Welcome to a new year of Saint Marty. I have not dropped off the face of the earth. I have been recuperating from a lengthy holiday illness, and, to be honest, overwhelmed by the state of my country and the world in, general.
Now that the year of Sharon Olds is over for the blog, I will be announcing 2026’s featured poet in the next post. She is a writer whom I’ve admired for years, and I’m sure you’ll fall in love with her, as well.
Speaking of poets, I, of course, have been so sad and angry and outraged by the murder of Renee Nicole Good in Minneapolis. I never thought I’d live to see the day that a masked, armed federal agent would be able to shoot an innocent citizen in the face and walk away free. A poet friend of mine sent me a text yesterday:
Jesus, Marty, Renee Good was one of us. Poet, parent, liberal. She could have been me or you . . . and some son of a bitch given a license to kill by [47] shot her three fucking times because she was fleeing his violent little children’s game. I’m really pissed off.
Yes, Renee Good was a poet, mother, and wife. She loved her family and neighbors. And, like most poets I know, she was trying to make the world a better, safer, more loving place. Like my friend, I am truly pissed off. I’ve been drowning in a whirlpool of emotions these past few days.
And, like most poets I know, when I am overcome by tragedy or anger, I turn to words to try to sort out my emotions.
Her name was Renee Nicole Good, and Saint Marty honors her tonight , , ,
They Shoot Poets, Don’t They?
by: Martin Achatz
for Renee Nicole Good
Stop. Just stop.
Stop being angry or outraged.
Stop jamming fingers or guns in faces.
Look into those faces instead, white or brown,
into those eyes, blue or brown, see
what you can’t see when whistles
scream in your ears, when tear gas
makes your eyes and noses weep.
See a mother who drives
her six-year-old son to school,
shoves his stuffed T-Rex into
the glovebox so it’s there to greet
him at the end of the day. See
a wife who needs to pick up
toilet paper and cheese and ketchup
from Kroger. See a neighbor
who drops off a pan of lasagna
when the man next door loses
his 55-year-old spouse in the middle
of the night to a heart attack. And
see a poet who sends words out
into the universe, watches them dip,
swirl, circle, away and away,
pollinating, spreading, wildflowering
until everyone is honeyed in beauty.
