February 5, 2025: "The Connoisseuse of Slugs," Mystery, "42"

I like to think I have good taste in some things--poems, movies, books, music, friends.  Trying to define what makes a good poem or film or friend is difficult, mysterious.  It's like trying to understand the ending of 2001: A Space Odyssey.  Yet, I know good poems by the way they leave me breathless at the end.  Good films if I'm still thinking about them three days later.  Good friends by how much of my shit they will put up with.

Sharon Olds is an expert on something . . . 

The Connoissseuse of Slugs

by: Sharon Olds

When I was a connoisseuse of slugs
I would part the ivy leaves, and look for the
naked jelly of those gold bodies,
translucent strangers glistening along the
stones, slowly, their gelatinous bodies
at my mercy. Made mostly of water, they would shrivel
to nothing if they were sprinkled with salt,
but I was not interested in that. What I liked
was to draw aside the ivy, breathe the
odor of the wall, and stand there in silence
until the slug forgot I was there
and sent its antennae up out of its
head, the glimmering umber horns
rising like telescopes, until finally the
sensitive knobs would pop out the ends, 

delicate and intimate. Years later,
when I first saw a naked man,
I gasped with pleasure to see that quiet
mystery reenacted, the slow
elegant being coming out of hiding and
gleaming in the dark air, eager and so
trusting you could weep.

It's a wonderfully weird poem from Olds--one only she could and would write.  And it's all about being an expert.  The slug imagery mixes with sexual imagery, until, in the concluding lines, Olds stuns us with beauty and longing.  It takes my breath away,  Hence, it's a good poem.

I had lunch with one of my oldest (not chronologically) friends.  We both worked at a local book store back in the 1990s, and we quickly bonded.  Through the years we've seen each other through a lot:  divorce, depressions, births, deaths, graduations.  Jody was in the birthing room when my wife was having our daughter.  She filled my university office with balloons for my birthday one year.  We both cuss like sailors and enjoy dirty jokes.  Through the decades we've known each other, she's put up with a lot of my shit.

And that makes her a really good friend.

Friendship is a mystery.  You're never sure where or when it's going to strike.  Jody is about a foot shorter than me with a Southern accent.  The first time I met her, she pointed at me and shouted, "Oh my God, a 4.0 GPA!"  (She'd looked over my resumé when I came in for my interview at the book store.)  I liked her immediately, but I never dreamed that--over 30 years later--we'd still be so close.  

It has been a long week, full of all kinds of stress at work (some induced by the President Musk and the Republicans):  a huge programming series funded by the National Endowment for the Arts, if federal funding isn't "paused" again for review; my annual evaluation for the university; issues with computers; issues with students.  In short, a shit show.  And Jody went out to eat with me and let me vent, hugely.  

When I dropped her off at her apartment complex after lunch, she gave me a kiss and a hug and said, "Take care of yourself, for fuck's sake.  I love you."  (I may be paraphrasing a little.)

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight on mystery, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet;

In celebration of the first Reader's Digest publication on this date in 1922, head to the Reader's Digest home page and click on Jokes:  http://www.rd.com/jokes.  After reading several jokes, draft a poem that riffs on scenarios and punchlines that most intrigue you.  Alternatively, write a poem of three or four sections in which each section begins with a well-known riddle.  Examples:  What time is it when an elephant sits on a fence?  What's black and white and red all over?  Why did the chicken cross the road?

42

by: Martin Achatz

1.

What can you catch but not throw?

Tonight, I caught wind in a pine,

jumping branch to branch like

a hungry crow, scraping the air

with the rusty blade of its voice.

2.

What can cry without eyes and fly 

     without wings?

An angel crashed in my backyard,

its feathers gummed with sap,

eyes filled with more salt than

the Atlantic.  I kissed her cheek, tasted

my mother's last breath.

3.

What gets bigger the more you take away?

Something gibbous walked down

the street, searching for 

a puddle of eclipse

to quench its bright thirst.

