May 16: Stubb's Exordium, Pale Ale, Summery Romance

The phantoms, for so they then seemed, were flitting on the other side of the deck, and, with a noiseless celerity, were casting loose the tackles and bands of the boat which swung there. This boat had always been deemed one of the spare boats, though technically called the captain's, on account of its hanging from the starboard quarter. The figure that now stood by its bows was tall and swart, with one white tooth evilly protruding from its steel-like lips. A rumpled Chinese jacket of black cotton funereally invested him, with wide black trowsers of the same dark stuff. But strangely crowning this ebonness was a glistening white plaited turban, the living hair braided and coiled round and round upon his head. Less swart in aspect, the companions of this figure were of that vivid, tiger-yellow complexion peculiar to some of the aboriginal natives of the Manillas;- a race notorious for a certain diabolism of subtilty, and by some honest white mariners supposed to be the paid spies and secret confidential agents on the water of the devil, their lord, whose counting-room they suppose to be elsewhere.

While yet the wondering ship's company were gazing upon these strangers, Ahab cried out to the white-turbaned old man at their head, "All ready there, Fedallah?"

"Ready," was the half-hissed reply.

"Lower away then; d'ye hear?" shouting across the deck. "Lower away there, I say."

Such was the thunder of his voice, that spite of their amazement the men sprang over the rail; the sheaves whirled round in the blocks; with a wallow, the three boats dropped into the sea; while, with a dexterous, off-handed daring, unknown in any other vocation, the sailors, goat-like, leaped down the rolling ship's side into the tossed boats below.

Hardly had they pulled out from under the ship's lee, when a fourth keel, coming from the windward side, pulled round under the stern, and showed the five strangers rowing Ahab, who, standing erect in the stern, loudly hailed Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask, to spread themselves widely, so as to cover a large expanse of water. But with all their eyes again riveted upon the swart Fedallah and his crew, the inmates of the other boats obeyed not the command.

"Captain Ahab?-" said Starbuck.

"Spread yourselves," cried Ahab; "give way, all four boats. Thou, Flask, pull out more to leeward!"

"Aye, aye, sir," cheerily cried little King-Post, sweeping round his great steering oar. "Lay back!" 
addressing his crew. "There!- there!- there again! There she blows right ahead, boys!- lay back!

"Never heed yonder yellow boys, Archy."

"Oh, I don't mind'em, sir," said Archy; "I knew it all before now. Didn't I hear 'em in the hold? And didn't I tell Cabaco here of it? What say we, Cabaco? They are stowaways, Mr. Flask."

"Pull, pull, my fine hearts-alive; pull, my children; pull, my little ones," drawlingly and soothingly sighed Stubb to his crew, some of whom still showed signs of uneasiness. "Why don't you break your backbones, my boys? What is it you stare at? Those chaps in yonder boat? Tut! They are only five more hands come to help us never mind from where the more the merrier. Pull, then, do pull; never mind the brimstone devils are good fellows enough. So, so; there you are now; that's the stroke for a thousand pounds; that's the stroke to sweep the stakes! Hurrah for the gold cup of sperm oil, my heroes! Three cheers, men- all hearts alive! Easy, easy; don't be in a hurry- don't be in a hurry. Why don't you snap your oars, you rascals? Bite something, you dogs! So, so, so, then:- softly, softly! That's it- that's it! long and strong. Give way there, give way! The devil fetch ye, ye ragamuffin rapscallions; ye are all asleep. Stop snoring, ye sleepers, and pull. Pull, will ye? pull, can't ye? pull, won't ye? Why in the name of gudgeons and ginger-cakes don't ye pull?- pull and break something! pull, and start your eyes out! Here," whipping out the sharp knife from his girdle; "every mother's son of ye draw his knife, and pull with the blade between his teeth. That's it- that's it. Now ye do something; that looks like it, my steel-bits. Start her- start her, my silverspoons! Start her, marling-spikes!"

Stubb's exordium to his crew is given here at large, because he had rather a peculiar way of talking to them in general, and especially in inculcating the religion of rowing. But you must not suppose from this specimen of his sermonizings that he ever flew into downright passions with his congregation. Not at all; and therein consisted his chief peculiarity. He would say the most terrific things to his crew, in a tone so strangely compounded of fun most terri and fury, and the fury seemed so calculated merely as a spice to the fun, that no oarsmen could hear such queer invocations without pulling for dear life, and yet pulling for the mere joke of the thing. Besides he all the time looked so easy and indolent himself, so loungingly managed his steering-oar, and so broadly gaped- open-mouthed at times- that the mere sight of such a yawning commander, by sheer force of contrast, acted like a charm upon the crew. Then again, Stubb was one of those odd sort of humorists, whose jollity is sometimes so curiously ambiguous, as to put all inferiors on their guard in the matter of obeying them.

