October 24-25: Vogonity, Fifth Grade Classes, My Purpose in Life

"Ah, yes, Vogonity--sorry--of the poet's compassionate soul"--Arthur felt he was on a homestretch now--"which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other"--he was reaching a triumpahnt crescendo--"and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into . . . into . . . er . . ." (which suddenly gave out on him).  Ford leaped in with the coup de grace:

"Into whatever it was the poem was about!" he yelled.  Out of the corner of his mouth:  "Well done, Arthur, that was very good."

Hitchhiker's picked the subject of my post tonight.

Arthur and Ford are being tortured with Vogon poetry--the third worst poetry in the Universe, the second being the poetry of the Azgoths of Kria, and the worst poetry belonging to Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England.  Poetry as a weapon of mass destruction.

I did a poet thing this afternoon, something I haven't done in a great while.  I visited two fifth grade classes in a neighboring town and led them through a lesson on metaphor.  Then, we wrote Halloween poems.  I had a wonderful time, and I think the kids enjoyed themselves.  Their hands were flying up with questions, and, when I asked for volunteers to read, practically the entire group of 50-plus ten- and eleven-year-olds wanted to share their poems at the end of the class.  And their poems were good.  Inventive and funny and crazy.

I haven't had much opportunity these past five or six months to do U. P. Poet Laureate stuff.  I have been preoccupied with the fact that my life seems to be falling apart.  Now, Humpty ain't done putting himself back together yet, but today felt right.  Like I was doing what I was meant to do.  Talking about poetry, reading poetry aloud, teaching poetry, celebrating poetry.  It is one of the reasons I was put on this planet, I think.

Not a lot of people can say that they've figured out their purpose in life.  Me?  I know I was built for poetry and writing and teaching.  That's a pretty great gift, having that knowledge/insight about myself.  I know what makes me happy, and I need to do it more often.  (I have already been asked if I'd be willing to teach a couple other fifth grade classes in the same school.  God seems to be sending me a message.)

I am a poet, and I love talking about and writing poetry.  That little nudge was a blessing I received today.  When everything else seems to be going wrong, I will hold on to that.

My name is Saint Marty, and poetry is my thing.

This message has been brought to you by Mr. Hongisto's and Mr. Saari's fifth grade classes.

February 20: Few Hours of Service, Meat Auction, God's Love Number Three

During the next several months Ives sent the center several large boxes of art supplies and paper from the office, and every so often on a Sunday afternoon he would go up to run a workshop for the kids, work that Ives much enjoyed, as it got him outside of himself.  He did this, either alone or with his daughter or Annie, on and off, for five years, and with those few hours of service, found an agreeable way of passing his time.

Ives is a good guy.  Even in the face of immense grief, years of depression, he helps people out.  Volunteers his time and talents and resources at a community center.  It brings him some solace to work with underprivileged kids.  Takes his mind off the hole his son's death has left in his life.  And he gets to spend time with his wife and daughter.

My wife and I are going to a meat auction this evening.  It's a fundraiser for my wife's sister, who is raising money for an Avon breast cancer walk in October.  It's a great cause.  I have no idea what happens at a meat auction.  I'm pretty sure it doesn't involve strippers or thongs.  More like hamburger, steak, and sausage.  For a few dollars, we'll be helping out breast cancer research.  And that's God's love in this world.  Helping out.  Making small changes.  Really small changes.  We'll be lucky if we can afford a hot dog.

I've always enjoyed volunteering.  Some of the best times I've had as a teacher occurred in grade school classrooms, teaching poetry to a bunch of hyped-up second graders.  You don't do stuff like that for money or glory.  You do stuff like that because it's the right thing to do.  It allows you to use the gifts God has given you to make the world a better place.  My sister-in-law raises money to fight the disease that claimed her mother's life.  I help six- and seven-year-olds read and write poetry.

That's God's love working in the world.  Fighting breast cancer.  Bringing art into young people's lives.

