December 3: Appreciate His Stature, Louise Glück, "Doe After a Blizzard"

 Merton becomes obsessed with William Blake . . .

I remember with what indecision I went on into the spring, trying to settle the problem of a subject with finality. Yet the thing worked itself out quite suddenly: so suddenly that I do not remember what brought it about. One day I came running down out of the Carpenter Library, and passed along the wire fences by the tennis courts, in the sun, with my mind made up that there was only one possible man in the eighteenth century for me to work on: the one poet who had least to do with his age, and was most in opposition to everything it stood for. 

I had just had in my hands the small, neatly printed Nonesuch Press edition of the Poems of William Blake, and I now knew what my thesis would probably be. It would take in his poems and some aspect of his religious ideas. 

In the Columbia bookstore I bought the same edition of Blake, on credit. (I paid for it two years later.) It had a blue cover, and I suppose it is now hidden somewhere in our monastery library, the part to which nobody has access. And that is all right. I think the ordinary Trappist would be only dangerously bewildered by the “Prophetic Books,” and those who still might be able to profit by Blake, have a lot of other things to read that are still better. For my own part, I no longer need him. He has done his work for me: and he did it very thoroughly. I hope that I will see him in heaven. 

But oh, what a thing it was to live in contact with the genius and the holiness of William Blake that year, that summer, writing the thesis! I had some beginning of an appreciation of his greatness above the other men of his time in England: but from this distance, from the hill where I now stand, looking back I can really appreciate his stature. 

William Blake died an unknown prophet.  A poet who walked and spoke with angels every day.  On his deathbed, he sang songs and celebrated.  It was years after his death that his reputation grew and he came to be recognized as the poetic giant that he is regarded as today.  When Merton becomes fevered with Blake's work, Blake was still regarded with suspicion because of his radical religious beliefs.  To this day, William Blake is still misunderstood by some, misinterpreted by others.

Tonight, I led a workshop based on the poetry of Louise 

Glück. She is a poet whom I've admired for years, but I've never really understood her. Her poetry is dense, full of mysterious emotion. Even after spending a few weeks preparing for this evening, I'm still not sure I get her.

But I'm not sure getting Louise Glück is the point. One critic said this about her work: "We feel before we understand, and we understand very little." That pretty much sums it up for me. I sit here, feeling much, understanding little. Like William Blake's contemporaries. However, I can imagine Louise Glück consorting with angels, like Blake.

In that vein, Saint Marty has a poem he wrote this evening during his poetry workshop. At least he thinks it's a poem.

You be the judge . . .


Doe After a Blizzard

by: Martin Achatz

My son noticed her first, splayed, bloody, broken by a neighbor's fence.

A dead doe, shining in the sunlight that always comes after a blizzard,

sunlight so strong it hurts to step into it. Sunlight that shouts.

The doe was haloed in that light, and my son, only five, said,

Fix it, daddy, reduced me to an Easter Island carving, stone face

immutable in the presence of suffering. I wanted to tell my son

I can't or She's gone or She's with God or some other

emptiness recited in church every Sunday so often that it has lost

its ability to comfort. Instead, I picked my son up, carried him

closer to the doe, whispered in his ear Isn't she beautiful?

I watched his face change, confusion give way to something

seraphic. Yes, he said, nodding. Yes, she is. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

June 25: Rebellion of the Saints, Company of Poets, Immanence

Merton struggles with William Blake's contradictions . . .

On one hand he [William Blake] spoke of the "priests in black gowns who were going their rounds binding with briars my joys and desires."  And yet on the other hand he detested Voltaire and Rousseau and everybody like them and everything that they stood for, and he abominated all materialistic deism, and all the polite, abstract natural religions of the eighteenth century, the agnosticism of the nineteenth and, in fact, most of the common attitudes of our day.

          The atoms of Democritus
          And Newton's particles of light
          Are sands upon the Red-Sea shore
          Where Israel's tents do shine so bright . . .

I was absolutely incapable for reconciling, in my mind, two things that seemed contrary.  Blake was a revolutionary, and yet he detested the greatest and most typical revolutionaries of his time, and declared himself opposed without compromise to people who, as I thought, seemed to exemplify some of his own most characteristic ideals.

How incapable I was of understanding anything like the ideals of a William Blake!  How could I possibly realize that his rebellion, for all its strange heterodoxies, was fundamentally the rebellion of the saints.  It was the rebellion of the lover of the living God, the rebellion of one whose desire of God was so intense and irresistible that it condemned, with all its might, all the hypocrisy and petty sensuality and skepticism and materialism which cold and trivial minds set up as unpassable barriers between God and the souls of men.

