February 7, 2025: "New Mother," Strategic Planning, "Snow Blower Ode"

I spent a good portion of my day at a strategic planning retreat for work.  (That sounds like a military operation, but it was actually not too horrible.)  We talked about communication and the future.  Told jokes.  Had drinks and ate lunch.  (I had a grilled muenster and roasted tomato sandwich with onion rings, in case you're interested.)  By the end of our session, I felt like we'd given birth to something new and productive.

Sharon Olds writes about having a baby . . . 

New Mother

by: Sharon Olds

A week after our child was born,
you cornered me in the spare room
and we sank down on the bed.
You kissed me and kissed me, my milk undid its
burning slip-knot through my nipples,
soaking my shirt. All week I had smelled of milk,
fresh milk, sour. I began to throb:
my sex had been torn easily as cloth by the
crown of her head, I'd been cut with a knife and
sewn, the stitches pulling at my skin--
and the first time you're broken, you don't know
you'll be healed again, better than before.
I lay in fear and blood and milk
while you kissed and kissed me, your lips hot and swollen
as a teen-age boy's, your sex dry and big,
all of you so tender, you hung over me,
over the nest of the stitches, over the
splitting and tearing, with the patience of someone who
finds a wounded animal in the woods
and stays with it, not leaving its side
until it is whole, until it can run again.

It's a pretty intimate poem--this first sexual encounter between Olds and her husband after the birth of their daughter.  There's longing in these lines.  Fear.  Lust.  Yearning.  Hunger.  Everything has changed for them because of this fragile, new addition to their lives.  

As most of my faithful disciples know, I'm not a big fan of change.  I don't like new additions or emendations.  I eat the same breakfast and lunch every day.  Say the same prayers.  Listen to the same music.  Every night, I sit down and write a blog post.  Sure, there are sometimes slight variations, depending on the day of the week, but even those slight variations are pretty routine for me.

So, talking for an entire day about changes in my place of work was not completely comfortable for me.  But it wasn't as bad as oral surgery.  Because I was part of the discussion--instead of simply being told, through email, that X, Y, and Z are going to take place--I didn't experience that much anxiety.  (I still had anxiety, but I mixed it with gin and tonic to make it more palatable.)

Perhaps these changes will be good, make my life (and everyone else's lives at the library) better.  Sort of like buying a snow blower after shoveling snow for 20 years.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about a snow blower tonight, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

In honor of the birthday of John Deere, inventor of the steel plow, write a poem about your favorite labor-saving device.  Examples:  coffee grinder/maker, ice maker, electric can opener, vacuum cleaner, washing machine, etc.  Bonus source:  consult the user manual of your chosen device.

Snow Blower Ode

by: Martin Achatz

Snow ambushes our house

in the middle of night, captures

our garbage cans and car,

blockades the driveway, turns

trees into POWs, shackled

with drift and ice.  In this siege,

O snow blower, you sleep

in the bunker of the garage, 

mouth wide and open, ready

for your cold, cold breakfast.

You're Little Boy in the belly

of Enola Gay, Grant chasing

Lee to Appomattox, wood horse

waiting at the gates of Troy.

When the drums of your heart

roar and you march into battle

at morning light, rabbits flee, crows

retreat to sky, and you, O Napoleon, 

O Joan of Arc, wage your war against

the white supremacy of winter.

January 5, 2025: "Nevsky Prospekt," Last Day, "Walt Whitman Reads a Poem at the Inauguration of Donald Trump"

I woke this morning, the last day of my holiday vacation, confused and panicked, thinking I had Rip Van Winkled myself into Monday.  For several moments, I lay in bed, full of dread, cataloguing a list of duties and responsibilities in my head.

Then, my wife reminded me it was only Sunday.

I've never dealt well with transitions, moving from one state of being to another.  Ask anyone who knows me well, and that person will most likely tell you that I'm a creature of habit and routine.  I eat the same breakfast every day.  (Crackers, hardboiled eggs, grapes.)  Watch the same movie over and over for days, sometimes weeks.  (My current obsession--Ken Burns' documentary on the life of Mark Twain.)  Write in my blog about the same poet for an entire year.  (Mary Oliver two years ago.  Billy Collins last year.  This year, Sharon Olds.)  

