March 31: Get the Heart, Takosubo Cardiomyopathy, Elegies

Santiago gets a good look at the fish for the first time . . . 

"I'll just steer south and west," he said. "A man is never lost at sea and it is a long island."

It was on the third turn that he saw the fish first.

He saw him first as a dark shadow that took so long to pass under the boat that he could not believe its length.

"No," he said. "He can't be that big."

But he was that big and at the end of this circle he came to the surface only thirty yards away and the man saw his tail out of water. It was higher than a big scythe blade and a very pale lavender above the dark blue water. It raked back and as the fish swam just below the surface the old man could see his huge bulk and the purple stripes that banded him. His dorsal fin was down and his huge pectorals were spread wide.

On this circle the old man could see the fish's eye and the two gray sucking fish that swam around him. Sometimes they attached themselves to him. Sometimes they darted off. Sometimes they would swim easily in his shadow. They were each over three feet long and when they swam fast they lashed their whole bodies like eels.

The old man was sweating now but from something else besides the sun. On each calm placid turn the fish made he was gaining line and he was sure that in two turns more he would have a chance to get the harpoon in.

But I must get him close, close, close, he thought. I mustn't try for the head. I must get the heart.

It's always the heart, isn't it?  That's what ends things.  A harpoon to the heart.

I used to work in a cardiology office.  There was a condition that some people were diagnosed with.  The technical name was takotsubo cardiomyopathy.  The common name is broken heart syndrome.  It's when someone experiences such stress that it weakens the heart.  One of the most common causes of this condition is grief.

You may have seen takotsubo cardiomyopathy in action already.  Often, when one of the life partners in an elderly couple dies, the remaining partner passes away within a few months, as well.  The cause:  a broken heart.

I think it has something to do with a person being unable to overcome the loss.  Dwelling on it for a long time.  Such sorrow effects heart tissue.  Thus, it is literally possible to die from grief. 

I have experienced quite a bit of loss these last five or so years.  Adding it up, I've lost one brother, two sisters, my father, and my mother.  That's a lot of death in a relatively short period of time.  

I do not have takotsubo cardiomyopathy.  Mostly, it's because I write poetry, I believe.  My writing allows me to process difficult emotions in a relatively healthy way.  I don't keep things bottled up inside myself.  In short, poetry has saved my life.

For every loss I've experienced these past few years, I've written poems for the funerals.  In the days following the deaths, the composition of those elegies helped keep me sane.  They have been some of the most difficult poems I've ever written, and, yet, they are some of the poems of which I'm most proud.

Is my heart broken?  No.  Do I still experience moments of profound sadness?  Of course.  

But Saint Marty has poetry to lift himself up.  And chocolate.  A lot of chocolate.

One of my elegies . . . 

Nest

for Kevin, May 12, 2014

by:  Martin Achatz

My daughter saw it first,
tucked under the garage eave
like an abandoned hat or trapped
tumbleweed, a jumbled braid
of grass, twig, leaf,
detritus of last autumn's letting go,
sculpted with beak, claw
into a soup bowl, deep with down and dung.
I stepped closer, inspected it, wondered
what else made up the sinew
and rib of its creation. Maybe
a Tootsie Roll wrapper from July 4,
brown, white, sweet-smelling.
A blade of blue or silver Christmas
garland, flashing in the sun
like Tiffany glass. Mud made
by my son in August
when he drowned the pumpkins in the garden.
Ribbon frayed from my daughter's
ballet shoe, pink and slick
as a hummingbird tongue.
All the lost and forgotten
twisted into the DNA of spring,
something new, green.
On this evening of letting go,
I feel like a robin, gathering
shards of you from my backyard.
The root of your voice. Hay
of your hair. Thistle of the last
joke you told, the one
about the spark plug and bartender.
I try to stitch these elements together,
bring breath back to your lungs
one final moment so I can
hold your hand maybe,
feed you one more fork
of pumpkin pie.
Tonight, when I sleep,
I will see you hatch, break
open, shake off your lake-
blue shell. You crawl to the lip
of the nest, spread your wings,
then launch yourself
into the bright palm of heaven.

 

March 30: Rest on the Next Turn, Winter Rose, No Rest for the Wicked

Santiago rests a little . . . 

"I'll rest on the next turn as he goes out," he said. "I feel much better. Then in two or three turns more I will have him."

His straw hat was far on the back of his head and he sank down into the bow with the pull of the line as he felt the fish turn.

You work now, fish, he thought. I'll take you at the turn.

The sea had risen considerably. But it was a fair-weather breeze and he had to have it to get home.

Winter rose considerably today.  No school for my son.  Virtual learning.  Which means that he checks online to see if he has any work to do (he usually doesn't), and then he plays computer games the rest of the day.  

I, on the other had, taught at the university.  Worked at the library.  Hosted a concert in the evening.  When my father had busy days, he always said, "No rest for the wicked."  That saying comes from Isaiah 48:22:  "The Lord God said, peace is not to wicked men."  

