January 16, 2025: "The Winter After Your Death," Best Part of My Day, "Apple Ode"

It was a day where nothing seemed to go the way I expected.

You see, the first thing I do every morning is make a list of tasks.  Then, I prioritize those tasks, from "Absolutely HAS to get done today" to "Get this done some time in the next six months."  From library work to teaching, everything seemed to take longer, be more complicated, than anticipated.

Sharon Olds misses her friend . . . 

The Winter After Your Death

(for Katie Sheldon Brennan)

The long bands of mellow light
across the snow
narrow slowly.
The sun closes her gold fan
and nothing is left but black and white–
the quick steam of my breath, the dead
accurate shapes of the weeds, still, as if
pressed in an album.
Deep in my body my green heart
turns, and thinks of you. Deep in the
pond, under the thick trap
door of ice, the water moves,
the carp hangs like a sun, its scarlet
heart visible in its side.

Olds' elegy for her dead friend is quite moving.  If you read my post from yesterday, you know it celebrated the birthday of my friend, Helen.  Helen passed a few years ago, but she is still all around me daily.  I opened a poetry book from my shelf today, and inside the cover was a card from Helen, written in her beautiful cursive.  ". . . And Happy Easter!!!  Rebirth, new beginnings, replenishment."

Even though today didn't go according to plan, I didn't have a bad day,  It just wasn't what I expected.  There's that word again:  expect.  Expectations, as I wrote a couple days ago, generally lead to disappointments.  However, I wasn't disappointed or upset today.  I was just . . . okay.  

Recently, the best part of my day has been occurring at lunch--it's my apple, which has been filling me with a great deal of satisfaction.  That may sound really simplistic, but who says that happiness has to be fireworks and marching bands all the time?  Sometimes, all you need is a really sweet, juicy apple.  I know my friend, Helen, would have agreed with me on this.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for today about his apple, using the following prompt from The Daily Poet.

Brainstorm ten words that come to mind when you think of snow and ten words that come to mind when you think of oil.  Write a poem that uses a word from the "snow list" in the first line and a word from the "oil list" in the second line.  Continue doing this until you have used all (or most) of the words.

Apple Ode

by: Martin Achatz

I press my lips to your cold

skin, lick until you're slippery

as an icicle in spring, tender

flesh sweet as a baby's milky

breath against a tundra of breast.

O apple, the orchard where Tin Man

stood frozen in rust, in need of

lubricant against the witch's curse,

is a blizzard of you, so tempting

to Dorothy she ignores the black

sulfur drifting through forest air

in a vinegary haze, reaches up

to pluck one ruby fruit from a dry 

stem, bite an olive-sized piece

off, let it plow her tongue's field.

Perhaps the witch, with her petroleum

robes and permafrost heart, would

change her mind about needing

those slippers if only, O dear apple,

she sampled your white honey's

sticky friction, let it flood her body 

the way her flying monkeys

flood the emerald heavens.

January 15, 2025: "Farewell Poem," Helen, "Rules for Celebrating a Dead Friend's Birthday"

I was reminded early this morning that today is the birthday of one of my best friends to whom I had to say goodbye about three years ago.  A wonderful emissary of joy named Helen.  She's been with me all day long, on my snowy walk across campus to teach, during a concert at the library tonight, as I sit here on my couch typing this post.

Sharon Olds says goodbye . . .

Farewell Poem

by: Sharon Olds

(for M. M. O., 1880-1974)

The big, cut iceberg waits

outside the harbor like a spaceship.

Sends in emissaries:  cold

chopped fish, floating cakes,

canoes of ice white as brides.

Lurks just beyond the warm

furred lip of the harbor, summer

berries in the bushes, loud stink

of fish drying on salty wooden

slats.  Waits.  Hides nine

tenths of its iron implacable

bulk under the belt of the water,

frigid as cods' teeth, even

now in July.  The sea bathes

her endless pale scarred hips.

The berg sits, cute as a hat,

snowy as egret feathers, waiting

to call the next one out to the other

world beyond the absolutely 

frozen vessel.

                    She walks down

to the water without her walker.

With none of her three canes she was always

losing, joking about, looking for,

finding over her arm.  She just

had her hair done, silver curls

obedient as ivy tendrils

over her child's brow.  She wears

the grey dress with a white collar,

sensible shoes, white socks, 

diamond pin, sets her foot

on the cloudy crystal of an ice floe

and floats out to her mother, floats

out to the white iceberg waiting

ninety-three years for hot death

to deliver his favorite daughter home to

the cool white long room,

lace curtains from the parlor flying

like flags in the summer sky.

Saying farewell is never easy.  Putting a loved one on an ice floe and watching her sail away to that cool white long room, as Olds says.  

But I've never really had to say farewell to Helen, because I feel her presence all the time, as I did today.  Often since her memorial service, I've wanted to send her a text with a picture of something beautiful--a snowy tree, an eagle eating a fish, my daughter on her college graduation day, my son in his ugly Christmas sweater.  Images I know Helen would have loved.  

