February 1, 2026: “Reincarnation,” Someone Else, “In Response to a Stanza from ‘A Prayer for Old Age’ by William Butler Yeats”

When I was in middle and high school, I wanted to be the reincarnation of Flannery O’Connor.  As an undergrad, I switched to Robert Frost and Walt Whitman.  In grad school, I branched out a little—I wanted to be Mozart 2.0 or van Gogh 2.0.  

I hail from a family of plumbers, and I always wanted to know from whom my artistic abilities came.  I love writing, drawing, acting, singing, playing music.  My father was a great plumber; that was his art.  My mother loved singing and reading and, occasionally, doodling, but she was a pretty common sense lady.  No flights of fancy for her.  My siblings were/are pretty brilliant, as well.  My sister Sally had a photographic memory; she was one of the smartest people I will ever know.  My sister, Rose, who had Down Syndrome, was a genius of love; she could make anyone feel like the most important person in the world.  My brothers (all three of them) have/had innate skills with plumbing and electricity.  I could go on, but you get the idea.

Marie Howe contemplates past lives . . . 

Reincarnation

by: Marie Howe

Sometimes when I look at our dog Jack I think

he might be my radical American History professor come back

to make amends—he gazes at me so sorrowfully.

What is it Jack, I say, why do you look like that?  But Jack

doesn’t answer; he lies down and rests his head on his paws.

Black hair covered nearly all of that man’s body, thick 

under his blue oxford shirt when I put my hand there.

Perhaps that accounted for the bow tie,

the pipe, the tweed cap.

This time I can teach him to sit and to stay.

Stay, I say to Jack who looks at the treat in my hand

and then at me, and at the treat and then at me, and he stays.

Come, I say to Jack, but Jack does not always come.

Sometimes he waits and looks at me a long time,

as when my professor would lean back in his chair

draw on his pipe and gaze at me.

But when I hold a treat Jack comes, and I remember how

the professor would lick dripping honey from the jar

lick peanut butter from the knife.

A little stubborn, our dog Jack,

shy we thought,

until the morning my daughter jumped on my bed

and Jack sprang at her growling,

and the next morning when he rushed towards her growling

and bit her skirt and tore it, and bit her and broke her skin,

and when I went to collar him, bit me, snarling and bit and bit.

That’s when I was pretty sure he was my history professor.

The vet said this happens more often than you’d imagine.

He must always be tethered, she said, until he can be trusted.

He must learn that you and your daughter come first.

And no more couch and no more sleeping in the bed with you Mama,

not ever.

I finally left him so late at night it was nearly dawn—

picking up my boots by the door,

stepping down the two flights, then running towards the car.

What can I say?  Jack may be my American History professor come back.

After all these years to make amends,

or Jack may be actually himself—a dog.

It’s a funny poem, but it sort of touches upon the same question that I started this post with:  from where do talents, gifts, and personalities come?  Howe attributes Jack’s aggression to her former American History professor.  Jack has the same stubbornness, same hunger for food and attention.

I don’t think I carry the spiritual or artistic DNA of Flannery O’Connor or Walt Whitman.  I will never reach the elevated status of Robert Frost or William Butler Years.   Most readers of this blog will agree that those writers were head and shoulders above.  They had gifts that the world will never see again.

I think all artists stand on the shoulders of the greats, from poets to painters to composers to actors.  I know I do.  If I get stuck when I’m writing a poem, I immediately turn to writers who inspire me.  When I go anywhere, I always carry books by favorite poets.  Currently, in my shoulder bag, I have collections by Jonathan Johnson and Ross Gay (plus Marie Howe, of course).  Before I started writing this little reflection, I sat and read some poems from Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude.  Doing that cleared my head, emptied it of noise, and I was able to start writing.

Each time I scribble in my journal or tap away on my laptop, I always feel like I’m a conduit.  I can even tell when it happens—the world suddenly fades away, and I’m can feel someone/something else take over.  Images and words and language flow easily, and, when I’m done, I’ve got a new poem or essay or blog post.  I guess you could call it inspiration, but who knows the true origins of inspiration?  It might God or luck.  Or it might be Flannery O’Connor’s ghost.

