July 23, 2025: “Waste Sonata,” Wasted Time, “Yellow Brick”

I don’t like wasting anything.  I don’t like wasted food or wasted paper or wasted time.  Especially wasted time.  I plan my days out so that I can make maximum use of every second I’m conscious.  I was talking to a poet friend this morning, and I asked her if she ever felt guilty about taking time to draft a poem.

“Only if it’s not productive,” she said.  “If the writing goes well, that time is always justified.”

Sharon Olds writes about human waste . . . 

Waste Sonata

by: Sharon Olds

I think at some point I looked at my father

and thought He’s full of shit.  How did I

know fathers talked to their children,

kissed them?  I knew.  I saw him and judged him.

Whatever he poured into my mother

she hated, her face rippled like a thin

wing, sometimes, when she happened to be near him,

and the liquor he knocked into his body

felled him, slew the living tree,

loops of its grain started to cube,

petrify, coprofy, he was a

shit, but I felt he hated being a shit,

he had never imagined it could happen, this drunken

sleep was a spell laid on him—

by my mother.  Well, I left to them

the passion of who did what to whom, it was a

baby in their bed they were rolling over on,

but I could not live with hating him.

I did not see that I had to.  I stood

in that living room and saw him drowse

like the prince, in slobbrous beauty, I began to

to think he was a kind of chalice,

a grail, his love the goal of a quest,

yes!  He was the god of love

and I was a shit.  I looked down at my forearm—

whatever was inside there

was not good, it was white stink,

bad manna.  I looked in the mirror, and 

as I looked at my face the blemishes

arose, like pigs up out of the ground

to the witch’s call.  It was strange to me

that my body smelled sweet, it was proof I was 

demonic, but at least I breathed out,

from the sour dazed scum within,

my father’s truth.  Well it’s fun talking about this,

I love the terms of foulness.  I have learned

to get some pleasure from speaking of pain.

But to die, like this.  To grow old and die

a child, lying to herself.

My father was not a shit.  He was a man

failing at life.  He had little shits

traveling through him while he lay there unconscious—

sometimes I don’t let myself say

I loved him, anymore, but I feel

I almost love those shits that move through him,

shapely, those waste foetuses,

my mother, my sister, my brother, and me

in that purgatory.

Waste is in the eye of the beholder, I guess.  Sharon Olds cherishes the little shits in her father’s body, even if she struggles to say “I love you” to her father.  Her father is not a shit, she says.  He was a man who is “failing at life.”  His main fault, it seems, is disappointment with his life choices.

As I said at the beginning of this post, I really don’t like wasting time.  Every morning, I plan my days out, using lists and numbers and checkmarks.  That list was fairly short today.  I attended an art bookmaking workshop in the morning, and I hosted a library concert by one of my favorite local bands (Ramble Tamble) in the evening.  Plus, I got to hang with one of my best friends at the concert.  In between all that, I drafted a couple new poems, as well.  

I’d call that a pretty productive day.

Of course, I could have gotten a lot more done.  That’s always the case.  I rarely cross off every item on my daily lists.  If there are more than two or three unfinished tasks at the end of the day, I count that as a failure.  As I sit typing this post, I still have three unfinished chores.  Therefore, by the rule I just stated, I’m a big, fat loser today.

I’m okay with that, because I have drafts of two new poems from workshop this morning.  That means, by my poet friend’s rules, I have had a very productive day.  I’m going to stick with that.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about time and nature, based on prompts from two days in The Daily Poet . . . 

July 21:  In celebration of Tess Gallagher’s birthday, spend some time in the outdoors, even if it means taking a walk to the post office or stepping out to retrieve the mail.  Gallagher, reflecting on exploring vast amounts of territory in both the Pacific Northwest and the Ozarks, states “it builds something in you.”. Whether it’s an appreciation for bird song or a fondness for cottonwood fluff, let the natural world build something in you today, then share about it in a poem of ten lines of ten syllables each.

