September 4, 2025: “This Hour,” Longest Weeks, “”Mars, or How to Save a Dying Planet”

Even though Monday was Labor Day and it’s a four-day workweek and nothing catastrophic happened (unless you count President 47 still being alive), this has been one of the longest weeks in recent memory.  The only thing that has saved me from going completely Howard Hughes (locking myself away in a room, not showering or cutting my hair and nails, and pissing in empty Coke bottles) are walks with my wife, car rides with my son (to and from school), and text messages from my daughter (she took her first midterm exam in medical school and killed it).

Sharon Olds shares a moment of love . . . 

This Hour

by: Sharon Olds

We could never really say what it is like,
this hour of drinking wine together
on a hot summer night, in the living room
with the windows open, in our underwear,

my pants with pale-gold gibbon monkeys on them

gleaming in the heat.  We talk about our son disap-

pearling between the pine boughs, 

we could not tell what was chrysalis or 

bough and what was him.  The wine 

is powerful, each mouthful holds

for a moment its amber agate shape, 

I think of the sweat I sipped from my father’s 

forehead the hour before his death.  We talk about 

those last days—that I was waiting for him to die.
You are lying on the couch, your underpants 

a luminous white, your hand resting
relaxed, along the side of your penis, 

we talk about your father’s illness, 

your nipple like a pure circle of 

something risen to the surface of your chest.

Even if we wanted to
we could not describe it,
the end of the second glass when I sometimes
weep and you start to get sleepy—I love 

to drink and cry with you, and end up
sobbing to a sleeping man, your
long body filling the couch and
draped slightly over the ends, the
untrained soft singing of your snore, it cannot be given.
Yes we know we will make love, but we’re
not getting ready to make love,
nor are we getting over making love, 

love is simply our element, 

it is the summer night, we are in it.

I really love the penultimate line in this poem:  “love is simply our element.”  Olds gets it right.  She and her partner know each other so intimately that simply being in each other’s presence is enough to assuage  her grieving heart.

There is a great deal of comfort in a long-term, loving relationship.  My wife and I will be celebrating our 30th wedding anniversary this year.  We were together for about five years before we got married.  Doing the math, that’s 35+ years of love and support.  We’ve had some hiccups, bumps, and derailments in that time, but, as Olds says, love is simply our element.

Tonight, we had grilled cheese sandwiches and soup for dinner.  As we ate, we watched a couple episode of Schitt’s Creek.  Then we took our puppy for a trot around the block.  The weather has taken a turn, so my wife wore her winter coat on our little hike.  (I refuse to put on my winter gear until after Thanksgiving, so I just wore three layers of shirts and sweatshirts and hoodies.). It is definitely not summer anymore.

I’m avoiding getting all sentimental here.  The last couple months have been pretty stressful, with our daughter moving downstate, our son starting his senior year in high school, and my wife losing her job.  I don’t think I’ve fully recovered from all the upheaval.  All of my faithful disciples know how well I deal with change of any kind, and the changes have been coming at light speed recently.

Thank goodness my life is filled with people (friends and family) I love and who love me.  I don’t think I would have survived the last 40 or so days without having shoulders to cry on and ears to vent to.  Recently, I have found myself crying at night after the rest of household has gone to bed.  Not every night, but at least once or twice a week.  

I don’t think I’m sliding into one of my blue periods.  (My faithful disciples may recall I had quite a bad time starting November, and it lasted several months.). I’ve been monitoring the frequency and duration of these current “down” times; I really don’t want to end up in the same space again, especially with the weather turning and daylight shrinking.  

Again, what saved me last November was the love of my family and friends, especially my wife and kids.  Our element.  I truly believe that love is the most powerful force for change in the universe.  It has sustained me through many a low point in my life.  If everyone had minds of love, acted out of love, responded with love, the world wouldn’t be in its current fractured state.

I’m not going to belabor this point.  Either you agree with me or you don’t.  If you believe that the world can be saved by war and division and hatred, I’m not going to change your mind.  Ditto if you think that homeless people should be rounded up and shipped off to internment camps.  And if you are adamant in your support of tax cuts for billionaires and the elimination of pediatric cancer research, well then, I don’t know if I even want you reading this blog anymore.  Might I recommend some light reading for you, like Mein Kampf.

On the other hand, if your happy place involves family and friends, and if you want to save the world before all the polar bears are drowned and we’re living in fallout shelters, then you already know that love is the only thing that will save our asses.

Yesterday, Saint Marty wrote about poem about Mars and saving the planet, based on the following prompt from September 3 of The Daily Poet:

On this date in 1976, the Viking 2 unmanned spacecraft took the first close-up pictures of the surface of Mars.  Write a poem about the frantic search to find water (and perhaps living creatures) on Mars.  As there is plenty of life already here on Earth that needs attending to, your poem may or may not take on a cynical tone.

Mars, or How to Save a Dying Planet

by: Martin Achatz

There’s so much red there, even 

the air bleeds, as if the entire

world is an open wound, a bullet

hole in the belly of the universe.

