tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76534602992131631582024-03-18T23:57:34.423-04:00Saint MartyPoet...Musician...Thinker...Blogger...Teacher...Husband...Father...I'm not perfect, but I try!Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.comBlogger5522125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-33507692594298074772024-03-15T22:08:00.001-04:002024-03-17T21:15:19.650-04:00March 15: "Poetry," Aunt Aileen, Joy at My Joy<span style="font-family: inherit;">Billy Collins' writing process . . .</span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Poetry</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>by: Billy Collins</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">As if it were not hard enough,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">whenever my pencil</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">moves along the page,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">the pink eraser end points up,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">a little finger wagging,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">reminding me of our appointment.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div>Writing has been my life since I was very young. Words help me understand life, the world, my place in the world. My memories are not preserved in snapshots and photos. They are recorded in poems and short stories and essays and blog posts. When I read one of my old poems, I experience all the emotions and sensations that inspired me to write it. Poetry is my time capsule, I guess.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, poems are revised and shaped. Rarely do they emerge fully formed. (It happens, but not very often.) When I sit down to write anything, I'm not really about what is emerging on the page or screen. I'm about what is beyond the veil of those words, that shining mansion on the hill, if you will. Whatever that mansion is. I approach it, eraser in hand, ready to make it as beautiful and true as I can.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday, I wrote about my Aunt Aileen. I tried to approach her shining mansion as close as I could with my words. I'm not sure I truly succeeded in capturing her spirit and importance in my childhood and young adulthood. As always, truth is elusive, and I often feel like Ahab chasing the white whale.</div><div><br /></div><div>Aunt Aileen took her last breath around 3:30 this morning. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing I write in this post will come close to paying due honor and homage to this woman. She blazed through times of great joy and great heartbreak. At least in my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going to type a phrase now that is fraught with problems--a phrase dependent on the fallibility of the human brain: <i>I remember</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember when I was struggling during a terrible breakup with my girlfriend (who has now been my wife for close to 30 years). Aunt Aileen had met my future wife, liked her a lot. (Truth be told: Aunt Aileen liked everyone.) I spent almost a month that breakup summer at Aunt Aileen's house downstate, moping, wallowing, crying. I was not a fun person to be around. I don't know how my aunt put up with me, but she did. And she gave me a lot of ice cream.</div><div><br /></div><div>My girlfriend and I eventually reconciled. About a year later, at my sister's wedding reception, I was dancing with Aunt Aileen. The DJ's music was loud, and I could barely hear what Aunt Aileen was saying to me. She put her mouth close to my ear and said, "I'm so happy things worked out for you."</div><div><br /></div><div>That's who Aunt Aileen was. Wanting everyone to live their best lives.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm holding onto that--her joy at my joy. Even though she struggled the last years of her life, physically and mentally, Aunt Aileen will always be, in my mind's eye, my dance partner that evening, celebrating my happiness.</div><div><br /></div><div>The world is a little bit darker tonight for Saint Marty, and the heavens are a little bit brighter.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZsmdkHS5WCNDs7LjL1yxG2QgfjlSP1sqPGsJFCEYlu_MJH_8fGjFEWc-uehhoYnHmjUt-z2egxjM5b3A8FFeNdRlUKtYBpbBKm_V7-h6rOaWmyGKP_L_vKb75NRWgoqMQ5tvB-ObugDqFcW9BKZK6fk6raOb7-hzsNEGteTNgQ1DK-yZjq4X16MPV-4/s640/IMG_0955.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZsmdkHS5WCNDs7LjL1yxG2QgfjlSP1sqPGsJFCEYlu_MJH_8fGjFEWc-uehhoYnHmjUt-z2egxjM5b3A8FFeNdRlUKtYBpbBKm_V7-h6rOaWmyGKP_L_vKb75NRWgoqMQ5tvB-ObugDqFcW9BKZK6fk6raOb7-hzsNEGteTNgQ1DK-yZjq4X16MPV-4/w480-h640/IMG_0955.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-43530831880693634292024-03-14T22:42:00.000-04:002024-03-15T09:53:10.657-04:00March 14: "A Memory," Aunt Aileen, Chinook SalmonBilly Collins recalls something . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>A Memory</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>It came back to me</div><div>not in the way</div><div>a thing might be returned </div><div>to its rightful owner</div><div><br /></div><div>but like dance music</div><div>traveling in the dark</div><div>from one end </div><div>of a lake to the other.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I know exactly what Collins is talking about--that moment when you hear a song/piece of music and are suddenly transported to another place and time. When I hear the Simple Minds singing "Don't You (Forget About Me)," I'm sitting in the Butler Theater in the dark with my high school friends. We're watching <i>The Breakfast Club</i>, sort of, and sneaking sips of a Diet Coke spiked with Malibu. The topic of conversation is Molly Ringwald versus Ally Sheedy. (I am firmly in the Molly camp.) In a week or so, we'll all be graduating, and, a few months after that, we'll all be off to college, and nothing will ever be the same again.</div><div><br /></div><div>All that from a song, traveling in the dark from one end of a lake to the other.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I was an undergraduate in college, I would spend about a month every summer living downstate at my Aunt Aileen and Uncle Larry's house. My sister and I would would drive down with a pop up camper and set up shop in their backyard. We would swim in their pond, visit relatives and cousins, go shopping, watch movies. We rarely made huge plans. Some years, we would visit the Detroit Zoo. Others, we would take a ferry to Boblo Island Amusement Park for the day.</div><div><br /></div><div>My memories of those vacations are gilded with nostalgia. Yes, I was in college. Yes, I was supposed to be a young adult. Should I have gotten a summer job instead? Maybe. I didn't have a whole lot of money, but I did have a full-ride scholarship and was still living in my parents' house. My expenses mainly consisted of movies, books, and clothes.</div><div><br /></div><div>My Uncle Larry passed away quite a few years ago from cancer. I just found out that Aunt Aileen has been placed on hospice care. She's been suffering from dementia for a while and recently fell and broke her hip. According to my sister, Aunt Aileen's oxygen saturation is down to 88%, and her breathing is labored.</div><div><br /></div><div>Aunt Aileen is my dad's sister, and our two families have always been very close. There were nine kids in our family. Aunt Aileen and Uncle Larry had ten kids. When our clans got together for Thanksgivings, the table would extend from the dining room out into the hall. During my middle and high school years, we would all go camping together at a local state park. (Some of my cousins still travel to the U. P. every year to camp.) Like I said, we were really close.</div><div><br /></div><div>On my way home from work tonight, I heard Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock & Roll." One of my Aunt Aileen's favorite songs. For a quiet, soft-spoken lady, she really dug Seger. (And it had nothing to do with Tom Cruise sliding around in his socks and underwear in <i>Risky Business</i>.) As I tapped on my steering wheel and sang along, I tried to remember the last time I saw Aunt Aileen. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was at least five or six years ago. I think she drove up with her oldest son and his wife. (I could be wrong on this fact. Memory is a slippery thing, like trying to land a Chinook salmon.) Aunt Aileen looked much older, but she still had the same spark and sense of humor that allowed her to survive raising a family of ten. </div><div><br /></div><div>Up until a little while ago, she would send me birthday cards every year, without fail. And Christmas cards. All written in her loopy, beautiful script. She loved going to Dairy Queen with us for ice cream and watching Abbott and Costello movies late at night. In a world of Donald Trumps, she was a Dorothy Day, making sure everyone was warm and fed and loved. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's how Saint Marty will always remember her.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjz4ugv3BlHLc8TIpAeKEjh1jS93RrP2hpyULu-yyw3TtTkCrpRdDY8qJqqNGaqYuP30bbCC_pcAzRJBjF79g_vroxjj7HmxJqWLGgaikke5mlUwbOXp1tCH0YfYrzjnRnLccxDgGga-u9b34ar1BlZQzvk-1xCb5ZpUzGMrp3m3tFmcSRxD1BHGMIgWU/s640/IMG_4369.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjz4ugv3BlHLc8TIpAeKEjh1jS93RrP2hpyULu-yyw3TtTkCrpRdDY8qJqqNGaqYuP30bbCC_pcAzRJBjF79g_vroxjj7HmxJqWLGgaikke5mlUwbOXp1tCH0YfYrzjnRnLccxDgGga-u9b34ar1BlZQzvk-1xCb5ZpUzGMrp3m3tFmcSRxD1BHGMIgWU/w400-h300/IMG_4369.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-53687490458200155992024-03-13T22:26:00.001-04:002024-03-13T22:26:16.973-04:00March 13: "Falling Asleep," Sense of Wonder, Nobel Prize in Literature<span style="font-family: inherit;">Billy Collins catches 40 winks . . .</span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Falling Asleep</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>by: Billy Collins</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Walking backwards</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">into a dark forest,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I sweep my footprints</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">out of existence</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">with a large</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">weightless branch.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">As young kids, we fight sleep. I think it's because there's just too much to do, too many new things to taste, touch, smell, hear, feel. In our undeveloped minds, we think that we might miss out on something important if we close our eyes and allow ourselves to check out for a while.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">As we become adults, we lose our sense of wonder at the world. All the little gifts of each and every day become . . . ordinary. Boring even. So there is less to stay awake for. Instead, sleep becomes the unknown frontier, where wonder rules. Your fingers can turn into elephant trunks. You can win the Nobel Prize in Literature. Marry or have sex with your high school crush. Attend Woodstock. Fly to the rings of Saturn. All by walking backwards into that dark forest.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps that's why sleep becomes so pleasurable was we get older. It's an escape from the daily pressures of work and family and life. We venture into the Land of Nod, brush away our footprints, and lose ourselves for a little while.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I've said in previous posts, sleep and I have never been friends. We aren't even on a first-name basis. I don't usually close my eyes until well past midnight. Most nights, I see 1 a.m. It's not that I don't enjoy sleep or suffer night terrors. It's because my monkey brain refuses to stop climbing trees and flinging coconuts and shit at the world. I go for days on five hours of shut-eye a night, and then my body and mind will close down. I have no choice but to sleep.