August 7: "Carry," American English, Art

We all carry lots of things every day of our lives.  

If we get upset, we carry on.  If we're buying something, we cash and carry.  If we're angry, we may carry a grudge.  If we love singing, we  carry a tune.  On the opposite end, if singing is difficult for us, we can't carry a tune in a bucket.  If we're important, we carry more weight than other people.  If we meet people we know, we carry on conversations with them.  If we crush on people, we carry torches for them.  Since the Paris Olympics are going on, if we win something, we carry the day.  And if a U.S. Presidential candidate wins an election in a particular state, she carries the state.

"Carry" is one of those words in the English language that relies on context.  That's why I love writing poetry in English--the ability to use the language in ways that carry multiple interpretations.  If I tell you right now that I'm catty, that could mean that I'm wearing a costume and grooming my whiskers, or it could mean that I'm being petty and mean.  (Those disciples who know me well can probably guess which of those statements is true.)  Because of the melting-pot nature of the American English, it allows for a richness of meanings.

Billy Collins gets carried away in today's poem . . . 

Carry

by: Billy Collins

I want to carry you

and for you to carry me

the way voices are said to carry over water.

Just this morning on the shore,

I could hear two people talking quietly

in a rowboat on the far side of the lake.

They were talking about fishing,

then one changed the subject,

and, I swear, they began talking about you.

You see what I mean  In the first two lines, "carry" indicates a certain deep devotion between the speaker and the person to whom the poem is addressed.  Then we get that wonderful metaphor:  "the way voices are said to carry over water."  That use of "carry" connotes the ability of noises to resonate over the expanse of a lake or pond.  In short, it compares the love/affection expressed in the opening to the power of voices echoing and amplifying over space and time.  It's a powerful image, made possible by the versatility of the word at its center.  

Tonight, I hosted a jazz concert at the library.  It was a wonderful event, full of Coltrane and Monk and Cherry, plus some original tunes.  Talk about voices that carry through space and time.  Of course, this distance can change meaning.  Reading Robert Frost back in 1930 is a different experience than reading him in 2024.  Now, we recognize limitations and problematic elements that were not limiting or problematic when the poem was originally published.

Art is dynamic, whether you're talking painting or poeting or jazzing.  It doesn't remain fixed like a mountain.  Rather, it's fluid, like Lake Superior or the Mississippi River.  It keeps moving, shifting, creating new messages and understandings.  The beach that was present two years ago might get swallowed up by a storm surge.  That tree on the banks or shore might topple due to wind and erosion.  The geography changes, defines new coastlands and topography.

Saint Marty is now going to carry himself into the kitchen to find something to eat.

July 16: "Flock," Son and Niece, Natural Poets

Billy Collins is my shepherd . . . 

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.

I love obscure facts like the one Collins uses in this poem.  I frequently do the same.  One of the poems in my new manuscript is titled "Chipmunks See in Slow Motion."  Poetry helps me understand life in different ways, through different lenses.  These facts aid in that endeavor.

I spent most of today driving my son and niece to different places.  We started early in the morning by climbing Sugarloaf Mountain and having breakfast at its summit, Lake Superior on one side of us, unbroken forestland on the other.  We picked blueberries, took pictures.  I was pretty proud of myself for keeping up with the young'uns until the last incline I had to descend into the parking lot.  Fell on my knees and hands hard, but did not require a trip to the ER.

Then we traveled to a local attraction called Lakenenland that features outdoor metal sculptures by a local artist.  Dinosaurs.  Bigfoot.  Giant insects.  A rock concert (heavy metal, no doubt).  Again, we moseyed through the displays, took pictures.  No injuries to report.

Lastly, we drove to Presque Isle on Lake Superior.  My two charges went wading and rock hunting.  My niece wanted to jump off a particular cliff into the lake.  However, due to some flooding because of heavy rains last night, the road was temporarily closed.  Again, no injuries to report.

After a couple bubble teas, I brought them home, and I think they both took long naps.  (I did wake these teenagers up at 6 a.m., mind you.)  Tomorrow, we drive to Munising for a little Pictured Rocks boat ride, if the weather cooperates.  It's supposed to rain and be a little windy.

I love being with young people.  They allow me to see the world through different lenses, as well, because they are natural poets, unjaded and curious.  My son and niece have most of their lives ahead of them.  Everything they encounter is new and exciting.  Which makes me see everything as new and exciting again.  

Saint Marty is going to take some ibuprofen and watch a movie now.  Something he's seen before--because there's something to be said for old and comforting.

July 9: "Theme," Day Off, Dark Meditation

Billy Collins writes of age and decline . . . 

Theme

by: Billy Collins

It's a sunny weekday in early May

and after a ham sandwich

and a cold bottle of beer on the brick terrace,

I am consumed by the wish

to add something

to one of the ancient themes--

youth dancing with his eyes closed, 

for example, 

in the shadows of corruption and death,

or the rise and fall of illustrious men

strapped to the turning

wheel of mischance and disaster.