We send probes, motorized gadgets

to crawl, fly in search of canals

gone dry or some indigenous red carrot.

Why do we search for something

life-giving in a place that’s just

a red stain, a murder scene?

Instead, we should go for a walk

at midnight along the shores of

of Lake Superior, let the water

numb our ankles, ache our bones, wash

over us, until we all shine like beach glass.

August 1: "See No Evil," Homeless Problem, "Unclean"

Billy Collins monkeys around . . . 

See No Evil

by: Billy Collins

No one expected all three of them

to sit there on their tree stumps forever,

their senses covered with their sinuous paws

so as to shut out the vile, nefarious world.

As it happened,

it was the one on the left

who was the first to desert his post

uncupping his ears,

then loping off into the orbit of rumors and lies,

but also into the realm of symphonies,

the sound of water tumbling over rocks

and wind stirring the leafy domes of trees.

Then the monkey on the right lowered his hands

from his wide mouth and slipped away

in search of someone to talk to,

some news he could spread,

maybe something to curse or shout about.

And that left the monkey in the middle

alone with his silent vigil,

shielding his eyes from depravity's spectacle,

blind to the man whipping his horse,

the woman shaking her baby in the air,

but also unable to see

the russet sun on a rough shelf of rock

and apples in the grass at the base of a tree.

Sometimes, he wonders about the other two,

listens for the faint sounds of their breathing

up there on the mantel

alongside the clock and the candlesticks.

And some nights in the quiet house

he wishes he could break the silence with a question,

but he knows the one on his right

would not be able to hear,

and the one to his left,

according to their sacred oath--

the one they all took with one paw raised--

is forbidden forever to speak, even in reply.

It's so easy to be one of these monkeys--ignoring all the evils and cruelties of the world.  Being self-centered.  Humans have selective memories.  We erase the shit that hurts us and cling to what makes us happy.  This fact explains how we ended up with Donald Trump running for President of the United States again.  Mitch McConnell--see no evil.  Lindsey Graham--hear no evil.  However, Republicans do have a habit of speaking evil.  A lot.

In a way, though, we all have a habit of looking away from tragedy and disaster.  One of the first pieces of advice I received on my first trip to New York City was not to look at or even acknowledge homeless people.  I understand this warning, but I had a hard time following it.  At the end of most days in the Big Apple, I had no loose change or dollar bills left in my pockets.  

I live in a country where school shootings happen with alarming frequency.  In fact, they're so common that most people I know barely acknowledge them anymore.  Tragedy has become as common as meatloaf.  Mass shootings sometimes aren't even headline news.  The monkey oath at work again.

People say we have a homeless "problem" where I live.  When I'm working at the library, I encounter a lot of homeless people, especially in the winter when temperatures are brutally (almost fatally) cold in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  I don't ignore these individuals, but I also don't go out of my way to help them out.  Sure, I donate canned goods to food drives and organize fundraising events for local shelters.  I could do a lot more.  Maybe I have a little bit of the monkey in me, as well.

I wrote with one of my best poet pals again this morning.  Worked for half a day at the library.  Drove home, did some laundry, prepared for the online poetry workshop I was supposed to lead tonight.  (Nobody showed up for the workshop, so I went for a walk with my wife, instead.)  Now, I'm watching the Paris Olympics.

I'm a lucky guy.  I have family and friends who love me.  A roof over my head.  Food in the fridge.  Jobs that almost pay all my bills.  A really cute puppy.  Good health.  It's so easy to take all these blessings for granted.

Saint Marty, though,  isn't taking anything for granted tonight, including the fan that's keeping him cool right now.

Unclean

by: Martin Achatz

He was homeless, obvious to anyone

who saw his dirty denim shorts,

ripped tee shirt, shoes that weren't

really shoes anymore but rather

fabric and rubber bound to his feet

with leather laces crisscrossed

from his toes to ankles, looking

like tiny boa constrictors.  Men, women,

children gave wide berth, cast glances

at him as they passed, the younger

merely curious, the older with a pallor

of fear in their cheeks, as if they expected

him to start banging a tin cup for money

or food or in warning, like in Biblical 

times when lepers rang bells, called out 

"Unclean!" as strangers approached.  

I passed him several times as I worked 

through the library, him paging through 

a book that contained pictures of finches

and jays and raptors, his lips moving

silently over the text as if he was

cramming for a final exam.  I never

spoke with him or offered him coffee

or maybe one of the apples from my lunch.

I just let him sit there, a solitary island

filled with the cries of birds and slaps

of emerald and vermillion wings.

June 16: The Crotch, Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, REAL Followers

Out of the trunk, the branches grow; out of them, the twigs. So, in productive subjects, grow the chapters.

