August 8, 2026: “A Certain Light,” Bravery, “Hero Worship”

Right now, two of the most popular movies in the world are Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey and Marvel’s Spider-Man: Brand New Day.  An ancient superhero and a modern superhero.  The human race has always looked for people to admire and venerate for acts of self-sacrifice and bravery.  (Now, in an era of unchecked greed, political chaos, artificial “intelligence,” and environmental crisis, heroes are an endangered species.)

Marie Howe writes about a her dying brother . . . 

A Certain Light

by: Marie Howe

He had taken the right pills the night before.

We had counted them out

from the egg carton where they were numbered so there’d be no mistake.

He had taken the morphine and the prednisone and the amitriptyline

and Florinef and Vancomycin and Haleion too quickly

and had thrown up in the bowl Joe had brought to the bed—a thin string

of blue spit—then waited a few minutes to calm himself, 

before he took them all again.  And had slept through the night

and the morning and was still sleeping at noon—or not sleeping.

He was breathing maybe twice a minute, and we couldn’t wake him,

we couldn’t wake him until we shook him hard calling, John wake up now

John wake up—Who is the president?

And he couldn’t answer.

His doctor told us we’d have to keep him up for hours.

He was all bones and skin, no tissue to absorb the medicine.

He couldn’t walk unless tow people held him.

And we made him talk about the movie:  What was the best moment in

On the Waterfront?  What was the music in Gone with the Wind?

And for seven hours he answered, if only to please us, mumbling

I like the morphine, sinking, rising, sleeping, rousing,

then only pain again—but wakened.

So wakened that late that night in one of those still blue moments

that were a kind of paradise, he finally opened his eyes wide,

and the room filled with a certain light we thought we’d never see again.

Look at you two, he said.  And we did.

And Joe said, Look at you.

And John said, How do I look?

And Joe said, Handsome.

What a gorgeous, heartbreaking moment of bravery.  Howe’s brother John is dying, yet, in one of his brief moments of lucidity, he attempts to comfort the two loves of his life as they process their loss.  In turn, John’s partner, Joe, in another moment of heartbreaking bravery, tries to comfort John, calling him “handsome” for (probably) the last time.  

Anyone who has held vigil at a dying loved one’s bedside has witnessed bravery.  Not the defeating-a-cyclops-or-the-Green-Goblin kind of bravery.  My sister, Sally, suffered greatly in her last months.  Near the end, the lymphoma stole her speech and motor functions, pressing against her brain, causing a major stroke.  She didn’t choose her fate.  Yet, she didn’t rage, rage against the dying of the light.  She fought as hard as she could for as long as she could, and then, when her frail body had no more fight left in it, she slipped away, surrounded by everyone who loved her.  Bravely.  Quietly.

There are heroes all around us.  Single mothers raising their kids on minimum wage salaries.  Doctors caring for pregnant women in defiance of draconian laws.  Trans people being their authentic selves each and every day.  Fathers teaching their sons to be gentle, loving people.  Teachers buying classroom supplies with their own money.  I could go on, but you get the idea.

You don’t need special powers to be a hero.  Just because you can’t fly doesn’t mean you also can’t raise a grieving person’s spirits.  Just because you don’t have superhuman strength doesn’t mean you also can’t lift a shade and fill a dark room with light.  Just because you don’t have x-ray vision doesn’t mean you also can’t look into a people’s eyes and see their pain.

You see, being a hero isn’t all that hard.  It’s just a matter of making the right choices.  Put down that cell phone and talk to your partner or kids at dinner.  Bring some groceries to a food pantry.  Shovel the sidewalk for an elderly neighbor.  Or, even easier, ask a friend, “How are you?” and really mean it; listen to them.  In short, be kind, attentive, and generous.  That’s all it takes.

My heroes today:  my son, working the second day at his new job; my daughter, living five hours away and working her ass off to become a doctor; and my wife, putting up with my shit (metaphorically and/or literally) every day of our marriage.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about heroes for tonight . . . 

Hero Worship

by: Martin Achatz

Loading my car for a trip to the laundromat,

I heard her before I saw her beating

her dark wings and white breast against

the narrow windows of the garage, gray

rectangles of sky calling her like the sirens

called Odysseus.  I’m no birder,  She could

have been a nuthatch or finch or junco.  

But in her frantic attempts to escape,

I found something heroic, as if she was

some poor nymph, transformed by Athena

to avoid Apollo’s lustful claws.  