There is a slight breeze,

just enough to bend

the yellow tulips on their stems,

but that hardly helps me

echo the longing for immortality

despite the roaring juggernaut of time,

or the painful motif

of Nature's cyclical return

versus man's blind rush to the grave.

I could loosen my shirt

and lie down in the soft grass,

sweet now after its first cutting,

but that would not produce

a record of the pursuit

of the moth of eternal beauty

or the despondency that attends

the eventful dribble

of the once gurgling fountain of creativity.

So, as far as the great topics go,

that seems to leave only

the fall from exuberant maturity

into sudden, headlong decline--

a subject that fills me with silence

and leaves me with no choice

but to spend the rest of the day

sniffing the jasmine vine

and surrendering to the ivory governance

of the piano by picking out

with my index finger

the melody of "Easy to Love," 

a song in which Cole Porter expresses,

with put-on nonchalance,

the hopelessness of a love

brimming with desire

and a hunger for affection,

but met only and always with frosty disregard.

I think all poets dream of adding to the pantheon of great themes, whether it's love or death or lust or eternal beauty or headlong decline.  The difficulty is finding something new and surprising to say about any of those topics.  Otherwise, the poet risks sounding like a Robert Frost or William Shakespeare cover band.

I took today off work.  Shocking, I know.  You see, I really enjoy my job at the library, so, a lot of the time, work doesn't seem like work.  However, I've accrued quite a bit of PTO and need to use it or, literally, lose it.  So, I used some of it today.

A good portion of the morning and afternoon I spent revising poems.  I also sat at McDonald's reading and, eventually, went for a walk along the shores of Lake Superior with my wife.  It was a perfect Upper Peninsula July day, not too hot and with a robin's-egg blue sky.  The beaches were packed, and tourists were out in force.  I don't particularly care for large crowds, so I avoided the densest areas of activity.

And I did a lot of thinking about love and aging and time.  The biggies, as Collins writes.  I'm not sure any of my meditations were earth-shattering or revelatory.  They were, however, honest.  I know that I have experienced lots of love and loss in my life.  I know that my daughter, youth and hope personified, is on the cusp of leaving my close proximity to pursue her dream of becoming a doctor.  My son won't be far behind her--just a couple more years.  And I know that I've become one of the "elders" at family gatherings, even though I still feel like a teenager who knows nothing about the ways of the world.

That is what having time off does to me--it makes me contemplate the inevitability of change and my own mortality.  I know, I know.  Most people spend their days off doing fun things, like swimming or taking in a movie or having lunch with a friend.  That's not the way my mind works.  I tend to gravitate to dark meditation when I have time to kill.  What can I say?  I'm a poet.

And what has this day taught me?  I need to have a better plan for my vacation days.  Or a strong antidepressant.  Probably both.

Saint Marty is now going to watch a movie--Dead Man Walking or Terms of Endearment.  You know, something uplifting.

January 15: "From a Railing," Tugboat, Sunrise

Billy Collins watches some boats. . . .

From a Railing

by:  Billy Collins

A long barge

with a helpful

tugboat alongside

pushing parts

of the East River away 

on their way somewhere.

This post will be very short, like Collins' poem.  Sometimes, an image simply speaks for itself--in this case, the barge and tugboat on the East River.  It's probably a scene that Collins has witnessed many times.  Nothing profound or earthshattering.  

I had a friend who knew how to make ordinary things (like barges and tugboats) into great gifts. Her name was Helen, and today would have been her birthday.  So I decided to do something very Helen-esque this morning:  I drove to Lake Superior and watched the sunrise. 

A fair amount of my disciples who read this blog knew/knew of Helen.  She was a joyful force of nature.  Creative.  Artistic.  Spiritual.  A friend to everyone, literally.  If you needed a tugboat to pull your barge, Helen would be that tugboat.  Like Martin Luther King (whose life we commemorate and celebrate today), Helen loved dreaming of ways to make the universe a better, kinder place, too--through art or writing or yoga or food or films or hiking.  

So, as Saint Marty watched the sun emerge over the big waters this morning, he gave thanks for Helen.  For her light.  For her beauty.  For all of the times she was the tugboat in his life.

January 10: "Look," Lake Superior, Angels

Billy Collins opens his eyes . . . 

Look

by:  Billy Collins

The morning lake 

was smooth as a mirror.

A few angels were even seen

flying down

just after dawn

to check themselves out.

I have lived near Lake Superior almost my whole life.  When I was a kid, it was just a 20-minute drive away.  The library where I now work is just a three- or four-minute walk from the big waters.  There's something incredibly comforting to me in that proximity.  When I was in graduate school downstate, surrounded by asphalt and concrete, it felt as if a part of me was missing--a big, tundra-sized part.