Merton envisions William Blake as a quasi-saint--a person so in love with God that he rejected everything that stood between humans and the Almighty.  All the things that the greatest thinkers of his time embraced.  Sensuality.  Skepticism.  Materialism.  Blake was the poetic equivalent of John the Baptist, calling out in his desert voice, "Prepare ye the way!"

I will say that I have never thought of Blake as a strong a believer in a Supreme Being.  My version of Blake was of a man who was trying to create his own mythology, his own God--Urizen, a bearded old man who is the architect of confinement, holding humanity back with conventional laws and wisdom.  Blake was great artist.  An interesting, possibly unbalanced poet.

Yet, here's Thomas Merton, one of the most influential Christian thinkers and writers of the twentieth century, basically canonizing William Blake.  I sort of love it.  I've always believed that poets are somehow more in tune with the divine.  Aware of the glories of the universe, microscopic to macroscopic.  Merton seems to be a validating this belief for me.

I spent this evening in the company of poets, and it brought some light into my soul.  It was a reading that kicked off a new project--an anthology of poems and writing prompts from the monthly workshops I've been conducting since I was first selected Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula.  Just sitting in that Zoom meeting, listening to the work of all these writers, moved me profoundly.  It was a conversation of diverse poetic voices.  A night of psalms.

These last few days, I've been posting about the darkness with which I've been struggling.  Haven't been sleeping well.  I've been focused a lot on places and people in my life where I seem to be failing miserably.  It has been a long, tough 15-plus days, where I've thought of throwing in the towel a few times.

However, tonight my poet/prophet friends sort of reminded me of the immanence of grace in the universe, from the tiniest seashell to the redwoods of California.  It's everywhere.  Including those dark moments that border on despair.  I am never without it.  All I have to do is open my eyes and look around to find evidence of God in my life.

And for the miracle of this revelation, Saint Marty gives thanks.

June 23: What Manner of Man, William Blake, Spin It Into Gold

Young Thomas Merton struggles with the poetry of Blake . . .

I was less literal when I was sixteen.  I could accept Blake's metaphors and they already began, a little, to astound and to move me, although I had no real grasp of their depth and power.  And I liked Blake immensely.  I read him with more patience and attention than any other poet.  I thought about him more.  And I could not figure him out.  I do not mean, I could not figure out the Prophetic Books--nobody can do that!  But I could not place him in any kind of a context, and I did not know how to make his ideas fit together.

One grey Sunday in the spring, I walked alone out the Brooke Road and up Brooke Hill, where the rifle range was.  It was a long, bare hog-back of a hill, with a few lone trees along the top, and it commanded a big sweeping view of the Vale of Catmos, with the town of Oakham lying in the midst of it, gathered around the grey, sharp church spire.  I sat on a stile on the hill top, and contemplated the wide vale, from the north, where the kennels of the Cottesmore hounds were, to Lax Hill and Manton in the south.  Straight across was Burley House, on top of its hill, massed with woods.  At my feet, a few red brick houses straggled out from the town to the bottom of the slope.

And all the time I reflected, that afternoon, upon Blake.  I remember how I concentrated and applied myself to it.  It was rare that I ever really thought about such a thing of my own accord.  But I was trying to establish what manner of man he was.  Where did he stand?  What did he believe?  What did he preach?

As an MFA student, I struggled with William Blake, as well.  I spent an entire class (four months) trying to comprehend the Prophetic Books, and failed just as miserably as Merton does.  I love Blake's grand mythology, am transported by his words, but, to this day, I don't think I've even come close to understanding his visions.  And that's okay.  Sometimes, it's okay to just exist in the mystery of something.  Even it it's dark.

I have a confession this evening.  Over these last seven days, with everything that has happened in my life (and other things I haven't blogged about), I've been struggling with God the same way Merton struggles with Blake in the above passage.  I just don't get God right now.  Don't see how God's going to take the chaff of my life and spin it into gold.  Ain't gonna happen, as far as I can tell.

Of course, that's where faith is supposed to come in, right?  True believers simply hand over the pieces of their broken lives and trust that God is somehow going to do something amazing with those shards.  Put Humpty back together, bigger and better.  Right now, I'd have to say my faith is at low ebb.  I'm feeling like a failure in many aspects of my life, professional and personal and spiritual.  And I can't seem to find my way up from the bottom of this hole I'm in.