She was light.  She was joy.  Period.  She was everyone's best friend.  Everyone's cheerleader.  Everyone's shoulder to cry on.  She wasn't a saint, by any means  But she was a force of nature, and, like any force of nature, she changed the landscape of the world.

Selfishly, I wish Helen were still here, on this planet, with me and everyone who loved her.  Yet, I know she IS still here.  I hear her right now in the wind rattling my window, making the trees dance.

Saint Marty wrote a poem today for his pal, Helen, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

On this day in history in 1892, James Naismith (who is also credited for the first football helmet) published the rules for the sport of basketball.  Write a poem made up of rules for something that does not yet have rules written for it.  It could be "Rules for Wearing a Top Hat" or "Rules for Digging a Grave."  Start by making a list of at least three activities that don't have rules, then choose one to focus on.

Rules for Celebrating

a Dead Friend's Birthday

by: Martin Achatz

for Helen

Go for a long hike, at least ten miles.  Don't pack any protein bars or granola.  Forage as you walk, for blueberries, frozen mint, sweet maple sap.

Handwrite letters to everyone you love, include quotes from Mary Oliver or Desmond Tutu or Rumi, draw hearts to dot your i's, use the word joy at least 20 times.

Buy flowers for yourself, whatever's in season--winter jasmine, calla lily, sweet pea--put them in a vase by a window, next to some stones you found on the shores of Lake Superior, watch how the sun turns them into a constellation, name the constellation after yourself.

Eat dark chocolate mixed with sea salt and some kind of fruit--cranberry or cherry or candied orange peel--share it with anyone you meet, even your neighbor who's been flying a Trump flag every day since 2015.

See a bald eagle in a blue sky, compose a poem on the spot, then text it to all the contacts in your phone, followed by at least seven exclamation points.

When the moon climbs the ladder of night, stand in your backyard, make wolf sounds, dance as if your life depends on it.

Don't stop until you're sure all the stars know your name.

January 14, 2025: "Of All the Dead That Have Come to Me, This Once," Forgiveness, "One Breath"

I'm not a person who wishes people pain or death, no matter what they've done/are doing.  Yet, I'm ashamed to admit that when I first heard someone tried to assassinate the Felon in Chief last summer, my first thought wasn't to pray for him and his family.  My first thought was a question:  why couldn't the gunman have had better aim?  (Again, not my proudest moment, I know.)  But it's difficult to work up any empathy for a person who pretty much is the poster boy for intolerance and hatred.

Sharon Olds talks about abuse . . . 

Of All the Dead That Have Come

to Me, This Once

by: Sharon Olds

I have never written against the dead, I would

          open my

shirt to them and say yes, the white

cones still making sugary milk,

but when Grandfather's gold pocketwatch

came in by air over the Rockies,

over the dark yellow of the fields

and the black rivers, with Grandmother's blank

face pressed against his name in the back,

I thought of how he put the empty

plate in front of my sister, turned out

the lights after supper, sat in the black

room with the fire, the light of the flames

flashing in his glass eye

in the cabin where he taught my father

how to do what he did to me, and I said

No.  I said Let this one be dead.

Let the fall he made through that glass roof,

splintering, turning, the great shanks and

slices of glass in the air, be his last

appearance here.

Is it possible to be a good person and also not forgive somebody who's caused you considerable pain and suffering?

I don't know the answer to that question.  As a Christian, I learned the whole turn to other cheek thing.  Forgiveness is an important part of any Christian denomination's belief system.  Jesus came into the world to provide redemption.  I can cite, chapter and verse, the whole thing--sin, sacrifice, condemnation, crucifixion, resurrection, salvation.

Now, I do believe that it's possible for anyone to be forgiven.  However, that forgiveness comes with a price:  remorse.  If you won't admit that you've fucked up, you can't really be absolved.  That would be like shooting the last rhino on the planet, making a nice leather couch out of its hide, and then saying "oops, my bad" while sitting on the couch and watching Netflix.  It just doesn't work.

If you're expecting me to start naming names, I'm not going to do that.  Shaming someone, while it might feel really good (I mean REALLY good), isn't a good way to elicit true regret.  Instead, it just makes the shamer look petty and small.  I don't need help looking petty and small.  It comes naturally to me.  

Plus, there's this little thing called penance.  It's not enough to just say "I'm sorry."  You have to prove that you're truly sorry through action.  That's really the name of the game in Christianity.  Don't just SAY you care about the homeless.  GIVE that homeless person a room at the inn,  See what I mean?

Every day (sometimes several times a day), I forgive people who've hurt me.  Because forgiveness is hard work, too.  If I've harmed you in any way, I ask your forgiveness.  I'll try to make it up to you, I swear.

Come into my home.  Grab a bag of Cheetos from the cupboard and lie down on my genuine rhino couch.  Let's watch some episodes of Breaking Bad on Hulu together.  

Saint Marty takes a deep breath with today's prompt from The Daily Poet:

Write a poem that is made up completely of one run-on sentence.  You can use commas, but no colons or semicolons.  The poem can be on any topic you wish, but it must be one complete sentence.  If you're not sure how to begin, start with the line, S/he told me once . . .  Allow the poem to wander through various scenes and details.  To keep the poem moving, use conjunctions like and, but, however, and although.