4.

What can you break without touching it?

I woke when I heard frost tap

on the pane, write a love 

letter to morning on the glass.

September 9: "Spring," Wordlessness, Searching for Meaning

Mary Oliver reflects on the bear in all of us . . .

Spring

by:  Mary Oliver

Somewhere

     a black bear

          has just risen from sleep

               and is staring

down the mountain.

     All night

           in the brisk and shallow restlessness

               of early spring

I think of her,

     her four black fists

          flicking the gravel,

               her tongue

like a red fire

     touching the grass,

          the cold water.

               There is only one question;

how to love the world.

     I think of her

          rising

               like a black and leafy ledge

to sharpen her claws against

     the silence

          of the trees.

               Whatever else

my life is

     with its poems

          and its music

               and its glass cities,

it is also this dazzling darkness

     coming 

          down the mountain,

               breathing and tasting;

all day I think of her--

     her white teeth,

          her wordlessness,

               her perfect love.

Oliver loves the world.  Her poems are psalms to waves and birds and foxes and bears.  To read a poem by her is like taking a walk in the forest, a drink from Blackwater Pond, a flight into a sky choked with blue.  Oliver's love is filled with language and music and words.

Unlike the bear, whose love is wordless and dark and full of teeth.

As a poet, I depend on words.  Words help me sort out the world and my place in it.  When I'm confused or sad or joyful or angry, I assign words to what I'm feeling, create images and lines that put order into the chaos of life.  That's the job of a poet--to search for meaning in meaninglessness, light in darkness, and darkness in light.  

That bear, with her silent claws and red fire tongue and leafy ledge body, is the epitome of artless, ravenous, dark, wild love.  A love that doesn't mediate the world with words or music.  The bear wakes in the spring, hungry to taste the green glory all around her.

Human beings spend too much energy searching for the meaning of life, the universe, and everything.  According to Douglas Adams, the answer to that question is 42.  According to Facebook, the answer is to post pictures of your dinner or children or significant other or a sunset to prove how blessed your life is.  According to Mary Oliver, the answer is the dazzling darkness of the bear coming down from the mountain in spring amazement.

Every once in a while, I experience something that fills me like a puddle in a rainstorm.  I'll feel the impulse to take out my phone to snap a photo to post on Facebook or Instagram.  Or dig out my pen and journal to write a poem.  Or go home and write a blog post about it.  Instead of just standing there, letting myself drown in the moment.

This morning, after dropping my wife off at work, I drove to Lake Superior to watch the sunrise.  It was a glorious, clear morning, and the sun climbed into the heavens like an orange turtle.  Yes, I stopped.  Yes, I took a picture.  And, yes, when I got home, I jotted some lines down in my journal.

Mostly, however, Saint Marty allowed himself to be the bear, standing on the shore of the lake, lapping up the light with his thirsty ursine eyes after a long, dark winter's nap.  

July 27: Forty-Two, Simple Solutions, Bigfoot Hunting

Deep Thought will reveal the answer to life, the universe, and everything by the end of this passage:

"An awesome prospect, Phouchg," agreed the first man, and Arthur suddenly realized he was watching a recording with subtitles.

"We are the ones who will hear," said Phouchg, "the answer to the great question of Life . . .!"

"The Universe . . .!" said Loonquawl.

"And Everything . . .!"

"Shhh," said Loonquawl with a slight gesture, "I think Deep Thought is preparing to speak!"

There was a moment's expectant pause while panels slowly came to life on the front of the console.  Lights flashed on and off experimentally and settled down into a businesslike pattern.  A soft low hum came from the communication channel.

"Good morning," said Deep Thought at last.

"Er . . . good morning, O Deep Thought," said Loonquawl nervously, "do you have . . . er, that is . . ."

"An answer for you?" interrupted Deep Thought majestically.  "Yes, I have."

The two men shivered with expectancy.  Their waiting had not been in vain.

