
she will not adopt again though she cannot
have children yet, her body is like
a blueprint for a woman's body,
so now everything stops, for a while,
now I must wait many years
to hear in this house again the faint
powerful call of a young animal.
Sharon Olds reflects on the magic of childbirth and rearing . . .
41, Alone, No Gerbil
by: Sharon Olds
there's no one else in the house. No bucktooth
mouth pulls at a stainless-steel teat, no
hairy mammal runs on a treadmill—
Charlie is dead, the last of our children's half-children.
When our daughter found him lying in the shavings, trans-
mogrified backwards from a living body
into a bolt of rodent bread
she turned her back on early motherhood
and went on single, with nothing. Crackers,
Fluffy, Pretzel, Biscuit, Charlie,
buried on the old farm we bought
where she could know nature. Well, now she knows it
and it sucks. Creatures she loved, mobile and
needy, have gone down stiff and indifferent,
she will not adopt again though she cannot
have children yet, her body is like
a blueprint for a woman's body,
so now everything stops, for a while,
now I must wait many years
to hear in this house again the faint
powerful call of a young animal.
Yes, it’s even magic when a young person learns hard lessons about death and suffering and loss. A pet gerbil or goldfish dies, and, abracadabra!, the young person understands a little more how the universe works and is a little closer to adulthood. (For the record, I’m not sure losing childlike wonder is a good thing.)
It was a long, difficult day at work. The details are inconsequential. Let’s just say that there are people on this planet who are born to be pebbles in shoes. They remind you about the importance of patience and empathy. I had a pebble in my shoe almost all day long, and no magician was around to make it vanish.
I think I’m a better person after dealing with difficult people because it forces me to set aside personal biases and angers. Become more saintly. But I have to learn this lesson over and over and over and over. I have a very thick, stubborn head. Change is hard, no matter what.
Pebble or not, I survived the day, with no irreparable scars or psychological trauma. And I did a little magic hunting with my son tonight. It’s peak Perseid meteor shower time, with around 50 to 100 meteors per hour zooming through the heavens. I found myself around 11 p.m. in my backyard, waiting to see the universe pull a rabbit out of its hat. And it was, well, magical—not so much the actual meteors, but the time we spent together in common pursuit of dazzlement.
Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about a magic moment, based on the following August 12 prompt from The Daily Poet:
We are in the middle of the Perseid meteor shower. Write a poem that includes a celestial event and features an explosion or some sort of light show in the middle of the poem. For extra credit, bring your pen, paper, and flashlight outside and write a poem beneath the Perseid meteor shower.
My Son and I Watch for Perseids
by: Martin Achatz
Jesus, my son can be
a crab ass when I wake
him up too early or
from a nap. Tonight,
I yelled up the stairs
to his bedroom
Do you want to see
some meteors?
He yelled back What?
I yelled Meteors!
again, and I heard
him sigh like
that sick Stegosaurus
in Jurassic Park.
He stepped heavy
as he descended,
each foot filled with
with extra gravity.
We stood in our
backyard in coma
darkness, necks craned
up at the dim stars.
The moon was bloody
with Canadian wildfires,
a clot in the heavens.
I knew I had
very little time
to produce a Perseid
for my son to see,
and I patted
my pajama pockets,
as if I had one
saved for emergencies
on my person,
the way my mom
always had Kleenexes
in her purse.
I located Ursa
Major, Cygnus, pointed
them out to my
son, who nodded,
grunted. I raised
my voice like Bob
Barker announcing
a new car, pointed
to other constellations,
then planets, feeling
my desperation grow
each second like
a radioactive mushroom.
And then
a filament of fire
streaked across
the sky, and
I see it, I see it!
my son shouted,
all pretext of teenage
boredom scrubbed
from his voice.
Did you see it?
he asked. I nodded,
I saw it. He spun
in all directions,
drunk with meteor,
and, like all good
drunks, wanting
another one
and another
and another
and another
and another
and another,
until the entire
bottle is empty.
❤️
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