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm tired tonight. Really tired. Perhaps because I've been working on school and work crap since 7:30 this morning. Or because of Daylight Saving Time this past weekend. Or the fact that I haven't gotten more than four hours of sleep a night for about two weeks.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whatever the reason, Saint Marty is ready to close his eyes and accept his Nobel Prize.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPdhtTLo5uJ1Ysf8Gj6xirep3N_C3e6aHk3LGukrKfbPbXwP5hsFiwwvhe-medmrKS4C2edgXL_rj-nvU4ZF5X8MOatRaJUmSR6fapxarqQscSc9zurEAFl_tNT7CoUc1eNwZ6heKsdLNrmI7tEqaMF4NPHmPdjN2Jy6dpaiLNIlAT7vONcXblLMZpb1E/s640/IMG_4372.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPdhtTLo5uJ1Ysf8Gj6xirep3N_C3e6aHk3LGukrKfbPbXwP5hsFiwwvhe-medmrKS4C2edgXL_rj-nvU4ZF5X8MOatRaJUmSR6fapxarqQscSc9zurEAFl_tNT7CoUc1eNwZ6heKsdLNrmI7tEqaMF4NPHmPdjN2Jy6dpaiLNIlAT7vONcXblLMZpb1E/w400-h300/IMG_4372.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /> </div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-77697132820491058452024-03-09T23:58:00.001-05:002024-03-10T00:14:38.490-05:00March 9: "Eyes," Pretty Honest, One TruthBilly Collins opens his . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>Eyes</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>O little twin spheres</div><div>echoing</div><div>the shape of the earth</div><div><br /></div><div>and a perfect match</div><div>for the blue</div><div>curvature of the sky,</div><div><br /></div><div>no wonder</div><div>the dark, descending birds</div><div>always begin with you.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Kind of a bleak little image there--dark, descending birds always beginning with the eyes. Right out of a Grimm fairy tale. Or an Alfred Hitchcock movie. </div><div><br /></div><div>There's an old saying that eyes are the windows to the soul. The mouth can lie. So can the face. Even the body can lie. But eyes simply can't lie, unless you happen to be a sociopath with an orange complexion and really bad hair. </div><div><br /></div><div>However, I believe that most people are pretty honest. That doesn't mean that all truths are valid. That means that every individual owns a piece of the puzzle, and if all of those pieces could be put together, the full truth would be revealed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here are the truths of today, as seen through my eyes:</div><div><br /></div><div>1) Winter returned today, with snow and wind and ice. </div><div>2) My puppy likes to bark. All. Day. Long. At other dogs. Passing cars. The mail carrier.</div><div>3) I love my wife.</div><div>4) I love my kids.</div><div>5) I love my sisters, who live only a block away from me.</div><div>6) I love my friends who came over tonight to play board games.</div><div>7) I love watching movies late at night.</div><div>8) I intensely dislike Daylight Saving Time in the spring.</div><div>9) Poetry can save your life.</div><div>10) Nobody should act out of anger or resentment.</div><div>11) Those that love you the most can hurt you the most.</div><div>12) Cheese should be its own food group.</div><div>13) The Oscars are more entertaining than the Super Bowl.</div><div>14) Naps are one of the greatest pleasure in life.</div><div>15) Everyone should watch a sunrise at least once a week.</div><div>16) Everyone should watch a sunset at least once a week.</div><div>17) The movie <i>Wonka</i> is pretty amazing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Some disciples reading this post might not agree with a few (or all) of my truths. That's okay. Peace on Earth doesn't mean that everyone agrees on what the truth is. It means that, despite all of our different truths, we can still love each other and help each other in times of need.</div><div><br /></div><div>Saint Marty hopes we can all agree on that one truth.</div><div><br /></div><div>And also that Donald Trump is batshit crazy.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglUZfL9MWWYzl7i3V5HDA3muZgjpfkK6pBxu9b5RUPv52m5EVAiyg-GQJVU2eMhQRV26j5J2iuYYA81P7odDbbyDcgeTkRn5fnma-m_GLiF4DMwH_bZVi0HhNKeYgl3R8yiGBOLT9sVnOUPBI3w7JdKPYkOGNlnbY9JFVjQmFGOwQ3FDn7YS_FJ7whWWI/s640/IMG_4594.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglUZfL9MWWYzl7i3V5HDA3muZgjpfkK6pBxu9b5RUPv52m5EVAiyg-GQJVU2eMhQRV26j5J2iuYYA81P7odDbbyDcgeTkRn5fnma-m_GLiF4DMwH_bZVi0HhNKeYgl3R8yiGBOLT9sVnOUPBI3w7JdKPYkOGNlnbY9JFVjQmFGOwQ3FDn7YS_FJ7whWWI/w480-h640/IMG_4594.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-32804589439943494462024-03-08T23:54:00.002-05:002024-03-09T13:50:40.994-05:00March 8: "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow," International Women's Day, Laughter<div><i>Caution: Emily Dickinson allusion ahead!</i></div><div><br /></div>Billy Collins on a Longfellow in the grass . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Trouble</div><div>was not</div><div>his middle name.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>If you haven't noticed, I dislike people who take themselves too seriously. Perhaps that's why Billy Collins' poems appeal to me so much. He doesn't mind having fun. Popping inflated egos. Seeing the ridiculous and the sublime. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today was International Women's Day. I've been around strong women my whole life. My mother and sisters. My beautiful wife and daughter. Mentors and best friends. The man sitting here tonight typing this post is a product of the women he's had the privilege to know and love.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of the greatest lessons I've learned from these wonderful women is humor. Women have to have senses of humor to deal with all the stupid shit men have done and do in this world. Think about it. The Cold War. Healthcare. World Hunger. Climate change. All the result of male ego, ignorance, and hostility. </div><div><br /></div><div>If women had been in charge, the Cuban Missile Crisis could have been solved over a couple Bloody Marys. Universal health care in the United States? No problem for a government run by Mother Teresa. Put Greta Thunberg in charge of combatting climate change. Julia Child could have ended world hunger decades ago. And my mom could have stopped all of the insurrectionists on January 6 by just standing on the steps of the Capital with one of her wooden spoons. </div><div><br /></div><div>The world would be a much happier place if women were in charge. There would be a lot more laughter and compassion, and a lot less name-calling and stick throwing. I believe this to the marrow of my bones. (Of course, there are some exceptions--Marjorie Taylor Greene and Lauren Boebert come to mind. And, let's be honest, Lindsey Graham.) </div><div><br /></div><div>So, for all the joy and love and support that the women in his life have given him, Saint Marty salutes you.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOnSYFzLsNUQzjXtgFOffildafyb-ed6CPZgYIyZkiXC1z_7INyz_n7RY9Q23gG0XmThVeExq-G68uZjx6_USHUpaFehfjfAUOXw3Q20ZokFvP_tihNcNf4RlzPZ37-xhKMgSbRh7OGBrcKjx7SZ_9M4-o6PH8CHo10JOFYF5sjZ_wDjitclGlv6rkGs/s640/IMG_4489.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOnSYFzLsNUQzjXtgFOffildafyb-ed6CPZgYIyZkiXC1z_7INyz_n7RY9Q23gG0XmThVeExq-G68uZjx6_USHUpaFehfjfAUOXw3Q20ZokFvP_tihNcNf4RlzPZ37-xhKMgSbRh7OGBrcKjx7SZ_9M4-o6PH8CHo10JOFYF5sjZ_wDjitclGlv6rkGs/w480-h640/IMG_4489.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-38581636847569593162024-03-07T22:59:00.001-05:002024-03-08T08:43:35.336-05:00March 7: "Simplicity," Blocked Sewer, Simple Things<span style="font-family: inherit;">Billy Collins keeps things simple . . .</span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Simplicity</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>by: Billy Collins</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Dalmatian</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">is hard</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">to pronounce,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">so the children,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">pointing, say</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>fire truck dog</i>.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I like the simple things in life. Sunrises. Sunsets. Good books. Good poems. The smell of my wife's hair when I crawl into bed and put my arm around her. The sound of my son's laughter when he doesn't know I'm listening to him. A text message from my daughter, even if she's asking for money. Thanksgiving dinner. Petting my dog's belly. (By the way, she's an Australian Shepherd, not a Dalmatian.) When life is simple, everything is better.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">My life was not simple today.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">My wife woke me up at 5:30 a.m. to tell me that something was seriously wrong with the drains in the bathroom. She was right. The sewer was blocked. I tried a few tricks my dad, brother, and sister (all Master Plumbers) have shown me over the years. None of the tricks worked. So, we called a plumber, and I left for work, leaving my wife to deal with the shit (literally). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Needless to say, I was pretty stressed all day long, imagining all kinds of horrible scenarios, including, but not limited to: a collapsed sewer pipe, bulldozers tearing up my property, and thousands of dollars of debt. I could barely concentrate on anything all morning long.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div>The plumber showed up at 9:30 this morning, and, about an hour-and-a-half later, he left with a $250 check, saying, "It's unblocked for now."</div><div><br /></div><div>I have no idea what he meant with the "for now." Does that mean that he expects it to be blocked again by tomorrow morning? Or that he just doesn't know what caused the blockage? Or that he wanted to cover his ass by adding "for now" as a "No Guarantees" clause for his services?</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, I can go the bathroom in my house. For now. That's what I'm holding onto tonight. We often take simple things like that for granted. I'm not. If you think about it, every time we flip a switch and a light comes on, we should say thanks. Every time we turn a handle and cold, clean water pours out of a tap, we should say thanks. And every time we flush a toilet and the shit and piss disappears, we should shout "Hallelujah!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Saint Marty is now--simply-- going to say goodnight.</div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw4O9gFM9vtH7nv-1gqimNsq5LVSQBWf7W6DHQnHdm2eTY3EqjaeyoS8OxAhcBTR9dbVFqs1TlP2LHG8pr6x_weQbGh4aE_MF1-B3lCN9pjQCMVRKnki4S9we2lddgV7uJqaqYndFiJeDSOLdzW3xmShxLD9yhOT_erJQCPIkI81OClBM-IR-jGdzq7MQ/s640/IMG_4583.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw4O9gFM9vtH7nv-1gqimNsq5LVSQBWf7W6DHQnHdm2eTY3EqjaeyoS8OxAhcBTR9dbVFqs1TlP2LHG8pr6x_weQbGh4aE_MF1-B3lCN9pjQCMVRKnki4S9we2lddgV7uJqaqYndFiJeDSOLdzW3xmShxLD9yhOT_erJQCPIkI81OClBM-IR-jGdzq7MQ/w480-h640/IMG_4583.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-57038202336937631262024-03-06T18:30:00.002-05:002024-03-06T18:30:37.580-05:00March 6: "D Major," Key Signatures, Driver's Education<span style="font-family: inherit;">Billy Collins with music theory . . .</span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>D Major</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>by: Billy Collins</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">A favorite</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">key signature</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">of pals</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">featuring, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">as it does,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">two sharps.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I studied music theory for a long time. Over ten years of piano lessons, plus a couple more years of organ lessons. I know all about which key signatures are most friendly (C, D, F, G, B-flat), which ones are foreign spies sent to kill you (C# Major anyone?). