April 22: "November Morning," Diane Glancy, "April Afternoon"

Billy Collins admires ducks . . .

November Morning

by:  Billy Collins

My appearance on the shore

has surprised this pair of wood ducks--

the wild-haired male, the smooth-headed hen.

They've left the cover of reeds

to begin their day together,

and I have an afternoon flight to Milwaukee.

It has been a day seeped in poetry.  The Headline Poet of the Great Lakes Poetry Festival, Diane Glancy, read this evening at the library, and she was (no surprise) amazing.

Prior to the reading, I gave Diane a tour of the library and then took her to dinner with a group of poet friends.  Lively conversation.  Mushroom risotto.  Lots of laughter.

Tomorrow morning, like Billy Collins, Diane has a flight home (not to Milwaukee), and the rest of us wood ducks will go about our day together in the reeds of life.

Saint Marty is still a little drunk . . . on words.

April Afternoon

by:  Martin Achatz

The poet stands on the roof,

spreads her arms

as if to take flight,

calls out, "I'm never leaving!"

just as she blossoms

feathers and wings

off into the empty 

page of the day.

April 21: "Dogma," State of the World, "Catechism"

Billy Collins takes us to church . . .

Dogma

by:  Billy Collins

I might be an atheist

were it not

for all the tall angels

and the pudgy cherubs 

in the silvery clouds

presiding over all those miracles.

This is a good poem for a Sunday.

Looking at the state of the world at the moment (wars and climate change and politicians hawking Bibles), it's hard not to question the existence of an Almighty.  How can a Higher Power let all this shit happen?

Gone are the days when angels would sometimes knock on your front door and ask for some hospitality (dinner and a warm bed).  Lepers aren't walking down streets, ringing bells and shouting "Unclean!  Unclean!"  The blind don't see, and the lame don't walk.  Miracles just don't happen with great frequency in this day and age.  Or do they?

Here's the thing--and I think this is the point Billy Collins is making with today's poem--angels and miracles are all around us.  Every day.  That hasn't changed since baby Moses went for his little boat ride in the bulrushes.  Modern people have just become immune to the holy weird of the world.  For example, I saw a wild turkey on the side of the road today, and I ate a lavender vanilla bean gelato for lunch.  Tonight, I picked up a poet at the airport and drove her to her hotel.  This poet has won, among other accolades, the American Book Award.  Miracle upon miracle upon miracle.

I've had angels in my life, as well.  These angels have gone out of their ways to help me at various times when I've felt irredeemable.  My friend, Helen, was one of those angels.  She believed in the inherent goodness of everyone she met.  Every day was an adventure in wonder for her, from the deer feeding in her backyard to the raspberries growing along the side of a path.  She lived in the realm of the earthly sacred.  And Helen believed in me.

So, Saint Marty agrees with Billy Collins:  angels and cherubs and miracles, oh my!

Catechism

by:  Martin Achatz

I learned to recite

the "Our Father" in Latin

when I was a kid,

so I speak guilt

in two languages.

April 20: "Quatrain," Music, "Tacet"

Billy Collins sees music everywhere . . . 

Quatrain

by:  Billy Collins

When a woman

in a low-cut blouse

walked by,

the grocer in the doorway

raised his eyebrows

revealing the four lines in his forehead.

Music has always been a big part of my life.  I remember my mom playing Doris Day as she cooked in the kitchen.  Falling asleep to soundtracks of South Pacific and Oklahoma.  Cruising with my brother in his van, listening to "Bungle in the Jungle."  Church music.  Disco.  Country.  Broadway.  Classical.  Punk.  Pop.  Acid.  I listened to them all.  Perhaps that's why poetry seems like breath to me.

It has been a quiet day.  The most excitement I had was walking to church to play the pipe organ for Mass.  I took my puppy for a few walks, too.  And, for some reason, I thought about my sister, Rose, a lot.

Most of my faithful disciples know Rose had Down syndrome.  And she loved music, too.  She couldn't really carry a tune, but she could move and dance like Chita Rivera.  All day long, I've been hearing Rose's voice and laugh.  This morning, when I took my dog for her first spin around the backyard, the lilac bushes along the property line were full of birds singing in the bright sunshine.  That made me think of Rose, as well.

She's been gone for a couple years now, but she's still present somehow, like an old tune that reminds me the world can be really beautiful.

Saint Marty misses his sister's offkey voice.

Tacet

by:  Martin Achatz

Birds in the lilac bushes

this morning reminded me

of my sister's eyes right

before she died:  

               

               as if she

was surprised by her silent

heart and lungs, her spirit

still perched for a few seconds

in the branches of her body

before taking flight.

April 19: "Yamaha," Music Nights, "Church Music"

Billy Collins plays some music  . . 

Yamaha

by:  Billy Collins

I gun my baby grand

along blacktop roads,

and I play Claire de Lune

in my helmet and boots.

Friday nights are music nights for me.

I play at two and three different churches every weekend, so, after dinner on Fridays, I grab my bag of music and head out the door.  Two or three hours later, I'm back home after practicing the hymns and preludes and postludes.

When I was taking piano lessons as a kid, I never thought I'd actually make any money playing the keyboard.  Now, I'm a fulltime accompanist at one Lutheran church, part-time accompanist at another Lutheran church, and the fulltime Saturday evening accompanist at a Catholic church.  Plus, a lot of other churches of various denominations have my name on their lists of in-case-of-musical-emergency-break-glass organists.

Saint Marty's piano lessons have paid off.

Church Music

by:  Martin Achatz

I once played

"Amazing Grace"

with a boogie

bassline 

during communion,

God buying 

a round of drinks

for everyone

in the joint.