December 22, 2024: "Lucky Bastards," Clarence Odbody, Successful Suicide

My favorite Christmas movie of all time is It's a Wonderful Life.  Some people say it's not a Christmas movie because most of the film's action takes place outside of the holiday season.  I disagree.  It's a film that screams Christmas to me.

At the conclusion of the movie, Clarence Odbody, the angel sent to save George Bailey's/Jimmy Stewart's life, inscribes a book to George thusly:  "Remember, no man is a failure who has friends."  George's friends literally save the day (and his life).

Billy Collins learns about the primacy of friendship . . . 

Lucky Bastards

by: Billy Collins

From the deck of the swimming pool

you could see the planes taking off from LAX

and whenever my father visited his friend there,

the two of them would sit in the sun with their drinks

and kill the time between golf and dinner

by betting on whether the next plane would break

left or right, and if you picked the long shot--

one continuing straight over the ocean--you got double.

The time I was there with them, I watched

the singles and fives changing hands

as they laughed "You lucky bastard!"

and I learned again the linkage between friendship and money

and the sweet primacy of one over the other,

which is not to say that Sandburg's six-volume

biography of Lincoln or the writings of Lao Tzu

are not also excellent teachers, each in its own way.

I'm a pretty lucky bastard.  

My life is crowded people who love me.  I'm still not quite sure what I've done to deserve all this kindness and affection.  Since I've been writing about my mental health struggles these last 30 or so days, I've received lots of encouragement from my loyal disciples and friends.

I'm not gonna lie.  A couple times this past month, I've been standing on the bridge with George, staring down at the roiling black waters.  Don't worry.  I'm not going to jump.  I got past the moment, and I will get past it again if it recurs.  I've personally seen the aftermath of loved one's of a "successful" suicide.  (Such a weird juxtaposition of words--"successful" plus "suicide.")  I would never put my family through that.

This evening, I led a Zoom poetry workshop.  Only three people showed up--one really good poet friend, my wife, and myself--but it was a great time.  The theme of the workshop was Christmas.  We wrote about cards, ornaments, places, and people.  We laughed a lot.  Got a little teary, too.  At the end, we wished each other safe, peaceful, happy holidays.

I know I'm not a failure.  I have friends.  A lot of them.  Poets.  Musicians.  Teachers.  Librarians.  Artists.

They rescue Saint Marty from the bridge every day.

July 2: Poetry Workshop, World U. F. O. Day, "Big Bang"

Greetings disciples!

I just got home a little while ago from a poetry workshop I led this evening, outside, at a local park near a lake, face-to-face.  Of course, all the poets were safely distanced.  It was beautiful, warm, sunny, and pretty much bug-free.

Today is World. U. F. O. Day, so, in honor of this face, I planned an evening of all things cosmic and poetic.  Aliens and moons, abductions and invasions.  It was wonderfully and miraculously strange.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

Here is something I wrote this evening that I'm not too ashamed of . . .

Big Bang

by:  Martin Achatz

My dad hunted with Kevin,
Uncle Kevie, to us,
a man hard as slag rock
who used to fish
with dynamite he stole
from the mines, threw it
into the lake, let it pound
trout out of the water
like the hungry
fist of God.
Kevin drank a lot,
so much that Poncho,
the local grocer, paid
for his annual Yosemite
trips with Kevin's beer money.

July 20, 1973, at a campfire,
Uncle Kevie looked up
through pine branches, searched
for something.  When he found it,
he took a pull
from the long brown neck
of his beer, declared,
"It's my birthday."
Uncle Kevie never drew
attention to himself, avoided
it like Sunday church.  He stared
up at the bright sickle
of moon.  His ice-blue irises
swam with fire.  He nodded.
"I remember it.  That day."
He pressed his lips together.
"Nineteen sixty-nine."
He pulled on his beer again.
"They walked on that."
Raised his bottle, pointed.
"On my birthday.  Today."
He smiled.  He never smiled.