In winter, Lake Superior is rarely smooth as a mirror, as Collins says in today's poem.  There's always wind or clouds or snow, and gray dominates the landscape.  That doesn't mean that angels don't fly down just after dawn to check themselves out in its surface.  In fact, I would say that, when the lake is the color of January, blending with the sky, it's difficult to determine where the world ends and heaven begins.  We all sort of become angels, searching for our reflections in its chaotic cold expanse.

And really, that's what living a good life is all about, isn't it?  Somehow trying to be reflections of the divine here on Earth.  Maybe we're all just Lake Superiors, angels dancing across the surface of our bodies.

Yesterday, one of my sisters fell in her driveway and fractured the radius and ulna in both of her wrists.  A freak accident.  Both of her arms are in casts, with just the tips of her fingers sticking out.  For a person who's used to being self-sufficient, she is now fairly dependent on others.  I stopped by her house on the way home tonight to drop off some pistachios (one of her favorite snacks) and see how she was fairing.

She's frustrated.  In pain.  Coping.  In an instant, her life has gone from Lake Superior on a clear, calm July day to Lake Superior roiling with winter and wind.  It's not easy seeing angels reflected in yourself when the gales of November come early, as Gordon Lightfoot sang.  

However, I've found that angels tend to be much more visible in the midst of struggle and storm.  It's as if a skim of ice melts from the surface of your eyes and, suddenly, angels are everywhere,  Bringing you glasses of water.  Sending you loving text messages.  Helping you in the simplest and most profound of ways.

Like life, Lake Superior's moods are wildly changeable.  They can't be controlled or subdued or trained.  Anyone who has lived near its shores for any length of time understands this.  Respects this.  Finds beauty in this.  And if we open our eyes, we can see angels reflected in its glacial waves.  Sometimes, those angels look a lot like ourselves.

Sometimes, they even look like Saint Marty.

October 6: "First Snow," Questions and Answers, Selfcare

Mary Oliver has questions . . . 

First Snow

by:  Mary Oliver

The snow

began here

this morning and all day

continued, its white

rhetoric everywhere

calling us back to why, how,

whence such beauty and what

the meaning; such 

an oracular fever! flowing

past windows, an energy it seemed

would never ebb, never settle

less than lovely! and only now,

deep into night,

it has finally ended.

The silence

is immense,

and the heavens still hold

a million candles; nowhere

the familiar things:

stars, the moon,

the darkness we expect

and nightly turn from.  Trees

glitter like castles

of ribbons, the broad fields

smolder with light, a passing

creekbed lies

heaped with shining hills;

and though the questions

that have assailed us all day

remain--not a single

answer has been found--

walking out now

into the silence and the light

under the trees,

and through the fields,

feels like one.

I almost skipped this poem from Mary Oliver--not because it isn't full of beauty and truth, but because I live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and, if the word "snow" is invoked too many times in October, you may wake to a world transformed by white.

That's what Mary Oliver is talking about here--the power of snow to make the familiar somehow mysterious and new.  Trees glitter, and fields smolder with light.  Nothing looks the same.  Any person who has experienced a first snow understands this erasure--the mustards and umbers of autumn wiped out by the silent whites of winter.  The world becomes a blank page waiting for a poem.

Today, I continued my campaign of selfcare.  I took yet another day off from work and tried to relax.  In the morning, after dropping my son off at school and wife at work, I drove to the shores of Lake Superior and watched the sunrise.  It was cold, and it got colder and colder as the day progressed, with a wind driving bouts of drizzle and mist.

I did take my puppy for a couple walks, but I stuck to wooded paths, so the trees sheltered us from the brunt of the wind and needles of rain.  In the afternoon, I returned to Lake Superior after picking my son up from school, and I watched a squabble of seagulls drifting above the foam and waves.  By that time, the sun was firmly sheathed in gray clouds, so it felt like a coming-of-snow kind of afternoon.

For Oliver, the first snow turns everything into a question--what's under that white heap?  where did the tree stump go?  whence such beauty?  Of course, none of these questions have apparent answers, and, really, it's silly to search for them.  The answer is the question itself.  Beauty isn't something to be understood or dissected.  Beauty just is.

Eventually, snow will arrive in my neck of the Upper Peninsula (hopefully later than sooner).  And it will be thrilling when it happens.  It always is.  I haven't ever lost that childish excitement when the air suddenly becomes a riot of white for the first time, whether in October, November, or December.  (I'd prefer January, but that's magical thinking.)

So, I'm in my flannel pajamas tonight.  After I'm done typing this post, I plan to . . . Well, to be honest, I don't have a plan.  I may read a book.  Watch a movie.  Listen to my 15-year-old son swear in his room like a Marine drill sergeant as he plays computer games.  Or I may just lie on the couch and listen to what scraps of silence I can find.  

Saint Marty isn't looking for answers.  All he wants are multiple-choice questions.

June 26: "Terns," Trudging Forward, Future

Mary Oliver distracted by terns . . .

