August 24, 2025: “High School Senior,” Dreams, “Breathing”

It has been a week of ghosts, strangely.

It started with a memorial service for the father of a good friend of mine.  A lovely, selfless man who launched me on my career as a writer.  That service happened on the tenth anniversary of my sister Sally’s passing.  On Thursday, I led an open mic at Al Quaal, a little recreation area in my home town.  The open mic was, among other things, in honor the third anniversary of the transition of one of my best friends..

If you’re keeping count, that’s three ghosts.

Sharon Olds writes about the ghost of her daughter . . . 

High School Senior

by: Sharon Olds

For seventeen years, her breath in the house
at night, puff, puff, like summer
cumulus above her bed,
and her scalp smelling of apricots
—this being who had formed within me,
squatted like a wide-eyed tree-frog in the night,
like an eohippus she had come out of history
slowly, through me, into the daylight,
I had the daily sight of her,
like food or air she was there, like a mother.
I say “college,” but I feel as if I cannot tell
the difference between her leaving for college
and our parting forever—I try to see
this apartment without her, without her pure
depth of feeling, without her creek-brown
hair, her daedal hands with their tapered
fingers, her pupils dark as the mourning cloak’s
wing, but I can’t. Seventeen years
ago, in this room, she moved inside me,
I looked at the river, I could not imagine
my life with her. I gazed across the street,
and saw, in the icy winter sun,
a column of steam rush up away from the earth.
There are creatures whose children float away
at birth, and those who throat-feed their young for
weeks and never see them again. My daughter
is free and she is in me—no, my love
of her is in me, moving in my heart,
changing chambers, like something poured
from hand to hand, to be weighed and then reweighed.

Yes, Olds is hearing the tiny, ghostly feet of her daughter pattering around her home.  In all truth, I’m in the same boat as Olds.  I have a daughter who’s in med school.  A son who’s a high school senior AND.a college freshman.  My days of hearing little feet patter around my home are long past, unless you count my puppy or the occasional mouse.

I miss my toddler daughter and son.  My friend’s father was one of my favorite profs.  I think of my sister, Sally, every day of my life.  (Sometimes, I think of her hourly, depending on what’s going on in my life.)  And my friend—three years gone—well, I hear her voice every time I sit down to write a new poem or watch a fantastic movie or read an inspiring book.  All of them have been hovering around all week long.  

I start teaching again tomorrow.  The start of a new semester.  I spent a good portion of yesterday updating my online course content.  I’ve got my textbooks packed up, laptop fully charged, and The West Wing playing on the TV. (I’ve started watching the entire series again because I need to see a President of the United States I can get behind—even if said president is fictional.)

Sometimes ghosts aren’t scary.  Sometimes they remind you to be a better person.  A better husband and father.  Better teacher and writer.  And a better friend.  Maybe that’s what being “scared straight” means.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about dreams, based on the August 20th prompt from The Daily Poet:

Write a poem about a dream that has seven syllables in each line.  If you can’t remember your dream, ask a friend, lover, spouse, or child about a dream s/he recently had and write a poem about that.  For extra credit, write this poem immediately after waking up in the morning.

Breathing

by: Martin Achatz

Listen.  Are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?

          — Mary Oliver

I never remember dreams.

They slip away like one-night

stands as soon as I open

my eyes.  I can almost hear

the front door closing behind

them, cologne or perfume still

lingering on the pillows.

I want my dreams to hang out,

maybe stick around for eggs

and bacon, or to listen

to morning news, sip coffee,

talk about how amazing

last night was, exchange contact

info that I’ll never use,

because that’s the way dreams are:

they slip away without a

word, walk up the street, vanish

around the corner, leaving

a vague sense you’ve lost something,

some deep, wild, and precious breath.

August 19, 2025: “First Formal,” Memorial Service, “Homeland”

Life is full of firsts and lasts.  First kiss.  Last day of school.  First time watching The Shining.  Last day of work.  First day of retirement.  That’s the way most human beings remember events in their lives, through firsts and lasts.

Sharon Olds writes about a first for her daughter . . . 