I have learned it’s not wise to question the divine spark when it appears.  You just simply accept it and say “thanks.”

Saint Marty wrote a poem for today, inspired by the ghost of William Butler Yeats . . . 

In Response to a Stanza from ‘A Prayer for Old Age’ by William Butler Yeats

by: Martin Achatz

Grant me, God, snow on my tongue

Impossible to ignore;

They who winter the air with words

Cool the July of war.

June 22: "Quickie Ekphrasis," Art, "Everyday Ekphrasis"

Billy Collins at tea time . . .

Quickie Ekphrasis

by: Billy Collins

I looked at a postcard

of Mount Rushmore

while I cooled my tea with a spoon

then I turned over

the postcard of Mount Rushmore

and bit into a buttered scone.

Art happens every minute of every day.  Ask any poet or painter or quilter or musician.  Sure, every once in a while, inspiration strikes and something new and beautiful is born.  However, if an artist (or poet or musician or fill-in-the-blank) always waits to be inspired before picking up a brush (or pen or violin or fill-in-the-blank), then there would be much less painting and poetry and punk in the world.  (Yes, punk music is an art.)

I have to confess that I don't really believe in inspiration.  My poems are usually written through struggle and stress, each one going through draft after draft.  The trick for me is practice.  I write all the time.  Even if I'm just running to the post office to mail a postcard, I take my journal and pen with me.  Because you never know when a poem will tap you on your shoulder.  You have to be ready.  All.  The.  Time.

And, as I said at the beginning of this post, we are surrounded by art every day.  We just have to train our eyes (or ears or bodies) to recognize it.  Once a person opens up to that recognition, it becomes much easier to write a new poem or paint a new landscape.

It has been raining since I woke up this morning.  It's cool tonight, with no stars or moon.  In short, not a day that inspires anything but naps and comfort food.  Yet, I managed to write this blog post and the poem below.  Through sheer stubbornness.

Saint Marty may write about the callous on his big toe tomorrow

Everyday Ekphrasis

by: Martin Achatz

Isn't every poem

an act of ekphrasis,

including this one

about my dog shitting

in my backyard

as rain turns the grass

into a pond Monet

would have painted?

February 24: "Used Book," Perpetually Tired, Back in the Saddle

Billy Collins reading a . . .

Used Book

by:  Billy Collins

I turn a page

someone dog-eared,

like the bent ear

of a dog who's still lost.

Yes, I have been absent for quite a while.  I know that.  I'd like to say that I've been putting the finishing touches on a novel or collection of poems (I've been doing a little of the latter).  But that's not the reason.  I could claim sickness, but that's not the reason, either.  Teaching?  Nope.  Planning the Great Lakes Poetry Festival for the library where I work?  A little.  Working as an undercover poet for President Biden writing limericks about his predecessor?  Sounds like fun, but no.

The truth of the matter is that I've been tired.  Perpetually tired.  I usually write these blog posts either very early in the morning (when everyone in my house is still asleep) or very late at night (when everyone in my house has gone to bed).  However, my writing impulses have been running on low battery for the last month or so, and all I want to do is . . . sleep.  And once you fall out of a routine, it's hard to pick it up again.

People don't realize the energy it takes to write.  There are constant distractions--laundry to fold, papers to grade, a book to finish, a movie or TV show to watch.  Being able to set all that aside takes willpower and determination.  (Notice I didn't say "inspiration."  If I always waited to be inspired before I pick up a pen to write, I would never write again.)  Writing is plain hard work.

What have I been doing instead or writing?  Well, I've been rereading some of my favorite books and poetry collections.  Books that I've scribbled marginalia in, dog-eared pages of, and memorized passages from.  Old friends.  Collins compares the bent pages of well-loved books to the bent ear of a lost dog.  We're both saying the same thing--the words and pages of used books are comforting in times of chaos and upheaval and exhaustion.

I'm going to try to get back into the writing saddle.  No guarantees what I produce will be profound or funny or even interesting.  The next post I write may simply be my grocery list or a catalogue of Sharon Olds' books on my bookshelf (there are a lot).  But Rome wasn't built in a day, and runners don't start with marathons.  (Apologies for the clichés.  It's the best I can do at the moment.)

