April 12: Not an Accident, Thomas Lynch, Teeth

Santiago has an enemy . . . 

The shark was not an accident. He had come up from deep down in the water as the dark cloud of blood had settled and dispersed in the mile deep sea. He had come up so fast and absolutely without caution that he broke the surface of the blue water and was in the sun. Then he fell back into the sea and picked up the scent and started swimming on the course the skiff and the fish had taken.

Sometimes he lost the scent. But he would pick it up again, or have just a trace of it, and he swam fast and hard on the course. He was a very big Mako shark built to swim as fast as the fastest fish in the sea and everything about him was beautiful except his jaws.

His back was as blue as a sword fish's and his belly was silver and his hide was smooth and handsome. He was built as a sword fish except for his huge jaws which were tight shut now as he swam fast, just under the surface with his high dorsal fin knifing through the water without wavering. Inside the closed double lip of his jaws all of his eight rows of teeth were slanted inwards. They were not the ordinary pyramid-shaped teeth of most sharks. They were shaped like a man's fingers when they are crisped like claws. They were nearly as long as the fingers of the old man and they had razor-sharp cutting edges on both sides. This was a fish built to feed on all the fishes in the sea, that were so fast and strong and well armed that they had no other enemy. Now he speeded up as he smelled the fresher scent and his blue dorsal fin cut the water.

Poet Thomas Lynch read at the library this evening, along with my friend Kathleen Heideman.  It was a glorious night, capped off with some drinks and conversation about death at Kathleen's house.

Saint Marty koan for tonight:  beauty is in the teeth.

 

July 19: Montana Wildhack, Poetry Conversation, Eleven

Barbara called the oil-burner man, and she made Billy go to bed, made him promise to stay under the electric blanket until the heat came on.  She set the control of the blanket at the highest notch, which soon made Billy's bed hot enough to bake bread on.

When Barbara left, slamming the door behind her, Billy traveled in time to the zoo on Tralfamadore again.  A mate had just been brought to him from Earth.  She was Montana Wildhack, a motion picture star.

Yes, the aliens decide that Billy needs to mate.  So they bring in Montana Wildhack.  Now, from what I remember of the movie, Montana was portrayed by Valerie Perrine.  I used to have a book of science fiction films that had a picture from the movie.  Perrine was topless, with the actor playing Billy standing behind her with a shirt.  You can imagine how many times I looked at the picture when I was in middle school.  Let's just say, A LOT.

First, I want to apologize for my absence last night.  I went to a poetry discussion last night.  Three fantastic poets talking about writing poetry--Keith Taylor, Thomas Lynch, and Cindy Hunter Morgan.  It was a really good night.  Poets know how to tell entertaining stories and keep an audience engaged.  Sort of like putting them in a Tralfamadorian zoo and letting them interact.  Plus, I walked away with three new books (two collections of poetry, one collection of short fiction).

By the time the presentation was over, however, I was not feeling the greatest.  A little feverish.  Really tired.  By the time I got home, I only had energy to take four ibuprofen and watch an episode of Stranger Things.  I tried to write a blog post, but everything I typed came out looking like this:  "alkjsIla;ls;e   sjlkdflkvnz,189234laslsnfslflass!!! peepeee!!!"  So, I went to bed and did not sleep well at all.  Imagine me as Billy Pilgrim under that damn electric blanket, baking like a loaf of bread.

This malaise has held on all day today, as well.  I came home from work and went to bed for forty minutes.  Woke up a little refreshed, but now, at around 8 p.m., I am on a downward spiral.  Even Montana Wildhack/Valerie Perrine won't excite me right now.  I may have the energy for another episode of Stranger Things.  That's about it.

So, Saint Marty is thankful tonight for ibuprofen and new poetry and Eleven.

If you haven't seen the series, you should

April 26: Finals Finalized, Book Clubbing, Poetry All 'Round

Well, all my finals have been finalized.  Now, I just have a crapload of grading to do this weekend.  I've already begun grading, and I must say that the scores are much higher than I thought they were going to be.  That means one of two things:  1) the final exam was way too easy, or 2) I am the greatest teacher in the world.  Let's go with option number two.

I'm getting ready for book clubbing now.  My wife put the house in order this morning.  She even cooked our contribution for dinner.  Basically, I have to throw the casserole in the oven to heat up, give my son a bath and get him ready for bed, and put out the plates and silverware.  I've already assembled my book club discussion guide.  I'm in pretty fine shape.

It will be a great night of poetry.  I've been rereading Thomas Lynch's poems, and he really is a fine writer.  Doesn't hurt that he's also Catholic.  Lots of Latin phrases and prayers.

Poetry all 'round for Saint Marty tonight.

It could be verse.  Get it?

April 26: Scrooge's Nephew, Good-Humour, Book Club

If you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to know a man more blest in a laugh than Scrooge's nephew, all I can say is, I should like to know him too.  Introduce him to me, and I'll cultivate his acquaintance.

It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour.  When Scrooge's nephew laughed in this way:  holding his sides, rolling his head, and twisting his face into the most extravagant contortions:  Scrooge's niece, by marriage, laughed as heartily as he.  And their assembled friends being not a bit behindhand, roared out, lustily.

If you have been reading my year-long foray into A Christmas Carol regularly, you already know of my affection for Scrooge's nephew, Fred.  You know that I appreciate Fred's ability to put his uncle's misanthropy into perspective.  Fred is one of the few characters in the entire book who can get the better of Scrooge in speech and action.  And he does it with laughter and "good-humour."  Fred is just a great guy.  The life of the party.  He's the one person everyone looks forward to seeing, all the time.

Tonight is the monthly meeting of my book club.  At 7 p.m., my friends and relatives will descend upon my abode to eat and drink and talk about this month's read.  It's always a good time, and while I don't think I'm quite as genial a host as Fred, I do enjoy laughing and eating with people I love.  Throw a good book on top of all that, and there's nothing better.

This month's book was a collection of poetry (in honor of National Poetry Month).  We read Still Life in Milford by Thomas Lynch.  I saw Mr. Lynch read at the university about twelve years ago.  He was engaging and funny.  He writes my kind of poetry--full of image and narrative.  None of this language crap that's so much in vogue these days. 

Lynch also wrote one of my favorite books of non-fiction called The Undertaking.  It's a collection of essays about his life-s profession.  Thomas Lynch is, by trade, an undertaker.  Still is.  So there are many reasons why I like the man.  He doesn't live in the ivory tower of academia.  He's in the middle of life's messes, comforting the bereaved, making grief natural and, at times, beautiful.

It should be a really good night.  I'm feeling slightly better.  The food's going to be delicious.  The company's going to be lovely.  And the book's going to be great to discuss.

Saint Marty may not be Scrooge's nephew, Fred, but he knows how to show people a good time.



He looks like an undertaker, doesn't he?