"There really is one?" breathed Phouchg.

"There really is one," confirmed Deep thought.

"To Everything?  To the great Question of Life, the Universe and Everything?"

"Yes."

Both of the men had been trained for this moment, their lives had been a preparation for it, they had been selected at birth as those who would witness the answer, but even so they found themselves gasping and squirming like excited children.

"And you're ready to give it to us?" urged Loonquawl.

"I am."

"Now?"

"Now," said Deep Thought.

They both licked their dry lips.

"Though I don't think," added Deep Thought, "that you're going to like it."

"Doesn't matter!" said Phouchg.  "We must know it!  Now!"

"Now?" inquired Deep Thought.

"Yes!  Now . . ."

"All right," said the computer, and settled into silence again.  The two men fidgeted.  The tension was unbearable.

"You're really not going to like it," observed Deep Thought.

"Tell us!"

"All right," said Deep Thought.  "The Answer to the Great Question . . ."

"Yes . . .!"

"Of Life, the Universe and Everything . . ." said Deep Thought.

"Yes . . .!"

"Is . . ." said Deep Thought, and paused.

"Yes . . .!"

"Is . . ."

"Yes . . .!!! . . .?"

"Forty-two," said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm.

There you go.  That is the answer to the great question of life, the universe, and everything.  Forty-two.  42.  Six times seven.  Or two times three times seven.  6 X 7.  2 X 3 X 7.  It took Deep Thought seven and a half million years to come up with that answer.  Of course, nobody really asked what the big question really was, did they?

I wish that all the big problems in life had such simple solutions.  My wife has mental illness, how can I help her?  42.  My friend's significant other is an out-of-control alcoholic, what can she do?  Forty-two.  My child has leukemia, how can I get her well?  Six times seven.  Donald Trump is President of the United States, what should I do?  Two times three times seven.  (Actually, the 42nd President of the United States was Bill Clinton.  I'd take him over Donald Trump any day.)

I know that, when I was studying computer science and math as an undergraduate, some of the most complex problems had the simplest, most elegant solutions.  There was a clear, black-and-white path to that answer, and it involved logic and objectivity.

Of course, big life questions are not algebraic or geometric.  Rather, they are huge and hairy and mysterious.  They're Bigfoot.  When I think about it like this, I've been hunting for Bigfoot my whole life.  In fact, we're all Bigfoot hunters, trying to capture and tame the wild questions/problems/issues that plague us.  Love and sickness and mental health and alcoholism and . . . well, you get the idea.

It has been a Bigfoot summer for me.  The hairy guy has been with me, in the shadows, since the beginning of May.  I can smell him sometimes.  Spy him darting into the darkness of my backyard at night.  A couple of times, I've caught him in stark light.  Huge.  Looming.  Terrifying.  Of course, charging at Bigfoot with a metal pipe in my hand is going to end with me being heart-wounded, soul-dead, or physically incapacitated.  I know that as a fact.

Bigfoot hunting takes time.  You need to understand him.  His habits and habitats.  His favorite foods.  Nocturnal wanderings.  You need to find Bigfoot support groups and friends.  People who know and have been hunting Bigfoot longer than you.  People with Bigfoot experience.  If you're going out, hunting Bigfoot by yourself, you will not know what to do when he comes charging through the woods at you, roaring like a jet engine.

So, the answer may be simple.  Forty-two.  But the question is feral, skunky, beasty.  It buries its dead in the woods, and the bodies are never found.  I know that I'm in for a lifetime of Bigfoot hunting.  So is everybody else.  Bigfoot will never be caught.  Or tamed.  Or killed.  Rather, if we're lucky, he will stay where he belongs.  In the woods.  On his side of the lake.  Happily hunting for grubs, scooping salmon out of the water.  Co-existing peacefully with us.  I won't intrude on his life.  He won't intrude on mine.

For now, however, Saint Marty is going to sleep with a metal pipe under his pillow.