October 26: "Horoscopes for the Dead," Libra, Closed Doors

I am a Libra.  I've always thought that reflected my need for balance and harmony in my life (although my life has rarely felt balanced or harmonious).  However, my zodiac sign does reflect one important character trait I have:  I examine problems or disagreements from all sides, trying to understand why people think the way they think.

Billy Collins is an Aries . . .

Horoscopes for the Dead

by: Billy Collins

Every morning since you disappeared for good,
I read about you in the daily paper
along with the box scores, the weather and all the bad news.

Some days I am reminded that today
will not be a wildly romantic time for you,
nor will you be challenged by educational goals,
nor will you need to be circumspect at the workplace.

Another day, I learn that you should not miss
an opportunity to travel and make new friends
though you never cared much about either.

I can’t imagine you ever facing a new problem
with a positive attitude, but you will definitely not
be doing that, or anything like that, on this weekday in March.
And the same goes for the fun
you might have gotten from group activities,
a likelihood attributed to everyone under your sign.

A dramatic rise in income may be a reason
to treat yourself, but that would apply
more to all the Pisces who are still alive,
still swimming up and down the stream of life
or suspended in a pool in the shade of an overhanging tree.

But you will be relieved to learn
that you no longer need to reflect carefully before acting,
nor do you have to think more of others,
and never again will creative work take a back seat
to the business responsibilities that you never really had.

And don’t worry today or any day
about problems caused by your unwillingness
to interact rationally with your many associates.
No more goals for you, no more romance,
no more money or children, jobs or important tasks,
but then again, you were never thus encumbered.

So leave it up to me now
to plan carefully for success and the wealth it may bring,
to value the dear ones close to my heart,
and to welcome any intellectual stimulation that comes my way
though that sounds like a lot to get done on a Tuesday.

I am better off closing the newspaper,
putting on the clothes I wore yesterday
(when I read that your financial prospects were looking up)
then pushing off on my copper-colored bicycle
and pedaling along the shore road by the bay.

And you stay just as you are,
lying there in your beautiful blue suit,
your hands crossed on your chest
like the wings of a bird who has flown
in its strange migration not north or south
but straight up from earth
and pierced the enormous circle of the zodiac.

My horoscope for today, according to Cleveland.com,  went something like this:  "Secrets get revealed. Rest and consider what’s ahead. Get productive behind closed doors. Organize and coordinate plans. Put things away. Prepare and plot."

Now, for the most part, I have stayed behind closed doors, except when I went to church this evening to play the pipe organ for Mass.  Other than that, I was at home, reading, resting, trying to convince my wife to take it easy, and watching bad reality TV.  Oh, and I cleaned the bathroom and went for a couple long walks with my puppy.

I'm not sure how productive I was.  In fact, I can think of nothing noteworthy I accomplished, aside from a short nap this afternoon.  I didn't organize and coordinate, put anything away, or prepare and plot.  (The last part of that horoscope sounds like coded instructions for Donald Trump supporters.)

So, I guess I was a really bad Libra today.  Or just an exhausted one.  Last night, I had dinner with my kids, and they carved some pumpkins.  I simply sat on the couch and observed, my mind finally relaxing after two days of adrenaline-fueled worry.  Yesterday, my Cleveland.com horoscope was:  "Group communications could get twisted. Things may not go as planned. It could get awkward. Keep an open mind and heart. Work it out."  

I was not in control of anything these last couple days.  Yet, it all worked out.  My wife is recovering.  My pumpkins are now jack-o'-lanterns.  My bathroom is lemon-scented Pine-Sol fresh.  And, pretty soon, this blog post will be published.  

Mercury may not be in retrograde, but Saint Marty is zodiacally pooped.

May 4: "Face Up," Relativity, "Trampoline"

Billy Collins plays cards . . . 

Face Up

by:  Billy Collins

The jack of diamonds

lying supine

on the table,

a prince sleeping

in a pasture--

fifty-one cows.

I haven't had a whole lot of time for cards or poetry or anything else today.  It's the end of the semester, so my focus was grading papers and exams.  About the only other things I did was play the pipe organ for Mass this afternoon and take my puppy for a long walk.

I remember how weekends seemed to last forever when I was a kid--from Saturday mornings watching Bugs Bunny through Sunday evenings and the The Wonderful World of Disney.  These days, if I blink on Friday, it's already Sunday with the work week looming over me.

It's all about Einstein and relativity.  The older you get, the less time you seem to have.  More grading tomorrow.  Poetry workshop in the evening.

Saint Marty sure misses having a whole lot of time and a whole lot of nothing to do.

Trampoline

by:  Martin Achatz

The trampoline has stood

for two years in my backyard,

abandoned by my kids

who used it to touch

the sun until they came

down with a case 

of gravity.

January 1: Margaret Avison, "New Year's Poem," Feast of the Solemnity of Mary

New Year's Poem

by:  Margaret Avison

The Christmas twigs crispen and needles rattle
Along the window-ledge.
             A solitary pearl
Shed from the necklace spilled at last week’s party
Lies in the suety, snow-luminous plainness
Of morning, on the window-ledge beside them.   
And all the furniture that circled stately
And hospitable when these rooms were brimmed
With perfumes, furs, and black-and-silver
Crisscross of seasonal conversation, lapses
Into its previous largeness.
             I remember   
Anne’s rose-sweet gravity, and the stiff grave
Where cold so little can contain;
I mark the queer delightful skull and crossbones
Starlings and sparrows left, taking the crust,
And the long loop of winter wind
Smoothing its arc from dark Arcturus down
To the bricked corner of the drifted courtyard,
And the still window-ledge.
             Gentle and just pleasure
It is, being human, to have won from space
This unchill, habitable interior
Which mirrors quietly the light
Of the snow, and the new year.

_____________________________

A poem to start off the new year.

This morning I played the pipe organ for Mass--the Feast of the Solemnity of Mary.  It was cold and snowy, the aftermath of a little storm that blew in on New Year's Eve.  It was a peaceful, beautiful beginning.

Saint Marty is ready for joy, happiness, and laughter.