So, having to establish a new routine after these two weeks of downtime is going to be r-o-u-g-h.  In a week, I start teaching two classes for the university, and, in two weeks, the Felon in Chief becomes President of the United States again.  Can I have some Xanax with a chaser of Prozac, please?

Of course, I have poetry to calm my agitated heart and soul and mind.  When I write, I gain some sense of control over my life.  I don't feel quite so overwhelmed with my pen and journal in my hand.  Usually.

More about the dead from Sharon Olds . . . 

Nevsky Prospekt

(July, 1917)

by: Sharon Olds

It is an old photo, very black and

very white.  One woman

lifts up her heavy skirt as she runs.

A man in a white jacket, his hands

tied behind his back, runs,

his chin stuck out.  An old woman

in massive black turns and looks behind her.

A man throws himself onto the pavement.

A child in heavy boots is running

but looks back over his shoulder

at the black and white heap of bodies.

The wide gray stone square

is dotted with fallen inky shapes

and dropped white hats.  Everything else is

heaving away like a sea from the noise we

feel in the silence of the photograph

the way the deaf see sound:  the terrible

voice of the submachine guns saying

This is more important than your life.

The question Olds' poem poses is pretty simple:  what is something you would die for?  Olds is writing about the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution in Russia, when the government cracked down in a violent way against protestors.  Between 1917 and 1923, seven to 12 million individuals died in the Russian Revolution.  That's a lot of people laying down their lives for what they believed in.  

Me?  I would lay down my life for my kids.  Any parent would say the same.  And I would do practically anything to ensure that my daughter and son have brighter, more promising futures.  The Iroquois have this concept called the Seventh Generation Principle, which basically means that decisions made now should result in a better world seven generations into the future.  It's a pretty powerful concept.

I'm not sure my blog posts are going to make that kind of difference in the world.  Or my poems.  Seven generation from now, I can predict with about 99.99% certainty that nobody is going to be interested in reading my Bigfoot stuff.  But I do recycle, conserve water, support Planned Parenthood, and vote in every election.  I'm not sure all that counts, but it's the best I could come up with tonight.  

Saint Marty has a new poem about the future, based on today's prompt from The Daily Poet:  

Write a poem in the voice of someone other than yourself that offers a glimpse or hints at another possible outcome or future.  Consider going back in history and writing about Abraham Lincoln deciding to stay home from yet another play, or write from the present about an event that has not yet happened or may never happen.  For example, write from the point-of-view of snowboarders imagining all of the snow in the world has melted from global warming or someone preparing for an event (a wedding, an earthquake, a funeral, etc.) that may of may not actually happen.  Allow history to rewrite itself or allow a new future for you or someone else to unfold.

Walt Whitman Reads

a Poem at the Inauguration

of Donald Trump

January 20, 2025

by: Martin Achatz

Mr. President, Mr. Vice President, Americans Everywhere,

At this bright winter moment, with the echo of cannon and gun 

in my ears, smoke stinging my eyes and nose, I wish

to tell again of a vigil strange I kept one night beside a boy 

(for he was just that, with unwhiskered cheeks)

who surrendered his youth, life, kisses unkissed, for me,

for you, for friend and enemy, for Jew, Gentile, dark-skinned,

light-skinned, for the crust of his mother's biscuits, brute

embrace of his father's arms, for all things we hold dear.

Yes, this dearest comrade, this brave child fell, never to rise

again.  I remind you, gentlepeople, of this embracer now

embraced in rib, skull, femur, tibia, fibula by cold, cold

sod so that you might think hard of the hard cost

of pitting brother against brother, child against parent,

neighbor against neighbor, a war terrible fought to bring

us all together, one people, if such a thing possible after so bold

and bloody a conflict.  I commend to you today the memory

of his cold knuckles against my palm, his startled gaze

blind to the rising of another day.  Hold his chill fingers

in yours, stare into his sightless eyes, promise him this teeming

soil that now cradles his perfect, beautiful body is still

free for all--citizen, soldier, tired, poor, wretched, huddled--

whose lips are pressed, hungrily, like a newborn's, against 

the fresh and stinging bosom of this morning's promise.

October 8: "The Flight of the Statues," Routine, Hardcover

Most days are pretty routine.  I did the same thing this Tuesday that I did last Tuesday.  Tomorrow, I will follow my Wednesday rituals:  working, teaching, writing, and working some more.  Nothing truly surprising will happen.