First Formal

by: Sharon Olds

She rises up above the strapless, her dewy
flesh like a soul half out of a body.
It makes me remember her one week old,
mollescent, elegant, startled, alone.
She stands still, as if, if she moved,
her body might pour up out of the bodice,
she keeps her steady gaze raised
when she walks, she looks exactly forward,
led by some radar of the strapless, or with
a cup runneth over held perfectly level, her
almost seasick beauty shimmering
a little. She looks brave, shoulders
made of some extra-visible element,
or as if some of her cells, tonight,
were faceted like a fly’s eye, and her
skin was seeing us see it. She looks
hatched this moment, and yet weary—she would lie
in her crib, so slight, looking worn out from her journey,
and gaze at the world and at us in dubious willingness.

I’m not quite sure which is harder to endure—firsts or lasts.  Olds’ daughter is obviously uncomfortable in her dress, going to her first formal dance.  Formals are the first time young people get their brushes with adulthood.  The difficulty is that, when you’re 13- or 14-years-old, you really are a child still.  You’re not prepared for all the pitfalls of being in charge of yourself.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, young people usually first experience loss when a beloved pet dies. Suddenly, mortality becomes a very real thing and, unfortunately, never goes away.  Even when you’re a grownup (twenty-something, thirty-something, on up), I don’t think you ever lose sight of that first experience of death.  I’ve lost some people in my life in the last ten years or so, and I can vouch for the fact that every death feels like a first.

I attended a memorial service this morning for the father of a close friend.  It’s been a year since his father passed, but the pain was obviously still fresh.  My friend’s father was also one of my profs when I was an undergraduate and graduate student.  He was the first person at the university who encouraged me as a writer during a conference in his office.  Before that conversation, I was on a clear trajectory for a job as a computer programmer.  When I left his office that day, I was carrying an application for grad school in my hands.  The rest, as they say, is history.

From all that was said today about Ron (my friend’s father) this morning, I know he had a similar impact on many of the people in attendance at the memorial service.  He had the heart of a servant, caring for his terminally ill first wife, encouraging his students to work harder and better, and finding happiness in old-time country music and dancing.  I can say, without a doubt, he is the reason I became a published author.  Because he said I was good at it and could do it.

It was the first time anyone expressed that kind of confidence in my artistic abilities.  Before that conversation with Ron, I pretty much was told by close family members to get my plumbing license or learn how to program computers, to have “something to fall back on” if the writing didn’t pay off.

I went to graduate school.  Taught college classes.  Wrote short stories and essays and poems.  Served as U.P. Poet Laureate.  Got married.  Raised a family.  So much of what defines me as a person is because Ron told me that afternoon that I was a writer.  A first for me.

Today, we said a last goodbye to this selfless, giving man.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for his friend’s father today, based on the following prompt from August 18 of The Daily Poet:

Stand up and take three steps in any direction.  Look around and note three different items, the color of the wall (or whatever is in front of you), and note what is above you.  Imagine that you have just arrived at this place from another country and are homesick.  Write a poem that includes what you see, how you feel, and what you miss about your home country,

Homeland

by: Martin Achatz

for Ron Johnson

1.

I grew up in a house of plumbers—
my dad, three brothers, a sister
shared stories at dinner about
clogged sewers and frozen water
pipes while we forked hotdogs
and meatloaf onto our plates. I learned
how to solder when I was nine,
snake cables into plugged toilets
by the time I was eleven, replace
leaky faucets before I blew out candles
on my thirteenth birthday. Dad put it
this way: You got shit in your veins, son.
I always felt like a displaced person,
refugee child from some war-
torn land where soldiers forced
me to bleed radiators and dig
drainage ditches at rifle-point.

2.
I remember a typewriter sitting
on the desk and shelves stacked
with the likes of Anton Chekhov
and Larry McMurtry. I also remember
the view from the window: the campus
crowded with snowdrifts, students
blown along like winter surf. And I
remember the professor with his
mustache, crooked smile, brown
cardigan, how he handed me
my short story from EN 500,
leaned back in his chair, nodded
at me the way my dad nodded
when I handed him a crescent
wrench before he even asked for it.
You’ve got writing in your veins, son,
the professor said. I’m not sure
he actually said son, but that’s how
I remember it, this moment,
this invitation, this welcome. It was
as if he had just booked me passage
on a freighter steaming across the cold,
cold sea toward some distant place
I didn’t know I belonged.

