September 28: Quiet Desperation, Joys and Sorrow, "Before 4:30 Mass"

Henry David Thoreau wrote, "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." 

I agree with that statement.  Think about it.  Walking through Walmart, imagine the stories of every person that you pass in the aisles.  Each person has a story, full of joys and sorrows, triumphs and failures.  And we all started out the same way:  newborn babies, placed in our mothers' arms, pink and innocent, full of all kinds of hope.

I remind myself of that fact almost every day.  The man who flips me off as I'm driving down the highway may have just received a cancer diagnosis.  The woman who glares at me when I bump into her shopping cart may have a grown child suffering from schizophrenia.  The teenage boy who jokes about me with his pack of friends in McDonald's may have a father or mother with a drinking problem.  We just don't know.

I am not immune to being judgmental.  I'm human, and I fall into the same traps as everybody else.  But that makes me one of the mass of men, as well.  Leading my life of quiet desperation.

Saint Marty is in good company.

Before 4:30 Mass

by:  Martin Achatz

I look down from the choir loft
At the silence gathered below.
Mrs. MacDonald wears her wool coat
In the same pew she sat in
With her parents, seventy years ago.
She looks behind her, as if she expects
Her father to march up the aisle,
Sit next to her, his boots
Still red with dust from the mines.
Father George flits from person-to-person,
Like a hummingbird in an apple tree,
Pausing long enough to taste
The blossom of each sinner's grief
Before moving on.  My daughter, white
Acolyte, lights candles on the altar,
Checks chalice and paten, makes sure
Gospel and cloth are in place
For the coming show.  So much quiet
Desperation fills the sanctuary,
Everyone craving a piece of holiness
To bring home, bake with eggs and oatmeal,
Spaghetti and meatloaf for the week.
I reach down, press the red button.
The pipe organ takes a long breath,
Groans to life, resurrected again.
It waits for my fingers, holds
Music in its gold pipes that reach
Up and up to the vaulted ceiling,
To the bell in the steeple.  It waits
For that low D of the first hymn,
Voices rising like seagulls

Above the waves of Galilee.

December 31: Poo-tee-weet, New Year's Eve, "Before 4:30 Mass"

Billy and the rest wandered out onto the shady street.  The trees were leafing out.  There was nothing going on out there, no traffic of any kind.  There was only one vehicle, an abandoned wagon drawn by two horses.  The wagon was green and coffin-shaped.

Birds were talking.  

One bird said to Billy Pilgrim:  "Poo-tee-weet?" 

The last three paragraphs of Slaughterhouse Five on this last day of the year.  Tonight, we bid farewell to Kurt Vonnegut, Billy Pilgrim, Montana Wildhack, and Tralfamadore.  Old friends by this time.  It's fitting that the novel ends with a nonsensical question.  After all, the entire book is about things that don't make a whole lot of sense.

This year hasn't made a whole lot of sense, what with the ascendancy of Donald Trump and the descendancy of everything else.  I wish I could say that the world is a better place this December 31st than it was last December 31st.  Unfortunately, I can't make that assertion.  America, which WAS great, is not so great anymore.

However, as I said in yesterday's post, my life has been full of wonderful things--new friends and poems, recognitions that I'm not sure I really deserved, and good health for my wife and children.  Of course, I have had some personal challenges, too.  My father, who turned 90 this year, had to be moved into a nursing home.  My brother's heart attack in May, and all the complications that followed.  Brake jobs.  Frozen water pipes.

No year is ever all positive, unless you're delusional (ahem--Donald Trump).  However, I have been, for the most part, greatly blessed this year, and I want to thank all of my friends and family who have filled the last 365 days with so much joy.

Saint Marty wishes all of you a safe--and warm!--New Year's Eve, and grace and light in the coming year.

Before 4:30 Mass

by:  Martin Achatz

I look down from the choir loft
At the silence gathered below.
Mrs. MacDonald wears her wool coat
In the same pew she sat in
With her parents, seventy years ago.
She looks behind her, as if she expects
Her father to march up the aisle,
Sit next to her, his boots
Still red with dust from the mines.
Father George flits from person-to-person,
Like a hummingbird in an apple tree,
Pausing long enough to taste
The blossom of each sinner's grief
Before moving on.  My daughter, white
Acolyte, lights candles on the altar,
Checks chalice and paten, makes sure
Gospel and cloth are in place
For the coming show.  So much quiet
Desperation fills the sanctuary,
Everyone craving a piece of holiness
To bring home, bake with eggs and oatmeal,
Spaghetti and meatloaf for the week.
I reach down, press the red button.
The pipe organ takes a long breath,
Groans to life, resurrected again.
It waits for my fingers, holds
Music in its gold pipes that reach
Up and up to the vaulted ceiling,
To the bell in the steeple.  It waits
For that low D of the first hymn,
Voices rising like seagulls
Above the waves of Galilee.