July 22:  I often find my best poems while driving, but only when I pay close attention, viewing road signs, billboards, restaurants, and movie theatre marquees with fresh eyes.  Who lives on the street names Never Give Up Road?  What does a store called BIGLOTS! tell us about the age we live in?  Wipe the nothing’s-new-under-the-sun sand from your eyes, and get into your car (or motorcycle or bike), and make a poem out of what you find.

Yellow Brick

by: Martin Achatz

Each day, I drive into sunrises, lick

yellow brick light with hungry eyes.  Today,

I spotted a roadkill doe in the ditch,

her legs snapped, neck angled strangely, as if

she was still leaping milky streams, charging

through cedar swamps after shadows of winged

monkeys chasing the emerald heart of day.

If she only knew, if she only knew

all she had to do was click her hooves once,

twice, thrice, and think of sweet, ripe blueberries.

August 8: "Drawing Class," Marquette Poets Circle, Kindness

It has been a long day, and I'm not feeling particularly wise or smart right now.  

In the evening at the library, I hosted the monthly meeting of the Marquette Poets Circle.  I've been a part of this group for almost a decade now.  In the last year or so, I slowly took over leadership of the group from one of my best friends, an amazing individual who has been THE cheerleader for poetry in our area for a very long time.  I have learned so much from her as a poet and person.  There is no one nicer, kinder, and more generous with her time and talent.

 Tonight, there were about eight people present for the Poets Circle.  We spent the first 45 minutes or so writing.  I think we did three prompts.  I didn't write anything I'm going to share tonight, but it felt good to flex my poetry muscles.  Then, it was Open Mic.  Lots of great writers sharing, some for the first time.  

Funny, I never feel like I'm good enough to lead this group.  Yes, I can organize.  Sure, I can write poems and read poems and talk about poems.  However, I don't think I've ever learned how to lead with the humor and grace and generosity of my friend who used to lead the group.

Eventually, I may learn, lust like Billy Collins learns something new in today's poem . . . 

Drawing Class

by: Billy Collins

If you ever asked me

how my drawing classes are going,

I would tell you that I enjoy

adhering to the outline of a thing,

to follow the slope of an individual pear

or the curve of a glossy piano.

And I love trailing my hand

over the smooth membrane of bond,

the intelligent little trinity

of my fingers gripping the neck of the pencil

while the other two dangle below

like the fleshy legs of a tiny swimmer.

I would add that I can get lost

crosshatching the shadow of a chair

or tracing and retracing

the slight undercarriage of a breast.

Even the preparations call out to me--

taping the paper to a wooden board, 

brushing its surface clean,

and sharpening a few pencils to a fine point.

The thin hexagonal pencil

is mightier than the pen,

for it can modulate from firm to faint

and shift from thin to broad

whenever it leans more acutely over the page--

the bright yellow pencil,

which is also mightier than the sword

for there is no erasing what the sword can do.

We all started with the box and ball

then moved on to the cup and the lamp,

the serrated leaf, the acorn with its cap.

But I want to graduate to the glass decanter

and learn how to immobilize in lead

translucent curtains lifted in the air.

I want to draw

four straight lines that will connect me

to the four points of the compass,

to the bright spires of cities

the overlapping trellises,

the turning spokes of the world.

One day I want to draw freehand

a continuous figure

that will begin with me

when the black tip touches the paper

and end with you when it is lifted

and set down beside a luminous morning window.

On the way home tonight, I drove into a blazingly beautiful sunset.  I found myself reflecting on how I came to be in this position with the Poets Circle.  I've learned a lot in my life.  I started as a Computer Science major as an undergrad before switching to English.  I focused on fiction during my Master's program.  Finally, a little less than ten years later, I earned my MFA in poetry.  

Yet, the most important lesson I've learned in my life is this:  kindness.  Yes, assholes can rise to important positions (think of a certain former President of the United States with an orange complexion).  However, the people I admire most--whom I'm also privileged to call friends--are all incredibly kind.  That's something I try to remember every day of my life.

Saint Marty hopes he will be remembered for his kindness as well as his poetry.

