November 15: "Catholicism," Exhausted, Perfection

I'm a cradle Catholic.  

I was baptized by a bishop, so my mother had high hopes of me entering the priesthood.  Obviously, I was a disappointment to her in that respect.  However, I have been playing the pipe organ every weekend since I was about 18 years old.  If you do the math, that's well over two thousand Masses, and that number doesn't even include special holidays and times I played two and three times on a weekend.  Throw in Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, and Episcopalian churches, and the number of worship services I've played climbs well above five or six thousand.  

That's a lot of time on an organ bench, meditating on my life and its failings.

Billy Collins examines his conscience . . . 

Catholicism

by: Billy Collins

There’s a possum who appears here at odd times,
often walking up the path to the house
in the middle of the day like a little ghost
with a long tail and a blank expression on his face.

He likes to slip behind the woodpile,
but sometimes he gets so close to the window
where I am standing with a glass in my hand
that I start to review my sins, systematically

going from one commandment to the next.
What is it about him that causes me
to begin an examination of conscience,
calling to mind my failings in this time of reflection?

It could just be the twitching of the tail
and that white face, but his slow priestly pace
also makes a contribution, as do the tiny paws,
more like hands, really, with opposable thumbs

able to carry a nut or dig a hole in the earth
or lift a chalice above his head
or even deliver a document,
I am thinking as he nears the back door,

not merely a subpoena but an order
of excommunication with my name and a date
written in fine Italian ink
and signed with a flourish of the papal sash.

I'm pretty exhausted tonight.  I just got back home from practicing at a couple different churches for this weekend.  Most people would be surprised how similar Catholic and Lutheran worship services are.  Often, I play many of the same hymns for Mass on Saturday evenings and Lutheran worship on Sunday mornings.

What I have learned during my tenure as a church musician is that there's not much difference between various Christian denominations.  They all follow the same lectionary, sing the same songs, and read the same Bible (with a few extra books thrown in for Catholics).  

Some people have asked me which denomination I like the best.  That's a hard question for me to answer.  I like Catholics for their pageantry and rituals.  Methodists have the best music.  And Lutherans, for the most part, are the most open-minded and accepting.

This week, a good poet friend of mine (who was raised Jewish) said that I'm a mystery to her, because I'm a Catholic, but love being irreverent.  Admire saints, but would rather hang out with sinners.  They're more fun.  

We're all the same--broken and imperfect--trying to survive in a broken and imperfect world.

Bless Saint Marty, for he has and will continue to sin.  Over and over and over.  Perfection is kind of boring.

November 14: "Foundling," Poet's Life, Tonic

I've been living the life of a poet for a very, very long time.

That means that I've juggled two or three (or four or five) jobs my entire life.  In the past, I have been a:  sales clerk at a bookstore; office person at an outpatient surgery center (for 25 years); housekeeper at a hospital (all shifts); cleaning person at two churches; busboy at a local fish fry; and a plumber's apprentice.  

Currently, I'm a contingent professor of English at a university for going on 30 years (all the knowledge and teaching experience of a full professor at a quarter of the normal price).  I play keyboard/pipe organ at four different churches.  And I am the full-time adult program coordinator at a library (the best job I've ever had).

Finally, through all of those occupations, I have been and always will be a poet.

Billy Collins writes about the poet's life . . . 

Foundling

by: Billy Collins

How unusual to be living a life of continual self-expression,
jotting down little things,
noticing a leaf being carried down a stream,
then wondering what will become of me,

and finally to work alone under a lamp
as if everything depended on this,
groping blindly down a page,
like someone lost in a forest.

And to think it all began one night
on the steps of a nunnery
where I lay gazing up from a sewing basket,
which was doubling for a proper baby carrier,

staring into the turbulent winter sky,
too young to wonder about anything
including my recent abandonment—
but it was there that I committed

my first act of self-expression,
sticking out my infant tongue
and receiving in return (I can see it now)
a large, pristine snowflake much like any other.

Of course, Collins is indulging in a little storytelling here.  He was not a foundling left on the stoop of a convent and raised by nuns.  Yet, the essence of the poem is the truth--most poets I know have felt the pull of language from a very young age.  We've all had our pristine snowflake moments.

Tonight, I spent a lot of time with poet friends.  First, we gathered at the library for a workshop and open mic.  Then, we migrated to a local night spot where another poet/musician/artist friend was hosting a party in celebration of the release of his new album.  And it was a true tonic for my spirit.

You see, in my experience, poets see the world differently.  They keep their eyes wide open for moments of grace in their days and nights.  They're compassionate lovers of all people, regardless of skin color, gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, religion, or country of origin.  And they care deeply for this little planet we live on--are stewards of the lands and waters and air.

Now, do me a favor if you are a Christian.  Reread that previous paragraph.  Replace the word "poets" with the word "Jesus."  That is the Jesus I grew up knowing.  If you have an issue with any of the above statements in your understanding of Jesus, you are not a true Christian.  Period.

So, being around poets (some of them atheists and agnostics) who embody compassion and caring and concern for the world and all its inhabitants is like going to church for me in a way.  Because the people I hung with tonight are, quite simply, some of the best people I know.  Yes, they are disappointed and angry with the results of the election.  Yes, they see the Felon in Chief as a serious threat to loving your neighbor as yourself.  (By the way, I didn't say that.  Jesus did in the Gospel of Mark.)