Perhaps wicked people keep themselves busy planning and doing wicked things.  Or maybe the phrase is more metaphysical.  The wicked person's mind is never able to rest because it is constantly in a turmoil of guilt and anger and sadness.  No peace of mind.

I don't think of myself as a particularly wicked person in any way.  I don't go out of my way to ruin lives or kick puppies.  Yet, I am constantly weary.  Even as I was sitting in a blues concert this evening, I was thinking of my couch at home.  A pillow.  The darkness of my eyelids.  

Marty wouldn't mind being the patron saint of naps.

And a Lenten poem . . . 

In Praise of Sameness

by:  Martin Achatz

Each morning, I rise at the same time,
4:15 a.m. I eat the same breakfast:
Two soft eggs, a piece of toast, unbuttered.
I drink the same kind of soft drink,
Two cans of Diet Mountain Dew. I work
Until 10:40 a.m. Then I drive to campus,
Teach a literature class from 11 a.m.
Until 12:30 p.m. I walk back to my office,
Where I hold office hours from 12:45
Until 1:40 p.m. I drive back to my other
Office, work from 1:47 p.m. to 4:53 p.m.
I drive home, arrive at 5:19 p.m. I eat
Dinner at 5:42 p.m. Hot dogs and eggs
Or turkey breast and mashed potatoes.
Maybe stir fry with broccoli, chicken.
I drive my daughter to religion class
At 6 p.m. Pick her up at 6:45 p.m.
Take her to ballet class. 7 p.m. Pick
Her up at 7:50 p.m. Drive home. 8:09 p.m.
Make sure my daughter takes a shower.
Prepare lunches, set out tomorrow's clothes.
Get my daughter to bed by 8:47 p.m.
Correct papers, prepare lesson plans.
Until 10:12 p.m. Brush. Floss. Bed.
10:38 p.m. I give God thanks for this
Sameness. The gift of no surprises.
Surprises bring bronchitis to babies. Brake jobs
When you expect oil changes. Pulmonary
Embolism after Caesarean section.
Breast cancer in your 80-year-old father.
A roof leak after a hard winter.
Unemployment after 20 years on the job.
Loss of health insurance. Loss of home.
Planes flying into skyscrapers,
Soldiers in sand, in mountain cave.
I praise God for sunrises, sunsets,
Stars, moon, planets, universe all in place.
I praise the God of habit, of the mundane.
Of garage sales. Of unbuttered toast.
Dry. Plain.

March 29: Tireder than I Have Ever Been, Jobs, Jeff Bezos

Santiago is tired . . .  

"I have no cramps," he said. "He'll be up soon and I can last. You have to last. Don't even speak of it."

He kneeled against the bow and, for a moment, slipped the line over his back again. I'll rest now while he goes out on the circle and then stand up and work on him when he comes in, he decided.

It was a great temptation to rest in the bow and let the fish make one circle by himself without recovering any line. But when the strain showed the fish had turned to come toward the boat, the old man rose to his feet and started the pivoting and the weaving pulling that brought in all the line he gained. 

I'm tireder than I have ever been, he thought, and now the trade wind is rising. But that will be good to take him in with. I need that badly.

I am tired.  I'm not sure if I'm tireder than I have ever been, but I'm pretty damn tired.

I've been reflecting a lot on the life I've led, career-wise.  I've held a lot of jobs.  Aside from summer work I did during my undergraduate and graduate school years, I've stuck with the jobs that I've had for a long time.  I worked as a part-time bookseller for close to five or so years.  I was part of the healthcare industry for over 25 years (20 for an outpatient surgery center, five for a cardiology office).  I've been a contingent English professor going on 30 years.  And I have been a church organist since I was 18 years old.  (Not going to say how many years that is--but it's a LONG time.)

I still hold down about four jobs in order to pay my bills.  Barely.  And that is my point today.  In a country that is supposed to be the wealthiest in the world--where, supposedly, hard work is rewarded--people shouldn't have to work four jobs in order to survive.  There's something obscenely wrong about that.

Those of you who know me personally would never call me lazy, I think.  Granted, I chose to study English and poetry.  However, I have been working consistently for the same university, year-after-year, for three decades, and I am still considered part-time with no possibility of full-time employment.  On top of that, I work full-time for a public library.  I write $20,000 grants.  I teach community poetry workshops.  And I clean churches in the evening, after I've hosted concerts and readings for the library.

Just typing all that makes me tired.  

Yet, there are billionaires in this country who pay less in taxes than I do.  This is because our country is run by rich, privileged millionaires who have never pushed a broom or cleaned a toilet or flipped a burger their whole lives.  I'm not a big fan of politics or politicians.  Democrat or Republican.  Anyone who gets paid upwards of $200,000, with really great, cheap medical insurance, shouldn't be allowed to make decisions about minimum wage and healthcare and welfare.  

