October 9: Hell of a Quote, Hi, Earth-Shattering, Poetry

The way I've been composing my Hitchhiker's posts since we finished the book last week is fairly simple.  I take the book in one hand and begin flipping through the pages, without looking.  Then, at some point, when the impulse hits me, I stab my finger at a particular page and paragraph, again without looking.  Surprisingly, my finger usually lands on a passage that speaks to me in some way.  This is what my finger found this evening:

"Hi," he said to a small knot of creatures from the press who were standing nearby wishing that he would stop saying Hi and get on with the quotes.  He grinned at them particularly because he knew that in a few moments he would be giving them one hell of a quote.

Of course, this is about Zaphod Beeblebrox, President of the Imperial Galactic Government, just before he is about to steal the Heart of Gold spaceship with his girlfriend, Trillian.  Nobody else knows what is about to happen.  The press is there to report on the unveiling of the Heart of Gold, nothing more.  The entire universe is about to be surprised.

I think most of my days are like this.  I show up to work or teaching, planner in hand, book/laptop bag on my shoulder, thinking that it's going to be like any other day.  I say "hi" to people, make jokes, go about the business of my life.  I don't expect anything earth-shattering to happen.  I save the earth-shattering stuff for when I sit down to write.  At least, I try to.

You see, I'm of the opinion that anything can be earth-shattering.  For instance, I'm pretty hungry right now.  I'm eating a piece of leftover pizza for dinner.  On another day, in different circumstances, I wouldn't really be paying too much attention to this slice.  However, because of my empty stomach, and because I just worked eight hours and then taught for another two and am getting ready to teach for another three-and-a-half hours, eating this triangle of pizza is turning into a pretty earth-shattering experience for me.

For me, that's what poetry is all about.  Finding the earth-shattering in the everyday things in life.  Like pizza.  Or a drink of water.  Or a stick of pepperoni.  Or a discarded Band-aid.  Whatever.  The best poems--the ones I love the most--are about these kinds of mundane experiences, when the poet is suddenly contemplating string theory while tying her shoes.  That is the kind of poetry that unhinges my head from my shoulders.

Two days ago, I wrote what I think is the finished draft of a poem.  It had been sitting on a page in my journal, collecting dust, since August.  I didn't think it was very good, so I sort of abandoned it.  For some reason, I felt myself drawn back to it on Monday.  I reread it and saw something breathing on the page.  So I decided to shape it, give it life.

It's a poem about my son.  And it's about authenticity.  And joy.  And time.  And seeing something earth-shattering.  At least, that's what I think it's about.  Sometimes, writers are the worst people for understanding what they've written.  Because most of what writers do is instinctual.  I let my mind go where it needs to go, create whatever beautiful mess it needs to create.  If it ends up being a poem, all the better.

I've decided to include it below, let you be the judge.  Is it a poem or just a beautiful mess?  A piece of pizza or the meaning of life?  Both?  Neither?

Take a bite of this poem, and tell Saint Marty if it changes you in any way.

Harvest Time

by:  Martin Achatz

He begged me for just ten more minutes

before he had to shower, wash off

the math and lunchroom and homework

of the day.  He stands in the backyard

by the woodpile, holds a stick

the size of his arm, swinging

it through the dusk.  Wild chops

that guillotine the swarm of mosquitoes

in front of his face.  Then he turns, swings

in the other direction, towards the neighbor’s

house.  The arc bisects the navel orange

sun.  Back and forth he threshes the air,

the way I saw a Russian peasant boy

in an old newsreel slash down wheat

with a scythe.  All the time my son

does this, his mouth moves.  He’s talking

or shouting or singing.  I can’t hear

him through the kitchen window.

But he’s smiling a smile that is all him.

A smile he saves just for himself.

I’ve never seen it before.  It’s not meant

for my eyes or anyone’s eyes.  I turn

away from the glass.  Let him be

his own, harvesting these last

golden bushels of daylight.