Saint Marty has some meat to buy or dollar bills to slip into a g-string.  Whichever.  He's making a difference.

January 20: MLK Day, Poetry Workshop, "Web" Dip

Happy Martin Luther King Day.

Yes, I had to work today.  I was at the medical office at 5 a.m., sitting at my desk, shuffling papers, answering e-mails, figuring out what tasks I needed to complete.  However, I didn't have to teach at the university this afternoon, so I've had a good chunk of the day to prepare for my poetry workshop.

I have to admit that I find myself more than a little anxious about teaching poetry writing to a group of people.  It's not that I doubt my abilities to write poetry.  I'm just not so sure about teaching other people about the process of writing poetry.  I don't know why.  I've taught creative writing workshops before to all different age groups, from kindergartners on up.  I guess it's the whole idea of being the "expert" in  the classroom that gets me nervous.

I am no expert on poetry.  I've simply had more experience than most people.  Maybe that's the way I need to think about it.  I'm there to share the tricks I've learned over the years, not demonstrate how brilliant I am.  That just might take away some of the pressure I'm feeling.  I need to relax.  Have fun.  If I have fun, so will everyone else.

My question for this Web Dip Monday is:

Will I have fun tonight in the poetry workshop?

And the answer from Charlotte is:

"Tell me another story!" begged Wilbur.

Well, there you have it.  Wilbur's having fun listening to Charlotte's stories.  Fun.  The word of the day.


Now, if Saint Marty can just get Wilbur to show up for the poetry workshop this evening.

Time to play!

February 9: Mad-Libs, Rhyme, Nerves

I've spent most of the day working on my poetry lesson for the second graders tomorrow afternoon.  I had this huge idea of teaching them about rhyme and word play.  Sounds really good, doesn't it?  I mean, I've done lessons about simile and metaphor.  I've done lessons about color poetry.  I've done lessons about concrete imagery.  I just thought it would be fun to tackle sound and rhyme.

Sort of looks like me right now

Well, when I started putting it all together, it wasn't that simple.  I'm using Dr. Seuss' book If I Ran the Zoo, which is a good start.  Then I got stuck.  I couldn't figure an easy way to have the kids concentrate on language/words.  I ended up with a sort of mad-lib exercise that may be a little too advanced for second graders.  I'm hoping not.

Tonight I have to put together my visual aids.  Poster board stuff.  I don't mind doing it, but it's time consuming.  I'm hoping to get it done early, because I still have to work on my wife's resumes and cover letters for a couple of prospective jobs.  My nerves and anxiety are getting the better of me right now.

Saint Marty needs to relax a little bit.

April 5: Teaching Poetry, Psalm 28, Changing Things Up

Spondee, baby!

Today, I started teaching poetry to my Writing and Literature class.  It's my favorite time of the semester, obviously.  I have such a good time trying to excite a group of twenty-somethings about rhyme and rhythm and meter.  I actually used the terms "anapest" and "spondee" with my students this afternoon.  I got to talk about Emily Dickinson and prose poems in the same hour and a half.  I couldn't ask for a better day.

This morning, I decided to change things up with my psalm.  I have been writing longer poems the last few days.  I felt like I was getting in a rut.  So I decided to do the exact opposite of a two-page poem:  haiku.  I started thinking about my haiku last night.  I was just going to work on one, but when I began writing this morning, the form came to me.  I'm basing my haiku on the mysteries of the Catholic rosary.  There are four sets of mysteries (Joyful, Luminous, Sorrowful, Glorious), and each set has five mysteries.  Hence, today you have "Joyful Mysteries" consisting of five haiku.  Expect Luminous, Sorrowful, and Glorious over the next three days.

I'm in a great mood right now, looking forward to going home, spending time with my wife and kids.  Its around forty degrees outside.  That may not sound warm to some of my readers, but, in the U.P. of Michigan, that's June, baby.