So, this lost dog is back home, and hopefully you will be reading a lot more of the Gospel of Saint Marty in the coming days.

 

September 5: Quick Post, Busiest Day of the Week, Underwater Swim

Welcome to my mad-dash post after working for eight hours, in between teaching classes in mythology and composition.  I am trying to conserve my energy for my students.  By the time the clock hits 9 p.m., I will be officially brain dead.

I surprised myself this afternoon, however.  I walked into my mythology class with a skeleton of an idea for a lesson.  Yes, I'd written out details in my planner--journal entries for my students to write, topics to cover, a group exercise that seemed as dead as the goldfish my son won at the county fair.  But I had no idea how to string all these things together into a cohesive class.

Before I stepped into the classroom, I said this little prayer in my head:  "God, grant me a little wisdom to do and say the right things today."  Then I walked through the door and started talking.  And it all sort of came together.  I don't know how.  I found myself discussing creation and flood narratives, the collective unconscious, fluid sexuality, taboos.  I'm not sure if I held everyone's attention, but I felt fully engaged, which I didn't expect.

As most of the disciples of this blog know, I've been struggling recently with depression and anxiety.  It has muddied my thinking.  Today, in mythology, I felt like I had surfaced after a long underwater swim.  I was able to breathe and see light for a few moments.

Of course, I have another class to teach, and I may find myself simply treading water tonight in front of my students.  But for a few moments today, I actually felt totally myself, and I haven't experienced that in a few weeks.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for inspiration.

June 21: Gay Nineties Couple, Inspiration, Hard Work

Billy brushed his teeth on Tralfamadore, put in his partial denture, and went into his kitchen.  His bottled-gas range and his refrigerator and his dishwasher were mint green, too.  There was a picture painted on the door of the refrigerator.  The refrigerator had come that way.  It was a picture of a Gay Nineties couple on a bicycle built for two.

Billy looked at the picture now, tried to think something about the couple.  Nothing came to him.  There didn't seem to be anything to think about those two people.

I understand Billy's predicament today.  He can't conjure up any thoughts regarding the couple on the bicycle built for two.  I'm not really inspired to write anything about this particular passage from Slaughterhouse.  Usually, when I type a section from the book, some thought immediately pops into my head.  Free association.  Today, nothing's popping.

Inspiration is a strange thing.  I would say that I've read a lot of writing that I would call inspired.  I've seen a lot of performances--on stage and screen--that I would categorize as inspired, as well.  The same is true for most of the arts.  Music.  Painting.  Sketching.  Photography.  All inspired.  (Not mimes.  Never mimes.)

However, as a working poet and writer, I will say that waiting until I feel inspired to write wouldn't really work.  I would never sit down to write anything.  Instead, I would be constantly out in search of inspiration.  Sunrises or sunsets or poems or chocolate cake or Janis Joplin playing on the radio.  Inspiration is like lightning.  It doesn't strike the same place twice.

No, tonight, I'm going to sit down with my journal and force myself to work on a couple of writing projects I have going.  There will be no Muse dictating in my ear.  I will simply write and write and write until I come up with something that's not embarrassing.  That pretty much describes my process.  As Natalie Goldberg advises, I give myself permission to write shit, in hopes that something beautiful might flower out of it.

Now I won't completely discount the possibility of  being inspired tonight.  It might happen.  However, I'm not going to wait for it.  I have work to get done.  That's what writers do.  They work, and that work is hard.  But it's also the best thing in the world when I come up with one perfect word, one great image, one elegant sentence.  That's what it's all about.  String letters together, hoping for a miracle.

Saint Marty is thankful for the ability to write this evening.

April 9: Jealousy, Billy Collins, "Flock"

Yes, I owe you some poetry.  Since all I've been carrying around is the collection, Aimless Love, it is Billy Collins again.

It's one of those poems that I read and think to myself, "Dammit, I wish I had written that."  My two Constant Readers know that I have a little problem with jealousy.  It's one of my many character flaws.  And when I find a poem that I really love, it makes me want to write a better poem.  I suppose that's a good thing.  Some people may say that I'm being inspired by the poem.  I think I'm just competing.  But that's okay.  A little competition never hurt anybody.

