November 23: "Animal Behavior," Play Games, Human Animal

It was snowing when I woke this morning--a soft drift of white dusting the ground and trees.

My puppy was born in November, so much of her early life took place in winter.  She loves cold weather and snow.  When she saw the snow falling today, she became a canine exclamation point, jumping and barking joyfully, sniffing the air and rooting in piles of leaves.

Billy Collins contemplates the wild world . . . 

Animal Behavior

by: Billy Collins

Among the animals who avoid danger

just by being still,

the heron is a favorite example,

indistinguishable from the reeds

he stands in, thin and gray, at the water's edge.

Then there is the snowy egret

who must think he can make

his white question mark of a body

just vanish from the lake

by being as motionless as can be.

And when it comes to people

there's the quiet man at the bar

who lifts his eyes only now and then

as well as the girl in the summer dress

who must pretend she is not here.

And who am I to talk,

the last flamingo to leave the party,

good at avoiding danger so far,

away from any cove or shore,

conspicuous as the drink I carry out the door.

This evening, a group of friends came to my house to have dinner and play games.  It was a lovely way to end a pretty busy day.  We ate pizza, told jokes and stories, and enjoyed being together.  It didn't matter who won or who lost, and the subject of politics never came up.

For a few hours, life seemed . . . normal.  I wasn't worrying about weird cabinet appointments or the idea of a malignant narcissist having access to the nuclear codes of the United States.  Instead, we were like the herons or snowy egrets in Collins's poem, standing at the water's edge, just grateful to be quietly alive.

In the coming months/years, I think nights like this are going to be very important.  The human animal craves friendship.  Needs to feel not alone, even introverts like myself.  (Yes, I am an introvert.  Most poets are.)  We all need to be reminded that there are good, kind people in this fractured time.  

And we need puppies and herons and egrets to remind ourselves that this world doesn't belong to us, and we don't get to fuck it up for our fellow animals.

By the way, Saint Marty didn't win a single game tonight.  Not that he was keeping score.

November 22: "To My Favorite 17-Year-Old High School Girl," Pretty Darn Cool, Son and Daughter

My kids are pretty darn cool.  I have a 23-year-old daughter (she will be 24 in less than a month) who is heading downstate to medical school at the end of next August.  And I have a 16-year-old son who's a junior in high school and starts taking college classes in January.  If you can't tell, I'm kind of proud of them.

Billy Collins praises the accomplishments of young people, too . . . 

To My Favorite 17-Year-Old High School Girl

by: Billy Collins

Do you realize that if you had started
building the Parthenon on the day you were born,
you would be all done in only one more year?
Of course, you couldn’t have done it alone,
so never mind, you’re fine just as you are.
You’re loved for just being yourself.

But did you know that at your age Judy Garland
was pulling down $150,000 a picture,
Joan of Arc was leading the French army to victory,
and Blaise Pascal had cleaned up his room?
No wait, I mean he had invented the calculator.

Of course, there will be time for all that later in your life,
after you come out of your room
and begin to blossom, or at least pick up all your socks.

For some reason, I keep remembering that Lady Jane Grey
was Queen of England when she was only fifteen,
but then she was beheaded, so never mind her as a role model.

A few centuries later, when he was your age,
Franz Schubert was doing the dishes for his family
but that did not keep him from composing two symphonies,
four operas, and two complete Masses as a youngster.

But of course that was in Austria at the height
of romantic lyricism, not here in the suburbs of Cleveland.

Frankly, who cares if Annie Oakley was a crack shot at 15
or if Maria Callas debuted as Tosca at 17?

We think you are special just being you,
playing with your food and staring into space.
By the way, I lied about Schubert doing the dishes,
but that doesn’t mean he never helped out around the house.

My daughter and son are wonders to me.  I think most parents will say that they want their kids to have better lives than they had.  Want them to be smarter and happier and more successful.  Certainly, that's what my mom and dad wanted for me.  

I'm a first generation college student.  My mom encouraged me to study computer science because, even back in the 1980s, she knew that was going to be the future.  I did get a BA in English and computer science and math eventually, but I followed my passion and got advanced degrees in creative writing.  And my parents lived long enough to see me publish my first collection of poems, become the U.P. Poet Laureate, and teach at a university.  I think I did them proud.

And now the shoe's on the other foot.  I'm seeing my kids pursue their passions and dreams.  Yes, I'd love to have a daughter who's a doctor.  Sure, I'd love to have a son who works in cyber security.  I wouldn't mind if they composed symphonies or became movie stars or sang opera at the Met, either.  My biggest hope for them is happiness--whatever form that happiness takes.

I don't care who they love, as long as the person treats them with kindness and respect.  And I don't care what jobs they land, as long as those occupations feed their souls (and aren't illegal or in the porn industry).  Would I like them to be artists or writers?  Sure, because that will set them up for a lifetime of financial security (I type with tongue firmly planted in my cheek). 

My Christmas tree is glowing in the corner of the room right now.  Its branches are filled with ornaments and decorations my kids made while in elementary and middle school.  Construction paper hands.  Clothespin reindeer.  Cotton ball snow people.  I miss those days.