I saw Uncle Kevie draw inward,
the space around him collapse.
Then he started to expand,
getting bigger, bigger,
reaching out and out,
spinning, spinning
over Europa, Ganymede,
leaping Fornax, Lyra, Lupus
chasing Cigar, Pinwheel
toward a distant somewhere
at the edge of comets, stars, moons
where no boot had ever stepped.

December 2-3-4: Forty-Two, Out of Control, Krampustag Birthday

"Forty-two," said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm.

According to Douglas Adams, 42 is the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.  These last few days, I've been sort of searching for answers myself.  Trying to survive in a life that seems a little bit out of control . . .

December 3, 2019.  10:34 p.m.

I find myself staring at a blank computer screen at the moment.  I am really tired.  Falling-asleep-at-the-keyboard tired.  Consequently, this will be a very short post.

Last night, I attended my first Christmas party of the holiday season.  It was a gathering of local poets.  We brought dishes to pass, wine and beer to drink.  We ate and talked and indulged and listened to poetry for about three hours.  It was a wonderful way to end a Monday.

Today, I worked for ten hours.  Then I went to see my therapist.  Then I had a meeting at the university.  Then I cleaned at church.  Then I spent two hours putting together my final exam for my two film classes.  It is that time of the semester (and year) where I begin to feel overwhelmed with obligations.  Things to grade.  Presents to buy.  Poems and essays and letters to write.  For a little while this evening, I gave into self pity and simply sat in my car, letting it wash over me.

However, the only way I can survive at the moment is by simply keeping my eye on the immediate task before me.  If I start playing the crystal ball game, gazing into the future, I might as well go to bed and stay there for a very long time.  But I can't really afford to sleep until New Year's Day, so, instead, I snooze off in front of my laptop.

December 4, 2019.  5:06 p.m.

It is the eve before my daughter's nineteenth birthday.  Yes, she was born on Krampustag.  December 5, which also happens to be Walt Disney's birth date, as well.

It is kind of hard to wrap my mind around the fact that I am the father of an almost 20-year-old young woman.  I couldn't have wished for a better daughter.  She's smart, kind, and compassionate.  One of my sisters says that my daughter has an "angel light" around her.  People who are broken or hurting are drawn to her like moths to a front porch light.  I see that all the time, even in myself.  When I am around my daughter, I feel better, calmer, more grounded.

I had no idea what I was doing when I was raising my daughter.  She sort of taught me how to be a father.  What worked.  What didn't.  I've made lots of mistakes, as any first-time parent does.  My daughter has grown up to be a lot like me.  She's driven to always be the best at whatever she does.  She goes out of her way to help people in need.  She is accepting to a fault.  There's not a judgmental bone in her body.  And she's funny.

I don't know what I did to deserve a daughter like her.  Perhaps, on the night she was born, God looked down on me and thought, "Oh, boy.  This one is going to need a lot of help.  Better send Celeste."  She is one of my proudest achievements.  When I am gone from this life, maybe people will remember some of my poems.  Maybe not.  Maybe someone will stumble across this blog and read it.  Maybe not.  But I know that someone will meet my daughter in the future--a moth drawn to her light--and that person will think, "I wonder where this wondrous creature came from?"  And she may say my name, with love.

That is how Saint Marty wants to be remembered.  As an incantation of love spoken by his daughter.

May 17: Lump of Cold Rock, Pull of Narrative, Speaking My Truth

The argument over fairy tale and fact continues between Zaphod and Ford . . .

Trillian interrupted.  

"Zaphod," she said, "any minute now we will be swinging round to the daylight side of this planet," adding, "whatever it turns out to be."

"Hey, what do you mean by that?  The planet's where I predicted it would be, isn't it?"

"Yes, I know there's a planet there.  I'm not arguing with anyone, it's just that I wouldn't know Magrathea from any other lump of cold rock.  Dawn's coming up if you want it."

"Okay, okay," muttered Zaphod, "let's at least give our eyes a good time.  Computer!"

"Hi there!  What can I . . ."

"Just shut up and give us a view of the planet again."