I opened the garage door wide, flapped

an old towel in the air, tried herding her

toward open air.  She circled the rafters

once, twice, dove at my head, then,

as if her feathers suddenly felt the pull

of wind, swooped out of the garage

into the belly of clouds so fast even

Homer would have been left speechless.

August 6, 2026: “Just Now,” Quiet Evening, “The Best Day of My Life”

It’s been a quiet, lovely evening.  I didn’t go for a ten-mile hike.  Or eat prime rib for dinner.  Or see a cascade of meteors in the night sky.  Or read a long Russian novel in which a barefoot peasant throws herself in front of a train.  In short, nothing extraordinary happened.

Marie Howe writes about a quiet, lovely day . . . 

Just Now

by: Marie Howe

John opens his eyes when he hears the door click

open downstairs and Joe’s steps walking up past the meowing cat,

and the second click of the upstairs door, and then he lifts

his face so that Joe can kiss him.  Joe has brought armfuls

of broken magnolia branches in full blossom, and he putters

in the kitchen looking for a big jar to put them in and finds it.

And now they tower in the living room, white and sweet, where

John can see them if he leans out from his bed which

he can’t do just now, and now Joe is cleaning.  What a mess

you’ve left me, he says, and John is smiling, almost asleep again.

Such a tender, quiet poem, full of domestic perfection.  The love invested in these tiny moments Howe describes is undeniable and heartbreaking.  John is dying, and Joe, his partner, brings him magnolias to fill his life with beauty.  It would be perfect, if not for the looming phantom of mortality in the room.

But maybe it’s the specter of death that makes Howe’s poem so moving in its gentleness.  Some of the greatest, most profound moments of human connection I’ve ever experienced in my life have occurred at funerals and memorial services.  Everyone is just more vulnerable and open at such occasions.  People hug more, say “I love you” more.  Death reminds us all how tenuous and fragile life truly is.

That’s what I want to say tonight.  And I want to thank you, faithful disciple, for reading this post.  You are part of my perfect, quiet evening, and I wish you the same—perfection and quiet.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about a good day . . . 

The Best Day of My Life

by: Martin Achatz

Maybe it was today, and I just didn’t pay 

attention.  Maybe the mac and cheese I ate

for dinner was the best meal I will ever

eat, and that walk around the block

with my dog will be the best walk

of her life and, as she squatted 

on my neighbor’s lawn, she took

the best shit of her life.  Maybe

every breath I inhaled, every pulse

of my heart, every sip of cold water—

all the best.  And this poem.  Maybe

this poem I’m writing right now will be

the best poem I’ll ever write, and it will

be anthologized for years after I’m gone.

Maybe I should celebrate.  Maybe 

there’s a piece of the best leftover pizza

in my life still wrapped in aluminum foil,

sitting on the bottom shelf of the fridge

behind a truly great carton of skim milk.   

August 5, 2026: “For Three Days,” Miracles, “On the Roof”

It’s been a long day of meetings and work.  In fact, as soon as I’m done typing this post, I’m probably going to sleep.  I’ve had dinner.  My breakfast and lunch for tomorrow are packed and in the fridge.  I even took my puppy for a walk.    

Marie Howe writes about her brother . . .

For Three Days

by: Marie Howe

For three days now I’ve been trying to think of another word for gratitude

because my brother could have died and didn’t,

because for a week we stood in the intensive care unit trying not to imagine

how it would be then, afterwards.

My youngest brother, Andy, said:  This is so weird.  I don’t know if I’ll be

talking with John today or buying a pair of pants for his funeral.

And I hated him for saying it because it was true and seemed to tilt it,

because I had been writing his elegy in my head during the seven-hour drive

and trying not to.  Thinking meant not thinking.  It meant imagining

my brother surrounded by light—like Schrödinger’s Cat that would be dead

if you looked and might live if you didn’t.  And then it got better, and then

it got worse, and it’s story now:  He came back.

And I did, by that time, imagine him dead.  And I did begin to write the other

story:  how the crowd in the stifling church snapped to a tearful attention,

how my brother lived again, for a few minutes, through me.

And although I know I couldn’t help it, because fear has its own language

and its own story, because even grief provides a living remedy,

I can’t help but think of that woman who said to him whom she considered

her savior:  If thou hadst been there my brother had not died, how she might

have practiced her speech, and how she too might have stood trembling, 

unable to meet the eyes of the dear familiar figure stumbling from the cave

when the compassionate fist of God opened

and crushed her with gratitude and shame.