January 9, 2025: "Things That Are Worse Than Death," President Jimmy Carter, "Not My Birthday Poem"

A somber day.  The national memorial service for President Jimmy Carter happened today in Washington, D. C.  The whole country stopped for a couple hours to honor the great man.  I sat in my office at the library, streaming the ceremony, listening to the eulogies and remembrances.

President Biden, in his remarks. said this about Carter:  "Now, it’s not about being perfect, because none of us are perfect. We’re all fallible. But it’s about asking ourselves: Are we striving to do things, the right things? What values? What are the values that animate our spirit? To operate from fear or hope, ego or generosity? Do we show grace? Do we keep the faith when it’s most tested?"

Mr. Biden is correct.  Being a good person doesn't mean that you're perfect.  It means that you operate from a place of generosity, compassion, and love.  Everyone messes up.  Good people learn from their mistakes and become better because of them.

Sharon Olds thinks about . . . 

Things That Are Worse Than Death

by: Sharon Olds

(for Margaret Randall)

You are speaking of Chile,
of the woman who was arrested
with her husband and their five-year-old son.
You tell how the guards tortured the woman, the man, the child,
in front of each other,
"as they like to do."
Things that are worse than death.
I can see myself taking my son’s ash-blond hair in my fingers,
tilting back his head before he knows what is happening,
slitting his throat, slitting my own throat
to save us that. Things that are worse than death:
this new idea enters my life.
The guard enters my life, the sewage of his body,
"as they like to do." The eyes of the five-year-old boy, Dago,
watching them with his mother. The eyes of his mother
watching them with Dago. And in my living room as a child,
the word, Dago. And nothing I experienced was worse than death,
life was beautiful as our blood on the stone floor
to save us that — my son’s eyes on me,
my eyes on my son — the ram-boar on our bodies
making us look at our old enemy and bow in welcome,
gracious and eternal death
who permits departure.

Yes, there are things worse than death.  Certainly, seeing your child harmed in front of you is one of them, as Olds points out.  I don't ever want to see my kids suffer.  Other things I would rank as worse than death:

• No chocolate
• Hallmark Christmas movies
• Pickles
• Insomnia
• World hunger
• Sitting next to Donald Trump at a funeral
• Watching reruns of Two Broke Girls
• Country music
• Poverty
• Adam Sandler movies
• Head cheese
• Anchovies
• Goodbyes

Okay, I may be joking about some of the items on that list.  However, I think that everyone has their own things that are worse than death.  I would rather sacrifice my life than see someone I love suffer in any way.  I like to think that I would do the same for complete strangers, as well, but I'm not sure.  (I certainly wouldn't throw myself in front of a bullet to save the life of the Felon in Chief, so I would make a really shitty Secret Service agent.)

As President Carter demonstrated through the life he led, good people try to make the world a better place.  He didn't just preach about his values.  He picked up and hammer and made a difference, one nail at a time.  Every minute of every day is an opportunity to put love into practice.

Saint Marty wrote an unbirthday poem today, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Today may not be your birthday, but write a birthday poem as if it is.  The poem can either be to yourself on a specific birthday or to a friend as in "To Martha on Her Fortieth Birthday."  Or if you just can't get into the birthday spirit, write a poem to or about Dave Matthews, Richard Nixon, Bob Denver (Gilligan on Gilligan's Island), or Joan Baez, and all who celebrate birthdays today.

Not My Birthday Poem,

January 9, 2025

by: Martin Achatz

Today is not my birthday,

but I still climb to the roof

of a building, stand ankle-deep

in snow, give myself

a present:  a sun as big

as my fist rising over a frozen

Lake Superior.  It's a gift

Bob Denver, who was born

on this day, wouldn't have

been impressed by, stranded

as he was with Skipper,

Professor, Ginger, Thurston

on that island for decades

with nothing but a coconut-

powered transistor to keep

him up on the Beatles, Stones,

Joan Baez (who was also born

today), Tina Turner, Wu-Tang Clan.