Terns

by:  Mary Oliver

Don't think just now of the trudging forward of thought,

but of the wing-drive of unquestioning affirmation.

It's summer, you never saw such a blue sky,

and here they are, those white birds with quick wings,

sweeping over the waves,

chattering and plunging,

their thin beaks snapping, their hard eyes

happy as little nails.

The years to come--this is a promise--

will grant you ample time

to try the difficult steps in the empire of thought

where you seek for the shining proofs you think you must have.

But nothing you ever understand will be sweeter, or more binding,

than this deepest affinity between your eyes and the world.

The flock thickens

over the roiling, salt brightness.  Listen,

maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world

in the clasp of attention, isn't the perfect prayer,

but it must be close, for the sorrow, whose name is doubt,

is thus subdued, and not through the weaponry of reason,

but of pure submission.  Tell me, what else

could beauty be for?  And now the tide

is at its very crown,

the white birds sprinkle down,

gathering up the loose silver, rising

as if weightless.  It isn't instruction, or a parable.

It isn't for any vanity or ambition

except for the one allowed, to stay alive.

It's only a nimble frolic

over the waves.  And you find, for hours,

you cannot even remember the questions

that weigh so in your mind.

I spend most of my days in the trudging forward of thought, distracted by all of the details of life, as Oliver describes.  And I don't think I'm alone in this.  My life sort of requires me to think ahead, plan ahead, worry ahead.  Unless something stops me dead cold, because of its beauty or mystery or weirdness, I am always one or two or three steps/hours/days/weeks/months ahead in thought.

I know this practice isn't healthy.  In fact, it causes me a great deal of stress.  Because none of us really knows what the future holds.  We don't know if we are even going to wake up tomorrow morning or be spirited away in the middle of the night by some little comet of blood in our heads.  (Sorry.  This is the way my brain works.  I'm constantly distracted by these kinds of thoughts.)

Today, for example, was filled with planning ahead.  This morning, I took my puppy for a physical therapy appointment for her injured leg.  For an hour, I worked with the therapist, helping her stretch, ultrasound, and exercise my dog.  I'm doing this so that my dog will have the most mobility possible for the rest of her life.  Planning ahead.

I had an event this evening at the library, and I was a performer in the show.  So, I spent the bulk of my time setting up mics and chairs, printing out sketches and set lists, selecting poems and essays to read.  Basically, doing everything within my power to make sure that the show went smoothly.  Planning ahead again.

You see what I mean.  I didn't have a chance to walk down to Lake Superior and watch the ducks or geese.  (I've never seen a tern in my little corner of Lake Superior, but I'm terrible at identifying birds.)  The only time I lived in the present today were the two hours I was performing.  You sort of have to be in the moment when you're onstage.  Other than that, I was physically here, but my mind was planning for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.  

The only creature in my life that lives in the moment is my dog.  She doesn't worry about the future.  Pretty much, she lives from meal to walk to meal, with occasional trots around the backyard to relieve herself.  That's her life.  She gets hungry, food is given to her.  She has a full bladder, out to the lawn she goes.  She gets tired, her pillow is right next to her for a nap.  In. The.  Moment.

I think all our lives would be so much simpler and better if we lived like my dog.  Pay attention to what is in front of your face, be it terns, the moon, or a hot fudge sundae.  Let the future take care of itself until it becomes the present.  

Now, Saint Marty needs to go for a walk around the backyard.  His bladder is full.  (Just kidding.)

April 11: Just Part of Life, Blue Funks, a Balm

Marvin the depressed robot experiences some guilt over bringing his companions down . . .

"No, don't worry about that," the lilt continued, "you just act as comes naturally and everything will  be just fine."

"You're sure you don't mind?" probed Marvin.

"No, no, Marvin," lilted Trillian, "that's just fine, really . . . just part of life."

He turned hopelessly on his heel and lugged himself out of the cabin.  With a satisfied hum and a click the door closed behind him.

"I don't think I can stand that robot much longer, Zaphod," growled Trillian.

Dealing with mental illness is not easy for anyone.  Not for the person with the mental illness.  Not for the person's family or friends.  It's draining for everyone.  I speak as a person who has experienced this from both sides.  It can be all-consuming.

One of the common misconceptions about mental illness (like depression) is that it is easily remedied.  Old school advice:  "just snap out of it" and "pull yourself up by your own bootstraps" and "go exercise."  If those words have come out of your mouth when speaking to somebody suffering from depression, you clearly don't understand mental illness.  A person doesn't choose to be depressed.  Think about it.  That would be like choosing to be diabetic because of all the cool injections you get to take.

I say this tonight as an individual who is in the throes of depression right now.  For the last month or so, the weather in the Upper Peninsula has been spring-like.  The snowbanks have been dwindling, and sun has been in abundant supply.  That kind of weather helps combat some of the effects of my "blue funks"--a term I coined as a teenager for these periods in my life.  Tonight, however, winter has returned (sort of like Game of Thrones).  Big fat flakes outside my window, with the promise of strong winds later.  Just like that, I'm in deep again.

