November 11: "'Poetry Workshop Held in a Former Cigar Factory in Key West," Play Nice, Hope

I find myself wavering between wanting to sleep all the time and not being able to sleep at all since last Tuesday's election.  Yes, I'm still processing feelings of impending doom and anger and sadness and disappointment.

I'm not going to play nice because I'm worried about alienating some disciple of this blog.  I'm done playing nice.  When the Felon in Chief was elected in 2016, I told myself it was because his supporters had no idea what a major fuckup he was.  This time, his supporters know exactly who they've elected, and they're celebrating, which makes them either the dumbest people on the planet or racist, misogynistic, homophobic, xenophobic cultists.  Either way, I'm not going to hold back anymore.  As Forrest Gump once said, "Stupid is and stupid does."

The only thing that's given me solace in the past seven days is writing poetry and decorating for Christmas.

Billy Collins writes some poetry . . . 

Poetry Workshop Held in a

Former Cigar Factory in Key West

by: Billy Collins

After our final class, when we disbanded
as the cigar rollers here had disbanded decades ago,
getting up from their benches for the last time
as the man who read to them during their shift
closed his book without marking the page where he left off,
I complimented myself on my restraint.

For never in that sunny white building
did I draw an analogy between cigar-making and poetry.
Not even after I had studied the display case
containing the bladed chaveta, the ring gauge,
and the hand guillotine with its measuring rule
did I suggest that the cigar might be a model for the poem.

Nor did I ever cite the exemplary industry
of those anonymous rollers and cutters—
the best producing 300 cigars in a day
compared to 3 flawless poems in a lifetime if you’re lucky–
who worked the broad leaves of tobacco
into cylinders ready to be held lightly in the hand.

Not once did I imply that tightly rolling an intuition
into a perfectly shaped, handmade thing.
might encourage a reader to remove the brightly colored
encircling band and slip it over her finger
and take the poet as her spouse in a sudden puff of smoke.
No, I kept all of that to myself, until now.

I led a virtual poetry workshop last night.  The theme I chose was "hope," because I think everyone needs it at the moment.  Several of my best poet friends showed up to write with me.  It was a good time, an inoculation against the darkness.

Here is one of the poems I wrote yesterday:

come decorate with me.

by: Martin Achatz

after Lucille Clifton

come decorate with me

this November night, open

boxes, unspool colored lights--

red and green and blue

and gold and purple

and pink--because there is

room for every color on my 

tree this and every year,

dust off ornaments inherited

from mothers, made by kids

in kindergarten--construction

paper hands that will wave

welcome and love all December--

unknot garland, maybe 

the tinseled green kind with red

holly, because Romans gave 

holly as Saturnalia offerings,

and at the end of the night,

we will sit in the glow,

count ourselves as light, too, 

because nothing, nothing

can dim us.

Saint Marty's moment of hope tonight:  my Christmas tree, glowing in the corner of my dark living room.

November 10: "My Hero," Hero Worship, First Saint Marty

I think hero worship is a dangerous thing. Hero worship of movie stars leads to negative body image and eating disorders in young people. Hero worship of professional athletes leads to unrealistic expectations in college athletes. Hero worship of politicians leads to tyrants and dictators. I can vouch for the fact that hero worship of poets can lead to writer's block.

Billy Collins worships a terrapin . . .

My Hero

by: Billy Collins

Just as the hare is zipping across the finish line,

the tortoise has stopped once again

by the roadside,

this time to stick out his neck

and nibble a bit of sweet grass,

unlike the previous time

when he was distracted 

by a bee humming in the heart of a wildflower.

I understand Collins's admiration of the tortoise.  The hare is all about crossing the finish line, winning the race.  The tortoise, on the other hand, is more about being in the moment.  Stopping to find joy in sweet grass and a bee dancing in the heart of a daisy or rose.  In other words, the tortoise is a poet.

Don't get me wrong.  I've been given and won my share of accolades and awards, and it felt great.  Everyone loves to be recognized for their hard work and talents.  It doesn't ever feel great to finish last.  I used to run 5K and 10K races.  I never came in first.  (Okay, I did take first or second place in my age group a couple times.  Often, however, there were only one of two other men my age running in those races, so I was guaranteed to win some kind of prize.)

There are some poets whom I admire greatly, almost bordering on hero worship.  Sharon Olds is at the top of that list.  Mary Oliver and Galway Kinnell.  However, my admiration never crosses into hero worship territory.  Rather, these writers teach me how to be a better writer and person.  I don't want to be the next Sharon Olds or Galway Kinnell or Mary Oliver.

I want to be the first Saint Marty.

Saint Marty's moment of hope today:  putting up his Christmas tree with his wife.

November 9: "Lakeside," Wittgenstein, Rabbit or Duck

I know y'all are getting tired of me losing my mind over the presidential election.  I'm going to try to avoid any politically-charged talk in this post.

Billy Collins does Wittgenstein . . .

