Tomorrow, I have a long day of driving ahead of me. I'm packing up my family and driving to Rudyard and Paradise, Michigan, to do a couple of poetry readings for the U. P. Book Tour. I can now call myself an award-winning writer, since I received First Honorable Mention in that nature essay writing contest. I have two goals for tomorrow:
- To not get lost in the wilds of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
- To sell enough books to partially finance my vacation downstate on Tuesday and Wednesday.
The vintage post that follows was first published on April 15, 2010. It includes a poem and talks about another saint, Cesar de Bus. Well, actually, Cesar is only a Blessed, one step away from canonization.
But Saint Marty doesn't want to split any hairs here.
from April 15, 2010:
It never fails to amaze me that on Manly Man Poetry Night, the patrons always have some indirect or direct connection to art, writing, or poetry. I made no attempt to include Cesar de Bus in the poem I wrote tonight, and yet, when I read his biography, it says, "After his war service he wrote poetry, tried his hand at painting, and led a worldly life in Paris for three years." I have no idea what leading a worldly life encompasses, but I would assume it involves a good amount of alcohol and indiscriminate sex. That the book lumps writing poetry with being a drunk and a man whore I find a little insulting, but I can live with that. The thing I appreciate about Cesar is that not only did he write verse, but, after he became a priest, he also established religious orders of priests and nuns whose primary jobs were to be teachers. Teacher. Poet. Drunk. Man whore. I love this guy.
Currently, in one of my classes, I'm teaching a section on poetry. It's my favorite part of this semester. I wish I could say the same for my students. When I start getting excited by a Richard Wilbur poem, my students' faces take on the expression my nine-year-old daughter reserves for a PBS documentary on the effects of New Zealand oceanic paramecium on global warming--a mixture of boredom and dread. We were finishing up our second week of poetry today, and I found myself scanning a Shakespearean sonnet for rhythm and rhyme and rhetoric. It was great fun, and by the time I had finished, several students had their heads on their desks and were drooling. "There goes teacher of the year again," I thought.
Then one of my students raised his hand and said, "I Googled your name last night."
"Okay," I said slowly.
"I found your book on Amazon," he said.
People started perking up. They had no idea their instructor had an actual life outside of the walls of the classroom, let alone done something as interesting as publish a book.
"Okay," I repeated even more slowly.
"Why didn't you make us buy your book for this class?" my student said.
I considered my answer. I could have made a joke about being rich enough already. I could have said that the book was old, and I'd written much better. But I told the truth, which has to do with ego. "Because," I said, "that would be like Robert DeNiro teaching a class on the best movies of Robert DeNiro." I received blank stares. "My ego is already the size of Alaska, minus Sarah Palin," I added. No response. Finally, I said, "I just don't do that."
I have a feeling that even if I had used my book, my students would still be hating poetry. Poetry these days is associated with college classrooms, wine and cheese events, and textbooks that students sell back to the college bookstore as soon as they can. Poetry is no longer Cesar's domain of drunks, man whores, and dissolute soldiers. Too bad.
Anyway, my friend and I celebrated Manly Man Poetry Night, and I have a poem to share. As I said before, I did not include Cesar de Bus in it. I do mention Saint John, and I'm sure that Cesar read John's gospel. So there is a tangential connection, but that's it. That's all I have. The onion rings were good, as usual; the Diet Pepsi flowed freely; and by the end of the evening, I had the poem that follows. It's decent, I think, but I doubt it would wake up any student of mine. Short of getting drunk, stripping, and dancing to "Telephone" by Lady Gaga, nothing is going to tear them away from texting and Facebook. However, I still have faith that some of you, my readers, aren't drooling, asleep, or already moving on with your blog stalking. Some of you still look for miracles in everyday life. That gives me hope.
Shepherds Watching
In Detroit, my brother raised angelfish.
The 40-gallon tank bubbled
In our bedroom, all night, all day.
At least nine or ten creatures
Filled the tropical water, some
The size of my eight-year-old hand.
They hovered, delicate, quiet,
Striped spirits, placid guardians
Of pillow, blanket, sheet,
Dirty underwear, balled socks,
Jethro Tull on the eight track.
One morning, a man snatched
Maggie, a neighbor girl,
In the alley behind our house.
A couple years older than me,
She was the blond star
At Assumption Grotto School,
Everyone's sister or virgin daughter.
When the nuns heard the news,
They made us stop reciting
The Apostles Creed, get on our knees,
Pray for Maggie's deliverance.
Police searched all the houses
In the neighborhood, from attic
To basement. When the two officers
Got to our bedroom, they stood
In front of the aquarium, stared
At the fish as if witnessing
Gabriel appearing to Mary
Or hosts singing "Gloria in excelsis."
When they left the room, one cop
Said, "Those are big fish,"
In a way that sounded
Like he was quoting Saint John:
"In the beginning..."
I sat on my bed, watched
The angelfish drift, glide.
I thought about Maggie,
Hoped she was some place safe,
That she felt something watching
Over her. Something big. Floating.
Something beautiful.
Confessions of Saint Marty
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