January 25, 2025: "Burn Center," Blue Funk, "Depression"

Poets tackle difficult subjects sometimes.  For a couple months last year (starting right around Thanksgiving), I wrote about a severe blue funk I found myself in.  I stopped writing those blog posts, however, because several of my faithful disciples said they were just too sad and dark.

Sharon Olds gets burned by love . . . 

Burn Center

by: Sharon Olds

When my mother talks about the Burn Center

she's given to the local hospital

my hair lifts and wavers like smoke

in the air around my head.  She speaks of the

beds in her name, the suspension baths and

square miles of lint, and I think of the

years with her, as her child, as if

without skin, walking around scalded

raw, first degree burns over ninety

percent of my body.  I would stick to doorways I

tried to walk through, stick to chairs as I

tried to rise, pieces of my flesh

tearing off easily as

well-done pork, and no one gave me

a strip of gauze, or a pat of butter to 

melt on my crackling side, but when I would

cry out she would hold me to her

hot griddle, when my scorched head stank she would 

draw me deeper into the burning

room of her life.  So when she talks about her

Burn Center, I think of a child

who will come there, float in water

murky as tears, dangle suspended in a

tub of ointment, suck ice while they

put out all the tiny subsidiary

flames in her hair near the brain, and I say

Let her sleep as long as it takes, let her walk out

without a scar, without a single mark to

honor the power of fire.

It's a strange metaphor that Olds uses--this Burn Center with all its fire imagery--to describe the complicated relationship she had with her mother.  Yet, I get it.  Love can burn and scar you.  However, Olds, in her ending lines, is newborn, resurrected from the flames without a dimple of scar on her body.

Tonight, I can tell you that I'm sort of resurrected, as well.  While I haven't completely shaken off the darkness, I can say that there's a lot of sun in my life now.  Yes, I still experience whelming moments, but they are much less frequent.  Yes, I cry occasionally, but the tears don't last as long.  And I'm able to get out of bed in the morning without dread in my heart.

I won't go into all I've done to get to this point of near return, but I have my wife and many close family and friends to thank for their love and support through these last three or so months.  It has been an uphill battle, but many helping hands pulled me along.  

I am so grateful and blessed.

Saint Marty wrote an abstractly concrete poem tonight based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Choose an abstract word such as love, hate, obsession, freedom, success, etc. for your title, then write a poem that is made up completely of concrete images.  For example, if I chose the word "Love" for my title, I might use images such as two robins on the branch of a cherry tree or the heart of a cinnamon roll.  Alternatively, if I chose the word "Shame," I might use images such as a bus stop covered in vines or a child walking away.  Don't feel you need to be completely literal--allow for a little mystery, letting your images do the work for you.

Depression

by: Martin Achatz

A church steeple at street's end

jabs its finger into God's black eye.

Myrtle, my neighbor's Great Dane, 

barks and barks for an hour straight

while a mouse darts across my hardwood

floor, its nails like melting icicles.

Unread books are heaped on my ottoman, one

cover, a black-and-white clown staring at me.

Leftover lasagna beside a can of flat  

Diet Coke in the fridge.  Not hungry or thirsty.

The burned-out lightbulb in the living 

room fills the air with darkness.

An unfinished poem in my journal,

its final line crossed out and

September 24: Dream About the Lions, a Little Derailed, My Daughter

Santiago is getting tired . . . 

I wish he'd sleep and I could sleep and dream about the lions, he thought. Why are the lions the main thing that is left? Don't think, old man, he said to himself. Rest gently now against the wood and think of nothing. He is working. Work as little as you can.

It was getting into the afternoon and the boat still moved slowly and steadily. But there was an added drag now from the easterly breeze and the old man rode gently with the small sea and the hurt of the cord across his back came to him easily and smoothly.

The old man has been out on the boat a long time, and he's tired.  He wants to close his eyes and dream of lions, but he knows that he still has a lot of work to do.

It has been a long time since I have written a blog post.  The last blog post I wrote was published on August 12.  My life got a little derailed last month, and I've been struggling to find my equilibrium ever since.  In the past thirty days, one of my best friends died, and my daughter decided to move out of my house.

In short, this summer did not go out with a whimper.  It sort of grabbed me by the throat, dragged me out into the jungle, and used me as a chew toy.  The blue funk that I'd been battling since July has come roaring back.  Every time I pass the stairs to my daughter's bedroom, I feel the emptiness on my shoulders.  