There shouldn't be homeless people in our country.  Or starving people.  Or people dying because they can't get proper healthcare.  There shouldn't be billionaires.  No single person should have more money than a third-world country.  According to the Department of Housing and Urban Development, it would cost $20 billion to end homelessness in the United States.  Joel Berg, CEO of Hunger Free America, estimates the cost of ending hunger in the United States to be $25 billion.  Jeff Bezos' net worth is $184.5 billion.  That means that Jeff could end homelessness and hunger in the United States and still be worth $139.5 billion.

Think about that when you are dragging yourself home from work with swollen feet and an aching back.

Okay, Saint Marty is putting away his angry eyes now.

And a Lenten poem for today . . .

Lazarus Speaks

by:  Martin Achatz

I heard His voice in that cold place,
Calling me from darkness to light.
I left my bed of stone, stepped back
To sun and hunger and need. My sisters,
Martha, Mary, their need for me,
Strong as ten thousand hippo-lionesses
Of Egypt, pregnant with pyramids,
Returned me to flesh and muscle,
Blood, dates, bread still warm
From the fire in a bowl of bone.
They fill me with want,
Have made me thirsty and tired again,
Cold at night, under moon, stars.
Neighbors avoid me like the leper, afraid
Of stories I may tell of endless dark,
The taste of death in my mouth
Like unclean meat. But I have nothing
To tell them. No conversations
With Moses, Elijah. No valleys
With souls piled like grain
On the threshing floor. I have
The itch of sand in my hair
The ache in my loins for woman.
The constant call of my body for
The meat of lamb, cool wine, water.
And the work of breath, in, out, in, out.
I would trade it all for one more minute
In that cave, away from the urge
To lift my face and hands and voice,
To hope, to sing a psalm of human
Longing to the blue and empty heavens.

March 28: Drive Him Mad, Bad Weather, Chaos Theory

Santiago thinks like a fish  . . . 

He is hitting the wire leader with his spear, he thought. That was bound to come. He had to do that. It may make him jump though and I would rather he stayed circling now. The jumps were necessary for him to take air. But after that each one can widen the opening of the hook wound and he can throw the hook.

"Don't jump, fish," he said. "Don't jump."

The fish hit the wire several times more and each time he shook his head the old man gave up a little line.

I must hold his pain where it is, he thought. Mine does not matter. I can control mine. But his pain could drive him mad.

After a while the fish stopped beating at the wire and started circling slowly again. The old man was gaining line steadily now. But he felt faint again. He lifted some sea water with his left hand and put it on his head. Then he put more on and rubbed the back of his neck.

Because of his experience, Santiago knows exactly what the fish is doing.  The old man is thinking five or six steps ahead of fish, anticipating each flip of its tail and head.  Of course, that doesn't mean that the fish won't surprise Santiago.  Even seasoned meteorologists can't predict tornadoes and blizzards with 100 percent accuracy.  One of my favorite forecasts from this past winter had a local weatherman saying that between one to twelve inches of snow would fall.  He was right.

There's some bad weather coming this week.  It could be anywhere from two to 15 inches of snow with 1/4 inch of ice to six inches of snow with a 1/3 inch of ice.  So, basically, the weather is a fish that may or may not jump, which is typical for the U. P. of Michigan this time of year.

Of course, being a person who likes to plan things out, I don't really like to live in a space of negative capability.  I prefer certainty or near certainty.  It makes my life much easier.  Yet, the universe doesn't work that way.  (Cue Jeff Goldblum talking about chaos theory in Jurassic Park.)

So Saint Marty is waiting for 1/4 inch of rain, 15 inches of snow, and velociraptors to attack some time in the next three days.  

And a Lenten Poem . . . 

Wrong Turn

by:  Martin Achatz

When I visited her in the hospital, she sat in the lounge with me, brooded, stared out the fifth floor windows, her face empty, hollow as a church bell. I made small talk: "What did you have for dinner?" and "How'd you sleep last night?" and "How'd group therapy go?" Her answers, one or two syllables. A shrug. A nod. I knew my presence irritated her, reminded her of the flannel sheets on our bed, turkey loaf, our daughter's shitty diapers. When I left, walked out the doors, heard them close, lock, I knew she hated me even more, wanted to scratch, claw my skin, make me ache the way she did. She would go back to her room, her bed. Lie down. Stare out her window. Try to draw a map of her mind. Get lost. You are here. Marked with a fat star. Magnetic Street. 1.75 miles from Superior’s shores. Turn left. Maybe right? Me, I drove home, through dusk, listened to the classical station. Bach. Mahler. Mozart. Didn’t pay attention to streets, traffic lights, other cars. I thought about her on our wedding night. Warm against my nakedness. Each curve, path of her body as familiar to me as my breath. I wondered what wrong turn we had taken. When I got home, our house was dark, silent under the starless sky. Foreign. Berlin. Gdansk. Sarajevo. Nagasaki. Baghdad.