December 18: Christmas Decorating, Classic Saint Marty, "Before 4:30 Mass"

I'm a little tired tonight.  I spent most of the afternoon decorating my parents' home for Christmas.  Cleaning and hauling and assembling and stringing.  I started around one o'clock this afternoon, and I just finished.  It's a little after 7 p.m.  My father actually shook my hand and thanked me. 

One week until Christmas.  The last really big project I have to finish is my Christmas poem.  I have an idea for it.  Now, it's just about the writing.  Hopefully, I'll get a start on it tonight.  Finish it by Tuesday and Wednesday.  And then there's the Christmas shopping to get done.

It seems like this is the time of year to worry about stuff.  Three years ago, I was preoccupied by worry, too.

December 18, 2013:  Interrupt My Worrying, Waste of Time, Headaches and Knots

...I probably was still looking out the window, but I swear I can't remember.  I was so damn worried, that's why.  When I really worry about something, I don't just fool around.  I even have to go to the bathroom when I worry about something.  Only, I don't go.  I'm too worried to go.  I don't want to interrupt my worrying to go...

I'd forgotten about this little passage.  Holden worries.  About Jane and Allie and Phoebe.  He worries about kids on the playground and "fuck you" graffiti in a grade school.  He worries so much that he ends up having a breakdown.  Catcher is really a portrait of Holden's mind unraveling.  Because he's "so damn worried."


I spent all day waiting to hear bad news.  I don't need to go into detail.  My point is that I wasted about twelve hours.  Worry doesn't really accomplish anything.  It's a pointless exercise.  Nothing really bad happened to me today, except for the fact that I gave myself a huge headache and knots in my shoulders.

I've always been a worrier.  I believe that, if I expect the worst, and the worst doesn't happen, I've somehow won a battle.  That doesn't mean that the worst won't happen tomorrow.  However, I can't really control anything about tomorrow.  Pretty much, all I have control over is the next word I type.  I know, when I'm done with this post, I'm going to work on a poem.  Then, I hope to get to bed a little early tonight.  That's what I have control of tonight.

Saint Marty's going to leave tomorrow to the worriers.

I forget this sometimes

Before 4:30 p.m.

by:  Martin Achatz

I look down from the choir loft
At the silence gathered below.
Mrs. MacDonald wears her wool coat
In the same pew she sat in
With her parents, seventy years ago.
She looks behind her, as if she expects
Her father to march up the aisle,
Sit next to her, his boots
Still red with dust from the mines.
Father George flits from person-to-person,
Like a hummingbird in an apple tree,
Pausing long enough to taste
The blossom of each sinner's grief
Before moving on.  My daughter, white
Acolyte, lights candles on the altar,
Checks chalice and paten, makes sure
Gospel and cloth are in place
For the coming show.  So much quiet
Desperation fills the sanctuary,
Everyone craving a piece of holiness
To bring home, bake with eggs and oatmeal,
Spaghetti and meatloaf for the week.
I reach down, press the red button.
The pipe organ takes a long breath,
Groans to life, resurrected again.
It waits for my fingers, holds
Music in its gold pipes that reach
Up and up to the vaulted ceiling,
To the bell in the steeple.  It waits
For that low D of the first hymn,
Voices rising like seagulls
Above the waves of Galilee.

Please vote for me:

Voting for Poet Laureate of the U. P.

November 10: New Poem, "Before 4:30 Mass"

No, I did not forget about my pledge to post a new poem.  I struggled most of the day, but, in the end, my poem finally came to me.  I think it has the tone and flavor of something by Donald Hall.  It's still rough, but it's at a stage right now that I don't mind sharing it with my disciples.

Saint Marty hopes you enjoy it.

Before 4:30 Mass

I look down from the choir loft
At the silence gathered below.
Mrs. MacDonald wears her wool coat
In the same pew she sat in
With her parents, seventy years ago.
She looks behind her, as if she expects
Her father to march up the aisle,
Sit next to her, his boots
Still red with dust from the mines.
Father George flits from person-to-person,
Like a hummingbird in an apple tree,
Pausing long enough to taste
The blossom of each sinner's grief
Before moving on.  My daughter, white
Acolyte, lights candles on the altar,
Checks chalice and paten, makes sure
Gospel and cloth are in place
For the coming show.  So much quiet
Desperation fills the sanctuary,
Everyone craving a piece of holiness
To bring home, bake with eggs and oatmeal,
Spaghetti and meatloaf for the week.
I reach down, press the red button.
The pipe organ takes a long breath,
Groans to life, resurrected again.
It waits for my fingers, holds
Music in its gold pipes that reach
Up and up to the vaulted ceiling,
To the bell in the steeple.  It waits
For that low D of the first hymn,
Voices rising like seagulls
Above the waves of Galilee.