Last night, I did something that truly lifted my spirits.  I gave a poetry reading for National Poetry Month.  It was at one of my favorite places in my home town--the Joy Center, a yoga/art/writing retreat located in the woods.  In the audience were some of my favorite people in the whole world, as well.  Friends whom I dearly love.  They showed up.  We ate kumquats and guacamole and chocolate, and they listened to me tell stories and read poems.  It was a balm.

For the reading, I sort of went on a journey of how I became a poet, which was circuitous at best.  Started out as a computer science major as a undergraduate.  Then, through a series of fortunate events, ended up in a Master's program, studying fiction writing.  That immediately catapulted me into a PhD program in literature, which I found thrilling.  I left that program after three years (I was practically ABD), and returned to my home by Lake Superior, where I worked part time in a bookstore until school came calling again.  This time it was an MFA program in poetry.  Two years later, I had a terminal degree in an eminently competitive job market.  And I just kept writing, husbanding, fathering, teaching, and working.  Along the way, I was elected Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula.  Twice.  Like I said, it was a long and winding road, made easier by good friends and family.

So, I told this tale through a series of poems, a short story, and an essay.  It was a reading that I'd been shaping in my head for quite some time.  And the audience last night (as I said before, some of my best friends) seemed to really like it.

This morning, as I left for work, I was greeted by a brilliant sky of pink and orange and yellow.  As I stood on my front steps, I felt like everything was going to be okay.  Like my life, which has always been filled with detours and side roads, is simply finding another path to something wonderful.  I felt hope, which has been a term that I've been thinking about quite a bit recently.  Weighing its benefits and dangers.  I think that hope, for me, really rests in my ability to accept the present as a gift.  After all, in the Lord's Prayer, the line is NOT "my will be done" but "Thy will be done."  I get in trouble when I forget that little distinction.

My life is not turning out the way I anticipated right now.  I've gone through years of loss recently.  I'm not where I want to be professionally.  Yet, I have joy.  Moments of poetry each day.  Friends who will listen to me and applaud my accomplishments, hug me closely, and say, "You really are wonderful."

Saint Marty couldn't ask for much more.  Thy will be done.  Amen.

January 25: Relaxing Cup of Tea, Hotel Room in Calumet, Hot Tubbers

A little bit more about towels, in case you weren't sick of hearing about them . . .

Nestling quietly on top of the towel if Ford Prefect's satchel, the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic began to wink more quickly.  Miles above the surface of the planet the huge yellow somethings began to fan out.  At Jodrell Bank, someone decided it was time for a nice relaxing cup of tea.

Well, here I sit in a hotel room in Calumet after a very long drive, through sometimes whiteout conditions, along Lake Superior into the Keweenaw Peninsula.  Just got back from the sauna, hot tub, and pool, and (wait for it--here's the connection to the above passage from Hitchhiker's) there are towels littering the bathroom floor, sans a Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic.

As I said, it was a stressful drive up, which I was expecting,  I'm kind of addicted to weather apps and the Weather Channel, so, before I travel anywhere, I'm monitoring the meteorological conditions for days.  I knew there was a winter storm warning and wind chill advisory, and I knew that I would be following the coastline of Lake Superior for a good portion of the trip.  Hence, driving blindly through billows of fine, white snow.

However, we made it safely.  My son got to swim.  My daughter and I got to hot tub and sauna.  My wife got to talk to a group of complete strangers in the hot tub (something she does frequently when we are in hotels and resorts).  The conclusion of the night was quite relaxing.

Tomorrow is going to be a long day of rehearsing and performing, since the rehearsal this evening was cancelled due to the weather.  The producer of the show had to drive up from the lower peninsula of Michigan, and she encountered the same issues that I did--blowing snow, whiteouts, icy roads, and -25 wind chills.  I think she arrived in Calumet just a little while ago (and it's 10:30 p.m. as I'm typing this).

I'm always excited to perform in front of a live audience, whether I'm acting, singing, or reading poetry.  There's nothing like the adrenaline rush it gives me.  Of course, many people would rather have three root canals than stand up in front of a crowd of strangers and speak.  Not me.  Or my wife (as evidenced by her befriending of the hot tubbers from downstate this evening).  My kids are kind of hams, as well.  They come by it naturally.

If you have nothing to do tomorrow evening, and you feel like taking a road trip (the weather is supposed to improve by tomorrow), stop by the Calumet Theatre at 7 p.m. for a little song, a little dance, a little poetry in your pants.  (Okay, that image is a little perverted, but I'm fresh out of seltzer.)

Saint Marty is thankful for a safe drive this evening.  And the hot tub and sauna.

