June 7: "Angler," Day Off, "Revision"

Billy Collins goes fishing . . . 

Angler

by: Billy Collins

Alone

with my thoughts

I spent the day

in the stream

of consciousness.

Had a day off from the library.  That doesn't mean I did nothing.  It's nearly impossible for me to remain idle, floating in my own stream of consciousness, to borrow Collins' image.

Currently, I'm working on final revisions of a manuscript that has been over 20 years in the making, from the time I was first married until now.  That's two kids, several cars, an MFA, a dog, a pandemic, six deaths (one brother, two sisters, both parents, and a best friend) later.

I'm also writing final poems for a second manuscript.  This one has had a much shorter gestation--about three or so months.  I started this book because I needed a break from the magnum opus I described in the previous paragraph.

Now I find myself in the strange position of having two almost done manuscripts.

I'm sure by now some of you are asking yourselves why it has taken me so long to complete the first manuscript.  I can't answer that question easily.  I tinker and revise poems endlessly, never really satisfied with the outcomes.  Poet Paul Valery said, "A poem is never finished, only abandoned."

Saint Marty has reached the abandonment stage.

Revision

by: Martin Achatz

is all about friction,

rubbing words together

until they smoke, spark,

ignite and change states:

solid to liquid to heartbreak.

January 18: That Which I Was Born For, Sunrises, Revision

Santiago thinks of the thing he was born to do . . . 

"If the others heard me talking out loud they would think that I am crazy," he said aloud. "But since I am not crazy, I do not care. And the rich have radios to talk to them in their boats and to bring them the baseball."

Now is no time to think of baseball, he thought. Now is the time to think of only one thing. That which I was born for. There might be a big one around that school, he thought. I picked up only a straggler from the albacore that were feeding. But they are working far out and fast. Everything that shows on the surface today travels very fast and to the north-east. Can that be the time of day? Or is it some sign of weather that I do not know?

He could not see the green of the shore now but only the tops of the blue hills that showed white as though they were snow-capped and the clouds that looked like high snow mountains above them. The sea was very dark and the light made prisms in the water. The myriad flecks of the plankton were annulled now by the high sun and it was only the great deep prisms in the blue water that the old man saw now with his lines going straight down into the water that was a mile deep.

The tuna, the fishermen called all the fish of that species tuna and only distinguished among them by their proper names when they came to sell them or to trade them for baits, were down again. The sun was hot now and the old man felt it on the back of his neck and felt the sweat trickle down his back as he rowed.

I could just drift, he thought, and sleep and put a bight of line around my toe to wake me. But today is eighty-five days and I should fish the day well.

The old man was born to fish.  Knows the sea like a book that he's read and reread many times.  I think I was born to write.  It's something that I have to do every day, or else I feel incomplete.  Writing helps me to understand life.  Even the parts that seem to make no sense.

I am sitting on the couch in my living room.  Across the room, the Christmas tree is glowing and blinking.  The furnace is cranking out heat.  My son is sleeping in his bed.  These are things I know.  They are the sentences and punctuations of my life.

Went to see my sister, Rose, in the hospital this evening.  She's still breathing hard.  Her last chest x-ray didn't show much change.  However, the doctor recognizes that she has improved, although, according to my other sister, he said that Rose is going to be very diminished in what she is able to do in her life.  Her sentences and punctuations will never be the same.

Sometimes, when I get to work, I climb the steps to the roof of the library building to see the sunrise.  I did that this morning.  Watched light revise the horizon and clouds  And isn't that what every day is about?  Revisions.  Some of them easy.  Some of them difficult.

Saint Marty sees the red ink on the wall tonight.

October 3: Revision, Lisel Mueller, "Moon Fishing"

This weekend, I have to work on an essay I submitted for publication.  The editor of the magazine asked me for a few revisions.  Small things, really, but they're going to take me a while to do.  Frankly, I was surprised to even get an offer for acceptance.  I've gotten used to the e-mails that start out, "Thanks for your recent submission, but we regret..."

The essay is about Christmas and bipolar disorder and talking animals.  It's weird.  Unmarketable.  Obviously, I was mistaken.  The editor was very enthusiastic, and his suggestions were fantastic.  He didn't give me a deadline for the revision, but I don't want to put it off.  So, I made a deadline for myself.  Next weekend.

When I read a great poem, I always think about its composition.  How long it took to write.  How many revisions it went through.  How many times it was rejected by editors.  Rough drafts of famous poems are so interesting.  Just seeing words crossed out, stanzas removed, line breaks moved.  It sort of lets you into the mind of the poet.

Saint Marty wonders how long Lisel Mueller worked on the poem below.  

Moon Fishing

by:  Lisel Mueller

When the moon was full they came to the water,
some with pitchforks, some with rakes,
some with sieves and ladles,
and one with a silver cup.

And they fished till a traveler passed them and said,
"Fools,
to catch the moon you must let your women
spread their hair on the water--
even the wily moon will leap to that bobbing
net of shimmering threads,
gaps and flop till its silver scales
lie black and still at your feet."

And they fished with the hair of their women
till a traveler passed them and said,
"Fools,
do you think the moon is caught lightly,
with glitter and silk threads?
You must cut out your hearts and bait your hooks
with those dark animals;
what matter you lose your hearts to reel in your dream?"

And they fished with their tight, hot parts
till a traveler passed them and said,
"Fools,
what good is the moon to a heartless man?
Put back your hearts and get on your knees
and drink as you never have,
until your throats are coated with silver
and your voices ring like bells."

And they fished with their lips and tongues
until the water was gone
and the moon had slipped away
in the soft, bottomless mud.

I much prefer moon pies to moon fishing