But my kiddos are growing into pretty cool young adults.  Not a Republican in the batch.

Maybe Saint Marty had a little to do with their amazingness.  

November 21: "Drinking Alone," Out Loud, After

I am writing this post after hosting a monthly Zoom open mic called Out Loud. This monthly gathering of creatives was started by my good friend Helen, and, since her passing a couple years ago, I've upheld the tradition. Sometimes there is two people present. Sometimes six or seven. And, sometimes, it's just me, reading poems to an empty screen. Out Loud always goes on.

And, after Out Loud, as is the custom, we stick around, talking more, laughing more, and becoming more inappropriate. It's raucous, sometimes dirty, but always soul-enriching.

Billy Collins writes a poem after Li Po . . .

Drinking Alone

by: Billy Collins

     after Li Po

This is not after Li Po

the way the state is after me 

for neglecting to pay all my taxes, 

nor the way I am after 

the woman in front of me 

on the long line at the post office. 

Li Po, I am not saying 

“After you” 

as I stand holding open 

one of the heavy glass doors 

that divide the centuries 

in a long corridor of glass doors. 

No, the only way this is after you 

is in the way they say 

it’s just one thing after another, 

like the way I will pause 

to raise a glass of wine to you 

after I finish writing this poem. 

So let me get back 

to sitting in the wind alone 

among the pines with a pencil in my hand. 

After all, you had your turn, 

and mine will soon be done 

then someone else will sit here after me.

So, this is a post after Out Loud after Li Po after Billy Collins.

In the conversation we had after the open mic, one poet friend asked, "What is everyone having for Thanksgiving?"  This question prompted a long discussion of foods and problematic relatives and politics.  Then we ventured into our middle school experiences of sexual education in the classroom.  By the time we were done talking, I was hungry and my sides hurt from laughing so much.

It was a good night, filled with good people and good conversation.  Our friend, Helen, would have enjoyed it immensely.  In fact, it actually felt like she was present in all her exuberant joy.  She loved poetry and storytelling and people and laughing so much.  

I'll never forget the night of the 2016 presidential election, when it became very clear that our candidate would not be moving into the Oval Office the following January.  Helen and I were texting each other, and we both went to some very dark places, using the word "fuck" a lot.  The next day was even worse.

Then Helen did her Helen thing.  She sent me a text the following evening:  "Marty, we can't give into the darkness  Light is coming.  Light is coming."  And that is how she survived those long, bleak four years, and she brought me along for the joy ride.

After we ended Out Loud, I went and grabbed the rest of a pecan pie that was in the fridge.  All the food talk had made me hungry.

Now, after I type the last word of this post, embed the last period at the end of the last sentence, Saint Marty will eat some pie.  And then someone will come after Saint Marty and write something else.  

After . . . after . . . after . . . 

November 20: "The Unfortunate Traveler," Vacation, Art

This is not going to be an angry post about the Felon in Chief.  Nor is it going to be about MAGA-hat-wearing mouth breathers.  I figure everyone needs a vacation from that circus.  (This statement doesn't mean, however, I will give up voicing my constant shock and disappointment over his idiotic cabinet appointments and outright lies.)

Billy Collins visits France . . . 

The Unfortunate Traveler

by: Billy Collins

Because I was off to France, I packed 

my camera along with my shaving kit, 

some colorful boxer shorts, and a sweater with a zipper, 

but every time I tried to take a picture 

of a bridge, a famous plaza,

or the bronze equestrian statue of a general, 

there was a woman standing in front of me 

taking a picture of the very same thing, 

or the odd pedestrian blocked my view, 

someone or something always getting between me 

and the flying buttress, the river boat, 

a bright café awning, an unexpected pillar. 

So into the little door of the lens 

came not the kiosk or the altarpiece. 

No fresco or baptistry slipped by the quick shutter. 

Instead, my memories of that glorious summer 

of my youth are awakened now, 

like an ember fanned into brightness, 

by a shoulder, the back of a raincoat, 

a wide hat or towering hairdo— 

lost time miraculously recovered 

by the buttons on a gendarme’s coat 

and my favorite, 

the palm of that vigilant guard at the Louvre.

I hosted a concert at the library this evening.  A good musician friend of mine gathered three of his friends and put on a show.  I wasn't sure how many people to expect, since it was the middle of the week and the weather turned cold and rainy after dark.  (By the way, it's now snowing in my neck of the woods.)  

Well, I guess a lot of people needed a vacation from the insanity of the Felon in Chief, too.  Over 90 people attended.  We all sat, listened, sang along, whistled, clapped.  Just what the doctor ordered.

It was good medicine--the kind that may just get us through the next four or so years.  

Because that's what art can do--lift you up, make you feel less alone or scared or angry or sad.  Art brings people together--whether its music or words or painting or acting or telling jokes or juggling cotton balls.  Art doesn't care about what color your skin is, who you love, how you worship, or where you're from.

All that matters is that you're a human being with a beating heart.

Saint Marty was filled with hope this evening.