Those of my disciples who are tired of my darker ruminations may skip to the end of this post right now.  I promise something beautiful will be there waiting.  And for those disciples who want to slog a little with me, I appreciate the company.  When I'm in a blue funk, I tend to feel more than a little isolated, so it helps me to imagine a person out there reading these words and wanting to walk with me for a little while.

Sometimes, when you're feeling lousy, all you really need is someone to put an arm around you and say, "Yeah, this is really fucked up."  That's where I am at the moment.  I don't need advice.  Don't tell me to go for a walk.  Or that it's always darkest before dawn.  Or that God never closes a door without opening a window.  None of that shit is going to work for me tonight.

Just know that I am sad.  That's all.  I've been here before, and the only cure is time.  And a little alcohol.

And now, the something beautiful I promised . . .

This afternoon, God sent some grace my way.  One of my best and dearest friends met me after work.  She had a carload of groceries for me.  Things she thought I could use because of my sick son and chaotic life.  It was remarkable.  In this hugless time of pandemic, it felt like a strong and long embrace from someone who loves me deeply.  And I felt the arms of that miracle around me all the way home.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks tonight.

June 20-21: The Development of My Life, Father's Day, Covid-19 Test

Merton talks about his love of William Blake . . .

Meanwhile there was one discovery of mine, one poet who was a poet indeed, and a Romantic poet, but vastly different from those contemporaries, with whom he had so little to do.  I think my love for William Blake had something in it of God's grace.  It is a love that has never died, and which has entered very deeply into the development of my life.

Father had always liked Blake, and had tried to explain to me what was good about him when I was a child of ten.  The funny thing about Blake is that although the Songs of Innocence look like children's poems, and almost seem to have been written for children, they are, to most children, incomprehensible.  Or at least they were so to me.  Perhaps if I had read them when I was four or five, it would have been different.  But when I was ten, I knew too much.  I knew that tigers did not burn in the forests of the night.  That was very silly, I thought.  Children are very literal minded.  

Merton's father tries to instill his love of William Blake in his son.  That's what father's do--try to impart some of the knowledge they've acquired of the world into their children.  Sometimes it works.  Sometimes it doesn't.  For Merton, with Blake, it works.

Sitting in the ER waiting room Friday night, I was able to put some things into perspective.  Troubles at work, the death of my uncle, my mother's broken hip and consequent surgery--all of these things (while they still weigh on my mind and heart) became background to the possibility that my son may be seriously ill.  And I would have traded places with him in an instant if I could have.

On this Father's Day, I have figured out (for the millionth time in my life) what is really significant and important.  My kids--their safety and health.  It's so easy to lose sight of land in the currents and storms of daily life.  Yes, it's important to try to do your best in everything, every day--for me, it's working, teaching, writing, and friending.  Yet, given the choice between being a great father or a great teacher or poet or health care worker or church musician, I don't have to even think about it. 

Don't get me wrong.  I haven't been a perfect father, by any means.  Fathering really isn't about being perfect.  It's about the process of perfecting.  Every day, when I get up in the morning, I say a little prayer.  It goes something like this:

Hi.  It's me again.  Sorry for fucking up [insert list of mistakes] yesterday.  Please grant me the wisdom to say and do the right things today.  Watch over my wife and kids.  Keep them safe and happy.  Help me to be the best person I can be.  Thanks.

Then, I head out the door and try my damnedest not to fuck up again.  And I usually fail.  But that's all part of being a good father, too--showing your kids how to deal with life's disappointments and setbacks with integrity and grace.   In fact, I would say that's one of the most important lessons I will ever teach my daughter and son.  I don't want to be put on a pedestal.  I'd rather show them how to be a messed-up human in a messed-up world.

That's what went through my head in the ER as I totaled up all of my past week's discouragements, balanced them against my son's good health.  I'm a father who is as far from perfect as possible.  Yet, despite the fact that I curse like a Marine, disappoint my friends, overlook and ignore the daily blessings sent my way, God granted me a miracle--my son's Covid-19 test came back negative.

And for that, this Father's Day, Saint Marty gives thanks.

June 5: Fourth Dimension, William Blake, Odious Tasks

"He was at the top of his class when this happened," said Billy's mother.