July 31: Poet of the Week, Keith Taylor, "Sign"

A couple weeks ago, I went to hear poet Keith Taylor talk about poetry.  It was a great night.  A few years ago, I had the privilege of doing a poetry reading with Keith.  He was funny and insightful and humble that day, and he hasn't changed at all.

Keith Taylor is the Poet of the Week, and tonight's poem comes from my new favorite poetry collection, The Bird-while.  I spent most of today traveling through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, along Lake Superior and Lake Michigan.  Saw some cranes.  Lots of spruce and jack pine.  Water.  Waves and waves and waves.

As I was driving, Saint Marty thought a lot about Keith Taylor's poems.

Sign

by:  Keith Taylor

After long walks down sandy power-line cuts
looking
for wolf tracks

I hear
of a pile of scat on a trail to the bog
and find

turd-shaped clumps of deer fur
filled
with ragged pieces of bone.

December 17: Touch-and-Go Creek World, Snow Storm, Yoopers

All this means is that the physical world as we understand it now is more like the touch-and-go creek world I see than it is like the abiding world of which the mountains seem to speak . . .

Yes, very little in the physical world is abiding.  Mount Everest.  The Pacific Ocean.  Lake Superior.  Enormous things that leave you breathless.  Maybe.  But even those landscape features are not that eternal.  There's erosion, pollution, earthquakes, avalanches, and blizzards.  If there's one thing that permanent about the physical world, it's impermanence. 

I'm looking outside right now, and all I see is snow.  A lot of snow.  I spent two hours this morning shoveling.  By the time I was done, I could have started all over again.  My guess is that, by the time this little weather event is over, I will have to shovel at least four more times.  This will also involve a great deal of profanity and many milligrams of ibuprofen. 

But, that's what winter in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is:  snow, wind, and changeable driveways and front yards.  It's a cold, long tunnel to Spring.  Nothing slows Yoopers down, though.  For example, my daughter has a dance lesson in a couple hours in Marquette, about 20 miles away.  We will be there for that lesson.  In fact, we'll probably be a little early.  Because that's the way Yoopers roll.

I do love winter.  Love the whole Currier and Ives vibe.  I better, because it will be an abiding presence in my life for the next five or so months.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Martin Achatz)

Voting for Next Poet Laureate of the U. P.

December 13: A Bear Who Went Over the Mountain, Polar Vortex, Land of Poetry

Like the bear who went over the mountain, I went out to see what I could see.  And, I might as well warn you, like the bear, all that I could see was the other side of the mountain:  more of the same . . .

The pretty much describes winter in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Snow sort of washes away most features of the landscape.  Hills, fields, bushes, rocks, ruts, roads--all blank sheets of paper until a car plows through or a third grader tromps through.  Each side of the mountain is the same.

You have to be pretty hardy to live in this place.  The common joke is that we get nine months of winter and three months of relatives.  There's a polar vortex spinning over a good portion of the country.  Tonight, the wind chills are supposed to be about 20 below zero.  That means that, after about 30 minutes, any exposed skin will develop frostbite.

This morning, after the plows went through, I spent about 40 minutes shoveling.  That was about 3:30 a.m.  It was pretty friggin' cold.  By the time I was done, my hands were numb, even though I was wearing gloves.  Tomorrow, the cold is supposed to be even worse.

I've been thinking about what it means to be the Poet Laureate of this region.  It's not a place that's overrun by poets and poetry lovers.  The Green Bay Packers are religion up here.  Even pastors know that, on game Sundays, sermons have to be shorter.  Opening day of whitetail deer season is pretty much a national holiday, as well.  Some schools even close down.

Yet, I think that the Upper Peninsula is a land of poetry.  Grendel could prowl the shores of Lake Superior.  Whitman could floss his teeth with our leaves of grass.  King David could dance naked on our beaches and mountains, through our pine forests.  I step outside my front door every morning and see poetry.

That's what being the Poet Laureate of the U. P. means.

Please vote for Saint Marty at the link below:

Martin Achatz for Poet Laureate of the U. P.

November 2: Lake Superior, Mount Superior, Something Miraculous

Monarchs are "tough and powerful, as butterflies go."  They fly over Lake Superior without resting; in fact, observers there have discovered a curious thing.  Instead of flying directly south, the monarchs crossing high over the water take an inexplicable turn towards the east.  Then when they reach an invisible point, they all veer south again.  Each successive swarm repeats this mysterious dogleg movement, year after year.  Entomologists actually think that the butterflies might be "remembering" the position of a long-gone, looming glacier.  In another book I read that geologists think that Lake Superior marks the site of the highest mountain that ever existed on this continent.  I don't know.  I'd like to see it.  Or I'd like to be it, to feel when to turn.  At night on land migrating monarchs slumber on certain trees, hung in festoons with wings folded together, thick on the trees and shaggy as bearskin.