I haven't written a new poem in several months now.  I've been too wrapped up in work and teaching.  By the time I get home at night, I can barely stay awake.  Soon, the semester will be coming to an end, and I will have about two months before I start teaching again.  Hopefully, I can start competing with Billy Collins during that time.

In the meantime, Saint Marty will just seethe with envy.

Flock

by:  Billy Collins

          It has been calculated that each copy of
          the Gutenburg Bible . . . required the
          skins of 300 sheep.
               ---from an article on printing

I can see them squeezed into the holding pen
behind the stone building
where the printing press is housed,

all of them squirming around
to find a little room
and looking so much alike

it would be nearly impossible
to count them,
and there is no telling

which one will carry the news
that the Lord is a shepherd,
one of the few things they already know.

This cartoon inspired by Charles Schulz . . .

September 9: Well into Mid-Career, Daily Grind, Judith Minty, "Starlings"

Forty-five years old, Ives was considered well into midcareer, and was already thinking about retiring in another ten years or so; there was a grind about the job that was slowly wearing him down, even if he no longer put in the kind of hours he had when he was in his late twenties and early thirties...

At about the age I am now, Ives has lost the drive he once had as a young advertising executive.  He has made his mark in the professional world, and he no longer has to prove himself on a daily basis.  Ives has made "it," whatever "it" may be.  Now, he is considered a member of the old school in his place of employment, with newer, younger artists hungry to take his place.  Ives is getting tired of the daily grind.

And, yes, today I am tired of the daily grind.  I've been working since 6 a.m.  I've taught two classes, registered close to 70 patients, attended a meeting for the university's literary magazine, and spent my entire evening on lesson plans and schoolwork.  I am beat.  Tired.  Exhausted.  Grumpy.  Hungry.  Short-tempered.  Uninspired.

I am waiting for my energy and enthusiasm for work to return.  I am waiting for the sadness to dissipate even a little.  For weeks, I haven't felt normal, and I want to feel normal again.  Until it does, I will be dragging myself through my days, finding inspiration wherever I can.

This morning, I saw the aurora borealis in great green sheets over a lake.  That inspired me.  Tonight, when I put my son to bed, he hugged me hard, told me that I was a great daddy.  That inspired me.  Judith Minty's poems inspire me.

Saint Marty is tired of the daily grind.

Starlings

by:  Judith Minty

When I lived along the coast, starlings filled my lawn.
Shrieking, the black cloud descended,
then lifted as if to shake loose the frenzy,
then lit again to pierce the soil.
They bickered and pecked in a wildness magnified by numbers, then
glinting sparks, they rose,
swarmed sideways to my neighbor's yard,
rapacious voices never ceasing, no time left for breath.

Yup, that's inspiring

December 15: More Inspiration, Maya Angelou, "Amazing Peace: A Christmas Poem"

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Still looking for some inspiration for my Christmas poem.  I just discovered this poem by Maya Angelou.  She wrote it for the 2005 White House tree-lighting ceremony.  It's classic Angelou.  Profound.  Beautiful.  Wise.

I can actually hear Dr. Angelou's voice as I read it.  The world really is a darker place with her not in it.  She was one of those bright, shining individuals who profoundly changed the world.

Saint Marty can only profoundly change the television channel.

Amazing Peace:  A Christmas Poem

by:  Maya Angelou

Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes
And lightning rattles the eaves of our houses.
Flood waters await us in our avenues.

Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche
Over unprotected villages.
The sky slips low and grey and threatening.

We question ourselves.
What have we done to so affront nature?
We worry God.
Are you there? Are you there really?
Does the covenant you made with us still hold?

Into this climate of fear and apprehension, Christmas enters,
Streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope
And singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air.
The world is encouraged to come away from rancor,
Come the way of friendship.

It is the Glad Season.
Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner.
Flood waters recede into memory.
Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us
As we make our way to higher ground.

Hope is born again in the faces of children
It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets.
Hope spreads around the earth. Brightening all things,
Even hate which crouches breeding in dark corridors.

In our joy, we think we hear a whisper.
At first it is too soft. Then only half heard.
We listen carefully as it gathers strength.
We hear a sweetness.
The word is Peace.
It is loud now. It is louder.
Louder than the explosion of bombs.

