March 11: Silence, Psalm 3, and Tsunami

I do not have a lot of time for introductions to my poem tonight.  It's been a really busy day, afternoon, and evening.  I'm currently working on my sister's laptop, typing this blog.  I'm going to get right to it.  But please, take some time this evening to think about and pray for the people of Japan in the wake of the earthquake and tsunami.  Without further ado, here is my poem.

Psalm 3:  In Praise of Silence

Praise the Lord for the silence of dusk
As it shifts the air from winter sun
To winter moon, the melt of snow
To something hard as onyx or bone.
Praise the ring of eardrum in quiet.
It vibrates, hums with the memory
Of the day, news of tsunami in Japan,
The lives of thousands swept away
Like crumbs from Friday dinner
Of lentils, crackers, apple juice,
The tablecloth taken outside, shaken,
The way my grandmother taught me,
For lost souls who roam the night,
Tap on black window glass, hungry
For light, warmth, or prayer.
Praise the tide of heart in my chest,
Calm waves of blood, in, out, in, out,
Reminding me this night that I am safe.  Alive.

March 10: Runny Eggs, Psalm 2, and Saint Macarius

My egg art

Just a few notes today to introduce my poem.  First, I love runny eggs in the morning.  In fact, I often make my coworkers a little nauseous with the uncooked state of my breakfast.  Second, my two-year-old son lost our TV remote last night, and it still hasn't been recovered.  I'm thinking I need the help of Macarius, today's saint, who, among his accomplishments, found the true Cross in Jerusalem around the year 325.  If he could find that, I would think a stupid TV remote would be a piece of cake.  Third, I am, for the first time, using some of my original artwork with this post.  I have noticed many Blogs of Note deal with photography, art, cartooning, and/or crafts.  I figure a drawing or two couldn't hurt.  And four, I was really hungry when I wrote the following praise psalm.

Psalm 2:  In Praise of Runny Eggs

O, Lord, bless a runny egg in the morning.
Bless its gold and white, as liquid
As a slick of oil on a puddle of rain.
Bless salt and pepper, the taste of earth
On my tongue, precious in ancient Israel,
That makes my spit leap like mountain goats.
Bless a piece of toast, dark, whole wheat,
Thick with butter, the heat of summer,
The cool blade of autumn harvest, threshed,
Winnowed, gathered like good souls at Rapture.
Bless a cup of Mountain Dew, saffron yellow,
Sweet as the nectar from mother's breasts,
From streams of glacial melt, spring
Run-off in my mouth, the tilt of planet
Toward light, toward sun, toward birth.
Bless the aroma of roasted beans,
Ground, boiled, filtered into cups, brown
As the skin of Christ after forty days
In the desert.  Bless Rice Krispies.  Bless Pop Tarts.
Bless bacon.  Bless orange juice.  Bless milk.
Bless breakfast.  Bless morning.  Bless the universe
As it burns, spins out and out toward paradise.

March 9: Psalm 1 and Perfection

It is Ash Wednesday, and I'm here to make good on my promise to embrace the positive.  Here is my first Lenten psalm, written just an hour or so ago.  My disclaimer is that it hasn't been revised.  Much.  I'm not going to have time to polish and perfect these poems.  Then again, that's what Lent is all about:  trying to become a better follower of Christ.  It's not about being perfect.  It's about being better, day by day.

God knows, Saint Marty has a lot of room for improvement.

Psalm 1:  My Daughter's Tooth

I give thanks for my daughter's tooth,

Small as a kernel of unpoppped corn,

How it catches the window light, glows

As it did in school pictures, kindergarten,

First, second, third, fourth grades.

I give thanks for this fragment,

This reminder of when she would press

Her head against my chest, fall asleep,

My heart and her heart slowing,

Dark bringing us together, her need

To feel safe, my need to keep safe

Each breath she breathed, each hair

Twisted in her tight braids, each tooth

Pushing through her pink ridges of gum.

I give thanks for this relic, keep it holy,

Safe in a pill bottle.  Take it out.  Worry it

Against my palm, between my fingers.

Say a prayer for the ashes of the baby

She once was.  Sing a song for the smile

Of the woman she's becoming.

My daughter's tooth

March: Saint Stephen of Obazine, or What I Plan To Do For Lent Without Giving Up Chocolate

I've decided what I'm going to do for Lent, and it allows me to still eat chocolate.  I blogged last week, asking for suggestions about how I should observe that time between Ash Wednesday to Holy Saturday.  That's around forty days of sacrifice.  Last year, you'll remember, I prayed for people who'd hurt me in some way in the past.  It was a tough assignment, but I did it.  However, I don't want to repeat myself this year.  I lecture my students enough about plagiarism.  I don't want to plagiarize last Easter season.

The one suggestion I received on my post of last week was from my friend Wondertwin.  She suggested I give up sarcasm, which, she correctly points out, literally means "to cut flesh."  It's a good suggestion, one that I seriously considered.  If you haven't noticed, I tend to use sarcasm a little bit, in my writing life and day-to-day life, as well.  But I don't use sarcasm to harm other people.  Most of my sarcasm is directed at myself and my own failings.  I don't think giving up sarcasm is enough of a sacrifice for me.  Plus, sarcasm is so natural to me that I know I'll fuck up on Ash Wednesday and give up hope by this Sunday.  And it would make for some pretty boring blogs to boot.

One of today's feast saints, Stephen of Obazine, knew a little bit about sacrifice.  After he became a priest in the twelfth century, Stephen decided to move to the forest of Obazine, France, with another priest to "live a life of mortification and penance."  He eventually established a monastery and convent in Obazine for those who wished to follow his example.  A day with Stephen consisted of only one meal and, throughout the rest of the day, "prayer, reading, and manual labor."  Stephen knew one or two things about Lent, I would guess.

Well, I know the suspense is killing you.  You're dying to know what sacrifice I'm going to make for the next month and a half.  Well, besides sarcasm, I also have a natural affinity for pessimism.  Most mornings, when my alarm goes off at 4:15 a.m.,  I don't jump up and say, "Another day, God."  I usually roll over and think, "God, another day."  So, this Lent, I'm going to try to remain positive, to look for the rainbow instead of the rain cloud.  Now, the way I'm going to do this is simple, and puts into use one of the gifts I possess:  poetry.

Every day, I'm going to write a poem of praise or thanksgiving and post it.  Now, this might not seem like much of a sacrifice, but I can guarantee you that, by next Monday, I'm going to be pulling out what little hair I have left, trying to find something to be happy or thankful for.  Think of me as a male version of Debbie Downer from Saturday Night Live.

So stay tuned for Saint Marty's Lenten psalms.  Buckle your seat belts.  It may be a bumpy ride.



Saint Marty and his journal