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div>It's a little psychological. I'm pretty good with key signatures that have a lot of flats. However, the more hashtags I see on a piece of music, the less likely I am to play it. My mind sort of fucks with me--bubbling with panic and nerves. No matter how many hours I've practiced, I will mess up any piece of music above E Major (four sharps).</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm reminded of a scene from the movie <i>Amadeus</i>. Mozart is being addressed by Emperor Joseph II after a performance of one of Mozart's operas. Joseph looks at Mozart and says, "My dear young man, don't take it too hard. Your work is ingenious. It's quality work. And there are simply too many notes, that's all."</div><div><br /></div><div>I've literally looked at a new song or prelude of interlude and said aloud, "Ingenious. Quality work. There are simply too many sharps."</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, you can't go through life avoiding all the sharps you encounter. If I did that, I wouldn't have so many college degrees. Or work at a library. Or write poetry. Or play the pipe organ at five different churches. Or have a blog. Or be married. Or have kids.</div><div><br /></div><div>The key signature for life is C# Major. Sometimes B Major, if you're lucky. Either you practice and rehearse until you get it right, or you lock your front door and ignore the world completely. For me, even though I'm an introvert and would have no problem turning into Howard Hughes, I have to play the sheet music that's on the stand in front of me, no matter how many sharps or flats it contains.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here is what I've learned after all these years: the more often you play a complex piece of music, the easier it becomes. Practice does indeed make perfect. Well, maybe not perfect. More like practice makes not humiliating or dangerous.</div><div><br /></div><div>I tried this analogy on my son this afternoon. He's facing his first day behind the wheel in his driver's education class. He was n-e-r-v-o-u-s. However, he didn't appreciate my extended musical analogy. I believe what he said to me was, "Can you please stop talking?" I stopped.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's the thing about music: it's beautiful, regardless of the numbers of sharps or flats. It can lift you up. Keep you grounded. Inspire you. Make you sad. Just like life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Saint Marty hopes his son has a C Major kind of day--no sharps, no flats, no red lights, no detours. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUZlcearL_RIj7Lv2vxJVw5lK4XA3FOdf_oLvSOXWBcaXMgODTVApjigmntEAjG5BS-pW5RC-5dvgIM9PWO19KCFsZBBSbnGh0TwwPuKY_rIZX7uQSOccSNg2OqHdKdtvtN8CrwMKziG-HRE9YJ3H6BkScPPRNDgplRgxVoqoXiwco55R34dZl33mUSw/s640/IMG_4587.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUZlcearL_RIj7Lv2vxJVw5lK4XA3FOdf_oLvSOXWBcaXMgODTVApjigmntEAjG5BS-pW5RC-5dvgIM9PWO19KCFsZBBSbnGh0TwwPuKY_rIZX7uQSOccSNg2OqHdKdtvtN8CrwMKziG-HRE9YJ3H6BkScPPRNDgplRgxVoqoXiwco55R34dZl33mUSw/w480-h640/IMG_4587.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-20651248140181909592024-03-05T23:36:00.001-05:002024-03-05T23:36:23.771-05:00March 5: "Twisting Time," Super Tuesday, Stupidity and Hatred<span style="font-family: inherit;">Billy Collins on getting older . . . </span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Twisting Time</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>by: Billy Collins</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am twisting again</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">but not like I did last summer</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">or the summer before</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">or the summer before that.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am twisting more slowly now</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">because it is cold</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">and I have grown heavy</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">and there is hardly any wind.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm sitting here on Super Tuesday, and I am twisting again. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not because I'm feeling slower or have grown heavy. And not because there is hardly any wind.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am twisting again because I've just caught some of tonight's election returns, with Donald Trump winning every Republican primary. I started watching Trump's speech from Mar-a-Lago and had to turn it off. It literally made me physically ill.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">My father was a life-long Republican. I've voted Democrat in every presidential election since I turned 18 years old. You could say that I come from a bi-partisan family. Yet, I just can't comprehend what is going on in the United States these days.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Donald Trump is a criminal. A liar. A rapist. A traitor. He tried to overthrow the U. S government four years ago. He's responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of people because of his handling of the pandemic while he was in office. He fosters hatred and violence every time he opens his mouth.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yet he is going to be the Republican nominee for President of the United States again. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">What the fuck is wrong with people? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you aren't twisting uncomfortably at the thought of another Donald Trump presidency, do me a favor: inject yourself with bleach (Trump's cure for COVID), and just stay home for then next nine or so months.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Because the United States (and the world) will not survive another four-year pandemic of Trump stupidity and hatred. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Saint Marty is ashamed of his country tonight.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlE0kVIJ_rsHLZFAoerN6hx_TjjYa6WLzDMfXty-I2Rseqd1jX8JSqpAUehI7i5KE-eH9a-ggq5YRmLEKB4zJejVDKaV9xi9t7f8VBv_2gJEeMKGV1E9HjTZNnNc59RYS1tzVAPTpnQCsnpy9ba4k6yx9Rgn8zYumk859fxi4cDjT3ZoA2-iYqRCpQ_ts/s1280/IMG_5989.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlE0kVIJ_rsHLZFAoerN6hx_TjjYa6WLzDMfXty-I2Rseqd1jX8JSqpAUehI7i5KE-eH9a-ggq5YRmLEKB4zJejVDKaV9xi9t7f8VBv_2gJEeMKGV1E9HjTZNnNc59RYS1tzVAPTpnQCsnpy9ba4k6yx9Rgn8zYumk859fxi4cDjT3ZoA2-iYqRCpQ_ts/w480-h640/IMG_5989.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-67107466430583528442024-03-03T22:14:00.001-05:002024-03-05T22:46:41.781-05:00March 3: "Teenager," Johnny Carson, PoetryBilly Collins remembers what it's like to be a . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>Teenager</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Even a branch on an evergreen</div><div>may take an unexpected turn</div><div>up, down, or sideways</div><div><br /></div><div>and grow substantial</div><div>in some weird direction.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, being a teenager isn't easy. You're not quite a kid anymore, but you're also not an adult. You're in this limbo where everyone is trying to tell you what you should do, who you should be. I started college when I was 17 years old. I didn't know shit. </div><div><br /></div><div>On my first day at the university, I lost my car for about an hour. Couldn't remember where I parked. I desperately wanted to be a writer, but my mother convinced me to major in computer science instead. "There's a future in computers," she said. And she was right. However, my evergreen branch grew in a substantially weird direction--English, grad school, poetry.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think most adults forget the kinds of pressures teenagers face. Somehow, when you hit senior year in high school, you're supposed to have it all figured out--education, job, career. It was actually a little paralyzing for me. I spent many a sleepless night watching Johnny Carson and reading <i>The Catcher in the Rye</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>As the father of teenagers, I've tried to give my kids guidance based on my own struggles as a young adult. I'm happy to report that neither of my offspring want to be poets. My daughter is now a year or so away from medical school, and my 15-year-old son is talking about cyber security. I don't see many sonnets in either of their futures. And that's okay. Like any parent, I just want my kids to be happy, no matter what.</div><div><br /></div><div>Do I regret the weird direction my life took? Absolutely not. I will never make a six-figure salary. Nor do I anticipate a day when I won't have to worry about car payments or mortgage payments or income taxes. There's a chance I will never see a cent of the money I've paid into Social Security. (By the way, that's my money. Not the government's. If Social Security is done away with, I expect a VERY LARGE check from the U. S. Treasury for all the money they owe me. But that's the subject of another blog post.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess what I'm trying to say here is that I want my kids to chase their dreams, no matter what. I'm the son of a plumber, and I became a poet. </div><div><br /></div><div>What do the children of saints become? </div><div><br /></div><div>Saint Marty can't wait to find out.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEncnzN-xqVUExL2T5Ma5k5OWFbJQbhChtOIyqnx1sxQxTa-sCe_iD89rCNcyBwt9332zhcy6UiTaI94JPI-uUso7N_3xk5P_45X0kCJop5IXlbjlUC_LtO_UFvB2rsZLhicfFldDtM3R-IbKK9_gAX27u9M5e9zcIBZsViHmczVnLOVU1RX5hFryBiKs/s640/IMG_4126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEncnzN-xqVUExL2T5Ma5k5OWFbJQbhChtOIyqnx1sxQxTa-sCe_iD89rCNcyBwt9332zhcy6UiTaI94JPI-uUso7N_3xk5P_45X0kCJop5IXlbjlUC_LtO_UFvB2rsZLhicfFldDtM3R-IbKK9_gAX27u9M5e9zcIBZsViHmczVnLOVU1RX5hFryBiKs/w480-h640/IMG_4126.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-45960053772936415472024-02-29T22:24:00.001-05:002024-03-02T22:52:12.262-05:00February 29: "Random," Leap Day, Control FreakBilly Collins plays darts . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>Random</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Tossing a dart</div><div>at an open encyclopedia,</div><div>I happen to hit a flying squirrel.</div><div><br /></div><div>Their kind, the entry explains,</div><div>as I close in,</div><div>are seldom seen</div><div><br /></div><div>due to their nocturnal habits</div><div>and high dwelling places.</div><div>So much there to admire!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It isn't easy to find something interesting to write about on a daily basis. It often feels like throwing darts at an open encyclopedia, as Collins does in this poem. He ends up writing about flying squirrels. Tonight, my dart has landed on leap day. </div><div><br /></div><div>In my time on this planet, I have lived through 14 leap days. (Yes, you can now figure out how old I am, which is right between "ouch" and "boing!") I know some people who take this gift of extra time very seriously. They make a point of leaping every February 29th--doing something they have never done before. Sky diving. Oil painting. Cake decorating. Distance running. Poetry writing. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've never really taken a leap of faith like that, and I'm not about to start today. I'm a creature of habit and routine. Purposely upsetting the applecart of my life is not a practice I enjoy. Perhaps its a matter of control. Translation: I'm a control freak. I eat the same breakfast every day. (I'm also an insulin-dependent diabetic, so that helps me control my blood sugars.) I watch the same movie for weeks on end. Read the same poems over and over and over. Know what I'm having for dinner tomorrow night and the night after that.