June 20: "Reclining on Clouds," Longest Day, "Summer Solstice Night"

Billy Collins won't pray . . . 

Reclining on Clouds

by: Billy Collins

I would pray for you

but the gods would know

I was talking

to myself

and would turn

their curly

golden heads

the other way.

I pray.  A lot.  Most of the time, my prayers are short, almost desperate:  help! or Jesus Christ! or fuck me!  (Yes, I tend to be a little profane in my conversations with my Higher Power.  It's just who I am.  If God can't handle it, she better look for another job.)  However, there are times when my prayers express awe:  wow! or holy shit! or fuck me!  (Yes, "fuck me!" works in many situations, its meaning dependent on context.)

Prayer is a habit I picked up as a kid.  I grew up in a family where, after dinner, my dad and mom forced us kids to get on our knees and recite a rosary.  In the mornings, my parents sat at the dining room table, their prayer books next to their coffee cups, saying their morning devotions.  Prayer was habit for them, and, by osmosis, it became a habit for me.

There's something very comforting for me in saying a prayer.  The very act makes me feel less alone, as if I always have someone willing to listen to my complaints or worries or needs or joys.  I spent most of today getting many small tasks done at the library--things that I've been meaning to accomplish all week long.  At around 11 a.m., I sat back from my keyboard for a second and said out loud, "Fuck me!"  It was an expression of frustration (how much more shit do I have left to do?!) and satisfaction (how awesome am I for getting shit done!) and relief (how shitty was that? glad it's done!).  

This evening, I led a virtual open mic.  Only two other people showed up (my wife and a new poet friend), but it was an amazing hour or so of sharing and conversation.  (Another fuck me! holy moment.)  I went into the event a little tired, and now, sitting at my desk, typing this post, I'm totally energized with gratitude for the gift of friends and words in my life.  

It is the summer solstice.  An almost full moon tonight.  (Strawberry moon tomorrow.)  The longest day of the year in the Western Hemisphere.  It's about 9:28 p.m. right now, and the sky is just getting a little dusky as I type these words.  It is fairly overcast, so the chances of me seeing that almost full moon tonight are slim to not a chance in hell.  I may take a stroll in my backyard in a little while to see if the stars are having a little solstice party,

If Saint Marty sees the moon, he may say a little prayer of thanks that goes something like this:  fuck me!

Summer Solstice Night

by: Martin Achatz

won't begin until around

10 p.m. when the moon shows

up with her girlfriends--

Cygnus, Lyra, Aquila--puts

Purple Rain on the record player,

starts to grind and twerk

against the dark hips of heaven.

June 21: Longest Day, Father's Day, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

It is the longest day of the year in my part of the world.  Summer solstice.  That means that, after today, the planet starts tilting toward winter, and we start losing daylight.  Pretty soon, the leaves are going to turn shades of mustard and cherry.  And then, one morning, frost on the pumpkins.  Shortly after that, white.  For months and months.  (Sorry, I had to go there.  It's the poet in me.)

It is also Father's Day.  For my international readers, today in the United States we honor the patriarchs in our lives.  That means lots of barbecuing.  Hot dogs and bratwursts and hamburgers.  Potato salads.  And lots of bad ties and Old Spice given as presents.  For me, it's a day where I sit around and try to do absolutely nothing.  After I'm done with this post, I'm going to sit in a corner and read a book.  That's Father's Day.

Today's episode for Classic Saint Marty first aired three years ago, on a summer solstice when my life was in a state of chaos.  Not like today, when everything is absolutely perfect.

June 21, 2013:  Poem, Elinor Benedict, "Sudden Calm at Maywood Shores"

I have a poem for you tonight that calms my agitated mind.  I'm weary after this week of upheaval.  Tired.  Ready for bed.  Yet, my mind doesn't want to rest.  It keeps going when my eyes close at night.  I've been waking up every morning more tired, as if I've spent the night running with a herd of elk through the Rockies.

Elinor Benedict's sonnet "Sudden Calm at Maywood Shores," from her collection Late News from the Wilderness, slows me down.  Gives me peace.  That's why I want to give it to you tonight.  To give you peace.

Saint Marty wishes you a quiet, restful first night of summer.

Sudden Calm at Maywood Shores

For seven days the wind has plowed the waves
in restless rows across the moving field
of Little Bay de Noc.  While maples yield
their yellow leaves, my boundary oak still saves
its multitude of warriors' leathery hands
until they twist and threaten in the wracking
air that blows the lake to earth, attacking
grass with wars of acorns across the lands
I live to watch. 
                        These days of agitation
shake the universe beneath my hill
and make me fear this landscape never will
be calm again.  And yet--my habitation
feels just now a blanketing of grace
uncanny in its fall from no known place.

Confessions of Saint Marty