A dark featureless mass once more filled the screens--the planet rolling away beneath them.

They watched for a moment in silence, but Zaphod was fidgety with excitement.

"We are now traversing the night side . . ." he said in a hushed voice.  The planet rolled on.

"The surface of the planet is now three hundred miles beneath us . . ." he continued.  He was trying to restore a sense of occasion to what he felt should have been a great moment.,  Magrathea!  He was piqued by Ford's skeptical reaction.  Magrathea!

"In a few seconds," he continued, "we should see . . . there!"

The moment carried itself.  Even the most seasoned star tramp can't help but shiver at the spectacular drama of a sunrise seen from space, but a binary sunrise is one of the marvels of the Galaxy.

Out of the utter blackness stabbed a sudden point of blinding light.  It crept up by slight degrees and spread sideways in a thin crescent blade, and within seconds two suns were visible, furnaces of light, searing the black edge of the horizon with white fire.  Fierce shafts of color streaked through the thin atmosphere beneath them.

"The fires of dawn . . .!" breathed Zaphod.  "The twin suns of Soulianis and Rahm . . .!"

"Or whatever," said Ford quietly.

"Soulianis and Rahm!" insisted Zaphod.

The suns blazed into the pitch of space and a low ghostly music floated through the bridge:  Marvin was humming ironically because he hated humans so much.

As Ford gazed at the spectacle of the light before them excitement burned inside him, but only the excitement of seeing a strange new planet; it was enough for him to see it as it was.  It faintly irritated him that Zaphod had to impose some ludicrous fantasy onto the scene to make it work for him.  All this Magrathea nonsense seemed juvenile.  Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?

This disagreement over Magrathea is a very human one, even though it's happening between two aliens from Betelgeuse.  It's the inherent need for humans to place everything into some kind of context.  To understand and label.  Ford is happy with simply the discovery of a new planet, without any background or narrative.  Zaphod, on the other hand, wants a story, a way to identify what he is seeing, in order for it to make sense to him.  Zaphod is also an attention junkie.

I sort of understand the pull of narrative.  When someone comes home after a long day of being away, one of the first questions to be asked is "How was your day?"  This prompts the someone to launch into the details of his or her hours away from home.  Tales of problems with the boss.  Flunking or acing tests at school.  Bullies on the playground.  Sudden attacks of diarrhea.  Whatever.  It's how human beings communicate.

I like these how-was-your-day stories.  They help me to understand the order of things in my life.  Let me know if I have something to celebrate or worry about.  Help me identify a problem I can help my children or wife cope with.  At this time in my life, I'm pretty much viewed as the level-headed, grounded person in my family.  I'm a problem-solver, a shoulder to cry on.

I don't know how I inherited this reputation.  I'm a poet, for God's sake!  Isn't that the definition of ungrounded and unstable?  The majority of famous poets and writers that I know suffered from a laundry list of issues:  alcoholism, bipolar disorder, abuse, suicidal ideation.  There's a reason why so many of the greats of the 20th century ended their lives prematurely.  Think about it:  Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Richard Brautigan, Yukio Mishima, Hunter S. Thompson, Ernest Hemingway . . .  It's a pretty long list.

I think that writers (and especially poets) feel the world a lot more fully than other people.  It kind of goes with territory.  Poets don't turn away from darkness.  They dissect it, cook it, slice it up, and eat it for dinner.  It's all about truth.  At least, that's what it's about for me as a poet.  It's about communicating my truth to the world.  People can read what I write and either accept my truth or think that I'm full of shit.

Frankly, I don't care which of those two choices my readers make.  I care that they're reading and engaging in my truth in some way.  I don't mind being told that I'm wrong.  I have a ten-year-old son who frequently tells me that I'm wrong.  Debates with me on a nightly basis.  That's alright.  He's speaking his ten-year-old truth.

I don't know where I'm headed with this post tonight.  I sat down thinking that I wanted to address the necessity of narrative.  Wanted to speak to its power to heal and set things aright.  (Yes, I just used the word "aright."  Deal with it.)  And the best narratives are ones that address deeper truths about life.  And poets seek out those deeper (sometimes painful) truths.