One Breath

by: Martin Achatz

One breath can hold a lot, like how
I didn’t sleep well last night
because the neighbor’s Great Dane
kept barking a steady cadence,
as if she was keeping time
for a young boy practicing a piece
on the piano for his lesson
in the morning, maybe “Minuet
in G Major” or, God help us,
“Let It Be,” playing it so poorly
John Lennon’s soul wept in
whatever cosmic weigh station
he happened to be, halfway between
The Dakota and the strawberry
fields of his imagination, so
I was awake, working complex
algebra problems in my head,
trying to think of all the words
to the “Gettysburg Address” that I
memorized as a sixth grader,
wondering if Lincoln was nervous
when he stood in front of the throng
on that battlefield, pulled the text
of the speech from his tall, black
hat, knowing anyone in front
or behind him could pull out
a revolver and add his blood
to the blood already soaking
the dark soil beneath his boots,
and maybe he took a shallow,
shivering gulp of air before
releasing his first word, looking
into the eyes fixed on him,
thinking how the dog barking
in the distance sounded like
a canon firing at all the souls
storming the gates of paradise.

January 13, 2025: "Birthday Poem for My Grandmother," My Father, "Yellow Snow"

More snow in the forecast for tonight into tomorrow.  Around five or so inches, if the weather gods are right.  I haven't been outside since I got home this evening, so I don't know if this little squall has started yet.  I'll probably just wait and see what tomorrow morning brings.

My father was a snow warrior.  He took it as a personal affront if there was snow piled up on his property.  Even in his 80s, he would spend hours behind his snow blower, scraping all of his parkways and walkways down to cement.

Sharon Olds communes with her grandmother . . . 

Birthday Poem for My Grandmother

by: Sharon Olds

(for L.B.M.C., 1890-1975)

I stood on the porch tonight--     which way do we

face to talk to the dead?     I thought of the

new rose,     and went out over the

grey lawn--     things really

have no color at night.     I descended

the stone steps,     as if to the place where one

speaks to the dead.     The rose stood

half-uncurled,     glowing white in the

black air.     Later I remembered

your birthday.     You would have been ninety and getting

roses from me.     Are the dead there

if we do not speak to them?     When I came to see you

you were always sitting     quietly in the chair,

not knitting,     because of the arthritis,

not reading,     because of the blindness,

just sitting.     I never knew how you

did it or what you were thinking     Now I

sometimes sit on the porch,     waiting,

trying to feel you there like the color of the

flowers in the dark.

Sitting on her porch, doing nothing as darkness comes on, Sharon Olds is reminded of her long-dead grandmother.  It's so strange how the smallest thing, like the color of a rose at night, can summon the specters of lost loved ones.

Snow makes me think of my dad all the time.  He hated and loved it.  Many mornings, I'd wake to the sound of him blowing snow outside my bedroom window.  (He started early--sometimes 4 a.m.  And, no, our neighbors did not appreciate his zealotry for snow removal.)  

I inherited a little of my dad's obsession, but many years ago I succumbed to the convenience of hiring a person to plow for me.  Still one of the best decisions of my life, although my father would have scoffed at my laziness.

It was my first day of teaching for the semester, and, as I was walking to class this afternoon, I noted the slippery streets and sidewalks.  Students were skidding and falling all around me.  Suffice to say, my dad would have been disgusted with the university's attempt at snow maintenance.  

It is now 10 p.m., and one of my neighbors has decided to take his snow blower for a spin in the dark.  My father would have approved, for sure.  Me?  I'm simply annoyed by the noise.  It's almost as if my father's ghost is outside my window, still battling winter almost seven years after he died.  I guess it's better than rattling chains and moans.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about yellow snow, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

On this day in 1610, Galileo Galilei discovered Ganymede, the fourth moon of Jupiter.  Write a poem where you discover something and name it.  It could be moons of planets, a new type of flower, a new animal species, a unique rock or mineral, or a new type of music.  Make the poem as funny or serious as you like by creating whimsical silly names (such as the Laizee--a new breed of French Poodle that hangs out on the porch) or names that sound as if they fell out of a scientific guide (such as a flower called the iris vangoghus or the cactus dontsithere).

Yellow Snow

by: Martin Achatz

My older sister told me not
to eat yellow snow as a kid
without explaining why or where
I could find this golden brand
of winter. For many years,
I searched encyclopedias, atlases,
maps for this fabled monarchy
where snow piled up like frozen
sunbeams and at night you
grabbed shining, cold fists
of light to guide you through
the dark toward home. I named
the country Flaxeny. Eventually,
I understood the joke played
on me when a middle school
buddy fished out his penis
on a winter walk and pissed
on a mound of white, told me
not to eat it with a laugh.
I laughed, too, although it felt
as if something precious had been
stolen from me, like the belief
in Santa Claus or that moment
right after your first real kiss
when you taste your love’s ham
sandwich in your mouth. Even now,
so long after that disappointment,
I still think of that January
kingdom with tree branches
gilded like the pages of an old
book and rivers flowing with
lemonade at spring thaw.