May 13: Mother's Day, New Poem, "Her Mother's Voice," New Cartoon

I'm stepping away from Scrooge and Charles Dickens today, in honor of Mother's Day.  I am going to share a poem I wrote for this morning's church worship service.  This poem is NOT the poem I wrote for the mother/daughter dinner earlier this week.  I will give you that poem tomorrow afternoon.

My wife and daughter sang a duet for special music this morning, as well.  They sang "I Was There to Hear Your Borning Cry."  It's a sweet little hymn, almost a lullaby.  I tried to incorporate a portion of the hymn's title into the poem, to tie them both together.  I'm not sure if it was successful.  Plus, I started crying in the middle of reading the poem.  I was a mess.  But my wife and daughter sang beautifully.

If you're wondering what I did for my wife this maternal 24 hours, I will tell you.  This morning, I gave her a card.  After church, I took her out to lunch.  Subway.  Nothing fancy, but we ate together as a family.  Now, she's taking a nap before dinner.

Currently, I'm at my parents' house for a Mother's Day barbecue.  Hot dogs.  Bratwurst.  Pound cake for dessert.

Saint Marty needs to go.  The dogs are on the grill.

Her Mother's Voice

My wife, Beth, doesn't remember
Her mother's voice, how it rose
When her mother lifted diaphragm
In laugh, how it fell near the end
When breathing was hard as birth.
At night, Beth wonders if she'd recognize
Her mother's voice in a recording,
If it would be familiar as Doris Day
Crooning "Que Sera Sera,"
John Lennon gliding through "Imagine." 
Or would it be scratchy, distant
As a wax cylinder.  Jelly Roll Morton
Grinding out "Fat Meat and Greens."
When she was five, Beth sang with her mother
In church.  She doesn't remember the song.
What she does remember:  her mother's fingers
On the guitar strings, stained glass
Light on her mother's face.  Beth remembers
Feeling like she was riding a bike
For the first time by herself,
Her mother receding, growing smaller, smaller.
She remembers this clearly, the way
She remembers the morning in the hospital
When she heard our daughter's borning cry.

Confessions of Saint Marty

May 12: Mrs. Cratchit, Pudding, Mothers, New Cartoon

Oh, a wonderful pudding!  Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage.  Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour...

Mrs. Cratchit is never given a first name.  In A Christmas Carol, we have Ebenezer, Bob, Fred, Fan, Belle, Jacob, Tiny Tim.  Even Bob's children are given first names:  Belinda and Peter and Martha and company.  Mrs. Cratchit remains simply Mrs. Cratchit through the entire book.

Of course, there have been literary explanations for this fact.  My favorite, and the one to which I give the most credence, is that Charles Dickens created in Bob and Tiny Tim his version of the Virgin Mary and Christ Child.  Dickens is writing a Christmas story.  Tiny Tim does carry a little crutch, which is very close to a cross.  Bob's last name is very close to the word "creche," which is another term for "manger."  In all the illustrations for A Christmas Carol, Bob and Tim are shown together, in poses very similar to illustrations of Mary and the Christ child.  Mrs. Cratchit takes a back seat in this narrative, very similarly to the way Joseph takes a back seat in the Jesus narrative.

Mrs. Cratchit, in the passage above, reminds me of just about every mother/grandmother/aunt/mother figure I know.  Mrs. Cratchit's pudding is good, but she has to list its failings:  the quantity of flour.  My wife's grandmother used to point out the defects of every one of her Thanksgiving meals--the turkey was too dry; she forgot the dinner rolls; or the mashed potatoes were lumpy.  Mothers don't ever accept the accolades that are given to them.  I think it's a mother's belief that she can never do well enough for her family.

The other thing about Mrs. Cratchit is that she is, basically, anonymous.  She is everyone's mother.  If your mother's name is/was "Frances," then she could be Frances Cratchit.  If your mother's name is/was "Olive," then she could be Olive Cratchit.  I'm not sure if that was Dickens' intention for not naming Mrs. Cratchit, but let's run with it.

On this Mother's Day weekend, Saint Marty salutes all the anonymous Mrs. Cratchits in the world.  And he salutes the Mrs. Cratchits of his life, Betty and Beth.

Confessions of Saint Marty

May 8: Poetry Reading, Mother's Day, Shrine Circus

There are a couple of things going on tonight.

First, the Shrine Circus is in town.  Second, I committed myself to reading some poems at a Mother/Daughter dinner at a local Lutheran church tonight.  Actually, a good friend asked me to write something for the dinner (the theme is "Daughter's in God's Garden"), and then she asked me to read the poem to the gathering.

I did write a new poem titled "The Garden of Eve."  I will share that poem with you, my disciples, on Mother's Day.  However, I decided that one poem wasn't enough.  I selected two other poems to read.  Both have to do with mothers and daughters.  Both have garden imagery in them.  They'll work really well.

I'm a little disappointed that I don't get to take my daughter to the circus.  It was my turn.  I really like spending time with her, when she's not a hormonal pre-tween.  But, a commitment is a commitment.  My wife will be escorting our daughter to the big top this evening, and I will be sharing poetry with a conclave of mothers and daughters.

It's been a while since I've read poetry in front of a group, so my nerves are beginning to get the better of me.  I've made mistakes in the past, read poems that weren't received very well by my audience.  (One poem, in particular, got me banned from a local bookstore.  The manager even refused to carry my book.  It's a long story.)  I think all three of the poems I picked for tonight are appropriate.  No talk of testicles or vulvas or dead birds.

Saint Marty has gotten much wiser over the years.



I will be the clown reading poetry tonight