October 5: Midnight--The Forecastle Bulwarks, Saint Marty's Day, Snow

Stubb and Flask mounted on them, and passing additional lashings over the anchors there hanging.

"No, Stubb; you may pound that knot there as much as you please, but you will never pound into me what you were just now saying. And how long ago is it since you said the very contrary? Didn't you once say that whatever ship Ahab sails in, that ship should pay something extra on its insurance policy, just as though it were loaded with powder barrels aft and boxes of lucifers forward? Stop, now; didn't you say so?"

"Well, suppose I did? What then! I've part changed my flesh since that time, why not my mind? Besides, supposing we are loaded with powder barrels aft and lucifers forward; how the devil could the lucifers get afire in this drenching spray here? Why, my little man, you have pretty red hair, but you couldn't get afire now. Shake yourself; you're Aquarius, or the water-bearer, Flask; might fill pitchers at your coat collar. Don't you see, then, that for these extra risks the Marine Insurance companies have extra guarantees? Here are hydrants, Flask. But hark, again, and I'll answer ye the other thing. First take your leg of from the crown of the anchor here, though, so I can pass the rope; now listen. What's the mighty difference between holding a mast's lightning-rod in the storm, and standing close by a mast that hasn't got any lightning-rod at all in a storm? Don't you see, you timber-head, that no harm can come to the holder of the rod, unless the mast is first struck? What are you talking about, then? Not one ship in a hundred carries rods, and Ahab,- aye, man, and all of us,- were in no more danger then, in my poor opinion, than all the crews in ten thousand ships now sailing the seas. Why, you King-Post, you, I suppose you would have every man in the world go about with a small lightning-rod running up the corner of his hat, like a militia officer's skewered feather, and trailing behind like his sash. Why don't ye be sensible, Flask? it's easy to be sensible; why don't ye, then? any man with half an eye can be sensible."

"I don't know that, Stubb. You sometimes find it rather hard."

"Yes, when a fellow's soaked through, it's hard to be sensible, that's a fact. And I am about drenched with this spray. Never mind; catch the turn there, and pass it. Seems to me we are lashing down these anchors now as if they were never going to be used again. Tying these two anchors here, Flask, seems like tying a man's hands behind him. And what big generous hands they are, to be sure. These are your iron fists, hey? What a hold they have, too! I wonder, Flask, whether the world is anchored anywhere; if she is, she swings with an uncommon long cable, though. There, hammer that knot down, and we've done. So; next to touching land, lighting on deck is the most satisfactory. I say, just wring out my jacket skirts, will ye? Thank ye. They laugh at long-togs so, Flask; but seems to me, a long-tailed coat ought always to be worn in all storms afloat. The tails tapering down that way, serve to carry off the water, d'ye see. Same with cocked hats; the cocks form gable-end eave-troughs, Flask. No more monkey-jackets and tarpaulins for me; I must mount a swallow-tail, and drive down a beaver; so. Halloa! whew! there goes my tarpaulin overboard; Lord, Lord, that the winds that come from heaven should be so unmannerly! This is a nasty night, lad."

Stubb and Flask are struggling to secure the Pequod during a storm.  From what I can tell, they are lashing down the ship's two anchors.  Ahab refuses to turn around or seek safety.  He's in the grip of White Whale fever, and nothing is going to get in his way.  Not typhoon or hurricane.  The Pequod is on a collision course with something big, watery, and--it seems--fatal.  No turning back.

Happy Saint Marty's Day!

Yes, the day has finally arrived.  I woke this morning in my hotel room in Calumet to the sight of snow falling outside.  That's right.  Saint Marty's Day snow.  It was beautiful against the oranges and yellows and reds of autumn.  As I was eating breakfast, I watched people coming into the hotel lobby, shivering and drenched.

The weather hasn't really improved.  It's too warm for snow right now, but the sun will soon set.  I fully expect to have to scrape my windshield tomorrow morning.  But, for tonight, I am Ahab.  Full steam ahead.  No turning back.  I'm going out to have a Saint Marty's day dinner with my family.  Even my son is tearing himself away from his computer to join us.  It will be a lovely, quiet celebration.

Tonight, I plan on simply reading a good book and relaxing.  Something I don't get to do very often.  Maybe I'll work on a new poem, too.  Maybe not.  Certainly, I will make myself something warm and a little intoxicating.  It may be a good night to break out the special hot chocolate.  I have several types of Bailey's in my cupboard, as well as a few varieties of schnapps.

It has been a wild kind of year.  My second as Poet Laureate.  I've made new friends.  Become a part of a radio show.  Written a lot of Bigfoot poems.  Finished almost two new manuscripts.  Won a teaching award.  I also lost my father.  Suffered from depression.  Struggled with anxiety.

I'm not sure that I have any hopes for the coming year.  Maybe I'll just plunge blindly ahead, like the Pequod.  My daughter is graduating high school this year.  I hope that she gets scholarships that will help pay for her education.  In my professional life, I hope to get a book accepted for publication.  Maybe two.  I hope to teach classes that I love.  I hope for stability.  Maybe some prosperity.  No money or health struggles.

Yes, Saint Marty's Day puts me in a reflective mood.  I think about my life and where I'm headed.  Count my blessings.

And give thanks.