Billy Collins is taken by surprise . . .

The Flight of the Statues

by: Billy Collins

The ancient Greeks…. used to chain
their statues to prevent them from fleeing.
--Michael Kimmelman

It might have been the darkening sky
that sent them running in all directions
that afternoon as the air turned a pale yellow,

but were they not used to standing out
in the squares of our city
in every kind of imaginable weather?

Maybe they were frightened by a headline
on a newspaper that was blowing by
or was it the children in their martial arts uniforms?

Did they finally learn about the humans
they stood for as they pointed a sword at a cloud?
Did they know something we did not?

Whatever the cause, no one will forget
the sight of all the white marble figures
leaping from their pedestals and rushing away.

In the parks, the guitarists fell silent.
The vendor froze under his umbrella.
A dog tried to híde in his owner's shadow.

Even the chess players under the trees
looked up from their boards
long enough to see the bronze generals

dismount and run off, leaving their horses
to peer down at the circling pigeons
who were stealing a few more crumbs from the poor.

Okay, I didn't see any marble statues running down the street today.  However, when I got home this evening, there was a box waiting for me.  Inside the box:  hardcover copies of my new book.  This may not seem like such a big deal to you, faithful disciple, but it is huge to me, equivalent to Lincoln stepping down from the Lincoln Memorial and skipping off to Dairy Queen.  Or the faces on Mount Rushmore breaking into a barbershop quartet version of "Stand by Me."

Six months ago, my Bigfoot book was still just a file on a flash drive.  The poems were disorganized and in need of revision.  Tonight, the hairy guy is out in the world.  I'm not sure if people are going to like or buy my book, and, frankly, at this moment, I don't really care.

Cuz Saint Marty has a hardcover copy of his book in his hot little hands.

May 8: "Zen Backfire," Mindless Activities, "Existential Sundae"

Billy Collins gets all philosophical again . . .

Zen Backfire

by: Billy Collins

The only time

I cut myself shaving

is when I'm aware

that I'm shaving.

Most of the things I do in a day are mindless activities, including shaving.  I don't think about how to shave each time I lift a razor to my face.  And I don't review all the rules of driving before I sit behind a wheel and turn the key in the ignition.  I rely on muscle memory.  My body, through continuous repetition, simply knows how to shave in the morning and drive to work.

Billy Collins is right, though.  The moment you start thinking about shaving or operating a motor vehicle is the moment bad things happen.  I tie my shoes all the time, but, when my daughter was young and asked me how to tie her shoes, I had a hell of a time explaining the steps.

It is one day past the end of the semester now, and I had to think, really think, about what I was going to do today.  After having the same routine for almost five months, I now need to retrain my mind and body.  I'll have to do the same at the end of August when I start teaching again.  Every three or four months, I have to reinvent myself.

In a lot of ways, writing a poem has become muscle memory for me.  I've been creating poetry for so long that I almost immediately recognize things like weak verbs, trite imagery, clunky lines.  That doesn't mean every time I sit down with my journal I write "The Emperor of Ice Cream" or "The Pope's Penis."  But I can and often do avoid very common mistakes made by less-experienced poets.

When I meet a stranger, usually one of the first question I get asked is "What do you do?"  There are easy answers to that question.  I teach at a university.  I schedule programs at a public library.  I play the pipe organ at a few different churches.  But the answer that is closest to who I am is:  I am a poet.

Try saying that to a complete stranger and see what kind of reaction you get.  If you're at a party, suddenly your conversation partner becomes infatuated with the bean dip.  If you're on an airplane, your seatmate will begin staring out the window at the clouds.

Truth frightens people.

My name is Saint Marty, and I am a poet.  Run for the hills.

Existential Sundae

by: Martin Achatz

If I define a sundae

as ice cream with hot fudge,

is it still a sundae

if I add whipped cream

and a maraschino cherry?

January 25: Goodwin Sands, Predictability, William Carlos Williams

Oh! ye whose dead lie buried beneath the green grass; who standing among flowers can say- here, here lies my beloved; ye know not the desolation that broods in bosoms like these. What bitter blanks in those black-bordered marbles which cover no ashes! What despair in those immovable inscriptions! What deadly voids and unbidden infidelities in the lines that seem to gnaw upon all Faith, and refuse resurrections to the beings who have placelessly perished without a grave. As well might those tablets stand in the cave of Elephanta as here.