And that's Saint Marty's brooding poet story for tonight.

October 6: Poems, Poets, Madeleine L'Engle, "Annunciation"

I've just spent the last couple of hours reading poems for the university's literary magazine.  Some of them excited me.  Some of them left me cold.  I wish I could come up with a definition of what makes a good poem.  Emily Dickinson had a pretty good definition:  "If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way?"

I think I've always subscribed to Dickinson's definition.  Good poetry has to be a physical thing for me.  I have to feel cold, unstitched, wounded.  The best poems, the ones to which I return again and again, have a moment.  I refer to it as the breathless moment.  It's when I read a line, and it literally knocks the air out of my lungs.  That's poetry.

So, I wasn't feeling very winded after I got done reviewing the poems for the magazine.  There were hiccups.  Maybe an audible sniff.  But no gut punches.  I wasn't surprised.  There are very few poets who can take off the top of my head, as Dickinson said.  What I read today was beautiful.  Moving at times.  But not breathtaking.

The Poet of the Week is Madeleine L'Engle, and she can take my breath away.  I know what you're all thinking:  didn't she write A Wrinkle in Time?  She writes poetry, too?  Yes, Madeleine L'Engle is a poet, and a damn good one.  At times a breathtaking one.

L'Engle took Saint Marty's head off with this poem.

 Annunciation

by:  Madeleine L'Engle

Sorrowfully
the angel appeared
before the young woman
feared
to ask what must be asked,
a task
almost too great to bear.
With care,
mournfully,
the angel bare
the tidings of great joy,
and then
great grief.
Behold, thou shalt bring forth a son.
This must be done.
There will be no reprieve.

2

Another boy
born of woman (who shall also grieve)
full of grace
and innocence
and no offense--
a lovely one
of pure and unmarked face.

3

How much can a woman bear?

4

Pain will endure for a night
but joy comes in the morning.

His name is Judas.

That the prophets may be fulfilled
he must play this part.
It must be done.
Pain will endure.
Joy comes in the morning.

My head's off to Emily

March 12: Writing a Poem Every Day and Psalm 4

Well, this writing a praise poem daily is a little harder than I thought it was going to be.  I haven't missed a day.  Yet.  The first struggle is with subject matter.  The second struggle is with time, as in, I don't have enough of it.  The third struggle is getting it typed in and posted every 24 hours.  Tough.

But Saint Marty has done it, will do it.  Just cut Saint Marty some slack if the poem sucks every once in a while.

Psalm 4:  Make Me a Poet

Dear Lord, make me a poet like cummings,
Except with capitalization and punctuation.
Make me hungry, wild as Uncle Walt,
Less the fingers of grass in delicate places,
Prolific as Emily, know Death's home phone,
Minus the agoraphobia, moth-white dresses.
Lord, I want to be Dr. Williams
With his wheelbarrow, rain, chickens,
But I don't want to go to medical school.
I'll observe the mating habits of blackbirds
With Mr. Stevens, but I won't sell car or life insurance.
I want to walk like Bob down a yellow road
That forks, get lost on a snowy evening, but can't
Pretend to farm, raise poultry, or pick apples.
I want to rage against dimming light like Dylan,
Without having to drink anybody under the table,
Dive, as Adrienne did, into the shipwreck,
Without Jewish angst, the struggle of being
Woman, wife, mother, political activist, lesbian.
Let me sing like Sylvia against Nazi daddies
And not have to stick my head in an oven.
Allow me to garden words like Stanley,
Live a century, but also win the Nobel Prize.
Lord, I will leap in the streets, dance like a fool,
Strip naked, grab a tambourine, shake
My hairy goods at all onlookers if only
You will let me raise my voice, weave
My poems like David, the lucky bastard.
Of course, I don't want to cheat on my wife
Or kill a friend.  I won't go that far.
Other than that, anything for You, Lord.

Shake what your Daddy gave you!