October 5: Sharon Olds, "Wonder as Wander," Saint Marty's Day Poem

Wonder as Wander

by:  Sharon Olds

At dusk, on those evenings she does not go out,   

my mother potters around her house.   

Her daily helpers are gone, there is no one   

there, no one to tell what to do,

she wanders, sometimes she talks to herself,   

fondly scolding, sometimes she suddenly   

throws out her arms and screams—high notes   

lying here and there on the carpets   

like bodies touched by a downed wire,

she journeys, she quests, she marco-polos through   

the gilded gleamy loot-rooms, who is she.   

I feel, now, that I do not know her,

and for all my staring, I have not seen her

—like the song she sang, when we were small,   

I wonder as I wander, out under the sky,   

how Jesus, the Savior, was born for, to die,   

for poor lonely people, like you, and like I

—on the slow evenings alone, when she delays   

and delays her supper, walking the familiar   

halls past the mirrors and night windows,   

I wonder if my mother is tasting a life   

beyond this life—not heaven, her late   

beloved is absent, her father absent,   

and her staff is absent, maybe this is earth   

alone, as she had not experienced it,   

as if she is one of the poor lonely people,   

as if she is born to die. I hold fast

to the thought of her, wandering in her house,   

a luna moth in a chambered cage.

Fifty years ago, I’d squat in her

garden, with her Red Queens, and try

to sense the flyways of the fairies as they kept

the pollen flowing on its local paths,

and our breaths on their course of puffs—they kept   

our eyes wide with seeing what we

could see, and not seeing what we could not see.

____________________

I have a poem for this Saint Marty's Day from Sharon Olds, my favorite poet.  Just because I can.

I've loved this poem for quite a while.  It makes me think of my mother.

Saint Marty is a blessed man.

October 4: Two Reasons, Prolonged Absence, Saint Marty's Day Eve

I am writing this post for two reasons.

First, I want to apologize for my prolonged absence.  I have had quite a week of busyness, with teaching and work and whatnot.  Every night I got home, I was exhausted.  Last night, at 9:50 p.m. when I parked in front of my house, I actually had to sit in my car for a few minutes before I could work up the energy to move.  I was beat.  Today, I traveled to Calumet early, helped write some radio scripts, rehearsed for the Red Jack Jamboree, the radio show that records at the Calumet Theatre, and then had a two-and-a-half hour show.  I am back in my hotel room.  Most of my family is asleep.  I know these are all excuses, but it's all I got.

Second, I want to wish all of my disciples a Merry Saint Marty's Day Eve.  That's right.  Tomorrow is the big day.  Hope you have all of your shopping done and your Saint Marty's Day cookies baked.  You have officially run out of time.

If you were expecting anything of depth or substance today, you are out of luck.  What I have just typed has used up the rest of my brain cells tonight.

Saint Marty is thankful to be able to sleep in tomorrow morning.

October 1: Saint Marty's Day, First Day of October, Four Days Left

This post will be short and not very deep.

It is already 9 p.m.  I'm sitting here, watching The Voice.  I know that Sharon Olds is a fan of this show, because she talks about it in interviews and readings all the time.  So, as I watch Blake and Adam and Kelly and Jennifer battle over a contestant, I imagine Sharon Olds in her living room, probably with a bowl of popcorn, watching the exact same thing.

There are four shopping days left until Saint Marty's Day.  The tapioca is flying off the shelves.  Have you mailed your Saint Marty's Day cards yet?  Strung Saint Marty's Day lights on your house?  Read Twas the Night Before Saint Marty's Day to your kids or grandkids?

Time to get your Saint Marty's Day on!

'Twas the Night Before Saint Marty's Day

'Twas the night before Saint Marty's Day, when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes that Saint Marty soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of tapioca danced in their heads.
And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
had just settled our brains for a long autumn's nap.

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen leaves
gave the lustre of midday to shadows by the eaves,
when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a cheerful, saintly figure, full of good cheer.

With a laugh so infectious, so lively and hardy,
I knew in a moment it must be Saint Marty.
More rapid than eagles, his coursers he came,
and he whistled and shouted and called saintly names:

"Now Peter! Now John!
Now, Francis and Paul!
On, Theresa! On, Bernadette!
On good old John Paul!
To the top of the porch!
To the top of the wall!
Now bless away! Bless away!
  Bless one and all!" 

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
so up to the house-top the coursers he flew,
looking like Brad Pitt, and George Clooney, too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard up above me
Saintly feet walking and dancing, so help me.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
down the chimney Saint Marty came with a bound. 

He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
and his clothes were all dusted with ashes and soot.
A bundle of toys he had flung on his shoulders,
and he looked like a vision--a good, Christian soldier.

His eyes--how they sparkled!  His smile, how white!

His face, so angelic this Saint Marty's night!
His demeanor was gentle, peaceful and quiet,
he looked so handsome that he could cause a riot.

His halo and wings shone in the moonlight,
his robe was like snow, brilliantly bright.
He raised his hands in a blessing, filled with such grace
that even the pope would hang his head in disgrace.

He was pleasant and smart, a saintly good fellow,
and I laughed when I saw him, and offered him Jell-O.
  But a wink of his eye and a shake of his head
soon gave me to know he wanted tapioca instead.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 

He sprang to the roof, and took to the wind,
  I watched him with awe ascend and ascend.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he flew out of sight,

"Happy Saint Marty's Day to all, and to all a good night!"