August 11: "Evening Alone," Night Owl, Happy Place

I have very few moments during my days--morning, afternoon, or evening--when I am completely alone.  I think that's why I've always been a night owl.  After people go to bed, I get a few hours of solitude.

Sometimes I make good use of that solitude, reading or writing or revising or eating chocolate.  Other times, I allow my mind to rest.  I watch a movie I've seen dozens of times or a television program that requires little in the way of active attention.  I drift and wander lonely as a cloud.

That's what Billy Collin is doing in today's poem . . . 

Evening Alone

by: Billy Collins

Last of the strong sun

on white tiles, stack of white towels, 

faint piano melody from downstairs, 

and the downpour of hot water on my shoulders. 

I lift my face to the nozzle, close my eyes

and see mountains folded 

over mountains, smoke rising from a woodcutter’s hut,

 and in the distance, billowing pastel clouds. 

It must be China I am beholding 

on this early summer evening— 

the great sway of rivers, 

thousands of birds rising on the wing, 

the jade and mulberries of China, 

plum blossoms—now the cry of a pheasant. 

It is a vision that drains me of desire, 

and leaves me wanting nothing 

but to be here 

in this hot steamy room 

washing my neck, rubbing my sides, 

the soap slithering down the chest and stomach, 

eyes still shut, 

while in China, 

a light boat crosses a lake, 

and in a wooden house on the shore 

a young woman in a tight-fitting silk dress 

lifts a cup of cinnamon tea 

to her painted, slightly parted lips.

I'm not sure if Billy Collins is calling up a distant memory or completely imagining this scene.  But he is drifting and wandering in his mind to a place that gives him peace and pleasure.  It really doesn't matter whether it's real or not.

We all have happy places.  The Eiffel Tower.  Loch Ness.  Lake Superior.  A couch.  My happy place?  I'm kind of a homebody.  The only place where I really relax and set aside all my masks is at home.  I don't have to do anything but be myself.  That's a great gift.  I can be Marty the poet.  Marty the blogger.  Marty the Christmas fanatic.  Marty the Bigfoot guy.  Or I can just be Marty the guy who watches Portrait Artist of the Year fanatically, over and over.  

Saint Marty's favorite place tonight was his backyard, standing under the sun, noticing how leaves are already changing color.

July 26: "Constellations," Paris, Perfection, "Perseids"

Billy Collins stargazes . . . 

Constellations

by: Billy Collins

Yes, that's Orion over there,

the three studs of the belt

clearly lined up just off the horizon.

And if you turn around you can see

Gemini, very visible tonight,

the twins looking off into space as usual.

That cluster a little higher in the sky

is Cassiopeia sitting in her astral chair

if I'm not mistaken.

And directly overhead,

isn't that Virginia Woolf

slipping along the River Ouse

in her inflatable canoe?

See the wide-brimmed hat and there,

the outline of the paddle, raised and dripping stars?

It is late.  I just finished watching the Opening Ceremony of the Paris Olympics and stepped outside to do a little stargazing myself.

It was really dark, and the stars weren't really visible.  I wandered around for 15 or 20 minutes, staring upward, breathing the muddy night air.  Not sure what I was looking for.  Maybe inspiration or peace of mind.  I've been struggling these last few weeks with some insomnia, so going for a walk at 1 a.m. isn't all that strange for me at the moment.

I found the Opening Ceremony in Paris quite inspiring.  Lots of weird performance art,  Great music.  The Parade of Nations happening with boats of athletes sailing down the Seine.  And, to cap it all off, Celine Dion singing "L'Hymne à l'mour" by Edith Piaf from the Eiffel Tower.  If the organizers had simply lit the Olympic cauldron and had Dion sing, it would have been enough for me.

I'm sure there's going to be a lot of criticism tomorrow.  There's always people who want to compare and bitch.  Beijing was better.  Or Rio.  Or Seoul.  For me, that's sort of like saying, "Oh, the moon last month was so much brighter," or, "The Perseids were so much better four years ago," or, "Edith Piaf sang that song so much better."  

Humans love to criticize.  Maybe that's why van Gogh only sold a few paintings before he committed suicide.  Or why Emily Dickinson only published ten poems during her lifetime.  I, myself, haven't really pushed myself to release a lot of my poems.  I'm pretty hard on myself when it comes to my writing.  I revise and revise and revise.  Perhaps that's why I've been working on my Bigfoot manuscript, off and on, for around 20 years.  I have a hard time letting go of a poem that's not as perfect as I can make it.  

Of course, perfection is unrealistic.  I'm sure. over the next 17 or so days, there are going to be a lot of athletes who, under the pressure of Olympic competition, will crumble, for many reasons.  I've seen poets who release fantastic debut collections and then fall flat with their sophomore collections.  Great singers go sharp or forget lyrics.

It's the idea of perfection that fucks you up.  If you think you are capable of perfection, you will constantly be disappointed.  It's really about doing the absolute best you can do at a particular moment.  That's it.  

Tonight, this blog post is the best Saint Marty has to offer.

Perseids

by: Martin Achatz

A poet friend tells me they

have come early this year, streaking

between the stars in cat whisker

flashes so instant that I don't

want to blink as I gaze up

into the black bowl of night.

I wonder if those Greek gods

and heroes and monsters up there

even notice them in their annual

game of hide-and-seek, if those

ancients raise their scaled heads, aim

their arrows, grumble at the spirited

young'uns too full of energy to find

a spot to sit down, read a book, catch

their cosmic breaths, let us humans

with our feeble minds give them

a name and a story that explains

their existences.  Maybe, one day,

a group of them will band together

in the shape of me, and I will join

Hercules in that bright living room,

gazing down on the earth, wondering

where the remote is to change the channel,

find something more interesting to watch