February 10: Hi, Upheaval, "To My Father's Ashes"

And President Zaphod Beeblebrox has arrived for the adulation of his adoring constituents . . .

Water boiled up beneath the bubble, it seethed and spouted.  The bubble surged into the air, bobbing and rolling on the water spout.  Up, up it climbed, throwing stilts of light at the cliff.  Up it surged on the jet, the water falling from beneath it, crashing back into the sea hundreds of feet below.

A thoroughly ridiculous form of transport but a thoroughly beautiful one.

At the top of the cliff the globe wavered for a moment, tipped onto a railed ramp, rolled down it to a small concave platform and riddled to a halt.

To tremendous applause Zaphod Beeblebrox stepped out of the bubble, his orange sash blazing in the light.

The President of the Galaxy had arrived.

He waited for the applause to die down, then raised his hand in greeting.

"Hi," he said.

Zaphod has something up his sleeve, if you haven't already figured that out.  Actually, he has three arms, so three sleeves.  He isn't going to follow the script that has been prepared for him.  Stay tuned tomorrow to see how Zaphod intends to surprise everyone.

I'm not much for going off-script.  I like to know what's going to happen all the time.  Read the last page of a mystery first.  Read movie reviews with spoilers.  I knew that Han Solo died in the last Star Wars movie before I even stepped foot in the theater.  No surprises for Saint Marty.

This past weekend, I have been dealing with all the upheaval that happened last week in my life.  (Like I said, surprises are NEVER a good thing!)  On top of that, Friday was the first anniversary of my father's death.  That sort of sneaked up on me, as well.  Therefore, all the accompanying emotions for that milestone were thrown into the mix.  Needless to say, it has not been an easy few days.

Now, I have to head into a new work week, a little exhausted emotionally.  For the next couple months, my life is going to be in a state of flux.  Not really knowing what's going to be happening from day to day.  I can't do anything to avoid it.  Emotions are going to be running fairly close to the surface for me.

Last night, I watched Springsteen on Broadway on Netflix.  It was an incredibly moving experience for me.  At one point, Bruce started talking about an encounter he had with his father, a kind of coming-to-terms moment in their relationship.  Then Bruce sang a song.  I found myself sitting on my couch sobbing.  It was almost as if I could feel my father in the room with me.

So much of my life seems to be ending.  Depending on the results of the voting for Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula, that part of my life may be closing, as well.  Please don't quote me that old chestnut, "When God closes a door, He opens a window."  At this point, if I decide to go through that window, I'll probably fall 13 stories to my death.  At least that's what it feels like.  No, I need a little more time, a little more distance.

Saint Marty has a poem to honor his father this evening.

To My Father’s Ashes

by:  Martin Achatz

Staring at your dust

in this black vase,

I wonder what of you

I possess.  The cinder

that was your hands. watered

tomato plants every summer

until they swelled into orange

fists of starfish.  Grains of your

crooked spine that kept

you from the missiles and grenades

of Pork Chop Hill and Pusan.

Or the pollen of your lips, tongue

that sipped Seven and Seven

all night until you didn’t remember

stoking the furnace with so much

wood that it roared, turned brick

red, almost reduced the house to char.

It could be the soot that was your testes,

scrotum, vesicles, the place

where the Y of me first swam

in white brine the night

you reached out, atlased

my mother’s body with yours.

Perhaps the ember of calf, shoulder.

Powder of ulna, incisor, humerus.

Or maybe it’s a part of you

I don’t know.  The finger

that traced the arc of a neighbor

girl’s breast under a haystack moon.

Your grey eyes, the ones the cried

for two days when your daughter

was born with an extra chromosome

swimming in the pools of her nuclei.

An eardrum that heard Louis Armstrong

coax “La Vie En Rose” from his trumpet

one August night at the Paradise

on Woodward when the Detroit River

was a black tendon of water.

Or a mole on your chest that your bride

kissed over and over on your wedding

night until it blossomed to the color

of lupin.