</div><div><br /></div><div>About the only leap I will make today is into my pajamas. I've reached the age where a good night is sitting on my couch in my PJs, eating a bowl of Special K, and watching Netflix. I'm still a night owl. Have been most of my life. Falling asleep before 1 a.m.--now that would be a leap for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have friends who do crazy shit all the time--ski jumping, ultramarathoning, voting for Donald Trump. Perhaps those same friends think that writing poetry is crazy shit. Maybe it's all relative--one person's leap is another person's everyday.</div><div><br /></div><div>Saint Marty hopes the next time he throws his dart at an encyclopedia it lands on "nap."</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhixCZePNwTx6jLYOL8TfG86_KuKjDvQarUykaYu5QrqeXeE7CF2WCC3WqNNyFsPqX1EIS6omik_gmavGJNZki9Gp8Y9ETxQeZWJ5ViVnSIgtqbVPpLYfoQjqahr-eD49_v5DKbgawbcE0Rt1pVJmqVDdvrOL_ML1pd0CyZNu5RpSelFhPu-YMn208Ujjo/s640/IMG_4564.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="360" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhixCZePNwTx6jLYOL8TfG86_KuKjDvQarUykaYu5QrqeXeE7CF2WCC3WqNNyFsPqX1EIS6omik_gmavGJNZki9Gp8Y9ETxQeZWJ5ViVnSIgtqbVPpLYfoQjqahr-eD49_v5DKbgawbcE0Rt1pVJmqVDdvrOL_ML1pd0CyZNu5RpSelFhPu-YMn208Ujjo/w360-h640/IMG_4564.JPG" width="360" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-60225771653246497402024-02-28T21:16:00.001-05:002024-02-29T10:09:47.220-05:00February 28: "Seashore," Best Foot, Driver's TrainingBilly Collins watches a bird . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>Seashore</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>A banded</div><div>Piping Plover</div><div><br /></div><div>puts its best foot forward</div><div>then the other.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Piping Plovers are amazing to watch on a beach, running toward the sea, running away from the sea, like kids playing tag on a school playground. They're feathered puffs of confidence and fear, stepping forward, then retreating.</div><div><br /></div><div>Like Collins' Piping Plover, I always try to put my best foot forward. My mantra for most of my life has been "Go big or go home." If I'm going to succeed, I'm going to succeed spectacularly. If I'm going to fail, I will do so spectacularly, as well. Either way, people are going to take notice.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've had my share of successes, and I've fallen on my face a lot, too. Of course, that describes most people's lives. Humans can do amazing things like discover penicillin. Humans can also fuck things up majorly, as well. Ask the next polar bear you see swimming from ice floe to ice floe. Landing on the moon. Success. Chernobyl. Disaster. You get the idea.</div><div><br /></div><div>My son started his driver's training class at school a few days ago. We went to the orientation session for parents and students. We listened to all of the steps involved in obtaining a Michigan driver's license. It's not like the good old days when I learned to drive. For me, I sat in a classroom after school for about a week, took a multiple choice test, drove for a week with an instructor and two other wannabe drivers, and then went to the local Secretary of State office and got my license. Bada boom bada bing, and I was driving a car. And all of that was free.</div><div><br /></div><div>My son's path to driving is much more complicated and much more expensive. I could tell, watching him at the meeting, that he was really nervous, although he was trying to play it cool. He didn't know any of the other student drivers, and he was in an unfamiliar school setting. Plus, he's going to be getting homework. A lot of it. Watching him was sort of like watching a banded Piping Plover chasing and fleeing from waves on a seashore. He was equally confident and terrified. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know my son will succeed. He's smart and funny. Plus, he knows how much money I paid for him to take this class. But, he's also very young and unsure of himself. Basically, a typical teenager, facing a world that's both comfortably familiar and wildly strange. My job right now is to teach him how to navigate the choppy waters toward adulthood. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think most adults forget how difficult being a teenager is. Sure, young people seem to have more freedom and less responsibility. Yes, going to school sounds so much easier than punching a time clock and working eight, nine, or ten hours a day. However, throw into that mix raging hormones and little-to-no impulse control, and you have the recipe for panic attacks and depression.</div><div><br /></div><div>I love my son. Like any father, I want him to succeed at everything he does. However, I know that falling can be just as instructive as running like the wind. </div><div><br /></div><div>Win or lose, Saint Marty will always be there for him, whether he's putting his best foot forward or taking three hundred steps back.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtA8piCi1EsP7a_ilgSNpOAipZK-gAwuypeDONRiS_hznqiECMDvQsuwr2IzifJcXiVGs6jK4l_u8WGDOPyb1POqaZBanjvPAYTVHXbWnTNPfUpD-7aDtm8K7kwEZ-KZINaZUg3yItKIzQzZgQsqeBGr6YQTsYeALTBFveCYgVoeqsfLsAKLjKwmttZU/s640/IMG_4530.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtA8piCi1EsP7a_ilgSNpOAipZK-gAwuypeDONRiS_hznqiECMDvQsuwr2IzifJcXiVGs6jK4l_u8WGDOPyb1POqaZBanjvPAYTVHXbWnTNPfUpD-7aDtm8K7kwEZ-KZINaZUg3yItKIzQzZgQsqeBGr6YQTsYeALTBFveCYgVoeqsfLsAKLjKwmttZU/w480-h640/IMG_4530.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-87285882200685549342024-02-25T22:41:00.001-05:002024-02-26T21:10:59.200-05:00February 25: "Thelonious Morning," Beautiful and Sad, Billie HolidayBilly Collins enjoys some jazz at dawn . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>Thelonious Morning</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>The breeze was slight</div><div>and moved only three</div><div><br /></div><div>of the six wind chimes, </div><div>which formed a minor chord.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I have Thelonious mornings, when something beautiful and sad exist at the same time. It could be a crow scraping the air raw with its scream, like Charlie Parker hitting squealing high notes. Or the sun slowly rhapsodizing clouds from purple to orange to gold at a February daybreak. Or just the knuckle and bebop of snow under my boots as my dog takes a shit in the backyard.</div><div><br /></div><div>Jazz is all around, making morning into mourning, evening into elegy. I'm often awake well into night, open my eyes well before dawn. So I hear solitary cars gliding down midnight streets and my dog howling softly as she chases the moon in her dreams. I try to sleep, but my mind doesn't cooperate. It prefers the company of starlight and skunks and owls.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I type these words, my house (and everyone in it) is deep breathing its way to tomorrow. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. I'm tired, but not enough to be exhausted. Cleaned my house today. Hosted members of my book club for our monthly conversation. Spent a few hours grading papers. Read some. Scribbled in my journal some.</div><div><br /></div><div>In these winter doldrums (got that from a good friend who correctly diagnosed my current state of mind), I struggle with motivation and inspiration. I'm at low tide, and all I can do is sit and stare at a universe of fallen starfish littering the sand.</div><div><br /></div><div>Don't look for any kind of deep meaning or wisdom from me in this post. Instead, press the conch shell of night to your ear and listen.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let Saint Marty know if you hear the sea or Billie Holiday singing "Strange Fruit."</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEsdp-p41R4ViRlIPPWqp89YSO0qa0mvhC2naQwN4R47pxRHEEUhDMEbVt3BbUM7a5Qjmg_ygH4bapcm0Fr3yuxFHsZoZgGjNe7RrgQWY7qAyH7Gxu9j6JqKxwcd6tb4jxBJE40-nsqE5EQ9evomraDcDO2QXCQ7JH0VlXO4xSfJviUesmfUBaiA7wAls/s640/IMG_4567%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEsdp-p41R4ViRlIPPWqp89YSO0qa0mvhC2naQwN4R47pxRHEEUhDMEbVt3BbUM7a5Qjmg_ygH4bapcm0Fr3yuxFHsZoZgGjNe7RrgQWY7qAyH7Gxu9j6JqKxwcd6tb4jxBJE40-nsqE5EQ9evomraDcDO2QXCQ7JH0VlXO4xSfJviUesmfUBaiA7wAls/w480-h640/IMG_4567%20(1).jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-32887252404868539722024-02-24T23:04:00.002-05:002024-02-24T23:04:26.673-05:00February 24: "Used Book," Perpetually Tired, Back in the SaddleBilly Collins reading a . . .<div><br /></div><div><b>Used Book</b></div><div><br /></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I turn a page</div><div>someone dog-eared,</div><div><br /></div><div>like the bent ear</div><div>of a dog who's still lost.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, I have been absent for quite a while. I know that. I'd like to say that I've been putting the finishing touches on a novel or collection of poems (I've been doing a little of the latter). But that's not the reason. I could claim sickness, but that's not the reason, either. Teaching? Nope. Planning the Great Lakes Poetry Festival for the library where I work? A little. Working as an undercover poet for President Biden writing limericks about his predecessor? Sounds like fun, but no.</div><div><br /></div><div>The truth of the matter is that I've been tired. Perpetually tired. I usually write these blog posts either very early in the morning (when everyone in my house is still asleep) or very late at night (when everyone in my house has gone to bed). However, my writing impulses have been running on low battery for the last month or so, and all I want to do is . . . sleep. And once you fall out of a routine, it's hard to pick it up again.</div><div><br /></div><div>People don't realize the energy it takes to write. There are constant distractions--laundry to fold, papers to grade, a book to finish, a movie or TV show to watch. Being able to set all that aside takes willpower and determination. (Notice I didn't say "inspiration." If I always waited to be inspired before I pick up a pen to write, I would never write again.) Writing is plain hard work.</div><div><br /></div><div>What have I been doing instead or writing? Well, I've been rereading some of my favorite books and poetry collections. Books that I've scribbled marginalia in, dog-eared pages of, and memorized passages from. Old friends. Collins compares the bent pages of well-loved books to the bent ear of a lost dog. We're both saying the same thing--the words and pages of used books are comforting in times of chaos and upheaval and exhaustion.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going to try to get back into the writing saddle. No guarantees what I produce will be profound or funny or even interesting. The next post I write may simply be my grocery list or a catalogue of Sharon Olds' books on my bookshelf (there are a lot). But Rome wasn't built in a day, and runners don't start with marathons. (Apologies for the clichés. It's the best I can do at the moment.)</div><div><br /></div><div>So, this lost dog is back home, and hopefully you will be reading a lot more of the Gospel of Saint Marty in the coming days.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgosSbXFkPlS-fz3WG6RT3WLak9scQhIpPuO-saul8V4zqI7j_FOs24UVeU_0R1KWB4HyQXougQ-WnQ8fSVHWHKxOCDBrLU7u_lMr17QPV79ZPJw8IGgFnIAnGXBDZyJgu3dekfMDgw4UtNtH5xm7rT6kssnRHKZfGlkbA_tXeiFo1OJiAfZ7s_Bd8BCnc/s640/IMG_4542.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgosSbXFkPlS-fz3WG6RT3WLak9scQhIpPuO-saul8V4zqI7j_FOs24UVeU_0R1KWB4HyQXougQ-WnQ8fSVHWHKxOCDBrLU7u_lMr17QPV79ZPJw8IGgFnIAnGXBDZyJgu3dekfMDgw4UtNtH5xm7rT6kssnRHKZfGlkbA_tXeiFo1OJiAfZ7s_Bd8BCnc/w480-h640/IMG_4542.