The crotch alluded to on a previous page deserves independent mention. It is a notched stick of a peculiar form, some two feet in length, which is perpendicularly inserted into the starboard gunwale near the bow, for the purpose of furnishing a rest for the wooden extremity of the harpoons, whose other naked, barbed end sloping projects from the prow. Thereby the weapon is instantly at hand to its hurler, who snatches it up as readily from its rest as a backwoodsman swings his rifle from the wall. It is customary to have two harpoons reposing in the crotch, respectively called the first and second irons.

But these two harpoons, each by its own cord, are both connected with the line; the object being this: to dart them both, if possible, one instantly after the other into the same whale; so that if, in the coming drag, one should draw out, the other may still retain a hold. It is a doubling of the chances. But it very often happens that owing to the instantaneous, violent, convulsive running of the whale upon receiving the first iron, it becomes impossible for the harpooneer, however lightning-like in his movements, to pitch the second iron into him. Nevertheless, as the second iron is already connected with the line, and the line is running, hence that weapon must, at all events, be anticipatingly tossed out of the boat, somehow and somewhere; else the most terrible jeopardy would involve all hands. Tumbled into the water, it accordingly is in such cases; the spare coils of box line (mentioned in a preceding chapter) making this feat, in most instances, prudently practicable. But this critical act is not always unattended with the saddest and most fatal casualties.

Furthermore: you must know that when the second iron is thrown overboard, it thenceforth becomes a dangling, sharp-edged terror, skittishly curvetting about both boat and whale, entangling the lines, or cutting them, and making a prodigious sensation in all directions. Nor, in general, is it possible to secure it again until the whale is fairly captured and a corpse.

Consider, now, how it must be in the case of four boats all engaging one unusually strong, active, and knowing whale; when owing to these qualities in him, as well as to the thousand concurring accidents of such an audacious enterprise, eight or ten loose second irons may be simultaneously dangling about him. For, of course, each boat is supplied with several harpoons to bend on to the line should the first one be ineffectually darted without recovery. All these particulars are faithfully narrated here, as they will not fail to elucidate several most important however intricate passages, in scenes hereafter to be painted.

The title of this chapter is "The Crotch."  I mention this fact because it is kind of impossible to miss the sexual imagery in these paragraphs.  The barbed harpoons resting in the crotch, waiting to be plunged into the flesh of the unsuspecting whale.  I'm hoping that I don't have to go much further with my explication.  If I do, this blog may have to be listed as having adult content.  Of course, Melville is writing a book about whaling.  There aren't a whole lot of women in it.  Plus, nineteenth-century America wasn't a particularly enlightened time when it comes to gender issues.  Patriarchy, patriarchy, patriarchy.

This morning, I heard a report on National Public Radio about the students from Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School going on a bus tour of the United States to mobilize young voters for the 2018 midterm elections.  Of course, the focus of these students is gun legislation.  During the report, an "expert" on elections was interviewed.  He (of course) was skeptical about these young people making that much of an impact on the outcome this November.  I believe one of his final statements was, "It's still five months away.  It's hard to sustain any kind of momentum that long."  It was almost like he was patting these kids on the head, saying, "Nice try.  Now, go back to Snapping on your cell phones."

It was more than a little dismissive.  Sadly, the government of my country has been dominated for so long by gun-toting, harpoon-wielding men that this guy's prediction may be accurate.  If I may use an analogy, it takes a lot of effort to turn the Titanic away from the iceberg.  And right now, it feels like I'm living on the Titanic and all the people in Washington, D. C., are trying to rearrange the deck chairs instead of steering the ship.  All those white guys are protecting their bank accounts and prescriptions for Viagra instead of keeping our kids safe.

You know that I try to stay away from too much political discussion on this blog, but that news report really bothered me.  Plus, I'm getting tired of politicians who call themselves Christians cutting social programs for the underprivileged and uninsured, proclaiming that they're doing what's right for the country.  Last time I checked, the job of the leaders of this country was to look out for everyone living here, not just those with bank accounts that rival the GDP of third world countries.

Christians don't witness a school shooting and think that the way to solve problem is with more guns.  Christians don't take refugee children away from their parents and lock them up in warehouses.  Christians don't take food assistance away from the poor and elderly.  Christians don't let sick people die because they don't have health insurance.  Christians don't complain about all the homeless people ruining their communities.  Christianity is NOT about zero tolerance.  Christianity is ALL about tolerance.

If you call yourself a Christian and disagree with me about any of the statements I made in the previous paragraph, then you are NOT a real Christian.  You are just a person who goes to church one day a week.  That's it.

My intent here is not to upset anyone.  It's to call out hypocrites.  I'm a Christian.  I'm a white male.  I don't want to be part of the problem.  So I speak my mind.  Raise money for homeless shelters.  Donate to can drives.  Refuse to vote for candidates who take money from gun lobbies (Republican or Democrat).  Support public education and teachers, universal health care, and free college tuition.  Care about refugees and immigrants.  That doesn't make me a liberal or bleeding heart.  That's makes me a REAL follower of Jesus.

Saint Marty is thankful today for all the REAL followers out there.