August 18: "Aimless Love," Ordinary Things, Falling in Love

Today was a quiet day of quiet loves.

Not much going on.  I played a church service this morning,  I played one of my favorite hymns--"I Am the Bread of Life."  It was rainy and misty most of the morning and afternoon.  A good day to stay inside and watch TV or read a book.  I did both.  Netflix and Garrison Keillor, mixed with a little Wendell Berry.  I even squeezed in a little nap.  Then, when my wife got off work, we did some grocery shopping.

Like I said, nothing huge and important happened  Just small, ordinary things.  Easy to overlook.

Billy Collins falls in love over and over . . . 

Aimless Love

by: Billy Collins

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

I know that I'm guilty of going through my days wearing blinders.  Not really noticing the tiny blessings that come my way.  It's easy to do nowadays, especially with the current political situation in the United States.  Instead of saying grace for the cold pizza I had for lunch or the people who showed up for the poetry workshop I led tonight, I get myself wound up over what moronic thing Donald Trump uttered today.

So, for this post, I'm trying to hold dear all my loves (large and small) from this weekend:  my daughter holding a baby lamb at the U. P. State Fair; an all-night rainstorm; playing pipe organ for church; friends writing poetry with me; a long walk with my puppy; my son helping carry in bags of groceries from the car; the poems of Wendell Berry; some really good sandwich cookies from Walmart; a soft pillow and warm blanket; the sound of my wife's sleeping breaths in the dark.

I could go on.  And on.  And on.  Each day provides new opportunities to fall in love, if I keep my eyes open and take note.

Saint Marty is going to fall in love with the movie On Golden Pond now.

February 20: Series of Love Affairs, Billy Collins, "Aimless Love"

I slept in this morning because my kids got a day off from school.  Freezing rain last night that shagged the entire world with ice.  When I shoveled, the snow flaked up like pieces of dried paint.  It was heavy and wet.

I cleaned my house this afternoon, took my daughter to her orthodontist appointment.  Tomorrow morning, I rejoin my regular life.  Work and teaching and parenting and poetry.  Each competing for my attention.

Today, however, I had a chance to fall in love with a lot of things.  The layer of ice on my car.  The branches of the trees outside my window, still holding some frozen winterberries, red as paper cuts against the snow.  The omelet I had for breakfast.  The nap I took after lunch.

That really is what a day is all about.  A series of love affairs.  Ask Billy Collins.

Saint Marty is ready to fall in love with his pillow.

Aimless Love

by:  Billy Collins

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor's window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door--
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor--
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

April 9: Jealousy, Billy Collins, "Flock"

Yes, I owe you some poetry.  Since all I've been carrying around is the collection, Aimless Love, it is Billy Collins again.

It's one of those poems that I read and think to myself, "Dammit, I wish I had written that."  My two Constant Readers know that I have a little problem with jealousy.  It's one of my many character flaws.  And when I find a poem that I really love, it makes me want to write a better poem.  I suppose that's a good thing.  Some people may say that I'm being inspired by the poem.  I think I'm just competing.  But that's okay.  A little competition never hurt anybody.

I haven't written a new poem in several months now.  I've been too wrapped up in work and teaching.  By the time I get home at night, I can barely stay awake.  Soon, the semester will be coming to an end, and I will have about two months before I start teaching again.  Hopefully, I can start competing with Billy Collins during that time.

In the meantime, Saint Marty will just seethe with envy.

Flock

by:  Billy Collins

          It has been calculated that each copy of
          the Gutenburg Bible . . . required the
          skins of 300 sheep.
               ---from an article on printing

I can see them squeezed into the holding pen
behind the stone building
where the printing press is housed,

all of them squirming around
to find a little room
and looking so much alike

it would be nearly impossible
to count them,
and there is no telling

which one will carry the news
that the Lord is a shepherd,
one of the few things they already know.

This cartoon inspired by Charles Schulz . . .

November 25: Peaceful and Clean, Small and Big Blessings, Billy Collins, "Aimless Love," Off the Top of My Head

At around eleven that night, a predicted snowfall had come.  He and Annie looked out about midnight before pulling the plug on the tree lights and going to bed, and mutually agreed how peaceful and clean the streets of New York seemed in such weather.

Ives and Annie have spent an evening appreciating small things like Italian cold cuts and pastries, Spanish wine, bubbling Christmas ornaments, young people in love.  Now, as they prepare for bed, they stop at a window to appreciate one last thing:  snow falling on the street below, making everything soft and cold.

It is the end of the work week.  Tomorrow, I will sit down with my family and celebrate the American holiday of Thanksgiving.  For my international readers, that's a day where people in the United States are supposed to give thanks for the blessings in their lives.  The small and big blessings.  Mashed potatoes and good health.  Cranberry sauce and beautiful kids.

Tonight, I will be cooking.  My house will be filled with the smell of baking pecans and sugar.  Maybe I'll have a drink when the pies are in the oven.  Something root beerish that can knock you on your ass after a couple of sips.  My kids will be there, staying up a little later because they don't have school tomorrow.  Maybe we'll watch A Charlie Brown Christmas or Frosty the Snowman.  Then, when it gets late, and the pies are cooling on the front porch, we'll go to bed, and I will say a little prayer.  Give thanks for pecans and sugar, my son and daughter, Linus and Snoopy, my wife, my life.

It is going to be a good night, filled with gratitude.

And by the second hard root beer, Saint Marty will be wearing his candy corn hat and singing "Over the River and Through the Woods."

Aimless Love

by:  Billy Collins

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

Off the Top of My Head