Saint Marty wishes you a good night.  Keep praying for his friend, John, who lost his wife on Saturday.  Call a friend, hug your kids, kiss your significant other tonight.  Spread blessings through the world.

Psalm 28:  Mysteries of Joy

1.  Annunciation

In early morning

Full moon through snow clouds

Angel appears

2.  Visitation

Hungry, tired

My son cries, jumps in his crib

For his savior

3.  Nativity

Streetlight against black sky
Ice and wind

Guide me home

4.  Presentation

Infant fingers

Soft rain on my palm

Pierce my heart

5.  Finding the Child

Tall daughter

Body of crocus, tulip

Lost to me

April 1: New Job, Psalm 24, Kids Growing Up

This morning, I taught poetry to my daughter's fourth grade class.  I was a little anxious about it.  I've never taught poetry to kids that age before.  I had my lesson, displays, examples, and a banana.  Well, I was a huge hit, as far as I can tell.  The kids' hands were flying, poems were being written, and nobody got sent to the principal's office.  I was quite relieved.

Because I did that this morning, I took the day off work.  I got to sleep in an hour or so longer than I usually sleep.  Very nice.  I got to take my daughter to school, also very nice.  I went for a walk with my wife and son, and I got to go out to Red Lobster for lunch.  It was a great day, pretty much.

My daughter is, at this moment, on a field trip to see the musical Beauty and the Beast in Appleton, Wisconsin.  It's a four hour bus ride, one way.  I have to pick her up at 2:30 a.m. tonight.  I always have a hard time when my daughter spreads her wings a little bit.  I know she has to grow up, but, being an incredibly over-protective father, I prefer she grow up under my close supervision.  So, I'm having a little problem with that tonight.

The other thing I'm having a little problem with is my wife got a new job today.  She got a call for an interview this morning, interviewed this afternoon, and was offered the job immediately.  This news is good.  She's been out of work for almost two years, but it does throw a crow bar, monkey wrench, and jack hammer into things like child care, piano lessons, choir rehearsals, etc.  Not to mention the fact that I'm not even sure we're going to be making money, once the daycare and babysitting money is subtracted.  However, there's not much I can do about it.  I just have to roll with this one. 

I know, I know.  This post isn't very positive.  I'm trying.  I really am.  But even the psalm for today is verging on nostalgic, if not downright melancholy.  Forgive me.

Saint Marty has a lot on his mind tonight, and he has to be up at 2 a.m. to pick up his daughter.  A looooooooooooong night ahead of him.

Psalm 24:  Letting Go

My daughter left this afternoon,
Will be gone until tomorrow morning.
I packed her backpack for the trip.
Breadsticks and cheese, for protein, health.
Banana, apples, so I look responsible
To chaperons, teachers.  Vanilla goldfish
Crackers for dessert, to remind her
She's still a child, not to be concerned
With weight, body, hair, boys.
I gave her one hundred dollars,
Lectured her about responsibility,
Budget for food, souvenirs, told her
Not to take money from her pocket
Until she had to pay for something,
In case strangers were near, strangers
Who take little girls from parents,
From school field trips to theaters,
From ten-year-old lives.  They take
Little girls, I told her, make them
Disappear like Harry Houdini, send
Them to places of precious, lost things:
Her charm bracelet, mommy's pearl earring,
Grandma Cheryl with her big laugh.
I gave my daughter a pillow for sleeping,
There and back, with flannel pillowcase
That matches her bed sheets, a gift
From her godmother for her third birthday.
I packed a thermos of water and ice,
Because I know how she craves water
The way a lilac bush does in May
To grow green, bud, blossom into summer.
I did all these things for her, then
I let her go.  I sit here now in silence,
Think of her far away, out of reach.
I think of Mary as she watched her son
Ascend into the sky, wonder if she
Packed Him a snack, honey, dark bread,
For His long journey away from her.

Letting go is hard work