I'm sure Bob saw plenty 

of beach sunrises, got sick of them,

they way he got sick of eating

coconut cream pie every year

on this day, blowing out candles

made from gorilla ear wax.

So, my sunrise wouldn't even 

tempt Bob to leave his hammock

in the early morning, where

he was probably dreaming

of Mary Ann, the gingham folds

that hid the tanned slopes

of her calves and thighs.  She was

always my favorite.  I imagined

Gilligan and her ending up

together, sharing one of those

thatched huts, listening to waves

as they rocked together on a

mattress stuffed with palm fronds.

If I remember right, Mary Ann was

played by an actress named Dawn.

As I watch Lake Superior crack open

like an egg and the yolk of sun

ascend into the sky, I dream

of being marooned somewhere,

the arms of a Kansas farmgirl pulling

me down, her body filling me

with cornfields and the crow of a rooster.

January 14: Tiring Weekend, Classic Saint Marty, "Without Words"

I went to a memorial service last night for a young man who died in a house fire last week, along with his girlfriend who was four months pregnant.  He was the son of a good friend and colleague from the English Department.  It was difficult.  After it was over, I hugged my friend.  She felt fragile, ready to break apart.

Today, I have been preparing for a medical procedure that I'm having tomorrow. 

Needless to say, it has been a long, tiring weekend.

Two years ago, I was trying to help my daughter overcome some struggles she was going through at the time . . .

January 13, 2016:  Sublimation, Daughter, Anxiety and Sadness, Ice to Steam

It's a sudden change.  One moment, solid.  The next, vapor.  Sublimation.  It's nature moving in fast forward, like a time-lapse Keystone Cops movie.  An eruption from one state into the next.  Annie Dillard witnesses this phenomenon at Tinker Creek, and it makes her reflect on wind and mares and foals.  Genesis.  The generation of something new.

Most people do not deal well with sudden change.  Sudden change is a heart attack or house fire.  A stroke or a car wreck.  Sublimation, that immediate change of states, is not comfortable.  It doesn't give a person a chance to adjust or acclimate.  It's simply a step out of an airplane into a free fall.

Certain aspects of my life are sublimating.  My daughter, whom I thought was confident and well-adjusted, tells me that, for years, she's been struggling with anxiety and sadness.  She has turned from ice to steam before my eyes.  I'm not sure if this sublimation is the result of puberty and hormones, or something deeper.  A fissure of mental illness.  It frightens me a little bit.

My daughter is going to see a doctor to talk about being mist, a cloud that was once clear and crystalline and beautiful.  Perhaps she has always been fog, and I have simply chosen to see ice (or water).  I don't know.  It's a question that's been bothering me for days, and I'm not any closer to an answer than before.

Maybe Saint Marty needs to sublimate some Bailey's.  Turn it from liquid into happiness.

Waldo, sublimating from "where" to "how"...

And another poem for my friend who lost her son . . .


Without Words

by:  Martin Achatz

Some things leave me without words.

Clouds the color of spawning salmon.

A wolf spider as fat as my thumb.

Thunder in the comma of lake-effect snow.

I struggle for adequate verbs

When faced with grasshopper borealis

Or the scream of peacock at midnight.

It’s a fault line of language, deep

As hieroglyph, untranslatable

By alphabet into the raw meat

Of what you feel this morning. 

When your baby’s heartbeat ceases. 

When joy evaporates like frost

From a windshield.  What can I give you

This day of ash and sackcloth?

I open my arms to you, try

To wrap them around the universe

Of your shoulders.

God blinded Saul to peel the scales

From his eyes, make him embrace

Love.  God makes me mute.

Please, take my silence.

Turn it into what you need most.

Tuna casserole.  Jim Beam.  Lasagna.

Fluke of whale.  Minaret of Taj Mahal.

I try to shape my tongue

Into a gift of gold or myrrh to leave

At your empty crib.