In what census of living creatures, the dead of mankind are included; why it is that a universal proverb says of them, that they tell no tales, though containing more secrets than the Goodwin Sands! how it is that to his name who yesterday departed for the other world, we prefix so significant and infidel a word, and yet do not thus entitle him, if he but embarks for the remotest Indies of this living earth; why the Life Insurance Companies pay death-forfeitures upon immortals; in what eternal, unstirring paralysis, and deadly, hopeless trance, yet lies antique Adam who died sixty round centuries ago; how it is that we still refuse to be comforted for those who we nevertheless maintain are dwelling in unspeakable bliss; why all the living so strive to hush all the dead; wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify a whole city. All these things are not without their meanings.

But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.

It needs scarcely to be told, with what feelings, on the eve of a Nantucket voyage, I regarded those marble tablets, and by the murky light of that darkened, doleful day read the fate of the whalemen who had gone before me. Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be thine. But somehow I grew merry again. Delightful inducements to embark, fine chance for promotion, it seems- aye, a stove boat will make me an immortal by brevet. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling- a speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what then? Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death. Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air. Methinks my body is but the lees of my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket; and come a stove boat and stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot.

Goodwin Sands.  Had to look that one up.  It's a sandbank off the coast of Kent, England.  There have been more than 2,000 shipwrecks on Goodwin Sands because it is so close to shipping lanes.  Tides and currents are constantly shifting the shoals, making the area incredibly unpredictable to navigate.  Hence the loss of so many vessels.

For the most part, I live a pretty predictable life.  I have to.  Every morning during the week, I get up at the same time--4:45 a.m.  I'm at work by 6 a.m., and my day is filled with the same tasks.  Patients and medical charts.  Students and classwork.  In the evenings. I am the dance dad chauffeur.  For example, tonight, I'm driving my daughter to her dance studio at 7 p.m.  Her classes get over at 8:45 p.m.  Then, it's home and preparing for the next day.

Some people might find this kind of schedule tedious.  No room for spontaneity.  I sort of like that element of non-surprise.  It allows me to navigate my weeks without ending up a shipwrecked, underwater, on the Goodwin Sands, if you get my analogy.  While I can't completely avoid the unexpected (brake jobs, collapsing ceilings, and the like), I have learned that routine also gives me freedom.

Because of my crazy life, I sometimes struggle to carve out time to write or read or create.  William Carlos Williams is famous for writing tiny poems.  The reason he was so economical in language and image is that he was a busy physician.  Some of his poems were written on the backs of prescription pads between visiting patients.  Williams found the time in his busy life to be a poet.  So do I.

And it's the predictability that helps me to do this.  I know that I will have at least three or four hours every Thursday afternoon/evening where I can fully concentrate on whatever creative project I currently have on my plate.  I also have couple hours on Tuesday and Wednesday night, as well.

Yesterday, I didn't write any blog posts.  I had another writing project that needed my attention.  I knew that I had the time to do that.  In fact, I had blocked it out on my schedule to complete the project.  I got it done and submitted last night at about 11:30.

I think most writers, if they are honest, thrive on predictability.  One of my writer friends religiously sits at his desk from about 7 a.m. to 10 or 11 a.m. every day.  Sometimes, he says, he accomplishes a great deal.  Other times, he gets three or four sentences written.  That is his creative life.  No unpredictable sandbars for him.

So, don't scoff at routine.  Don't laugh at daily lists.  Spontaneity, while exciting every once in a while, can get in the way of serious creative endeavor.

Saint Marty is thankful for the one hour and forty-five minutes he will have to work on his new poem tonight.

January 22: Routine, Kwame Dawes, "Coffee Break"

Life is really short.  I am the father of a high school junior.  In a little over a year, I will be the father of a high school graduate.  That astounds me.  I still think of my daughter as the little girl whose hair I would braid every night.

I am sitting in my living room.  It's almost 11 o'clock at night.  There's a winter storm raging outside my front door.  It's supposed to continue all night long.  School has already been called off for my kids.  Pretty soon, I'm going to brush my teeth and go to bed.

That is my life.  A series of routines.  I like the comfort of routine.  It make me feel safe.  However, as Kwame Dawes poem demonstrates in its short lines and simple narrative, life has a way of disrupting things, pulling the blanket off of you.