Poets are not going to lock up and deport immigrants.  They aren't going to take healthcare away from poor people.  Or endanger the lives of, take away the autonomy of women.  They certainly aren't going to storm the Capitol Building and kill police officers to peacefully protest the certification of the election.  That's not what poets do.

I know I'm preaching to the choir with this post.  Anyone who supports the Felon in Chief stopped reading these words quite a while ago.  That's okay.  That's their right.

And it's Saint Marty's (and all his poet friends') right to say, "Fuck you."

November 13: "The Sandhill Cranes of Nebraska," Whole Lot of Rancor, Momentous

I will freely admit that I was in a pretty shitty mood all day long.  Just lots of stressful stuff going on in my head and in the world.  I've been purposely avoiding any news about the Felon in Chief or his flunkies.  Don't really give a shit what mouth breathers he's appointing to his so-called cabinet posts.  And I don't think I'm really missing anything, aside from a headache and a whole lot of rancor.

Billy Collins misses something good . . . 

The Sandhill Cranes of Nebraska

by: Billy Collins

Too bad you weren’t here six months ago,
was a lament I heard on my visit to Nebraska.
You could have seen the astonishing spectacle
of the sandhill cranes, thousands of them
feeding and even dancing on the shores of the Platte River.

There was no point in pointing out
the impossibility of my being there then
because I happened to be somewhere else,
so I nodded and put on a look of mild disappointment
if only to be part of the commiseration.

It was the same look I remember wearing
about six months ago in Georgia
when I was told that I had just missed
the spectacular annual outburst of azaleas,
brilliant against the green backdrop of spring

and the same in Vermont six months before that
when I arrived shortly after
the magnificent foliage had gloriously peaked,
Mother Nature, as she is called,
having touched the hills with her many-colored brush,

a phenomenon that occurs, like the others,
around the same time every year when I am apparently off
in another state, stuck in a motel lobby
with the local paper and a styrofoam cup of coffee,
busily missing God knows what.

I will say that I participated in a really wonderful event this evening.  A variety-type show that one of my best writer friends hosts and some of my favorite musician friends appear in, as well.  We read poems, sang songs, and told stories. 

The theme for the show was "Momentous."  We chose it over two months ago, thinking that we were going to have something truly momentous to celebrate--the election of the first woman to be President of the United States.  Y'all know how that turned out.  So, instead, we focused on those small momentous things that bring joy and hope in our lives.

Collins lists a few of those momentous things in today's poem--the sandhill cranes of Nebraska, azaleas in  of Georgia, autumn leaves of Vermont.  Yet, he keeps missing these wonders by a few days or a week.  He has to settle for descriptions of these momentous sights, instead.

I did not miss the wonders that unfolded tonight at the library.  I got to sit on stage and listen to it all.  And it was a privilege.  

Here's Saint Marty's moment of hope for today--singing songs with some of my best writer and musician friends.  You know who you are.  It filled Saint Marty's heart with gratitude, like moonlight in a dark night sky.

November 12: "Returning the Pencil to Its Tray," Give Up Writing, Joy and Love

I write every day.  Sometimes, it's simply a blog post.  Other times, it's a new poem or lyric essay or, less often, short story.  If I was offered a million dollars to give up writing, I don't think I'd take it.  Writing keeps me sane in an insane universe.

Billy Collins gives up writing

Returning the Pencil to Its Tray

by: Billy Collins

Everything is fine—
the first bits of sun are on
the yellow flowers behind the low wall,

people in cars are on their way to work,
and I will never have to write again.

Just looking around
will suffice from here on in.

Who said I had to always play
the secretary of the interior?

And I am getting good at being blank,
staring at all the zeroes in the air.

It must have been all the time spent
in the kayak this summer
that brought this out,

the yellow one that went
nicely with the pale blue life jacket—

the sudden, tippy
buoyancy of the launch,
then the exertion, striking
into the wind against the short waves,

but the best was drifting back,
the paddle resting athwart the craft,
and me mindless in the middle of time.

Not even that dark cormorant
perched on the No Wake sign,
his narrow head raised
as if he were looking over something,

not even that inquisitive little fellow
could bring me to write another word.

I did a lot of busy work today.  Nothing exciting.  I taught online.  Attended a couple meetings.  Busted my ass to get lots of things off my plate.  Of course, my plate is never completely empty, but I was able to make the Brussels sprouts and sauerkraut disappear.  (You know what I mean--those things you keep pushing off because you simply don't want to face them.)

This evening, I screened a movie at the library.  It was a beautiful film titled The Last Ecstatic Days and was a documentary following a guy named Ethan Sisser who is dying of stage 4 brain cancer.  The movie documents the last 12 or 13 days of his life and his eventual death.  Now, I know that sounds depressing, and it was a little.  But it was also a forceful reminder of how important it is (even when facing a terminal illness) to embrace joy and love every day.

That's what I'm trying to do tonight.  Spread joy and love with my writing.  I truly can't imagine a life without words, unlike Collins.

Saint Marty's moment of hope from today:  my wife's sister and her husband for helping me replace a door in my garage.  

A second moment of hope:  a sunrise so beautiful it's impossible to look away.