"Maybe he was working too hard," said Rosewater.  He held a book he wanted to read, but he was much too polite to read and talk, too, easy as it was to give Billy's mother satisfactory answers.  The book was Maniacs in the Fourth Dimension, by Kilgore Trout.  It was about people whose mental diseases couldn't be treated because the causes of the diseases were all in the fourth dimension, and three-dimensional Earthling doctors couldn't see those causes at all, or even imagine them.

One thing Trout said that Rosewater liked very much was that there really were vampires and werewolves and goblins and angels and so on, but that they were in the fourth dimension.  So was William Blake, Rosewater's favorite poet, according to Trout.  So were heaven and hell.

The fourth dimension sounds like a pretty wild ride according to Kilgore Trout.  Vampires and werewolves.  Heaven and hell.  It sounds like a Twilight fan's dream come true.  Doesn't surprise me that Blake is there, too.  I once took a class in the poetry of William Blake.  I came away from the semester believing that Blake had either been drinking too much lead-based ink or was not of this world.  Trout has answered my question.

It feels like I have been operating in the fourth dimension for the last couple of days.  Grading like crazy.  Writing a new poem.  Reading a poetry manuscript.  Trying to squeeze in some quality time with my family.  I have been operating so far out of time that I thought the Tony Awards were on TV last night.  Turns out I was off by a week.  Either that or I've already watched the Tony Awards next week, and now I'm back to the present.  Maybe I'm unstuck in time.  Wouldn't surprise me.

Tonight, I am going to a meeting of the Marquette Poets Circle.  It's workshop and open mic.  I've been pushing like crazy to get all my work done so that I can attend with a mind free of pressing obligations.  Graded three papers this afternoon.  Just finished an eight-hour shift at the medical office.  Once this blog post is done, I have nothing to worry about but poetry, poetry, poetry.  (Yes, I stole that little anaphora from Elizabeth Bishop's "The Fish.")

I am a great believer in tackling odious tasks head-on.  That's why I started my day at 4:45 a.m., correcting essays for my online class.  There's a sense of great relief when the most difficult tasks are completed early.  All the rest of day is a piece of pecan pie (preferable to cake).  Typing this blog post is a pleasure.  Ditto picking a new Poet of the Week.  And going to the workshop tonight.  My conscience is free, and I can indulge myself.

That is the breadth of scope of my wisdom for today. 

Saint Marty is thankful this afternoon for check marks on to-do lists.

August 25: Form to Colour, Fecundity, Weary of People

Blake said, "He who does not prefer Form to Colour is a Coward!"  I often wish the creator had been more of a coward, giving us many fewer forms and many more colors . . .

Dillard is talking about the generosity of life forms on our planet.  All of the evolutions and mutations and permutations that have existed through time--from mastodons to mallards.  Dillard is overwhelmed, it seems, by the sheer magnitude of animals, plants, fish, birds, lizards.  Her minds wants to know them all, but simply can't.  So, she contradicts Blake:  she wants color (beauty) over form (fecundity).

My apologies for not posting last night.  I became overwhelmed by fecundity.  Lots of busy work.  New class to teach.  Conference with a student.  By the end of the day, I was wishing for a little less form, a little more color, just like Dillard.  I can say without reservation that summer, for me, has quickly transitioned into the insanity of autumn, with all its attendant obligations.

However, I am looking forward to a relaxing evening with my book club.  Lots of good food.  Lots of good friendship.  Lots of laughter.  If you're interested, our selection this month was Mary Roach's book Stiff, which is her exploration of the various uses and stages of human cadavers.  If that sounds gross, it is, but Roach is also funny as hell.  She makes reading about the process of decomposition palatable even for me.  (I may work in a surgery center, but I want no contact with whatever goes on in those rooms in the back.)

My family is currently not at home.  I have the whole place to myself, which rarely happens.  As I sit here typing this post, I'm enjoying a little color in the form of classical music.  Pretty soon, this moment will come to an end.  I still have to cut up a pineapple for book club tonight, and I have to get my chocolate fondue fountain going (per my son's request).  This is the calm before the metaphorical storm.

Because of the fecundity of my week, I'm craving solitude.  This afternoon, as I was answering phones, registering patients, responding to students' e-mails, one thought kept playing through my head:  "I am done with people."  If my phone rings, I don't want to answer it.  If I get a text message, I don't want to respond.  If a neighbor kid comes knocking at my door trying to sell magazine subscriptions, I will turn off the lights and pretend that I'm not home.  I'm weary of crowds.

Tonight, Saint Marty chooses color over form.  His apologies to William Blake.