August 9: Beloved Manure, Another Rejection, Sharon Olds, "Topography," New Cartoon

And so Wilbur came home to his beloved manure pile in the barn cellar.  His was a strange homecoming.  Around his neck he wore a medal of honor; in his mouth, he held a sac of spider's eggs.  There is no place like home, Wilbur thought, as he placed Charlotte's five hundred and fourteen unborn children carefully in a safe corner.  The barn smelled good.  His friends the sheep and the geese were glad to see him back.

I love this passage about Wilbur coming home from the Fair, his survival assured but his life bereft of his best friend.   It holds everything that is so wonderful about Charlotte's Web.  The sense of home, of belonging.  Also, the sense of inevitable loss, of sadness in the midst of happiness.  Basically, it describes everyday life in very simple terms.  It's all about joy mixed with sorrow.

I've just spent a very quiet evening reading Preparing the Ghost by Matt Frank, a friend and colleague from the university (more to come on this book in a future post).  It was quite peaceful.  My wife had to work late.  My kids are spending the night at grandma's house.  Literally, all I had to do was come home, change into my pajamas, and read.

Some books make me want to write.  Ghost is one of those books.  It's beautifully written.  Poetic.  Smart.  Haunting.  When I finished the last page, I was excited to sit down with my laptop and write this post.  Then, I made the mistake of checking my e-mail before I started blogging.

In my inbox was a lovely communication from a magazine to which I recently submitted some poems.  Simply by the truncated memo line (POETRY SUBMISSION STAT...), I knew it was going to be another rejection.  I should be used to these messages by now.  However, for whatever reason, tonight, I felt like I was at a middle school dance watching all the cool kids making out under the bleachers.

I've been at this writing thing for a long time.  I send stuff out, get rejected, spend some time in the fetal position, and then send stuff out again.  That's the nature of publishing.  Those authors who become "overnight successes" probably have a mattress stuffed with rejection letters.  It's just been a very long time since I've gotten an acceptance letter, and I'm a little dispirited.

Of course, as the poetry editor of a respected literary journal, I am familiar with the other side of the coin, as well.  Sifting through hundreds of poems, looking for something startling or breathtaking.  It's a difficult position.  I know, wrapped up in every single submission I read, is a shard of hope.  The author wanting to be asked to slow dance to Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time."

So, I will lick my wounds tonight and turn to Sharon Olds to make me feel better.  The poem below is one of her most famous.  It's been anthologized and reprinted all over the place, but there's a reason for that:  it's fucking brilliant.

Now, if you will excuse Saint Marty, he has a fetal position to assume.

Topography

by:  Sharon Olds

After we flew across the country we
got in bed, laid our bodies
intricately together, like maps laid
face to face, East to West, my
San Francisco against your New York, your
Fire Island against my Sonoma, my
New Orleans deep in your Texas, your Idaho
bright on my Great Lakes, my Kansas
burning against Kansas your Kansas
burning against my Kansas, your Eastern
Standard Time pressing into my
Pacific Time, my Mountain Time
beating against your Central Time, your
sun rising swiftly from the right my
sun rising swiftly from the left your
moon rising slowly from the left my
moon rising slowly from the right until
all four bodies of the sky
burn above us, sealing us together,
all our cities twin cities,
all our states united, one
nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

Confessions of Saint Marty

June 7: Case of Injustice, Weeping Teenage Girls, New Cartoon

"I see no difference," replied Fern, still hanging on to the ax.  "This is the most terrible case of injustice I ever heard of."

Fern is near hysterics at the beginning of Charlotte's Web.  She's sobbing, yelling, basically doing anything she can to save Wilbur from the ax.  And, because Mr. Arable is moved by his daughter's emotional pleas (White writes that "[h]e seemed almost ready to cry himself"), Fern wins the responsibility of raising the little pig.

Last night, my wife and I went to see the film adaptation of The Fault in Our Stars.  It was the first date we had been on in a long time.  The movie was really well done, and the popcorn was fantastic.  The only thing that was slightly annoying was the theater crammed with crying teenage girls.  Not just sniffling teenage girls.  I'm talking full-on sobbing.  Chest-heaving, snotty-nose sobbing.  I barely heard the last half hour of the movie.  Then, when it was over, the girls congregated in the lobby, hugging each other, weeping as though they were all at a middle school dance.

That was my evening.  Movie.  Popcorn.  Hormonal crying.  Oh, and the sobbing girls.  Welcome to my life.

I've been thinking a lot about dreams recently.  Dreams are based on hopes, and hopes foster expectations.  In the past year or so, I've allowed myself to have expectations, and it hasn't worked out well for me.  I wish I could go through my life without expectations or hopes or dreams.  I wish I could just be satisfied with my life.  Unfortunately, I can't.  To be completely satisfied with my life, I would need to have no worries, and I'm a worrier.

I worry, so therefore I have expectations.  I have expectations, so therefore I have hopes.  I have hopes, so therefore I have dreams.

So, Saint Marty will continue to dream the impossible dream.

Confessions of Saint Marty