January 29: "Bazougey," Joy, Forever Gifts

Mary Oliver writes about the deepest sting . . . 

Bazougey

by:  Mary Oliver

Where goes he now, that dark little dog

     who used to come down the road barking and shining?

He's gone now, from the world of particulars,

     the singular, the visible.

So, that deepest sting:  sorrow.  Still,

     is he gone from us entirely, or is he

a part of that other world, everywhere?

Come with me into the woods where spring is

     advancing, as it does, no matter what,

not being singular or particular, but one

     of the forever gifts, and certainly visible.

See how the violets are opening, and the leaves

      unfolding, the streams gleaming and the birds

     singing.  What does it make you think of?

His shining curls, his honest eyes, his

     beautiful barking.

Sorrow is a part of life.  That's what Oliver is getting at.  If you have happiness, you will eventually have sorrow.  Now, you can go around, trying to avoid sorrow.  Stay home.  Don't take any chances.  Of course, that means that you may never experience true joy.  Never find true happiness.

I know I've said all this in previous posts.  Joy and sorrow are two sides of the same coin, like light and dark, fear and courage, Donald Trump and sanity.  You can't have one without the other.  They sort of define each other.  (Okay, I think we could have all done without Donald Trump, but you get the idea.)

I know what you're thinking right now:  "Oh, no, Saint Marty's going to get all maudlin and depressing again about losing his sisters and brother and parents."  Sure, I could go down that road.  That's what you're expecting.

I'm not going to do that.  I'm going to focus on the other side of the coin:  joy.  I've just recovered from COVID.  My children are healthy and happy.  I have a partner I love and who loves me.  My dog is the cutest dog in the world.  I'm working a job I love.  Actually, several jobs that I love.  There's no snowstorm or blizzard on the horizon.  And, tomorrow night, I get to celebrate the life and poetry of one of my best friends.

This evening, my book club was supposed to meet at my house for our monthly dinner and discussion.  Because I have just recovered from COVID, we met via Zoom instead.  One member has described our book club as "the strangest book club in the world."  We have been going strong for close to 20 years.  Members have come.  Members have gone.  My mother was one of the inaugural members.  My sister, Sally, was a member, too.  (She never read the books.  She came to babysit my daughter, and then my son, while the rest of us talked and ate.)

Every time we get together now, I think of the people who aren't there any more.  At the moment, we are a small group.  But we love each other deeply.  We are family,  (Cue the disco music.)  So, tonight was joy.  Sally was there.  My mother was there.  All of our friends who've moved away were there.  Another of the current members once told a friend of hers, "I'm not allowed to leave book club.  Ever."  

Tonight, Saint Marty celebrates the forever gifts of his life--poetry, friends, family, and books that bring that bring us all together.

July 26: Not Unpleasant, Roof of the Building, One of My Best Friends

Santiago eats some bonito . . . 

Come on, he thought and looked down into the dark water at the slant of the line. Eat it now and it will strengthen the hand. It is not the hand's fault and you have been many hours with the fish. But you can stay with him forever. Eat the bonito now.

He picked up a piece and put it in his mouth and chewed it slowly. It was not unpleasant.

According to my Google search, a bonito is a tuna-like schooling fish.  According to Santiago, its taste is not unpleasant.

I had a not unpleasant day.  As I was driving to work early in the morning, I watched a really golden sun climbing into the sky.  I missed the sunrise, but only by a few minutes.  When I got to the library a little after 7 a.m., I immediately went to the roof of the building.  Don't ask me why.

It was a beautiful, clear morning.  The view I got was of a city just waking up.  There were very few cars on the streets, and Lake Superior was a flat sheet of blue to the horizon.  Standing on the roof, I talked to myself.  Said things like "you're a lucky man" and "you're surrounded by grace" and "don't get too near the edge of the roof, you idiot."  That was blessing number one.

After that, I went back down to my office and realized that I had forgotten the breakfast and lunch I'd packed at home.  So, I got back in my car, made a quick trip to McDonald's, drove back to the library,  and got to work.  I wrote a podcast script.  Answered some emails.  Made a few phone calls.  Planned out some events.  