If this were a movie, the John Williams' score would be soaring as the ships were lowered and the sailors jumped over the railing into them.  It would be full of horns and flutes, accompanied by a steady percussion.  Think of the music from Jaws when Quint is shooting the shark with harpoons and barrels while Hooper is at the wheel, chasing after the shark.  That's what's happening here.  There is no immediate threat.  Just high-spirits, the crew pulling their rowboats toward the sighted whales.

Sorry for not posting anything last night.  I was out doing poet stuff.  You know, workshopping and drinking beer.  We laughed and passed around plates of food.  Argued over images and gerunds.  Propped each other up in this pursuit of poems, which is necessarily a solitary kind of vocation.  It's only after the writing is done that there's time for hummus and chips.  Maybe a pale ale.

Tonight, I have a concert to attend.  Both my son and daughter are in it.  It's the end-of-the-year performance, with choruses and bands from all different grade levels.  My daughter is in three of the groups performing.  My son is in one.

I love these kinds of events.  The music is always entertaining, and young people bring a kind of energy that's almost breathable into the gymnasium.  Perhaps because June is fast approaching, followed by three months of freedom.  Sleeping in.  Late nights.  Ice cream and swimming.  If you're a teenager, trying to score beers from your older siblings.  Summery romance that smells like coconut lotion.

If you detect a hint of nostalgia in that previous paragraph, you are correct.  Summer vacation, for most adults, has a golden burnish to it, like old photographs from the 1940s and '50s that curl and yellow and fade a little bit.  Everything carries a patina of yearning and melancholy.  I have experienced this myself, watching movies from my youth like Jaws, reading books I first read as a teenager like Carrie or The Catcher in the Rye (although Holden tends to irritate my middle-aged self now).

Pretty soon, the lilacs are going to start blooming in my backyard, and caps and gowns will start appearing on the streets.  It's an exciting time for young people to get that first taste of adult freedom.  Climbing in their $500-dollar cars and setting off like the sailors of the Pequod in pursuit of something big and exciting.

I need to go take a shower now.  Get ready for the concert.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for his daughter and son.  They make him feel young again.

September 17: Homemade Blueberry Jam, Classic Saint Marty, "Metamorphoses"

Sorry for my absence yesterday.  I was out doing poet stuff in a near-by town.  Read with a poet friend of mine under a pavilion by a beautiful lake.  It was a warm and lazy kind of day, where nobody seems in a hurry to do anything.  I ended up meeting quite a few wonderful people and picked up a jar of homemade blueberry jam.

Today, it was church in the morning.  Schoolwork in the afternoon.  Then reading and more reading.  Maybe some writing, if I'm lucky.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired two years ago, and I was talking to a good friend about suffering and tragedy . . .

September 17, 2017:  Eerie Shadows, Balloon Viscera, Laura Boss, "I Don't Visit My Father's Grave"

...One night, while working late, Ives, in his fatigue, staggered out to Madison Avenue, for as far as he could see, the office buildings were casting eerie shadows, and he felt the world a lonely and dreadful place.  He often awoke with a gasp in the middle of the night, his heartbeat accelerated, his breathing shallow, his heart filled with sadness, his head with memory.

Ives grieves for a long time.  He grieves so long that his wife considers divorce.  Ives grieves.  His daughter goes to Nepal, comes back, gets married, and has kids.  Ives grieves.  His best friend's wife dies.  And still Ives grieves.  For close to two hundred pages, Ives is in a constant state of sadness

I don't know why, but I thought I would somehow be beyond crying over my sister's death by now.  I had it all figured out.  I allowed myself to be angry and sad for two weeks.  At the beginning of September, back to work and teaching.  No more time for tears or being pissed off.  That was my schedule.

It hasn't worked out so well for me.  I can go for a few hours, maybe a day.  Suddenly, I'm walking to my car or brushing my teeth or eating a banana, and I start crying and can't stop.  I was talking to a good friend from the English Department, and he asked me how I was doing.  I told him about my attacks of sorrow, and he said, "Well, yeah.  You're going to be recovering from this for the rest of your life."

We talked about how the human race is united by tragedy and sadness.

"Why can't we be united by balloon animals or something?" he said.

I told him that, every time I tried to make a balloon dog or swan, it turns into balloon intestines.