It’s a familiar story—Lazarus dying, Mary (his sister) getting pissed at Jesus, Jesus weeping, and Lazarus rising from the tomb.  Howe’s brother is Lazarus in the ICU, dying, and Howe is Mary, waiting for a miracle to arrive.  

Sometimes miracles are answers to desperate prayers--Please save the life of my brother.  Other times, miracles are smaller, not even recognized as miracles--I had nachos for dinner tonight that were so good they tasted like grace.  I've said it before, but it bears repeating:  human beings are surrounded by miracles all day, every day, but we are simply miracle-blind from years of indifference and distraction.

Let me a share one of these little miracles that happened for me tonight . . . 

About a week or so ago, my son applied for a job at the local Children's Museum.  He made a resumé, dressed up, put his hair in a ponytail, and went to the interview.  This evening, he told me that he got hired.  He starts his training on Friday.

I am so proud of my son.  First job interview results in his first job.  At the end of a long, long day, this news was just the miracle I needed to lift my spirits.

Plus, Saint Marty wrote a new poem (another little miracle) . . . 

On the Roof

Peter White Public Library

October 28, 2021

by: Martin Achatz

I imagine I'm standing inside

God's blue lung where gulls circle,

scream, and the waves swell & recede,

divine sighs full of fishy hope and

sadness.  Not many people have access

to this place so close to heaven.

Maybe that's why, on this morning

after I trapped my mother's last breath

in my hands, felt it slap my palms

like a panicked sparrow, I climb

these steps, open my fingers, watch

that breath rise and rise and rise away

from this eggshell world.

August 4, 2026: “The Dream,” Ten Million, “Thaw”

I never remember my dreams.  As soon as I wake up, whatever movie has been playing against my eyelids simply fades quickly, and I’m left with whatever vague emotion the interrupted dream evoked.  Sometimes terror or sadness.  Other times, joy or lust.  But there’s never any dream hook to hang this emotional hat on.

Marie Howe dreams about death . . . 

The Dream

by: Marie Howe

I had a dream in the day:

I laid my father’s body down in a narrow boat

and sent him off along the riverbank with its cattails and grasses.

And the boat—it was made of bark and wood bent when it was wet—

took him to his burial finally.

But a day or two later I realized it was my self I wanted

to lay down, hands crossed, eyes closed . . . 

Oh, the light coming up from down there,

the sweet smell of the water—and finally, the sense of being carried

by a current I could not name or change.

Funny.  Howe’s version of death isn’t all that terrifying.  In fact, it’s almost comforting with its sweet smell of water and rocking current.  This isn’t Emily Dickinson’s Death, stopping by in a horse-drawn buggy to take you for a joyride.  As I said, I never remember my dreams, so, if I’ve dreamed about death before, I have no recollection.

Of course, I’m afraid of dying.  Everyone is, or else they’re lying.  It’s the unknowable.  As a Christian, I suppose I shouldn’t say that, but I just don’t buy the whole wings and clouds and harps jazz.  Do I think there is life after dearth?  Yup.  I’m just not sure what that ghostly life entails, and I’m in no hurry to find out.  

Perhaps sleep is just practice for death, and dreams are sneak previews of what lies beyond this mortal coil.  I don’t know.  But I have dreams.  Real dreams.  A couple days ago, this little blog that I started over ten years ago just exceeded ten million page views.  In June alone, over one million people visited Saint Marty.  That blows me away.  Perhaps my little poetic musings make a difference in the world.  That seems like a dream to me.

And dreams sometimes do come true.

Here’s another little poetic musings from Saint Marty.

Thaw

by: Martin Achatz

I’ve always loved the word thaw,

which sounds a lot like raw,

and that seems appropriate, considering

those days of early March, sometimes April

or May, when the rime of white holding

Superior’s waves at bay begins to recede

the way my hairline receded in my 20s,

and soon the ice is chattering its teeth

on the sandy shores and beach grass.

We use the word thaw all the time,

when we’re cooking Thanksgiving turkeys

or Christmas hams, or when we find

a piece of frozen wedding cake in the freezer,

decide to eat it for dessert after 30 years

of marriage.  Just invoke the word, say it

three times when winter seems eternal.

Thaw , , , Thaw , , , Thaw , , .

Maybe Rumpelstiltskin will appear, promise

to spin the snow into golden summer.