April 18: Lots of Work, Robert Hayden, "Monet's Waterlilies"

It's raining.  The sun is setting, and a cold, pelting rain is coming down.  I'm looking forward to the end of the day, the time when I can set aside thoughts of work and school.  That time will not be happening soon.  I still have lots of work to do.

I am tired.  I have a lesson plan to complete, quiz to put together.  Then, papers to grade.  Lots of papers.  Poems to pick out for my reading on Thursday.  My week will not slow down until about 7 p.m. on Thursday night.

Maybe Saint Marty should have painted water lilies instead of writing poetry.

Monet's Waterlilies

by:  Robert Hayden

Today as the news from Selma and Saigon
poisons the air like fallout,
I come again to see
the serene, great picture that I love.

Here space and time exist in light
the eye like the eye of faith believes.
The seen, the known
dissolve in iridescence, become
illusive flesh of light
that was not, was, forever is.

O light beheld as through refracting tears.
Here is the aura of that world
each of us has lost.
Here is the shadow of its joy.

November 27: Daily Grind, Lots of Work, Classic Saint Marty

It's always difficult coming to the end of a holiday weekend.  Tomorrow, I must return to the daily grind.  Work.  Teaching.  Grading.  Staying up late.  Getting up early.  Praying for the weekend to come.

I have loads of work that I have to do this afternoon.  I'm going to be competing with my daughter for use of my laptop, because, like me, she's put a lot of her homework off until today.  I will accomplish as much as I can today, but I refuse to stress about everything.  I can't.  It's not worth it.

Speaking of stress, I will also find out if, or what, I am teaching next semester at the university.  The course assignments are about a month overdue, and I have a feeling that a lot of contingent instructors are going to be quite unhappy with the news.  I am withholding comment until I see what's coming my way.  Then I will throw myself on the ground, grind and gnash my teeth, wail a little bit, and start wearing sackcloth.  I might even throw some ashes on my head.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty aired about four years ago, in the middle of a snowstorm, the day after Thanksgiving.  It's about a tradition that is no longer a tradition--the annual day-after-Thanksgiving Chocolate Potluck.  Those were the days.

November 23, 2012:  After Tea, P.O.E.T.S. Day, Chocolate Potluck

After tea, they had some music.  For they were a musical family, and knew what they were about, when they sang a Glee or Catch.  I can assure you:  especially Topper, who could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the face over it.

One of my favorite sections of A Christmas Carol concerns the party at Scrooge's nephew Fred's house.  Fred jokes about his uncle, about his wife's cooking, about his inability to tell a story.  He laughs at everything, especially himself.  Fred would be the character from this novel voted most likely to play beer pong.

I like Fred.  I aspire to be like Fred--affable and friendly with everyone.  I don't like being angry.  I prefer to overlook flaws of character or moments of asshole-ness.  I like laughing, even if it's at my own expense.  And I like being around people.

This P.O.E.T.S. Day, the day after Thanksgiving, I participated in our eleventh annual Chocolate Potluck.  There are basically only two people who work on Black Friday in the Medical Center--myself and a guy from I.T.  We have worked together on this day for over ten years.  And we are both chocolate lovers.  Eleven years ago, we decided to bring chocolate products to work.  A lot of chocolate products.  Dove and Godiva and Ghiradelli and Hershey.  White fudge Oreos.  Chocolate-covered cherries and raspberries.  Our selection has expanded and improved each year.

This year was no different.  Although a snowstorm was raging outside, we were inside, stuffing our faces to celebrate the commencement of the yuletide season.  I felt like Fred, welcoming guests and telling embarrassing stories and listening to Christmas music on my computer.  Bing Crosby has been at every Chocolate Potluck we've had.  He doesn't eat much, and he's a great baritone.

The Christmas holidays are upon us.  Saint Marty has the leftovers at work to prove it.  On Monday morning, he will rummage through the chocolate box, eat a Hershey Bell or peanut butter M&M, and think of Fred and his group of friends.  Maybe Saint Marty will sing a Glee or Catch, whatever the hell they are.

This puts a jingle in my bells

November 2: Gray Day, Apologies, Work

It has been a very gray day, in more ways than weather.  This morning, I found out that a good friend has a daughter who just received some very serious health news.  It sort of put a pall over the rest of the day for me.  I've been thinking about my friend and her family all day.  It's hard for me to know how to help them.  One of my other friends is planning on cooking something for them.  At the moment, all I can think to do is pray.

It's sad, but prayer is usually the last thing people turn to.  First, you try to fix the problem yourself.  When that doesn't work , you turn to the most appropriate professional.  Doctor.  Lawyer.  Psychiatrist.  McDonald's fry cook.  Then, when all else fails, you think of praying.  That's all back-asswards.  I have learned through my life's lessons that prayer shouldn't be the last resort.  It should be the first.  Because, in a lot of situations, prayer is the only thing that's going to do any good.

I must apologize for the fact that I have no new poem for you today.  I've started writing one, but just haven't found the time to sit and concentrate on it.  Perhaps I will get it done tomorrow for my disciples.  No promises at the moment.  I still have much to accomplish for my mythology class tomorrow afternoon.

That's all I have for ya this evening.  A plea for prayer and an apology.

Saint Marty hasn't been a very good saint or blogger or poet today.

Not the last resort...