August 15: "The Country," Worrier, Out Loud

I'm a worrier.  Have been for as long as I can remember.  What do I worry about?  Everything.

I worry about my roof leaking during rainstorms.  My sewer backing up.  My phone crashing.  My doctor diagnosing with cancer.  My kids hating me.  My puppy getting fleas.  My wife going manic.  My boss at the library firing me.  My boss at the university firing me.  My tax return being audited.  My house getting infested by mice.  My house catching fire.

None of these fears are rational in any way.  I know that.  However, it doesn't strop my mind from imagining terrible things.

In today's poem Billy Collins has mouse worries . . . 

The Country

by: Billy Collins

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time—

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?

I didn't worry all that much today.  Kept myself too busy to allow my mind to wander into that Forbidden Forest, so to speak.  And, tonight, I hosted a virtual open mic called Out Loud--something that I've been doing since my friend Helen (who started Out Loud) became very ill.  This coming Wednesday will make the two-year anniversary of Helen's passing.

Only one other person beside myself attended Out Loud tonight, and that was okay.  Really okay.  It allowed both of us to be very real for a couple hours.  The theme of the night was messiness--how every single human being on this planet leads a messy life.  We're all flawed, broken people doing the best we can each day.  No matter how "put together" individuals appears, chances are they are really fucked up in some way, including myself.

It was a good night, and when Out Loud was over, I felt better.  Not balanced, but better.  Sharing insecurities, sorrows, joys, hopes, and worries with another person is cathartic and healing.  Like seeing a beautiful sunset after a day of rain and wind and clouds.

Saint Marty's worry now is whether there are any Cosmic Brownies left in the house.

August 8: "Drawing Class," Marquette Poets Circle, Kindness

It has been a long day, and I'm not feeling particularly wise or smart right now.  

In the evening at the library, I hosted the monthly meeting of the Marquette Poets Circle.  I've been a part of this group for almost a decade now.  In the last year or so, I slowly took over leadership of the group from one of my best friends, an amazing individual who has been THE cheerleader for poetry in our area for a very long time.  I have learned so much from her as a poet and person.  There is no one nicer, kinder, and more generous with her time and talent.

 Tonight, there were about eight people present for the Poets Circle.  We spent the first 45 minutes or so writing.  I think we did three prompts.  I didn't write anything I'm going to share tonight, but it felt good to flex my poetry muscles.  Then, it was Open Mic.  Lots of great writers sharing, some for the first time.  

Funny, I never feel like I'm good enough to lead this group.  Yes, I can organize.  Sure, I can write poems and read poems and talk about poems.  However, I don't think I've ever learned how to lead with the humor and grace and generosity of my friend who used to lead the group.

Eventually, I may learn, lust like Billy Collins learns something new in today's poem . . . 

Drawing Class

by: Billy Collins

If you ever asked me

how my drawing classes are going,

I would tell you that I enjoy

adhering to the outline of a thing,

to follow the slope of an individual pear

or the curve of a glossy piano.

And I love trailing my hand

over the smooth membrane of bond,

the intelligent little trinity

of my fingers gripping the neck of the pencil

while the other two dangle below

like the fleshy legs of a tiny swimmer.

I would add that I can get lost

crosshatching the shadow of a chair

or tracing and retracing

the slight undercarriage of a breast.

Even the preparations call out to me--

taping the paper to a wooden board, 

brushing its surface clean,

and sharpening a few pencils to a fine point.

The thin hexagonal pencil

is mightier than the pen,

for it can modulate from firm to faint

and shift from thin to broad

whenever it leans more acutely over the page--

the bright yellow pencil,

which is also mightier than the sword

for there is no erasing what the sword can do.

We all started with the box and ball

then moved on to the cup and the lamp,

the serrated leaf, the acorn with its cap.

But I want to graduate to the glass decanter

and learn how to immobilize in lead

translucent curtains lifted in the air.

I want to draw

four straight lines that will connect me

to the four points of the compass,

to the bright spires of cities

the overlapping trellises,

the turning spokes of the world.

One day I want to draw freehand

a continuous figure

that will begin with me

when the black tip touches the paper

and end with you when it is lifted

and set down beside a luminous morning window.

On the way home tonight, I drove into a blazingly beautiful sunset.  I found myself reflecting on how I came to be in this position with the Poets Circle.  I've learned a lot in my life.  I started as a Computer Science major as an undergrad before switching to English.  I focused on fiction during my Master's program.  Finally, a little less than ten years later, I earned my MFA in poetry.  

Yet, the most important lesson I've learned in my life is this:  kindness.  Yes, assholes can rise to important positions (think of a certain former President of the United States with an orange complexion).  However, the people I admire most--whom I'm also privileged to call friends--are all incredibly kind.  That's something I try to remember every day of my life.

Saint Marty hopes he will be remembered for his kindness as well as his poetry.