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /> </div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-1016584666061444702024-02-18T23:29:00.001-05:002024-02-24T14:20:29.444-05:00February 18: "Night Sky," Star Watcher, Wonder and Beauty<span style="font-family: inherit;">Billy Collins stargazes . . . </span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Night Sky</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>by: Billy Collins</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lying on the beach</span></div><div>after so much wine and talk--</div><div>dippers everywhere.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I've been a star watcher most of my life. From a very young age, I had a subscription to <i>Astronomy </i>magazine, each month losing my mind over all of the beautiful images of stars and planets and galaxies in its pages (although, compared to the images now available from the Webb Telescope, those pictures now seem like petroglyphs on cave walls). Many a night I spent with my eyes pointed heavenward.</div><div><br /></div><div>I sometimes thought I would become an astronomer or physicist. That's how much I loved gazing through my telescope. Of course, I didn't turn out to be the next Carl Sagan. Many of my friends and family would say that my head is still in the clouds, but I'm chasing poems instead of comets now.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not many stars are visible tonight. For the past week, it's been pretty gray and snowy. My daughter came over for dinner a couple nights ago, and we watched a couple episodes of <i>The Crown </i>together. I remember summer nights with her when she was younger, watching for passing satellites and Perseid showers and lunar eclipses in our backyard. When Neowise showed up a few years ago, she climbed Sugarloaf Mountain with me in the dark to see the comet from the summit. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't think I'll ever outgrow my childhood fascination with astronomy. Looking into the heavens is like time traveling: all the light we see is between 4,000 and 70,000 years old. Truly a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. (Yes, astronomy also fostered my love of science fiction, as well.) That means that, when you see some stars in the night sky, what you are seeing is light that originated at a time when Earth was going through an Ice Age due to the super eruption of the Toba Volcano. That extinction event left only about 5000 human ancestors alive on the entire planet. Everyone living now is descended from those 5000. That blows my mind.</div><div><br /></div><div>My knowledge of astronomy is rudimentary, at best. I can't identify all the constellations spinning above me. However, I can name all the planets. I know that we are part of the Milky Way. I also know that Earth is about 93 million miles away from the Sun. Like I said, rudimentary knowledge.</div><div><br /></div><div>But Saint Marty is all about chasing wonder and beauty each and every day. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3ngEBEn0BSbdhVxiLzO0V_GcnO7O1HDM96Yu82SONrGBMA1ln_FNeuS4_3I_aHWJ-LbFeHbU-SSAHodyXqlepNUz5haGGSqdT9kBcr4132tZ2OL02DuyrQK0UbkfV0EsUh3sd2sqnRvmrIUjQyec2-JQ_zFV0QxVEOoxl7kWjWkgWQd01nYe78QlGsM/s640/IMG_1288.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3ngEBEn0BSbdhVxiLzO0V_GcnO7O1HDM96Yu82SONrGBMA1ln_FNeuS4_3I_aHWJ-LbFeHbU-SSAHodyXqlepNUz5haGGSqdT9kBcr4132tZ2OL02DuyrQK0UbkfV0EsUh3sd2sqnRvmrIUjQyec2-JQ_zFV0QxVEOoxl7kWjWkgWQd01nYe78QlGsM/w480-h640/IMG_1288.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-47351044070023594722024-02-15T23:36:00.001-05:002024-02-18T12:42:34.767-05:00February 15: "Reflections on an Amish Chidlhood," Trauma Recovery Poetry Workshop, RiddikulusAnother Billy Collins joke . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>Reflections on an Amish Childhood</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I was a little square</div><div>in a round hat.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>As I've said before, Collins gets himself in trouble with poems like this one. It's a dad joke in disguise. Smart with great wordplay. I actually laughed out loud when I first read it. There's nothing very deep or revelatory in it. Collins is simply having fun, and I think the world could do with a little more fun and a little less hand-wringing.</div><div><br /></div><div>For the past two days, I've attended a trauma-recovery writing workshop led by a good friend of mine. Now, I'm sure that doesn't sound appealing to a lot of my faithful disciples. It was VERY heavy at times, touching upon personal stories of sustained loss and abuse. However, there were also moments of beauty, laughter, and intense connection. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's not my place to share any of the details of the workshop because most of those details belong to other people. Yet, I will say that humor is one way that individuals cope with ongoing trauma and trauma recovery. It's either that or you curl into a fetal position and never get out of bed. </div><div><br /></div><div>And, of course, there's always writing. Dealing with the large, hairy, and difficult things in life can be overwhelming. Because they are so large and so hairy and so difficult. However, writing can provide a feeling of control somehow. It's sort of like caging a wild animal. A lion running free can pretty much do anything it wants--stalk, hunt, roar, attack, kill. A lion in a cage is controlled; it can't harm anyone or anything.</div><div><br /></div><div>The same is true of traumatic experiences. If they are free and wild, they can fuck you up, over and over and over. However, if they are written down, described, anatomized, those experiences lose some of their power. Because they are contained in words and sentences and paragraphs on a piece of paper. Imagine the lines on the paper as the bars of a cage. The trauma can charge or howl or fling itself against those bars, but it can't harm you in any way. It's controlled.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's what we did in my friend's writing workshop--we talked about trauma and wrote about trauma, thereby rendering it a little less powerful, a little more manageable. We also laughed a lot, which, as I said, is another way of weakening the hold of trauma (sort of like using a Riddikulus spell against a Boggart in the <i>Harry Potter</i> universe).</div><div><br /></div><div>So laugh. Share. Write. Enter the mansion of trauma through the front door or sneak in through the back door, as my friend said in the workshop.</div><div><br /></div><div>Saint Marty has always believed that reading poetry, listening to poetry, writing poetry can be healing in many ways. The last two days has proven it to him.</div><div><br /></div><div>A poem written during the workshop:</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Cough</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Martin Achatz</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I tell my five-year-old daughter</div><div> to do it into her elbow, <i>So you don't</i></div><div><i>make anybody sick</i>, I say.</div><div>She nods as if she's just received</div><div>the 11th commandment from God:</div><div>"Thou shalt not cough into air</div><div>and spread thy germs." She gets</div><div>it without knowing the mechanics</div><div>of biology and microbes and</div><div>contagion. For all she knows, she's</div><div>trapping some pixie that lives</div><div>inside her and is trying to escape, </div><div>become some rogue piece of magic</div><div>flitting, flurrying around from body</div><div>to body, creating new constellations--</div><div>one person, a nose; another, an antler</div><div>tip; the person across from her, a dolphin</div><div>dorsal. She thinks of her universe like this,</div><div>a web of starry connections without design,</div><div>each new person brimming with panache,</div><div>cells colliding into wonder, breaths</div><div>and griefs and laughters coalescing</div><div>into something that can't be mapped</div><div>or contained. She gets all of that</div><div>in an instant because she trusts without</div><div>me having to explain why: why</div><div>water is blue, why her grandma</div><div>can't remember her name, why</div><div>she has to wash her hands before</div><div>she eats. She shouldn't trust</div><div>so easily. The world is full</div><div>of shocks and earthquakes, sharp teeth</div><div>that sink into your arm and won't let go.</div><div><i>Don't do it</i>, I want to shout, drive </div><div>into her ears, her DNA. <i>People </i></div><div><i>will hurt you, over and over.</i></div><div>Maybe these words, this direction </div><div>about coughing will save her,</div><div>as every father wants to save </div><div>his child, from the bright gala</div><div>of heartbreak that is this world. </div><div>She turns her head, coughs </div><div>into the crook of her arm,</div><div>then smiles at me. I feel </div><div>myself breaking open, </div><div>a germ of hope and sadness</div><div>taking root, spreading, infecting</div><div>my heart's fragile immune system.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdvQGvggcJD0YhNYbcZb4uhlrqSAXYhrLIdkTucF6SkKLjFl2ui8-nD_yxvZkbn5CSwiWvyFrtCDIyy0ZJJqm-XUIb6KrsDarr6-LfAynZBu4Mo3NC-0pCaw0XjQ-34ynmk9_iYpBGFaS-ay1NI6rj1lrhEYjP_KneltezNwJK6ylD289lH3WuIqlswQE/s640/IMG_4541.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdvQGvggcJD0YhNYbcZb4uhlrqSAXYhrLIdkTucF6SkKLjFl2ui8-nD_yxvZkbn5CSwiWvyFrtCDIyy0ZJJqm-XUIb6KrsDarr6-LfAynZBu4Mo3NC-0pCaw0XjQ-34ynmk9_iYpBGFaS-ay1NI6rj1lrhEYjP_KneltezNwJK6ylD289lH3WuIqlswQE/w480-h640/IMG_4541.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-61785517844628488352024-02-14T23:25:00.001-05:002024-02-15T22:28:56.122-05:00February 14: "Pupil," Ash Wednesday, "an ode to patience"Billy Collins meditates on flowers, eyes, and students . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>Pupil</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>A hole in the eye,</div><div>the black well in the middle</div><div>of a flower, an iris,</div><div><br /></div><div>or she who gives you the eye</div><div>sidelong on her way</div><div>out of the classroom, after the others.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This poem is all about seeing. In an eye, the pupil is an opening that passes light through the lens. For an iris, it's where the purple petals gather at the center--a "black well" where light gets eaten. And, in school, it's the student who glances furtively around as she leaves the room after her classmates, perhaps in a state of enlightenment, confusion, or somewhere in between. One poem. Three different pupils. Light. Darkness.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today is Valentine's Day. It's also Ash Wednesday. The last time these two celebrations occurred on the same day was in 2018, six days after my father died. And there it is again: light and darkness together. Somehow, this pairing seems appropriate. I mean, all great love eventually results in great grief. Think about it. If you truly love someone, you've set yourself up for heartbreak. Inevitably, there will be a cleaving because of desertion, divorce, or death. No way 'round it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Me? I have so much love in my life--people who care about me deeply. I'm a lucky guy. I'm not sure I deserve all of the love I receive. There're many things about me that aren't all that lovable. Yet, I try to be a good person. Treat everyone I meet with compassion and respect, even individuals who seem to be in my life simply to test my patience. And perhaps I'm the pebble in someone's shoe, as well.</div><div><br /></div><div>I once spent an entire Lenten season praying for people who had hurt me in some way. I'm not talking about a thirty-second "Hail Mary." No, it was more like an hour of meditation, forgiveness, and atonement. Some days, this practice would literally make me physically ill. Other days, I would feel like a kite dancing in the clouds. Ash Wednesday and Saint Valentine's Day. Dark and light.</div><div><br /></div><div>Saint Marty wishes all of his disciples patience and love.