Emptiness is a strange thing.  Even though it's weightless and shapeless, it's still heavy.   Like a trunk filled with clothes and pictures and shoes and books belonging to someone you loved and lost.  Currently, my trunk holds items from my mother, sister, friend, and, now, my daughter.  I am tired of loss.

There's no way around this grief.  I know that.  I haven't really been able to write or think clearly for a while.  I was able to come up with a poem for my friend's celebration of life, but it took me nearly two weeks.  I struggled to find the words for what I was feeling, and words that would truly honor my friend's spirit.  

So, here I am, sitting in a hotel room in Calumet, Michigan, finally hammering out a new blog post.  Tomorrow night, I'm performing in a radio variety show, and it will take all the energy I have.  No worries.  When I was in a similar funk a while ago, a therapist friend gave me this advice:  fake it 'til you make it.  I'm pretty good at doing that, even under the weight of emptiness.

I am the old man in a very large ocean right now.  No land in sight.

Saint Marty's blessing tonight:  the laughter of his son.

P. S.  I'm going to be writing forward and backward from this point on, trying to catch up on posts I have missed and keep current on my daily posts, as well.  So, start reading ahead and behind.

August 2: Loosen Up, Still Breathing, Vacation

Santiago's hand cramps . . . 

His left hand was still cramped, but he was unknotting it slowly.

I hate a cramp, he thought. It is a treachery of one's own body. It is humiliating before others to have a diarrhea from ptomaine poisoning or to vomit from it. But a cramp, he thought of it as a calambre, humiliates oneself especially when one is alone.

If the boy were here he could rub it for me and loosen it down from the forearm, he thought. But it will loosen up.

Everyone's body eventually betrays them.  That's what aging and mortality is all about.  I can't do stuff that I could easily do ten years ago.  Like run long distances or ride roller coasters without throwing up.  As the years pass, time slowly chips away at us, carving small and large losses.  Those losses remind us that we are still breathing, alive.

I'm on vacation now.  I worked for about nine hours today, finishing up loose ends at the library.  By the time I left my office, I was really beat.  Still am.  When I was younger, I could easily stay up until 3 a.m., sleep for a couple hours, get up at 6 a.m., work all day, go home, write a poem, jog a few miles, and stay up to watch reruns of Kolchak:  The Night Stalker.  Not any more.

My life is pretty complicated.  I maintain a schedule that can be exhausting.  My friends often worry about me and my lack of rest and sleep.  I push myself to my limits frequently.  On a good night, I probably get, on average, about five solid hours of sleep.  On a normal night, between three and four hours.  When I am in a blue funk, as I am now, sleep evades me.  That doesn't mean I'm not tired.  It means, when I put head to pillow, my mind finds 27 topics that need my immediate attention.

But I'm hoping to find moments of rest these next few days.  I'm traveling to the Chicago area on Thursday to take my family to Great America.  That means many hours in a car followed by many hours trying to avoid a case of vertigo.  That upside is that I'm not driving.  That means I will have no choice but to relax for almost a full day.  Maybe even nap.

And that will be a blessing for Saint Marty's tired old body and mind.

June 23: What Manner of Man, William Blake, Spin It Into Gold

Young Thomas Merton struggles with the poetry of Blake . . .

I was less literal when I was sixteen.  I could accept Blake's metaphors and they already began, a little, to astound and to move me, although I had no real grasp of their depth and power.  And I liked Blake immensely.  I read him with more patience and attention than any other poet.  I thought about him more.  And I could not figure him out.  I do not mean, I could not figure out the Prophetic Books--nobody can do that!  But I could not place him in any kind of a context, and I did not know how to make his ideas fit together.

One grey Sunday in the spring, I walked alone out the Brooke Road and up Brooke Hill, where the rifle range was.  It was a long, bare hog-back of a hill, with a few lone trees along the top, and it commanded a big sweeping view of the Vale of Catmos, with the town of Oakham lying in the midst of it, gathered around the grey, sharp church spire.  I sat on a stile on the hill top, and contemplated the wide vale, from the north, where the kennels of the Cottesmore hounds were, to Lax Hill and Manton in the south.  Straight across was Burley House, on top of its hill, massed with woods.  At my feet, a few red brick houses straggled out from the town to the bottom of the slope.