I chose this passage because it talks about Lake Superior.  Every day, as I drive to work, Superior is in front of me.  On summer days, I can see its blue palm reaching out to the horizon.  If I stepped out of my office at the university right now, I could walk across the hall and stare out the window at Lake Superior, its vast plane of water.  On really sunny days, it's difficult to tell where the lake ends and sky begins.

Dillard collects interesting facts.  Until I read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, I never knew that Lake Superior is leftover from an immense mountain.  It's difficult for me to imagine it, actually.  I've grown up around this freshwater sea.  The ore boats, big as a couple of football fields, steaming into the harbor.  The white water of winter storms, pounding away at the sand and rocks.  Yet, some time ago (thousands of years?  hundreds of thousands?) there was a mountain instead of a lake.  An Everest kind of mountain. 

I like the idea of living near a mountain that large.  Maybe some sort of Upper Peninsula Sherpa culture would have existed.  Monks living high up on Mount Superior, ringing bells, chanting on frigid January nights.  People coming from all over the world to scale its heights, with and without oxygen.  Base camps.  Maybe a Yeti or two.

In about half an hour, I have to go teach my film class.  Most of my students were raised in the Upper Peninsula.  Lake Superior is a common sight for them, like a toothbrush on the bathroom sink.  Nothing to get excited about.  My students don't think about the fact that, at its deepest point, Lake Superior could swallow the Empire State Building.  Amazing.  Or that there is 31,700 square miles of water out there.  Astounding.

I'm just as guilty as my students, though.  I don't always take time to recognize the miraculous stuff (like Lake Superior) that I encounter on a daily basis.  Whirlpools of autumn leaves.  A church bell chiming.  A really good ice cream cone.  Vanilla.  Nope.  I take it all for granted, until somebody points it out to me.

Last week, as I was walking to my car after teaching my film class, three deer walked into the parking lot.  I could hear their hooves snapping on the pavement, like a group of women in high heels walking down a sidewalk.  I stood there, watched them.  They stood there, watched me.  Maybe we were all doing the same thing:  admiring something strange, a little miraculous.

Saint Marty is hoping to see something miraculous before he goes to bed tonight.  Maybe his daughter will wash her dinner dishes.  That would be pretty amazing.

The monarch migration

July 11: Shapes and Powers, Euell Gibbons, Roughing It

This is what I had come for, just this, and nothing more.  A fling of leafy motion on the cliffs, the assault of real things, living and still, with shapes and powers under the sky--this is my city, my culture, and all the world I need.  I looked around.

Dillard loves roughing it.  She packs up her sleeping bag, a couple of sandwiches, a flashlight, a canteen of water, and off she goes into the woods, like some erstwhile Euell Gibbons.  It's where she feels most at home, with all the shapes and powers under the sky. 

I have never been that much of a nature person.  I do appreciate the beauties of nature.  When I was in Hawaii, I hiked across a lunar landscape to see real lava pounding into the Pacific Ocean at midnight.  I've sailed on Lake Superior (and gotten monstrously seasick).  In California, I stopped at a beach to see a legion of manatees basking in the sun (and promptly threw up because of the smell of rotten fish).

That's me.  Like Dillard, I've seen all the shapes and powers under the sky, and they have nauseated me.  I live in one of the most beautiful places in the world, just about fifteen miles from the shores of the biggest freshwater lake in the world.  Last summer, I went waterfall hunting and found five in the space of two-and-a-half hours.  Yet, when I'm roughing it, I like free Wi-Fi, a couple double beds, and a pizza from Pizza Hut (preferably with Alfredo sauce and chicken).  If there isn't free HBO and Cinemax, I'm roughing it.

Here's Saint Marty's wisdom for tonight:  there aren't any mosquitoes at Holiday Inn Express.

June 9: On My Way, Just Keep Swimming, Dreamers

I could go.  I could simply angle off the path, take one step after another, and be on my way.  I could walk to Point Barrow, Mount McKinley, Hudson's Bay.  My summer jacket is put away; my winter jacket is warm.

It's a lovely thought that Dillard has.  Put on a warm jacket, open the door, step outside, and just keep walking.  She goes as far as Point Barrow (wherever that is) and Mount McKinley and Hudson's Bay.  Her imagined escape does not sound easy.  It's steep and treacherous and cold.  Yet, she would be away from her day-to-day stresses, and that is the point.  (She may also fall off a mountain, but that's a subject for a different post.)

Yes, I'm sure everybody thinks about escaping.  Every day, on my way to work, I think how easy it would be to simply keep driving down to the beach by Lake Superior and staying there to watch the sunrise and wait for a moose or deer to walk by.  Maybe another escapee from life would sit next to me in the sand, and we would talk about our dreams.  "Ralph" would listen to me describe a place with books and a desk and a view of a lake or mountain.  How I would sit in that room and read and write poems or stories or the Great American Novel.  Ralph would nod and say, "That sounds pretty damn good."  (As you can tell, I've put a little thought into this escape fantasy.)