Saint Marty prays for uninterrupted routine for everyone he loves tomorrow.

Coffee Break

by:  Kwame Dawes

It was Christmastime,

the balloons needed blowing,

and so in the evening

we sat together to blow

balloons and tell jokes,

and the cool air off the hills

made me think of coffee,

so I said, “Coffee would be nice,”

and he said, “Yes, coffee

would be nice,” and smiled

as his thin fingers pulled

the balloons from the plastic bags;

so I went for coffee,

and it takes a few minutes

to make the coffee

and I did not know

if he wanted cow’s milk

or condensed milk,

and when I came out

to ask him, he was gone,

just like that, in the time

it took me to think,

cow’s milk or condensed;

the balloons sat lightly

on his still lap.

April 2: Rewriting, Routine, Psalm 25

Well, my daughter made it home around 3 a.m.  It is now around 3 p.m., and she is currently taking a nap.  I made the mistake of getting her up too early this morning to go to McDonald's for breakfast, and she turned into the little girl, Regan, from The Exorcist.  Right before she fell asleep, she told me everybody hated her and she was going to run away.  I'm sure she'll be in a much better mood after a few hours of sleep.

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you know that I treasure routine.  I am such a creature of habit that if I even change what I usually order at a restaurant, my wife looks as if she doesn't recognize me.  She usually says something like, "Who are you and what have you done with my husband?"  I don't like surprises.  Surprises have been nasty, life-altering experiences for me.  One of my best friend's husbands pretty much summed up my motto once:  "What's wrong with sameness?"  Amen, brother.

However, when it comes to writing, I bend that rule quite a bit.  If you have been following my psalms, you may have noticed that I sometimes make changes to the poems after I post them.  The poem you read yesterday may have been tweaked, revised, or reworded today.  It's all in the effort to make my poems the best I can make them.  That also goes for regular blog posts.  If I notice a typo or misspelling as I'm reviewing them, I make a change.  That's the English professor in me.  I can't stand sloppy writing.  So, if you're a visitor to my blog and notice an error, drop me a comment so I can fix it.

Saint Marty dedicates the psalm for today to his best friend's husband, the Dalai Lama of Routine.

Psalm 25:  In Praise of Sameness

Each morning, I rise at the same time,
4:15 a.m.  I eat the same breakfast:
Two soft eggs, a piece of toast, unbuttered.
I drink the same kind of soft drink,
Two cans of Diet Mountain Dew.  I work
Until 10:40 a.m.  Then I drive to campus,
Teach a literature class from 11 a.m.
Until 12:30 p.m.  I walk back to my office,
Where I hold office hours from 12:45
Until 1:40 p.m.  I drive back to my other
Office, work from 1:47 p.m. to 4:53 p.m.
I drive home, arrive at 5:19 p.m.  I eat
Dinner at 5:42 p.m.  Hot dogs and eggs
Or turkey breast and mashed potatoes.
Maybe stir fry with broccoli, chicken.
I drive my daughter to religion class
At 6 p.m.  Pick her up at 6:45 p.m.
Take her to ballet class.  7 p.m.  Pick
Her up at 7:50 p.m.  Drive home.  8:09 p.m.
Make sure my daughter takes a shower.
Prepare lunches, set out tomorrow's clothes.
Get my daughter to bed by 8:47 p.m.
Correct papers, prepare lesson plans.
Until 10:12 p.m.  Brush.  Floss.  Bed.
10:38 p.m.  I give God thanks for this
Sameness.  Regularity.  Routine.  The gift
Of no surprises.  Surprises bring
Bronchitis to babies.  Brake jobs
When you expect oil changes.  Pulmonary
Embolism after Caesaerean section.
Breast cancer in your 80-year-old father.
A roof leak after a hard winter.
Unemployment after 20 years on the job.
Loss of health insurance.  Loss of home.
Planes flying into skyscrapers,
Soldiers in sand, in mountain cave.
Peaceful protest becoming bomb mission,
Collateral damage, instead of transition,
Peace.  I praise God for sunrises, sunsets,
Stars, moon, planets, universe all in place.
I praise the God of habit, of the mundane.
I praise the God of unbuttered toast.  Dry.  Plain.

Praise God for sameness!!