And all the time I reflected, that afternoon, upon Blake.  I remember how I concentrated and applied myself to it.  It was rare that I ever really thought about such a thing of my own accord.  But I was trying to establish what manner of man he was.  Where did he stand?  What did he believe?  What did he preach?

As an MFA student, I struggled with William Blake, as well.  I spent an entire class (four months) trying to comprehend the Prophetic Books, and failed just as miserably as Merton does.  I love Blake's grand mythology, am transported by his words, but, to this day, I don't think I've even come close to understanding his visions.  And that's okay.  Sometimes, it's okay to just exist in the mystery of something.  Even it it's dark.

I have a confession this evening.  Over these last seven days, with everything that has happened in my life (and other things I haven't blogged about), I've been struggling with God the same way Merton struggles with Blake in the above passage.  I just don't get God right now.  Don't see how God's going to take the chaff of my life and spin it into gold.  Ain't gonna happen, as far as I can tell.

Of course, that's where faith is supposed to come in, right?  True believers simply hand over the pieces of their broken lives and trust that God is somehow going to do something amazing with those shards.  Put Humpty back together, bigger and better.  Right now, I'd have to say my faith is at low ebb.  I'm feeling like a failure in many aspects of my life, professional and personal and spiritual.  And I can't seem to find my way up from the bottom of this hole I'm in.

Those of my disciples who are tired of my darker ruminations may skip to the end of this post right now.  I promise something beautiful will be there waiting.  And for those disciples who want to slog a little with me, I appreciate the company.  When I'm in a blue funk, I tend to feel more than a little isolated, so it helps me to imagine a person out there reading these words and wanting to walk with me for a little while.

Sometimes, when you're feeling lousy, all you really need is someone to put an arm around you and say, "Yeah, this is really fucked up."  That's where I am at the moment.  I don't need advice.  Don't tell me to go for a walk.  Or that it's always darkest before dawn.  Or that God never closes a door without opening a window.  None of that shit is going to work for me tonight.

Just know that I am sad.  That's all.  I've been here before, and the only cure is time.  And a little alcohol.

And now, the something beautiful I promised . . .

This afternoon, God sent some grace my way.  One of my best and dearest friends met me after work.  She had a carload of groceries for me.  Things she thought I could use because of my sick son and chaotic life.  It was remarkable.  In this hugless time of pandemic, it felt like a strong and long embrace from someone who loves me deeply.  And I felt the arms of that miracle around me all the way home.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks tonight.

February 11: Government Spider, Long Night, Blue Funk

President Zaphod Beeblebrox is about to make a speech . . .

A government spider sidled up to him and attempted to press a copy of his prepared speech into his hands.  Pages three to seven of the original version were at the moment floating soggily on the Damogran Sea some five miles out from the bay.  Pages one and two had been salvaged by a Damogran Frond Crested Eagle and had already become incorporated into an extraordinary new form of nest which the eagle had invented.  It was constructed largely of papier-mache and it was virtually impossible for a newly hatched baby eagle to break out of it.  The Damogran Frond Crested Eagle had heard of the notion of survival of the species but wanted no truck with it.

Zaphod Beeblebrox would not be needing his set speech and he gently deflected the one being offered him by the spider.

"Hi," he said again.  

"Hi" is about all I have time for this evening, as well.  I'm in my office at the university, in between teaching classes.  Just finished up with mythology, heading toward second semester composition.  Three hours of writing and talking about writing to students who are only taking the class because it's required.  It's gonna be a long night.

So, hi.

I've been struggling with motivation all day.  At the medical office (which will be closing in a few weeks), I sat at my desk, thinking to myself, "What's the point?"  Of course, I eventually did get my work done, but that question echoed through my head all day long.  It's still with me, like some kind of apathy hangover.

I'm in a blue funk.  Have been since last Thursday.  I'm sorely in need of some kind of injection of goodness.  A good friend.  Good laugh.  Good book.  Good poems.  Good news.  Something to lift my spirits.  Won't be happening in the next 45 minutes, however.  I'll be heading into the classroom tonight with that question reverberating in my thoughts--"What's the point?"

So, hi.

I am going to read some Sharon Olds for a little while.  She's always good for some inspiration.

And a picture to lift Saint Marty's spirits spirits . . .