We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by its presence.
It is what we have hungered for.
Not just the absence of war. But, true Peace.
A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.
Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas.
We beckon this good season to wait a while with us.
We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come.
Peace.
Come and fill us and our world with your majesty.
We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian,
Implore you, to stay a while with us.
So we may learn by your shimmering light
How to look beyond complexion and see community.

It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time.

On this platform of peace, we can create a language
To translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.

At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the Birth of Jesus Christ
Into the great religions of the world.
We jubilate the precious advent of trust.
We shout with glorious tongues at the coming of hope.
All the earth's tribes loosen their voices
To celebrate the promise of Peace.

We, Angels and Mortals, Believers and Non-Believers,
Look heavenward and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at our world and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at each other, then into ourselves
And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation.

Peace, My Brother.
Peace, My Sister.
Peace, My Soul.

Peace, Dr. Angelou

December 11: Inspiration, Paul Muldoon, "Truce"

Another day, another Christmas poem.  This one comes from Paul Muldoon and is about a Christmas truce that happened on the battlefield during World War I.  German, English, Russian, and French soldiers getting together on December 24 to celebrate.  It's one of my favorite Christmas stories, and it's the basis of one of my favorite Christmas movies--Joyeux Noel.

Still haven't come up with an idea for my Christmas poem.  I'm definitely going to work on it tonight.  Do some free writes.  Try to find a little inspiration.  Paul Muldoon.  Lisel Mueller.  Maybe some Robert Frost.

Saint Marty doesn't discriminate when it comes to his muses.

Truce

by:  Paul Muldoon

It begins with one or two soldiers
And one or two following
With hampers over their shoulders.

They might be off wildfowling

As they would another Christmas Day,
So gingerly they pick their steps.

No one seems sure of what to do.

All stop when one stops.

A fire gets lit.
Some spread
Their greatcoats on the frozen ground.

Polish vodka, fruit and bread
Are broken out and passed round.

The air of an old German song,
The rules of Patience, are the secrets
They'll share before long.

They draw on their last cigarettes

As Friday-night lovers, when it's over,
Might get up from their mattresses
To congratulate each other
And exchange names and addresses.

Joyeux Noel

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December 10: Christmas Poem, Lisel Mueller, "Blood Oranges"

I am back to posting two times a day, now that my grading is done and I have a moment to think.  I've decided to focus on not-so-famous Christmas poems this week.

I need to start writing my Christmas poem for this year.  I'm hoping this little exercise will help inspire me a little bit.  Reading great poets and poems usually does.  Lisel Mueller is one of my favorites.  Her Christmas poem is gorgeous.

Saint Marty should be so lucky to write a poem like this.

Blood Oranges

by:  Lisel Mueller

In 1936, a child
in Hitler's Germany,
what did I know about the war in Spain?
Andalusia was a tango
on a wind-up gramophone,
Franco a hero's face in the paper.

No one told me about a poet
for whose sake I might have learned Spanish
bleeding to death on a barren hill.

All I knew of Spain
were those precious imported treats
we splurged on for Christmas.

I remember pulling the sections apart,
lining them up, sucking each one
slowly, so the red sweetness
would last and last --
while I was reading a poem
by a long-dead German poet
in which the woods stood safe
under the moon's milky eye
and the white fog in the meadows
aspired to become lighter than air.

I'm feeling inspired

October 22: Essay Revision, Robert Frost, "Christmas Trees"

I have been working on a revision of a Christmas essay for a few weeks now.  For some reason, I'm having a really difficult time.  The editor who wants to publish the essay gave me a couple of suggestions, and I thought the rewrite was going to be easy.  I was wrong.

I sit, listening to Christmas music, every night, trying to get some inspiration.  I'm not sure if anything I've rewritten is good.  In fact, I'm pretty convinced I have lost my touch.  I'm slowly sinking into a little bit of a funk.

So, in another attempt to gain some inspiration, I've chosen a Robert Frost Christmas poem.

Saint Marty needs to get back to work now.

Christmas Trees

by:  Robert Frost

The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine,
I said, “There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
“I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over.”

“You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north.
He said, “A thousand.”