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>an ode to patience</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>after Ross Gay</i></div><div><br /></div><div>by: Martin Achatz</div><div><br /></div><div>I include "an" in the title</div><div>because this poem is not</div><div><i>the</i> ode to patience, not</div><div>a culmination of a lifelong</div><div>study, more like a stab at it, </div><div>the way as a kid in Biology</div><div>I stabbed oak leaves or moth</div><div>wings onto cream-colored</div><div>paper, labeled them with their</div><div>common names and their Latin</div><div>family names for my Museum</div><div>of Natural Patience filled </div><div>with sixth-grade notes to sixth-</div><div>grade crushes, the smell of my</div><div>mother's bread baking in the oven,</div><div>the wash of breaths from my sister's</div><div>lungs as she was dying, the watery</div><div>cannon fire of my son's heart</div><div>in my wife's belly, telling me</div><div>wait, wait, wait, wait because</div><div>the best is yet to come.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRmpmnJbaQJYlllgdpqypydvK8nnSqvLOmpC_GuPzL96nyle2EUVfNSJkmT_RaW-E0S0BI9WJYNmJSZ6MHjzw3QveaWiWftBx9FmukvCeib1lwb6m4-6J7I9PCHGrZoISD1yUMjx-Tzo5YdXVvqGcsjK3A0AEG_qXeh-mQ5pvfdaVDNYs1knUaXryFqY/s640/IMG_4441.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRmpmnJbaQJYlllgdpqypydvK8nnSqvLOmpC_GuPzL96nyle2EUVfNSJkmT_RaW-E0S0BI9WJYNmJSZ6MHjzw3QveaWiWftBx9FmukvCeib1lwb6m4-6J7I9PCHGrZoISD1yUMjx-Tzo5YdXVvqGcsjK3A0AEG_qXeh-mQ5pvfdaVDNYs1knUaXryFqY/w400-h300/IMG_4441.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-26763628302513539052024-02-10T14:27:00.003-05:002024-02-10T14:27:42.015-05:00February 10: "The Sociologist," Multifaceted, DiamondBilly Collins doesn't take himself too seriously . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>The Sociologist</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>by: Billy Collins</div><div><br /></div><div>I wandered lonely as a crowd.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, if you are a poetry geek, like me, that is a funny poem. (If you don't get it, check out William Wordsworth's famous poem "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.") This poem is the kind that gets Collins in trouble with the poetry intelligentsia (AKA snobs). It's light and fun and smart. It's a dad joke in poetic form. Don't get me wrong. Collins is a serious poet, for sure. He's served as U. S. Poet Laureate and New York State Poet in the past, and his collections frequently become bestsellers. (Perhaps there's a little jealousy going on with the "starving" poets out there?) Whatever the reason, in some poetic company, Billy Collins is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.</div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps that's the reason I like Billy Collins so much. I don't care for people with inflated egos who have to look down on others to make themselves feel better. (In 2016, we elected a President of the United States who excelled at this, and look where it got us.) So, if you're reading this post and thinking, "Well, Collins sure isn't Kwame Dawes or Joy Harjo," that is true. The world already has a Kwame Dawes and Joy Harjo. We don't need another. Just like we don't need another Ernest Hemingway or Pablo Picasso or Jesus Christ.</div><div><br /></div><div>Simply dismissing Billy Collins because he doesn't mind poking fun at himself and others, making his readers laugh, is the height of hubris. Humor is a part of who Collins is, just as, I'm sure, heartbreak and love are. To ignore Collins for being who he is (funny and intelligent) would be like ignoring Martin Luther King, Jr., for talking about racial equality and God all the time. Or Leonard Cohen for always writing complex, jaded, deeply melancholic songs. Or me for writing blog posts and poems constantly. </div><div><br /></div><div>Every person is a diamond, multifaceted--dark AND bright, joyful AND grief-stricken, normal AND incredibly weird. Only my closest friends and family members encounter more than one or two of my facets. I've been absent from blogging for about two weeks now. If you've been wondering why, I will give you my pat answer: I've been too busy. The truth is a little more complicated than that, involving sadness and disappointment and exhaustion and, yes, busyness, too. But, in a society that thrives on 30-second TikTok videos, no one wants to spend time and effort to really learn the truth.</div><div><br /></div><div>Last night, I played music for a friend's funeral--a lovely woman who, judging by how many people attended her funeral, was incredibly loved and cherished. During the service, the pastor spoke of how everyone in attendance had different stories and memories of her--happy and sad memories, private and public memories, maybe even angry and disappointed memories. Because that's what the human animal is--a messy conglomeration of experiences and emotions. It's easy to love someone who's happy-go-lucky and fun. But it's harder, and (I would argue) more rewarding, to embrace the broken soul and make it whole again. Even though my friend is gone, she is still teaching important lessons to the people who knew her and loved her.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, if you're reading this post and there's someone in your life who's upset or angered you, remember that you're probably focusing on just one facet of that person: the facet that, for some reason, has caused heartbreak and estrangement. If you want to throw a diamond away because of one scratched side, you will lose something precious and beautiful.</div><div><br /></div><div>Saint Marty doesn't want to wander lonely as a cloud (or crowd) for the rest of his life.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_KXTm5Mo9jlJA2YWzMpClES0Rk4U3dloT9wiEbDPwbB2uxsnxv93bDLpSQUv3jWxREnSaeXO6yRA5mVPV3EWdzG41A24PEVLGLrhtFN3M3Q09PpuJE5WQzC47MM5zPR4xwdfHrIAGUvh7AAhjNenD1ZMzcQxM2jruDmfkszO0yWGWxF0ksrLTgctLBI/s640/IMG_4525.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_KXTm5Mo9jlJA2YWzMpClES0Rk4U3dloT9wiEbDPwbB2uxsnxv93bDLpSQUv3jWxREnSaeXO6yRA5mVPV3EWdzG41A24PEVLGLrhtFN3M3Q09PpuJE5WQzC47MM5zPR4xwdfHrIAGUvh7AAhjNenD1ZMzcQxM2jruDmfkszO0yWGWxF0ksrLTgctLBI/w400-h300/IMG_4525.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-67086191374005303432024-01-27T22:10:00.000-05:002024-01-27T22:10:53.005-05:00January 27: "Breaking Up," First Kisses to Final Kisses, Dreaming UpBilly Collins on heartbreak . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>Breaking Up</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Like the nomadic dollar</div><div>I pass to the cashier</div><div><br /></div><div>behind the register</div><div>you are off to other hands.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We break up with things and people every day of our lives, from the moment we open our eyes in the morning until we close them again at night. Some breakups are easy: dropping your son off at school, knowing that he will be climbing back into your car in the afternoon. Other breakups are more difficult--watching your daughter drive away from your house with all of her belongings packed up in her car, knowing she will never sleep in her childhood bedroom again. At the end of every book or poem we read, we break up with its characters or subjects. When you're done reading this blog post, you'll break up with it, as well.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, breaking up with something or someone doesn't mean you erase them from your mind or heart. No. Every individual you encounter or movie you watch or taco you eat remains a part of you. Forever. I can still taste the pineapple I ate on a coral bay when I was on my honeymoon. And I can still conjure up the feelings of standing in line to see the first <i>Star Wars</i> movie way back in 1977. Nothing is ever lost, from first kisses to final kisses.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few days ago, I submitted a huge grant to the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA). It's the third time I've written an NEA grant for the library. The first time, I requested $20,000 for programming inspired by Joy Harjo's <i>An American Sunrise</i>, and I got it. The second time, I asked again for $20,000 to fund events focused on Andrew Krivak's <i>The Bear</i>. I didn't get it. My latest: $16,600 for programming based on Roz Chast's graphic memoir <i>Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I truly enjoy dreaming up experiences for people, whether it's an encounter with a U. S. Poet Laureate or an essay on the meaning of joy. I love the ability of art or music or theater or writing to somehow change a person in a meaningful way. Of course, the nature of any art is temporal. It lives for a brief time and then evaporates like frost, leaving behind only memory.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is true of even seemingly permanent works of art--paintings or sculptures or literature. For instance, I've read <i>The Catcher in the Rye </i>ten or more times in my life, starting when I was ten or 11 years of age, and, with each reading, I experienced different emotions and reactions. Because I was a different person each time, and Holden Caulfield meant something different to each one of those different persons.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, loving any kind of art is about forming a relationship with it, and all relationships are temporary. Eventually, there will be a breaking up/letting go. Perhaps you will reencounter and reexperience that work or art again, and you will form a new and different relationship with it. Or that work of art may just remain a lovely memory, like the taste of fresh pineapple on your tongue as you watch the sun set over the Pacific Ocean.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've had my fair share of breakups. Said goodbye to people and things I love. Perhaps that's why I'm a poet. I'm keenly aware of the passage of time and the need to preserve experiences in a tangible way through word and image. That's what all art is about: trying to capture lightning in a bottle. Or on a canvas. Or page. Or with musical notes. Or in a blog post.</div><div><br /></div><div>Saint Marty has a piece of pizza to break up with now.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXcB8j3IOGFZmtFJ0TOl0o48Hpq6j-uQGFXWnyHZfMmiqIVYJ5W3KgFx0savWsfNy0Nl_4Lctxw7pGm2zKrkY4ailVEaEH-DcMQZOz8pyxWelKOYISmzG3AFFWJmzZDvQoFJihrXRF1A2YbAW0agDe09aXRE8-hApeOBo-Q-kiYKvifL3fAapRolvvUU/s640/IMG_4345.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="640" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXcB8j3IOGFZmtFJ0TOl0o48Hpq6j-uQGFXWnyHZfMmiqIVYJ5W3KgFx0savWsfNy0Nl_4Lctxw7pGm2zKrkY4ailVEaEH-DcMQZOz8pyxWelKOYISmzG3AFFWJmzZDvQoFJihrXRF1A2YbAW0agDe09aXRE8-hApeOBo-Q-kiYKvifL3fAapRolvvUU/w400-h284/IMG_4345.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-16895206740898717552024-01-23T22:55:00.000-05:002024-01-24T22:58:02.967-05:00January 23: "The Code of the West," Piece of Shit, Donald TrumpBilly Collins defends his horse . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>The Code of the West</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Say what you want</div><div>about me,</div><div>but leave the horse</div><div>I rode in on out of it.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Billy Collins is playing off on old cliché where you add "and the horse you/he rode in on" to a phrase, like this: "Screw you, and the horse you rode in on." It's supposed to be an insult, but, over time, it's become more of a punchline. Add it to a phrase, and it becomes funny. For example, "I hate Donald Trump, and the horse he rode in on." (Of course, Trump riding a horse is kind of a joke anyway. Think about it--a horse's ass riding a horse's ass.) However, the horse is an innocent bystander. It hasn't done anything but be a horse. It's the person who's a piece of shit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Human beings fuck things up. They pollute oceans. Melt polar icecaps. Strip mine. Cause famines, genocides, wars. You name it, and humankind has exploited it, bombed it, or made it extinct. We live in a broken world, and we broke it.