April 3: Angels and Owls, Poet of the Week, Ricahrd Wilbur, "A Barred Owl"

I am tired of arguing today.  It's seems like that's all I have been doing.  Arguing with myself and other people.  In the end, at 5 p.m., I don't feel any better about life.  I need a poetry break.

I've chosen former U. S. Poet Laureate Richard Wilbur as Poet of the Week.  His work always takes me outside my head, which is exactly where I need to be right now.  Away from my thoughts and angers and worries.

Saint Marty is thankful for Richard Wilbur tonight.  He reminds Saint Marty of the angels and owls beyond his windowpanes. 

A Barred Owl

by:  Richard Wilbur

The warping night air having brought the boom

Of an owl’s voice into her darkened room,

We tell the wakened child that all she heard

Was an odd question from a forest bird,

Asking of us, if rightly listened to,

“Who cooks for you?” and then “Who cooks for you?”

Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,

Can also thus domesticate a fear,

And send a small child back to sleep at night

Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight

Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw

Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.

March 30: Poet of Holy Week, Billy Collins Again, "The Revenant"

For the first time in the history of this blog, I am bestowing the honor of Poet of the Week to a person who has already held the title:  Billy Collins.

Late last week, I was reminded of how much I really love Collins' poetry.  A student in my poetry workshop did a presentation on Collins' newest collection of poems, and I found myself moved, amused, and inspired.  So, Billy Collins, former U. S. Poet Laureate, is now the Poet of Holy Week.

The poem I've chosen tonight is for a friend who today found out that her little dog has cancer.  She's had Wishbone for 15 years, and the vet told my friend that Wish probably has about six or eight weeks left.

Saint Marty thinks Wish is going to outlive us all.

The Revenant

by:  Billy Collins

I am the dog you put to sleep,
as you like to call the needle of oblivion,
come back to tell you this simple thing:
I never liked you - not one bit.

When I licked your face,
I thought of biting off your nose.
When I watched you toweling yourself dry,
I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap.

I resented the way you moved,
your lack of animal grace,
the way you would sit in a chair and eat,
a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand.

I would have run away,
but I was too weak, a trick you taught me
while I was learning to sit and heel,
and - greatest of insults - shake hands without a hand.

I admit the sight of the leash
would excite me
but only because it meant I was about
to smell things you had never touched.

You do not want to believe this,
but I have no reason to lie.
I hated the car, the rubber toys,
disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives.

The jingling of my tags drove me mad.
You always scratched me in the wrong place.
All I ever wanted from you
was food and fresh water in my metal bowls.

While you slept, I watched you breathe
as the moon rose in the sky.
It took all my strength
not to raise my head and howl.

Now I am free of the collar,
the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater,
the absurdity of your lawn,
and that is all you need to know about this place

except what you already supposed
and are glad it did not happen sooner -
that everyone here can read and write,
the dogs in poetry, the cats and the others in prose.

Good boy!  Please don't bite my balls off!!

April 1: U. S. Poet Laureate

I just received a phone call from a Ms. Julienne Vivox, who is the undersecretary to the Secretary for Cultural Affairs for President Barack Obama.  It seems that I've been nominated to replace Natasha Trethewey as United States Poet Laureate.  It seems Ms. Trethewey has to step down due to health reasons, and she recommended me to serve out the remaining year of her term.  I don't know how she came across my name or my work, but she's a big fan, according the Undersecretary Vivox.

The announcement is not going to be made official until after April 1 in order avoid the suspicion that the White House is playing some kind of April Fool's Day joke on the press corps.  In the mean time, I need to get on Travelocity and book a cheap ticket to Washington D. C.

U. S. Poet Laureate Saint Marty.  Has a nice ring to it.

Natasha's a big fan...

March 22: Rita Dove and "Your Death," Poem

Today, I have a poem for you by Rita Dove.  Dove was the second African American to receive the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.  She was also the first African American to hold the position of U. S. Poet Laureate, from 1993 to 1995.  She did that at the age of 40.  Her vita reads like a history lesson of firsts for African Americans and women.

Saint Marty hopes you enjoy the following poem from Dove's 1989 collection Grace Notes.

Your Death

On the day that will always belong to you,
lunar clockwork had faltered
and I was certain.  Walking
the streets of Manhattan I thought:
Remember this day.  I felt already
like an urn, filling with wine.

To celebrate, your son and I
took a stroll through Bloomingdale's
where he developed a headache
among the copper skillets and
tiers of collapsible baskets.
Pain tracked us through
the china, driving us
finally to the subway
and home,

where the phone was ringing
with bad news.  Even now,
my new daughter
asleep in the crib, I can't shake
the moment his headache stopped
and the day changed ownership.
I felt robbed.  Even the first
bite of the tuna fish sandwich
I had bought at the corner
became yours.

Rita Dove and some other guy