Today, in particular, was very challenging for me in many ways that aren't interesting enough to discuss here. But, when I got home this evening, I went into my office and ate dinner alone because I was not fit to be around other people. I withdrew so I didn't say or do something that would hurt my wife or son. On top of all that, I've been thinking a lot about my friend, Helen, who always lifted my spirits when I was in a state of ennui such as this. I miss her joy and love.
Sharon Olds meditates on the conservations of love . . .
Where Will Love Go?
by: Sharon Olds
Where will love go? When my father
died, and my love could no longer shine
on the oily, drink-contused slopes of his skin,
then my love for him lived inside me,
and lived wherever the fog they made of him
coiled like a spirit. And when I die
my love for him will live in my vapor
and live in my children, some of it
still rubbed into the grain of the desk my father left me
and the oxblood pores of the leather chair which he
sat in, in a stupor, when I was a child, and then
gave me passionately after his death--our
souls seem locked in it, together,
two alloys in a metal, and we're there
in the black and chrome workings of his forty-pound
1932 Underwood,
the trapezes stilled inside it on the desk
in the front of the chair. Even when the children
have died, our love will live in their children
and still be here in the arm of the chair,
locked in it, like the secret structure of matter,
but what if we ruin everything,
the earth burning like a human body,
storms of soot wreathing it
in permanent winter? Where will love go?
Will the smoke be made of animal love,
will the clouds of roasted ice, circling
the globe, be all that is left of love,
will the sphere of cold, turning ash,
seen by no one, heard by no one,
hold all
our love? Then love
is powerless and means nothing.
The ending of that poem is pretty bleak. Right now, at the end of 2025, there is a climate crisis. Most of the rest of the world is trying to save this planet from humankind's greed, sloth, and stupidity. Yet, in my home country, the people currently in charge are hell-bent on drilling and AIing and mining and Facebooking and manufacturing the world into oblivion. Love does not enter the equation, and that mean that there is a love crisis on top of the global climate crisis. (Proof of a the love crisis: ICE raids, mass shootings, unaffordable healthcare.)
It's difficult not to be a cynical Scrooge this holiday season with all of that going on. Yet, over the next couple weeks, I will endeavor to buoy my yuletide spirits in any way that I can--cookies, chocolates, It's a Wonderful Life, rereading my favorite Christmas book of all time (Mr. Ives' Christmas by Oscar Hijuelos), which never ceases to restore my faith in humanity.
I'm hoping my difficult mood this evening is simply a fluke, brought on by the stress of last-minute work responsibilities and a severe lack of sleep. (I think, over the last week or so, I've been averaging about four to five hours of slumber a night.) Tomorrow, I will wake, finish up my last library chores for the year, and throw myself into Christmas overdrive--addressing cards, wrapping presents, planning menus, watching Charlie Brown learn what Christmas is all about from Linus. and reading some Mary Oliver poems.
'Tis the season, as my part of the globe tips away from darkness, to embrace the return of light and, hopefully, love and goodness. A love crisis is easily reversed--just don't behave like an asshole.
Saint Marty wrote a poem for this evening about faith and belief, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Are you for or against getaway weekends in Vegas? Do you believe wolves should be reintroduced in the western US? What's your idea of a perfect day? Write a credo poem that shares the core beliefs that guide your actions.
Reincarnation
by: Martin Achatz
I used to believe I was Flannery O'Connor,
practiced walking with crutches, spoke
with a thick Southern accent, ate grits
for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, tried
to talk my parents into raising peafowl
in our backyard so we could watch
them shiver their feathers into stained
glass. When I turned 24, I waited for
red butterflies to appear on my cheeks
and forehead, for my hair to thin,
fall out in clumps. More than anything,
though, I kept an eye out for a hitchhiker
who looked a lot like Kevin Spacey to shoot
me in the chest every day of my life,
just to keep me honest and good.
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️jt
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