Of course, I will never follow through on this desire.  I'm a little too responsible and Catholic.  I would be tortured by guilt and an overwhelming desire to recite ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys as penance if I aimed my vehicle toward the Big Lake on a workday.  I am the main income for my little family.  A day or two off from work sometimes means the difference between making a mortgage payment or not.  Too many people depend upon me.

Please don't think I'm feeling sorry for myself.  I'm not.  I just finished my first week at my new job.  It was good.  I was surrounded by friends, and I felt needed.  My coworkers kept telling me how glad they were to have me back.  I am not complaining.  It's just my inner Dory speaking.  You know the scene from Finding Nemo, where little blue Dory comes gliding by Marlin, and she's singing, "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming."  Unfortunately, I'm more of a Marlin than a Dory, worrying about the possibility of every calamity.  Car problems.  Heart disease.  Kidnappers.  A Donald Trump presidency.

So, as much as I would like to spend a day at the beach with Ralph, I will probably be at work tomorrow morning.  Being the good employee and husband and father.  That's what I am.  Dependable.  Responsible.  Predictable.

Marty, the patron saint of dreamers.

Okay, it's the closest I could get to Finding Nemo

June 1: Spring Awakening, Janeen Rastall, "Hibernation"

I am sitting in my office at the university.  It is almost 7 p.m., and I have two more hours to kill.  My daughter has a dance class until 9 p.m. this evening.  It wasn't so bad when I taught on Wednesday nights.  However, since the end of the semester, I find myself with a whole lot of time on my hands on mid-week nights.

I'm not complaining.  I rarely have alone time.  Usually, I'm working or teaching after I'm done working and teaching.  Not tonight.  I just took a break from my blogging, walked to a window in the building that faces Lake Superior.  Looked down.  Saw a deer standing in a copse of trees.  It muscles were wound tight.  I could tell it was ready to bolt.  Sure enough, a few seconds later, a car came rolling by, and the deer fled.  I barely saw it leave.  It was there one moment, and then it was gone.

Seeing a deer in a relatively populated area is not uncommon in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  On my way to work every morning, I am always alert for the flash of deer in my headlights.  (This habit is a byproduct of a run-in with a Bambi one morning; I totaled my Mercury Sable for which I had just made the final loan payment.)

Yes, we Yoopers live side-by-side with wildlife.  Deer.  Rabbits.  Skunks.  Raccoons.  Bear.  We even identify seasons of the year by animals.  The normal Yooper male, for example, spends a good portion of autumn preparing for November 15:  opening day of deer season.  (Some local school districts even cancel school on this day.)  And then there's the spring awakening of the skunk, when you rise on trash collection morning to find your garbage bags eviscerated on your front lawn, musk still clinging in the air.

One October evening, as I was driving down a dirt road, a black bear came crashing through the trees.  He was on a dead run and didn't even pause to consider the green Geo Metro barreling toward him.  He was huge, shoulders higher than the hood of the car.  If I had been going faster (or been a few feet closer), I would have had a vehicular close encounter of the ursine kind.

That's life in the U. P.  Rabbits in your backyard (sometimes a stray moose, a la Northern Exposure).  Like the animals, Yoopers are very much conditioned by the seasons.  We are active in the spring and summer months.  When the leaves start changing in September, we slow down, prepare for the cold weather.  In winter, we hole up in our houses, where we have stored food to sustain us.  We hibernate and watch The Voice in our caves.

Saint Marty thinks the Poet of the Week knows a little about this subject . . .

Hibernation

by:  Janeen Rastall

At the shoe store,
you slip your sock into the metal sandal
to measure yourself heel to toe.
In the mirror, all you see are feet,
bearers of a hidden weight.

Slide your foot into this mud print,
heel to this heel.
Spread your toes and let your arches drop.
File your nails to fine points.
Shamble from shadow to oak shadow.
Find a tree hollow and scar the bark.

June 18: Playgrounds

I'm going to a playground with my wife and kids after work.  At first, I was simply going to hang around town until 7 p.m., when I had a meeting with some colleagues from the university.  Well, the meeting was postponed, but my wife had already told my four-year-old son about coming to visit me.  And she mentioned the playground.

I'm actually looking forward to this evening.  Normally, I don't get much time to watch my kids being kids.  I'm always driving my daughter to dance lessons or giving my son a bath.  By the time I get home, it's late.  Within an hour-and-a-half, my son is in bed.  My daughter's nose is always buried in her iPod or Kindle or smart phone.

However, there's no WiFi at the playground.  And my son will have plenty of towers to climb and holes to crawl through.

I will sit with my wife on a bench and watch our children play.  Lake Superior will be over my shoulder, shimmering like a broken mirror.  Maybe I'll read a book.  Maybe I'll close my eyes and listen to the waves.  Maybe I'll reach over and hold my wife's hand.

Saint Marty loves playgrounds.

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