In the afternoon, I got caught up on grading for my online summer course.  That took me a little over an hour, and it was blessing number two.

I had an appointment this afternoon.  As I was walking to that appointment, I ran into one of my best friends who moved away a couple years ago.  I worked with her at an outpatient surgery center for almost fifteen years.  We only had a chance to speak for a few minutes, but it felt so good to hug her.  That was blessing number three.

And, finally, this evening, I hosted another outdoor concert at the library.  Over a hundred people showed up.  The band was great.  There were people dancing up and down the steps.  Everyone was just having fun, and, at the end, nobody wanted to leave.  That was blessing number four.

Therefore, as Saint Marty said at the beginning this post, the day was not unpleasant. 

July 18: How Old, Long-Term Effects of COVID, Jim Carrey

Santiago contemplates being old . . . 

A small bird came toward the skiff from the north. He was a warbler and flying very low over the water. The old man could see that he was very tired.

The bird made the stern of the boat and rested there. Then he flew around the old man's head and rested on the line where he was more comfortable.

"How old are you?" the old man asked the bird. "Is this your first trip?"

Now, I suppose, considering my frame of mind recently, that most disciples reading this post will expect me to go on a long reflection about mortality based on this passage from The Old Man and the Sea.  Tempting as that is (and it is tempting, I have to admit), I will not inflict that upon you this evening.  I'll save it for about 1:30 a.m. when I can't fall asleep and start obsessing about things like the long-term effects of COVID and Donald Trump running for President again and global climate change and the mouse my wife saw in our house this afternoon.

I am tired.  It's 81 degrees in my living room.  I don't have the energy for any kind of deep thought.  Perhaps that's a sign of age.  Or of the long-term effects of COVID.  Ever since I caught the virus at the beginning of January, I haven't been able really to be productive at night.  I can't grade assignments.  Can't work on new poems.  Sometimes, I can't even stay awake for an entire episode of The Big Bang Theory.  

The purpose of this post, then, is simply to say I have survived another 24 hours.  I spent most of my day in my office, working on various projects.  This evening at the library, I hosted a felting workshop led by one of my best friends.

Now, I will turn off the lights in the living room, lie down on the couch, and sink slowly into madness.  (That's an allusion to Jim Carrey's How the Grinch Stole Christmas, in case you didn't know.)

Saint Marty's blessing for today:  spending time with one of his best friends.

February 26: Don't Panic, Low-Grade Panic, Toast

Arthur Dent is trying to determine how Ford Prefect got "stuck" on Earth for fifteen years . . .

"But how did you get there in the first place then?"

"Easy.  I got a lift with a teaser."

"A teaser?"

"Yeah."

"Er, what is . . ."

"A teaser?  Teasers are usually rich kids with nothing to do.  They cruise around looking for planets that haven't made interstellar contact yet and buzz them."

"Buzz them?"  Arthur began to feel that Ford was enjoying making life difficult for him.

"Yeah," said Ford, "they buzz them.  They find some isolated spot with very few people around, then land right by some poor unsuspecting soul whom no one's ever going to believe and then strut up and down in front of him wearing silly antennas on their head and making beep beep noises.  Rather childish really."  Ford leaned back on the mattress with his hands behind his head and looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.  

"Ford," insisted Arthur, "I don't know if this sounds like a silly question, but what am I doing here?"

"Well, you know that," said Ford.  "I rescued you from the Earth."

"And what's happened to the Earth?"

"Ah, it's been demolished."

"Has it," said Arthur levelly.

"Yes.  It just boiled away into space."

"Look," said Arthur.  "I'm a bit upset about that."

Ford frowned to himself and seemed to roll the thought around his mind.

"Yes.  I can understand that," he said at last.

"Understand that!" shouted Arthur.  "Understand that!"

Ford sprang up.

"Keep looking at the book!" he hissed urgently.

"What?"

"Don't Panic."

"I'm not panicking!"

"Yes, you are."

"All right, so I'm panicking, what else is there to do?"

