October 31: Bleeding Hearts, Living Dead, Halloween

"Americans have finally heard about Dresden," said Rumfoord, twenty-three years after the raid.  "A lot of them know now how much worse it was than Hiroshima.  So I've got to put something about it in my book.  From the official Air Force standpoint, it'll all be new."

"Why would they keep it a secret so long?" said Lily.

"For fear that a lot of bleeding hearts," said Rumfoord, "might not think it was such a wonderful thing to do."

It was now that Billy Pilgrim spoke up intelligently.  "I was there," he said.

Billy has risen from the dead in his hospital bed.  He feels it necessary to respond to Rumfoord's lecture on the bombing of Dresden.  He is the living dead times two.  He survived Dresden, and he just survived an airplane crash.

Tonight is Halloween.  My kids have their costumes on, and, in an hour, we are heading out into the snowy streets of the Upper Peninsula to join the living dead, vampires, Harry Potters, and Batmans on the prowl for chocolate.

That is my wisdom for this evening.  At the moment, I feel like the living dead, myself.

Saint Marty is thankful for kids and pumpkins and candy.

October 17: Cross and Garlic, Mark Doty, "The Owner of the Night"

Yesterday, it was a zombie apocalypse.  Today, it's a vampire.  Sort of. 

I grew up watching horror movies.  When I was a kid, I would go to the library, into the adult section, and read all the books I could about vampires and werewolves and ghosts and demons.  I read William Peter Blatty's The Exorcist when I was in fourth grade.  I'm not joking.

So this kind of material appeals to me on a deep level.  I enjoy the jump and scare, as long as it doesn't involve clowns.  And vampires are some of my favorite creatures of the night.

Saint Marty always carries his cross and garlic.  Just in case.

The Owner of the Night

by:  Mark Doty

interrogates whoever walks
this shadow-lane, this hour
not reserved for you: who

are you to enter it?
Orion’s head over heels
above the road, jewel-belt

flinting starlight
to fuel two eyes looking
down from the air:

beacons in reverse,
since light pours in
toward her appetite

until she wings her noiseless outline
between our rooftop and the stars,
over this door and all the doors

hidden in the grass:
dreaming voles,

firefly province,

wasps in the palace
they’ve hollowed under the hill.

Mole resting his face against his splayed hands.

Perch, blink. Pose
the evening’s question
to the sleepless

while the moon if there is one
scatters islands
on a field of ink. Who

maps this? The owner
of the night looks down
to mirror and admit the hours

before the upper vaults
begin to lighten and recede.
Did you hear what I said,

a face looks down from the night?
Did who hear me? Who
reads this page, who writes it?

October 31: Daughter and "Twilight," Halloween Poem, Michael R. Burch, "Vampires"

Yes, I have a Halloween poem for you.

My daughter recently started reading the Twilight series.  She just finished the first book.  When I asked her what she thought of it, she said, "It was alright.  Kind of predictable and silly."

I was so happy to hear those words come out of her mouth.

Then she added, "I like vampires more than werewolves."

Saint Marty's always been on Team Jacob.

Vampires

by:  Michael R. Burch

Vampires are such fragile creatures;
we dread the dark, but the light destroys them ...
sunlight, or a stake, or a cross—such common things.
Still, late at night, when the bat-like vampire sings,
we shrink from his voice.

Centuries have taught us:
in shadows danger lurks for those who stray,
and there the vampire bares his yellow fangs
and feels the ancient soul-tormenting pangs.
He has no choice.

We are his prey, plump and fragrant,
and if we pray to avoid him, the more he prays to find us,
prays to some despotic hooded God
whose benediction is the humid blood
he lusts to taste.

The only Team Edward I'll join

December 11: Charles Dickens, Writers, Saint Lucy

Marley was dead:  to begin with.  There is no doubt whatever about that.

Those are the first two sentences of A Christmas Carol.  Everyone knows them.  I'm pretty sure everyone could also come up with a few more Dickens quotes, as well.  How about, "It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times."   Or, "Please, sir, I want some more."  Or the most famous line from Scrooge:  "Bah, humbug!"

Charles Dickens was the Stephen King of Victorian England.  Everyone read Dickens, knew his characters and novels.  I'm sure everyone could quote Dickens, as well.  He was one of the first internationally famous writers.  When Dickens toured the United States, people lined the streets to see him.  When he gave public readings, they were  SRO events.

That is what always appealed to me about Charles Dickens.  He was a celebrity because of his writing.  That doesn't happen very often, even these days..  Dickens was able to make a difference in the world with his words.  As I've said before, Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol to draw attention to the plight of the impoverished in England.  (He also wrote it to make a lot of money.  Dickens always had money problems.)  Chuck had a huge social conscience.

December 13 is the feast day of Saint Lucy.  Lucy is the patron saint of writers.  I'm not sure why.  Nothing in her biography indicates she had anything to do with writers or writing.  She dedicated herself to a life of piety and holiness at a very young age.  She also made a vow of virginity when she was a girl, which evenutally led to her arrest and imprisonment and torture.  Lucy never gave up her trust in God's love.  I'm thinking, somewhere along the way, Lucy wrote something important, as well.  Maybe a prayer or psalm or a series of books about vampires.  She did something to earn the title of patron of writers.

Saint Marty has an idea for a novel he wants to write:  it's about a little orphan boy who finds out that he is actually a famous wizard.  The orphan goes to a wizarding school and makes friends with a big, hairy giant.

Someone stole my idea