</div><div><br /></div><div>That may sound pessimistic. It is. </div><div><br /></div><div>Tonight, for the first time, I read a news article that called Donald Trump the "presumptive Republican presidential nominee." That's right. A man facing 91 charges (44 federal and 47 state) across four criminal cases is being allowed to run for the Oval Office. Each and every charge is a felony. He encouraged insurrection and murder. Raped women. Publicly insulted disabled people and military heroes. Caused hundreds of thousands of deaths because of his mishandling of the global pandemic. This wannabe dictator, and not the horse he rode in on, is going to be nominated for President of the United States again.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, if you are a Trump supporter and I'm offending your delicate sensibilities, I suggest you stop reading this post, crawl back to your Nazi compound, and write some misspelled social media posts in all caps blaming all of your problems on people of color. You aren't Christians. The last time I read the Bible, Jesus told us to care for the old and sick and poor and hungry and displaced. He didn't sit at home, whining that the Pharisees were perpetrating a witch hunt against Him.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, to all of you who have voted and are planning to vote again for Donald Trump, I hope your horses kick you in your collective asses, because that's where your heads are.</div><div><br /></div><div>And that's why Saint Marty prefers the company of his dog.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQXuTmoWbHVopdDrVphlj6oeuB-J4YiRSDd_7iVsoXfJm3hyphenhyphenEXIy7RRHrVKlAiMcw0JY7UW35e25RA1rF8tnm8Mf4LvYYx6Yo2IHU00lyXvmvdTLDgZ_tgV862MbsDU9svVwU3sKLtOv7eD6UM0sDaybtRdMT41E0EPgEWW8DFB3xTZ_YE0g60M56c_H8/s2208/IMG_4432.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2208" data-original-width="1242" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQXuTmoWbHVopdDrVphlj6oeuB-J4YiRSDd_7iVsoXfJm3hyphenhyphenEXIy7RRHrVKlAiMcw0JY7UW35e25RA1rF8tnm8Mf4LvYYx6Yo2IHU00lyXvmvdTLDgZ_tgV862MbsDU9svVwU3sKLtOv7eD6UM0sDaybtRdMT41E0EPgEWW8DFB3xTZ_YE0g60M56c_H8/w360-h640/IMG_4432.JPG" width="360" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-13647691356670657572024-01-22T21:59:00.000-05:002024-01-22T21:59:31.663-05:00January 22: "Creative Writing," Grant, John GreenBilly Collins teaches . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>Creative Writing</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>When I told a student</div><div>not to use single quotation marks</div><div>around lines of dialogue,</div><div><br /></div><div>he told me that all our words</div><div>are already inside the quotation marks</div><div>that God placed around Creation.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I don't often get to teach creative writing at the university. The administration saves "fun" classes like that for tenured faculty and grad students. (Yes, you read that right: grad students.) So, I don't get to have interesting conversations like this one. (By the way, the student in the poem is sort of correct, because, in Genesis, God speaks everything into being: "Let there be . . . " So, if you're a literalist, we're all just living words straight out of God's mouth.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Today, for me, God said, "Let there be an NEA grant." And, because I always follow God's commandments, that's what I did--worked on a grant. All . . . day . . . long . . .</div><div><br /></div><div>My mind and body are a little exhausted tonight. I made a lot of headway on the grant, though, but it's not done yet. As I worked on it, I kept thinking to myself, <i>This is a waste of time. You're not going to get this grant. </i></div><div><br /></div><div>When I first started working for the library, I naively agreed to write a $20,000 NEA Big Read grant. It was so much work, and, when I finally submitted it, I thought that I had wasted 60 days of my life. Four months later, I received an email from Arts Midwest with the following word in its memo line: "Congratulations." </div><div><br /></div><div>A year later, I submitted another NEA Big Read grant. This time, however, I actually believed I was a shoe-in for a two-peat. Four months later, I received an email with the words "Case Number: 00031617" in its memo line. Translation: "Sorry, Charlie."</div><div><br /></div><div>So, I'm batting 500 when it comes to grant writing, and the whole process has become an exercise in self torture. By around 4 p.m. today, I was feeling more than a little defeated. So, I went for a walk around the library to clear my head. And that's when it happened.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I was standing in the Circulation Department, my friend, Melissa, introduced me to a friend of hers, and I lost my mind. It was John Green. THE John Green. John Green of <i>Turtles All the Way Down </i>and <i>Paper Towns</i> and <i>Looking for Alaska</i> and <i>An Abundance of Katherines</i>. Oh, also the John Green of <i>The Fault In Our Stars</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not ashamed to admit that I went a little fanboy all over him. It was a pretty amazing moment. For people who think that working in a library is not exciting, let me list a few other people whom I've met as part of my job: Les Standiford, Natasha Trethewey, Joy Harjo, Diane Seuss, and Alex Gino. That's two U. S. Poets Laureate, the author of <i>The Man Who Invented Christmas</i>, a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, and a bestselling YA writer. </div><div><br /></div><div>And now John Green.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've been riding that wave since this afternoon, and I'll probably be riding it for the rest of the week. Long enough to get me through the submission of the NEA grant.</div><div><br /></div><div>Saint Marty has had a pretty good day after a pretty crappy weekend.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVawkGJDh-5ziXvRJPy-Tz2oiQPM-n3oWycB7qkgihyphenhyphenQuGTDGsbqxkpGkVOkrWX5nQQY2gR3qvzFmb8wBgHmDZhBJiRNxfi4ulmfHjTHtnXmeNFFcMoQX808O5AggMgwzhrW7rYRlMoS-KEdwZ-A9_dN0FQAwpyKvD_3FQ4SDUn2ns0AZECcpAHZg-zs/s640/IMG_4439.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVawkGJDh-5ziXvRJPy-Tz2oiQPM-n3oWycB7qkgihyphenhyphenQuGTDGsbqxkpGkVOkrWX5nQQY2gR3qvzFmb8wBgHmDZhBJiRNxfi4ulmfHjTHtnXmeNFFcMoQX808O5AggMgwzhrW7rYRlMoS-KEdwZ-A9_dN0FQAwpyKvD_3FQ4SDUn2ns0AZECcpAHZg-zs/w480-h640/IMG_4439.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-14903971566769245982024-01-21T22:17:00.001-05:002024-01-21T22:17:50.395-05:00January 21: "Headstones," Joseph, Full LifeBilly Collins visits a cemetery . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>Headstones</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>If the dates show</div><div>the husband died</div><div>shortly after the wife--</div><div><br /></div><div>first Gladys then Harry,</div><div>Betty followed by Tom--</div><div><br /></div><div>the cause is often</div><div>gradual starvation</div><div>and not a broken heart.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It's a funny poem. No getting around it. But, as with all poems, there is, at its core, a great deal of truth. </div><div><br /></div><div>I worked in the healthcare field for about 25 years, and I've been alive for over half a century now. I've seen it happen many times with couples who've been married a long, long time--so long that their names are almost always spoken together, in one breath. When one member of that duo passes, the other usually isn't far behind. It's called broken heart syndrome--takotsubo cardiomyopathy. The heart muscle is put under so much stress from the loss that it, quite literally, breaks.</div><div><br /></div><div>You may remember, back in August, 2023, I believe, I wrote about my dear, dear friend, Joseph. Joseph first came into my life at a poetry reading I gave just one or two days after my father's passing, before we had even celebrated his funeral Mass. In the front row at that reading sat Joseph in his long winter overcoat and beret, beautiful cane in his hand, gray hair and beard meticulously groomed.</div><div><br /></div><div>After the reading was over, Joseph approached me, and I suddenly found myself having the most intimate of conversations with him, talking about my father and family, sharing details about his life and death. And Joseph stood there, nodding, saying, "yes, yes" as I spoke. When we parted company, I didn't think I'd ever see him again, but our encounter was a very bright moment in a very dark time for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Two days later, Joseph showed up at my dad's funeral. Before the service, he came and spoke with me again, and then my family. After the Mass was all over, he came to lunch, sat with me and my family, and it really felt as if he was a part of us.</div><div><br /></div><div>That was in February of 2017. Throughout the intervening years, Joseph drifted in and out of my life. He suffered serious heart issues. Survived the pandemic. Fell in love with a woman. Had his heart broken. Appeared at readings and concerts and other events. </div><div><br /></div><div>This past summer, he told me that he was dying, his internal organs closing up shop. Yet, when he told me this, he smiled and said, "No, no, no. Don't be sad. I've had a good life. A full life. There's nothing to be sad about."</div><div><br /></div><div>Joseph taught me a lot of things in the time I knew him. Love. Mercy. Attentiveness. Compassion. For people, trees, creatures, the world. And in the last act of his life, he taught me about grace. He kept marching forward, deeply enjoying each and every person and place he encountered.</div><div><br /></div><div>At 1:45 this morning, Joseph marched forward again, this time right into the open arms of the loving God in whom he believed with his whole heart. Tonight, the world seems a much darker place to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I can hear Joseph in my ear: "No, no, no, my friend. No tears."</div><div><br /></div><div>And so Saint Marty smiles. </div><div><br /></div><div>Rest well, dear friend.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRDwjBxuVp2tczStuBUSsuO9apQMfgHqRvkB8-4thrcoUzoqMAYIISZzooyMpbClmWmpFKrkS6YoU_JHSe7Di6Kxlg9DPix0R0QkftL2H4XeE8rVn4-NqxKKMGoLlWkQM1OrpbXgTVnImi9F_F9oci179hbXr7ArYZi04cKik8FISCqyiG14u3SfKg_vY/s640/IMG_4437%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="524" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRDwjBxuVp2tczStuBUSsuO9apQMfgHqRvkB8-4thrcoUzoqMAYIISZzooyMpbClmWmpFKrkS6YoU_JHSe7Di6Kxlg9DPix0R0QkftL2H4XeE8rVn4-NqxKKMGoLlWkQM1OrpbXgTVnImi9F_F9oci179hbXr7ArYZi04cKik8FISCqyiG14u3SfKg_vY/w524-h640/IMG_4437%20(1).jpg" width="524" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-64777385729486731982024-01-20T23:48:00.000-05:002024-01-21T17:43:19.234-05:00January 20: "Mute Potato," Quirky, My NieceBilly Collins prepares dinner . . . <div><br /></div><div><b>Mute Potato</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Before introducing it to a pot</div><div>of boiling water,</div><div><br /></div><div>I caught a medium-size</div><div>Idaho potato</div><div><br /></div><div>staring up at me</div><div>with several of its many eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I've always imagined, since I was a child, that everything had feelings and emotions--dogs and goldfish, grass under our feet, the moon, and, yes, the potatoes we boil for food. Perhaps this idea came to me watching cartoons--all those anthropomorphized animals, plants, and objects. Bugs Bunny. Dancing brooms in <i>Fantasia</i>. Talking apple trees in <i>The Wizard of Oz</i>. Not to mention<i> </i>Bambi and Thumper and gang. Is it that far of a stretch that potatoes look up at us in horror as we peel them and drop them in boiling water?