"You just come along with me and have a good time.  The Galaxy's a fun place.  You'll need to have this fish in your ear."

"I beg your pardon?" asked Arthur, rather politely he thought.

I understand Arthur Dent's need for panic.  His whole life has suddenly changed.  His home planet is gone.  He's just realized that there really are green men from outer space.  His only lifeline is a friend who has turned out to be an interstellar travel writer.  I'd be panicking, too.

However, I tend to panic a lot.  For instance, this morning, I panicked when I looked at my alarm clock and realized that I had a half hour more to sleep.  Most people would be happy at this discovery.  Me?  I lay in bed, mind racing, thinking of everything that I had to do today.  I didn't go back to sleep.

Then, I panicked when I got to the medical office and saw all the boxes that were packed or still needed to be packed.  You may not believe what I'm about to tell you:  I'm kind of neurotic about everything being neat and orderly.  I pride myself on that at work.  For the last two weeks, nothing has been neat and orderly, and it makes me very, very anxious.

Throughout the day, I suffered from a low-grade panic.  It just sort of simmered beneath the surface all morning and afternoon as I tossed and discarded items and witnessed the office becoming more and more undone.  I think I hid my unease and sadness well, though.  Only once did I have to step away to regain control of my feelings.

One of the bright spots of the day--a late lunch date with one of my best friends.  We talked poetry, laughed, ate, talked more poetry, and drank beer.  It was the perfect antidote for a day of demolition.  I left the restaurant much calmer and more centered.  She truly was a godsend this afternoon.

And now, I'm panicking again.  Yesterday, my television simply decided to stop working.  I'm not sure what's wrong with it, but I have a sinking feeling that it is toast.  Burned toast . . .

And my friend, Seamus, just came over to check out my TV.  He kind of works with electronics for a living.  He fiddled with remotes.  Looked stuff up on his iPhone.  Pushed some buttons.  Then he gave me his expert opinion:  "Yeah, it's toast."  Panic.

Tomorrow afternoon, you will be able to find my at Walmart, wandering through the electronics section, looking for the biggest television I can find for the cheapest price.  I'll be the guy with a panicked look on his face, muttering, "Can I get a poet discount?"

It's only Tuesday, and Saint Marty is already done for the week.

May 6: A Wink, Saying Goodbye, Last Three Days

...Wilbur had already decided how he would carry the egg sac--there was only one way possible.  He carefully took the little bundle in his mouth and held it there on top of his tongue.  He remembered what Charlotte had told him--that the sac was waterproof and strong.  It felt funny on his tongue and made him drool a bit.  And of course he couldn't say anything.  But as he was being shoved into the crate, he looked up at Charlotte and gave her a wink.  She knew he was saying good-bye in the only way he could.  And she knew her children were safe.

Wilbur is leaving his best friend forever in this paragraph.  He knows she is dying, and he also knows he must leave her to perish alone.  It is an incredibly sad moment, coming directly after one of the happiest moments--Wilbur's triumph at the Fair.  He has no choice.  Charlotte is doomed, and he must go back to his home in Zuckerman's barn.

I usually avoid asking for prayers for myself.  I am very lucky, for the most part.  I have a job.  I have a healthy family and a roof over my head.  I'm better off than a majority of the population of this planet.  However, I am having trouble this week.  I must say goodbye to my current job and group of friends.  I have no choice.  I must leave.  And that is very difficult for me.

I really love the people with whom I work.  I love helping the patients.  Above all, I love the fact that, even when I'm at my job, I'm home in a way.  For 17 years, I've worked at this place, with most of these people.  One of my best friends is my coworker.  And I have to say goodbye to all of this.

I'm already a little melancholy.  By the end of the week, I'm probably going to be utterly despondent for at least a few days.  Of course, I'm nervous about starting a new occupation, meeting new people, forging a new life.  All that sort of terrifies me.  That's why I need help.

Please, say a prayer for Saint Marty this week.  He's going to need a lot of help returning to the barn by himself, without his friends.

New job, here I come