Lakeside

by: Billy Collins

As optical illusions go
it was one of the more spectacular,
a cluster of bright stars
appearing to move across the night sky
as if on a secret mission

while, of course, it was the low clouds
that were doing the moving,
scattered over my head by a wind from the east.
And as hard as I looked
I could not get the stars to budge again.

It was like the curious figure
of the duck/rabbit –
even paradoxical Wittgenstein
could not find his way back to the rabbit
once he had beheld the bill of the duck.

But which was which?
Were the stars the rabbit
and the blown clouds the duck?
or the other way around?
You’re being ridiculous,

I said to myself,
on the walk back to the house
but then the correct answer struck me
not like a bolt of lightning,
but more like a heavy bolt of cloth.

What Collins is referring to is a picture--depending how you look at it, it could be a rabbit or a duck.  Using this picture as an example, the philosopher Wittgenstein said that objects just don't appear to our senses (it's not that direct).  Rather, objects are "seen as" something.  So, the same picture can be perceived as a rabbit or the bill of a duck, depending on who's looking at it.

This evening, my wife and I decorated our front porch for Christmas.  It was my wife's turn to pick the theme, and she chose blue Christmas.  Now, I know you all know the classic Christmas song "Blue Christmas" as sung by Elvis Presley.  Some people walking by our house, seeing the blue lights and blue ornaments, will immediately think of Elvis's yuletide tune.  And that's okay.

Other people passing by our house, spying the predominance of blue illumination and garland and balls, may think it's a form of political protest.  (There's not even a hint of red--or orange--anywhere on our porch.)  And that's okay, too.

It's all in the eye of the beholder.  Rabbit/Elvis or duck/democracy.

Saint Marty doesn't care which you see.

November 8: "Cemetery Ride," Weird Week, Orange Sections

At the end of this long, dark, weird week, I can honestly say that I haven't listened to or read any news reports about the Felon in Chief.  I simply can't.  Eight years ago, I dreaded checking my news feed in the morning.  Hated his voice and face and stupidity.  I sometimes harbored pretty scary wishes in my heart against him, including death.  I'm not proud of those thoughts, but I own them.  These last few days, I've found the same thoughts returning.

Billy Collins takes a bike ride . . .

Cemetery Ride

by: Billy Collins

My new copper-colored bicycle
is looking pretty fine under a blue sky 

as I pedal along a sandy path 

in the Palm Cemetery here in Florida,

wheeling past the headstones of the Lyons, 

the Campbells, the Dunlaps, and the Davenports, 

Arthur and Ethel, who outlived him by 11 years. 

I slow down even more to notice,

but not so much as to fall sideways on the ground. 

And here’s a guy named Happy Grant 

next to his wife Jean in their endless bed. 

Annie Sue Simms is right there and sounds

a lot more fun than Theodosia S. Hawley. 

And good afternoon, Emily Polasek, 

and to you too, George and Jane Cooper, 

facing each other in profile, two sides of a coin.

I wish I could take you all for a ride 

in my wire basket on this glorious April day, 

not a thing as simple as your name, Bill Smith, 

even trickier than Clarence Augustus Coddington.

Then how about just you, Enid Parker? 

Would you gather up your voluminous skirts 

and ride sidesaddle on the crossbar 

and tell me what happened between 1863 and 1931?

I’ll even let you ring the silver bell. 

But if you’re not ready, I can always ask 

Mary Brennan to rise from her long sleep 

beneath the swaying gray beards of Spanish moss

and ride with me along these halls of the dead

so I can listen to her strange laughter 

as some crows flap overhead in the blue 

and the spokes of my wheels catch the dazzling sun.

I've loved walking through cemeteries since I was a kid.  (That should have been a clue that I was going to grow up to be a poet.)  I'm fascinated by the history that can be witnessed through the headstones.  Wars.  Flu epidemics.  Tragic accidents.  Military service.  Long love affairs.  It's all there if you pay attention and read between the birth and death dates.

I'm wondering if there are going to be whole new sections in cemeteries after the Felon in Chief is sworn in for his second term in the Oval Office.  Think about it.  During his first term, because of his mishandling of the COVID-19 pandemic, 1,219,487 people died in the United States.  (If you're a pandemic denier, please move onto another blog.  Might I suggest something maintained by the KKK?)  That's a whole lot of new graves in his first term.

Here comes term number two.

Certainly, more women are going to die because of the overturning of Roe v. Wade and the possible nation-wide abortion ban.  Then there're people of color, LGTBQIA+ people, and poor people--all targets.  Affordable healthcare might be going bye-bye, including the price cap on bottles of insulin.  (Being an insulin-dependent diabetic since I was 13 years old, I know about having to ration insulin because I couldn't afford to buy any.)  I could go on.

Needless to say, cemetery rides might take quite a bit longer once January 20, 2025, rolls around because of the new orange sections.

Saint Marty hopes he's wrong.  Prays that he's wrong.