“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”

He felt some need of softening that to me:
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”

Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

Ho, ho, help!

November 19: Ten-Thirty, Finished, Prayer

It was around ten-thirty, I guess, when I finished it.  I wasn't tired, though, so I looked out the window for a while...

Holden's talking about writing an essay for his roommate, Stradlater.  As I've said before, writing is easy for Holden.  He doesn't struggle at all.


I've been struggling quite a bit writing my Christmas essay this year.  I've been struggling with my subject, my structure, my transitions.  Today, I realized that I had the wrong title.  That's right.  I said title.  Titles are very important to my writing process.  They focus me, keep me on track.  If I don't have a title, I can't even start writing, whether it's a poem, short story, essay, or blog post.

I think I have the right title now, and a good structure.  I'm on my way to completion.  But I still could use some help.

Dear God,

You know about my writing struggles this past week, and You know my deadline is looming.   I don't have much time left.

So, I'm asking for inspiration.  I'm asking for You to help me finish my Christmas essay.  You gave me a new title earlier today.  Now, I need to get 'er done.  I'm at three pages and counting.  I need to wrap it up.

Help me to see my way to the conclusion tonight.  I'll follow where You lead me.

Your trusting child,

Saint Marty

What did I do with my club?

July 24: Still Unmotivated

I'm still not very enthusiastic about writing today.  It's one of those times, as a writer, when one side of my brain is saying "sit down and write anything" and the other side of my brain is whispering "don't you want to finish reading that novel instead?"  I just can't shake off that stupid whisper.

However, I am sitting at my keyboard, pounding out this post.  I'm not going to say anything particularly smart or earth-shattering.  I don't really believe in writer's block.  I can always write something, even if it's not very interesting.  I know this post is not going to be interesting.  It's going to be simply done.  I will have composed one or two paragraphs about absolutely nothing.

That's the hard part of being a writer.  It's work.  Even if you don't feel like doing it, you do it.  You can't wait for inspiration to strike.  If I waited for inspiration, I would write about five posts a year, and approximately half a poem.  Instead, I sit here, typing away, not saying anything.

That's what real writing is about.  That's what real writers do.  They write and write and write, and, hopefully, something good appears.  Realistically, nothing good will appear today.  Instead, I'll just sound whiny and uninspired.

That's what Saint Marty has for hid disciples today:  a whole lot of zilch, with a little whine on the side.

Waiting for the panic to set in

March 19: Ghosts, Emily Dickinson at McDonald's, and Psalm 11

This morning when I woke up, I followed my normal routine of praying, showering, and then asking for God to send me my poem for the day.  It didn't work.  As I got breakfast for my son, changed his diaper, dressed him, I was in a panic.  Inspiration has been striking me so quickly these days, I thought maybe I had gone to the well one too many times.  Maybe it was bone dry, closed for the season.

My family and I went to McDonald's for breakfast.  We ordered and started eating.  The whole time I'm chewing on my sausage biscuit, I'm thinking of possible subject matter--"In Praise of Cholesterol" or "Thank God for Buttering My Biscuit" or "Save Me From Heart Disease, Lord."  Nothing was really clicking with me.  Then my daughter took a picture of me with her iPod Touch.  She did something to the photo with a free app she had downloaded and showed me the result.

There, sitting over my shoulder, was the ghost of Emily Dickinson.  I had my poem.  God wasn't letting me struggle for shits and grins.  He was waiting to give me a picture to post AND a poem to write.  It took me about another hour-and-a-half to write the psalm.  Add in another couple hours of tweaking, and viola!--Psalm 11.  Enjoy!

(For the record, Saint Marty is a firm believer in ghosts.)



Saint Marty and the ghost of Emily

Psalm 11:  Praise for the Nun of Amherst

Lord—send the buzz of poetry

A fly—black as the grave—

Bless me with the gift of verse—

The ghost of Emily.

Fill my lines with feathers—Lord—

Song perches in my soul—

My spirit hops—Its caws—It crows—

It fills the air with hymns.

If my psalm seems narrow—weak—

Thin fellow in the grass—

Pardon my unbraiding words—

They stumble into bog.

But if my music makes White Heat

Against vermilion cloud—

Take flight with me—My Heart—My Love—

Rise toward Eternity.