</div><div><br /></div><div>That's a small glimpse into the convolutions of my mind. If, after reading the above paragraph, you think I'm weird, that's okay. I've been this way my whole life. And by "this way," I mean a little . . . unhinged. Yet, I've been able to build a career out of my weirdness--as a teacher and writer and poet and actor and musician.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are politer terms that have been applied to my personality. Two of my favorites are "eccentric" and "quirky." I love being a little unpredictable. (Some of my students at college have told me that they actually show up to class just to see what shit is going to come out of my mouth every day.) I like to think my quirks make me loveable.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of my favorite people in the world who completely gets me--in all of my strangeness--is my niece, Aubri. We have always gotten along really well. Perhaps we see the world similarly. (I'm not saying that she imagines her potatoes staring up at her from her soup bowl, but she might.) Aubri came over tonight to play games with my family. We had pizza and drinks (I made her my version of a tequila sunrise with peach schnapps), and then we played Jackbox.tv for three hours. I haven't laughed so hard in a really long time. </div><div><br /></div><div>The world is a much better place with Aubri in it. Not a lot of people get my eccentricities/weirdness, but she is one of them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Saint Marty is blessed to have her in his life.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVVmqA1vMrhdyWYjQw3eOFDrglT9QngjYlRZP2xURaupKFuNPzexeWx6oGV_ttt6ca2dhSWm3Lx0hjKJGbEgom56fIggfbT4CqkNEpy-Pv6vWS_68DcUsLKpYCnuxlo6q5b2AkQ53Zso-pQ6_hh2oROhkTYBhlrbyqgGbDwZdh24qFCKHyxz0CIiD1pAw/s640/IMG_9893%20(1).PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="360" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVVmqA1vMrhdyWYjQw3eOFDrglT9QngjYlRZP2xURaupKFuNPzexeWx6oGV_ttt6ca2dhSWm3Lx0hjKJGbEgom56fIggfbT4CqkNEpy-Pv6vWS_68DcUsLKpYCnuxlo6q5b2AkQ53Zso-pQ6_hh2oROhkTYBhlrbyqgGbDwZdh24qFCKHyxz0CIiD1pAw/w360-h640/IMG_9893%20(1).PNG" width="360" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-54266700384203041612024-01-19T23:35:00.000-05:002024-01-20T01:48:11.554-05:00January 19: "Flaubert," Sister's Surgery, Daughter's FriendBilly Collins and Gustave Flaubert are word watchers . . .<div><br /></div><div><b>Flaubert</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>As he looked for the right word,</div><div>several wrong words</div><div>appeared in his window.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Really, all writers are word watchers, from poets to novelists. Haiku to <i>Madame Bovary</i>. We all (yes, I include myself in this group) sit by our windows, waiting for just the right cardinal or bunting to appear. Then we capture it on the page.</div><div><br /></div><div>My apologies for being mostly absent this week (and probably in the coming days, as well). I just started teaching again this past Tuesday, and I've also been working on a huge NEA grant for the library. Between students and grant verbiage, I've not had a whole lot of headspace for much else. It literally has felt like I went from riding a tricycle to a runaway train.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then, this morning, I took my sister to the hospital for surgery. You may remember that she fell last week in her driveway and fractured both of her wrists pretty severely. Well, she was supposed to have plates and pins installed. The procedure is called an open reduction and internal fixation. (How's that for word watching?) </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, after waiting for about an hour because of technical issues, my sister found out that her surgery had to be postponed until Monday. The reason? All of the air handlers that control temperature and humidity in the operating rooms weren't functioning. Because I worked in the healthcare field for over 20 years (most of those years in a surgical setting), I understand why this delay had to occur. However, it was quite disappointing for my sister, who's been in quite a bit of pain for over a week.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, instead, I ended up working at the library for quite a while today on details and language for that NEA grant. Word watching again, if you will. Sending out emails. Drafting paragraphs. Feeling overwhelmed.</div><div><br /></div><div>That is the kind of week I've had. Of course, compared to the week my sister has had, mine was, to use a cliché, a walk in the park. </div><div><br /></div><div>And now, to close out this week, my daughter just texted me late tonight to tell me that one of her friends--with whom she took dance classes through grade, middle, and high school--died yesterday. "O" was a sweet, sweet girl who led a very troubled life. She was living with her boyfriend, and the propane heater in their house malfunctioned. Both died of carbon monoxide poisoning. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes, it feels as if life/God/the universe does things to people that simply don't make a whole lot of sense. Tragic accidents that harm and/or kill individuals I care about. And it leaves me watching for words that will somehow explain it all. Sometimes, though, no words seem adequate.</div><div><br /></div><div>Writer Anne Lamott says that there are three prayers that people send up to the heavens: Help, Thanks, Wow. Those words perfectly express human reactions to almost any situation we may encounter. So . . .</div><div><br /></div><div>Saint Marty says "help" for all his loved ones who are hurting; "thanks" for him making it through this shitty week, and "wow" for all the unnoticed blessings that have sustained him.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy-rvhjt_SJzs63nq53i1XViPUHS50voX2guTjhbgV5Ew7NiUPCd2XLFDqkb5KAuEaN4ayWZf8R2VpgdZuZ4ENa_5mIy6wLv2IovA72u8EuYpXR14hvj5d9a5pwclKnG5HgibWX8C1Fh2t-ZcdhMftWGSIvXK9GO64G03sIT9p4NQ7K6viG-pN4xORWmU/s640/IMG_4429.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy-rvhjt_SJzs63nq53i1XViPUHS50voX2guTjhbgV5Ew7NiUPCd2XLFDqkb5KAuEaN4ayWZf8R2VpgdZuZ4ENa_5mIy6wLv2IovA72u8EuYpXR14hvj5d9a5pwclKnG5HgibWX8C1Fh2t-ZcdhMftWGSIvXK9GO64G03sIT9p4NQ7K6viG-pN4xORWmU/w480-h640/IMG_4429.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-22158603410303423182024-01-15T23:09:00.001-05:002024-01-20T00:31:54.044-05:00January 15: "From a Railing," Tugboat, SunriseBilly Collins watches some boats. . . .<div><br /></div><div><b>From a Railing</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>A long barge</div><div>with a helpful</div><div>tugboat alongside</div><div><br /></div><div>pushing parts</div><div>of the East River away </div><div>on their way somewhere.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This post will be very short, like Collins' poem. Sometimes, an image simply speaks for itself--in this case, the barge and tugboat on the East River. It's probably a scene that Collins has witnessed many times. Nothing profound or earthshattering. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had a friend who knew how to make ordinary things (like barges and tugboats) into great gifts. Her name was Helen, and today would have been her birthday. So I decided to do something very Helen-esque this morning: I drove to Lake Superior and watched the sunrise. </div><div><br /></div><div>A fair amount of my disciples who read this blog knew/knew of Helen. She was a joyful force of nature. Creative. Artistic. Spiritual. A friend to everyone, literally. If you needed a tugboat to pull your barge, Helen would be that tugboat. Like Martin Luther King (whose life we commemorate and celebrate today), Helen loved dreaming of ways to make the universe a better, kinder place, too--through art or writing or yoga or food or films or hiking. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, as Saint Marty watched the sun emerge over the big waters this morning, he gave thanks for Helen. For her light. For her beauty. For all of the times she was the tugboat in his life.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJsyCtZiGrUxmZfYZ8LHNp_3oN7QKd9_UpvBlv4P1E5OljqQM5PHEdtAuDBuiibI93TGMMdpplYGO4sa-EzlrBCY4ChtsIbttuOZpfH08HtXmYZvpy1A8MCp_W0THIUNLwu5FNZNZMP2K8fxxEMwBly924KOwCEeTAd33QqNU_oUk0c9wj6sXt_r19Htg/s640/IMG_4413.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJsyCtZiGrUxmZfYZ8LHNp_3oN7QKd9_UpvBlv4P1E5OljqQM5PHEdtAuDBuiibI93TGMMdpplYGO4sa-EzlrBCY4ChtsIbttuOZpfH08HtXmYZvpy1A8MCp_W0THIUNLwu5FNZNZMP2K8fxxEMwBly924KOwCEeTAd33QqNU_oUk0c9wj6sXt_r19Htg/w480-h640/IMG_4413.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7653460299213163158.post-54058546786228748452024-01-14T21:16:00.000-05:002024-01-15T22:05:11.903-05:00January 14: "Carbon Dating," Inflated Academics, Steven WrightBilly Collins tells a joke . . .<div><br /></div><div><b>Carbon Dating</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>by: Billy Collins</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>He tried it once</div><div>as a last resort</div><div><br /></div><div>but most of the women</div><div>were a million years old.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This poem makes me laugh. It doesn't have deep meaning. There isn't any serious subtext. It's just plain funny. Period.</div><div><br /></div><div>Collins often gets criticized for poems like this. He doesn't mind having fun with his art. I think he revels in popping the balloons of inflated academics. Don't get me wrong. Collins can be deadly serious, too. The poem he wrote for the one-year anniversary of the 9/11 attacks--titled "The Names"--is powerfully moving. But Collins doesn't like to take himself too seriously. And, frankly, I don't like being around people who can't laugh at themselves.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of my favorite comedians in the 1980s was Steven Wright. He is a master of clever one-liners. Here's a few of my favorite Wright-isms:</div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>"Whenever I think of the past, it brings back so many memories."</li><li>"A lot of people are afraid of heights. Not me. I'm afraid of widths."</li><li>"If you think nobody cares about you, try missing a couple of payments."</li><li>"I poured spot remover on my dog. Now he's gone."</li><li>"I was reading the dictionary. I thought it was a poem about everything."</li><li>"I think it's wrong that only one company makes the game Monopoly."</li><li>"I remember when the candle shop burned down. Everyone stood around singing 'Happy Birthday.'"</li><li>"I bought some batteries, but they weren't included."</li><li>"All those who believe in psychokinesis, raise my hand."</li><li>"How young can you die of old age?"</li></ul><div>I don't care who you are. That is funny shit.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>I can be very serious. In fact, if you saw me in my natural habitat (sitting in my pajamas on my couch, reading a book or watching TV), you'd probably think my pet goldfish had just died. I'm not a belly laugher. I'm more of a shy smirker.</div><div><br /></div><div>After the blizzard of this weekend--the 50-mile-an-hour winds, four-foot snowdrifts, and below-zero wind chills--I needed a beautiful sunset and a laugh tonight. Tonight's poem is the laugh. The sunset is below.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, Saint Marty has just one last question: Why did the mime quit his job? Because he was feeling boxed in.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BduWFXMtMVWkWKiDxDIYrUURofwPH_V3aMqQdlCvfIf4IwhmoDGv3TUKWrLL_vPu1WsG-SJv3qLdW8rmmcFMZtDeW_9WBvfsFFMOE5QMOQbt-WIwZ3l5Ld08Pp8ib5wYMv9E6MIMG6biyVfzJrP-UhuEy2EzKS9P_Ywqu3nZDXTYk1gOjFfznuO9uGY/s640/IMG_4343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BduWFXMtMVWkWKiDxDIYrUURofwPH_V3aMqQdlCvfIf4IwhmoDGv3TUKWrLL_vPu1WsG-SJv3qLdW8rmmcFMZtDeW_9WBvfsFFMOE5QMOQbt-WIwZ3l5Ld08Pp8ib5wYMv9E6MIMG6biyVfzJrP-UhuEy2EzKS9P_Ywqu3nZDXTYk1gOjFfznuO9uGY/w400-h300/IMG_4343.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Saint Martyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14177946561853785556noreply@blogger.com0