"That's it," my friend said.  "We should be united by balloon viscera.  Something that lifts us up from inside."

Saint Marty's had a good day.  Good day working.  Good day teaching.  No anger.  No sadness.  Just balloon viscera raising him higher and higher.

I Don't Visit My Father's Grave

by:  Laura Boss

I don't visit my father's grave
don't put stones on his tombstone
don't say prayers
don't forget him


And another poem for this quiet Sunday afternoon about autumn changes . . .

Metamorphoses

by:  Martin Achatz

I want to speak about bodies

Changed into new forms.

My daughter, ten, on the verge

Of petal, stigma, ovule, sepal,

Talks of All Hallows Eve, the form

She will assume when Selene

Rises into the starry heavens.

Talks of the living dead, hunger

For the taste of flesh, of body.

Then changes her mind.

She will be straw in cornfield,

Blight against crow feather.

Then she chooses

A fairy nymph of cobweb,

Draped in lace and silk,

Arachne’s fine handiwork,

Fat with flies and moth wing.

Her muse shifts yet again.

She will be spell caster.

Pointed hat, frog skin,

Green and marbled with the dark

Matter of the universe.  And now,

Her final mutation, she will be

A girl, red-cloaked, a penchant

For forest and hairy stranger

In her young breast.  I fear

This form most.  Fear she won’t

Want to morph back on All Soul’s Day.

Fear she will just keep changing

States.  Liquid.  Solid.  Vapor.

Until she drifts away from me,

Or becomes some creature I don’t know

How to love.

April 22: Process of Aging, Donald Hall, "White Apples"

I just finished Donald Hall's book Essays After Eighty this afternoon.  Hall has been keeping me company all week long, so I read the last page with a little sadness.  Of course, I could go back and reread my favorite essays, but it wouldn't be the same.  It would be like watching a movie I've already seen.  (I am not opposed to this practice.  However, the second or third or fiftieth viewing of, say, Psycho is just not the same as that first time.)

Hall's book was all about the process of aging.  The diminishments.  Hall can no longer write poetry.  Hence, a book of prose essays.  Writing prose is, for some reason, easier for him as he approaches his ninetieth year of life.

But, I do have a Hall poem for you this evening.  It's about loss and grief and death.  You know, standard poet stuff.

Saint Marty is going to miss his visits with Donald.

White Apples

by:  Donald Hall

when my father had been dead a week
I woke
with his voice in my ear
I sat up in bed
and held my breath
and stared at the pale closed door

white apples and the taste of stone

if he called again
I would put on my coat and galoshes

October 1: Ashamed of It, Being a Writer, Familial Criticism

Soon after the book was published, Andy was visiting his parents when he overheard them talking about his first book.  "I don't know what you think of it," he heard his father say, "but I'm ashamed of it."

E. B. White's first book was titled The Lady Is Cold, and it was a small collection of light verse.  By the time it was published, White was already growing comfortable in his own writer skin.  He had a distinct voice and style.  I mean, the guy was a staff writer for The New Yorker, for God's sake.  He knew what he was doing.  His family, however, was, to say the least, slightly critical of his chosen profession and talent, as the passage above demonstrates.


Being a writer requires a delicate balancing act when it comes to family.  A few options are available.  First, you could avoid all conflict by choosing to never write about your family.  (This option cuts you off from some of the most compelling subject matter available to you.)  Second, you could expose all the dirty little familial skeletons rattling around in your closet, consequences be damned.  (Warning:  this option may result years of estrangement from alcoholic Aunt Gertie or serial shoplifter Cousin Crawford, if you get my drift.)  Or, third, you could play the part of the oddball in the family, thereby excusing you from the repercussions of divulging family scandal.  (A bonus with this option is being excused from tedious family get-togethers because "Oh, he's doing his poet stuff.")

Me, I chose the third option for my life.  When I write a poem about masturbation or an essay about pornography addiction, I simply get looks of pity and, at times, wagging heads from family members.  I am oblivious to most familial criticism at this point in my life.  While I don't go out of my way to upset the people in my life, I certainly do not shy away from difficult subject matter.  I simply try to remain sensitive to people's feelings.  I change names, genders, ages when appropriate.  And, if I still think I may get myself in hot water, I give the person I'm writing about an embarrassing physical defect--excessive flatulence or a small penis, for example; nobody will then lay claim to that character.

In the end, however, people will get upset.  Expect it.  I simply don't care anymore if I overhear a family member saying, "I'm ashamed of his new poem."

Saint Marty will wear that criticism as a badge of honor.

Open the door and let some out...