December 22: Saint Chaeremon

I owe my readers a huge apology for my prolonged absence from my blog.  My list of excuses is long and really unimpressive:

1. I got caught up with end-of-semester teaching and grading.
2. I got caught up with holiday preparations and responsibilities.
3. I  got caught up with other projects, including teaching a spiritual journaling workshop and writing my annual Christmas poem.
4. I got caught up with my duties as a church musician and worship leader.

Are you buying it yet?  Am I forgiven?  If not, I'll add one more excuse to the above list.  While my other excuses were true, the following one cuts closer to the real reason I haven't blogged in over a month:

     5.  I got caught up with being lazy.

Especially with writing, it becomes very easy to find other, more "important" tasks to accomplish.  I can think my way out of any writing situation.  My line of reasoning usually follows this pattern:

I really need to sit down and write a post for my blog.  It's been way too long.  But first, since I'm at the computer, I should check my e-mail to see if anyone is trying to get hold of me.  Hey, look at how cheap Kindles are now.  I should go to Amazon.com and see about ordering one.  Wow, they're offering free, 2-day shipping for Christmas.  I wonder if the stuff I ordered on Monday has been delivered yet.  I should track my package.  It's out on the UPS truck right now.  It'll probably be there when I get home from work.  I should check to see if my syllabus needs to be updated for next semester.  I should...

You get the idea.  I could go on and on about the shiny objects that distracted me from the business of writing.  It's easy to become distracted  because, despite the pleasure I derive from writing, writing is hard, time-consuming work.  And it's lonely.  When I write and post blogs, I know there are people reading them.  For the most part, however, it feels like I'm stuffing notes in bottles and tossing them in the ocean.  The conversation, for the most part, is pretty one-way.

Again, I am making pretty lame excuses for my lack of communication in the past month or so.  So, I will just say I'm sorry.  I am not dead.  Or ill.  Or angry.  Or in rehab.  I just fell out of the habit of writing, and now I have to teach myself to love writing again.

In some ways, my relationship with writing is sort of like my relationship with Christianity.  I get lazy.  I start making excuses.  I get tired.  Cranky.  Worn out.  I become distracted by shiny objects--books I want to read instead of devotions, movies I want to watch instead of worship videos, naps I want to take instead of praying.  I'm easily distracted from two of the things that are very important in my life:  my faith and my writing.  I'm not proud of that character flaw, but I know it exists.  And admitting that you have a problem is the first step to recovery.

I'm in recovery right now.  Even as I write these words, I'm thinking of all the things I need to accomplish before Christmas Eve.  Shiny objects abound.

So, I'm trying to get back into blogging on a regular basis.  It's a struggle right now, as I've said.  I feel unfocused, uncreative, and uninspired.  Granted, I can't always wait for inspiration in order to write something.  If I did that, I might as well burn my journal, donate my fountain pen to some poetry half-way house, and start watching reruns of Little House on the Prairie.  Inspiration is actually a small component of the writing process, maybe 4%.  The other 96% is all hard work and dedication.

Chaeremon, today's patron, was Bishop of Nilopolis during a time in the third century when Christians were being hunted, killed, and driven into hiding.  Chaeremon, who was a "very old man," fled into the mountains with a friend and was never seen again, despite extended searches by fellow followers of Christ.  Chaeremon simply vanished.

This saint's story is not quite as gruesome as other martyr's stories.  He wasn't burned alive or drawn-and-quartered.  He wasn't decapitated or fed to hungry bears.  He just disappeared.  My guess about most saints is that the majority of their accomplishments are the result of 4% divine inspiration (visions of Jesus or the Virgin Mary; prophetic dreams; levitation; miraculous healing) and 96% hard work (climbing mountains; building churches and schools; begging for food for the poor; being tortured).  In other words, it's just like writing.

Sometimes grace will guide what you do.  Most of the time, you just have to disappear into the mountains and hope some bright star appears to light your way.

I'm looking up, waiting for my star to appear.  I haven't vanished into a cave.  I have my pen.  I have my paper.  Just add water and inspiration.  I'm heading down the mountainside, one rock, one crater, one cliff at a time.