September 29: Look of Devastation, Sad Day, Ellen Bryant Voigt, "A Marriage Poem," Adventures of Stickman

And he'd tapped Ives' shoulder thoughtfully and, maintaining his composure, had marched out of the office, shoulders back, chest out, a look of devastation upon his face.

It is Christmas time, and Mr. Mannis, Ives' boss, has suffered a tremendous loss.  His son is seriously  wounded in Vietnam and later dies.  Mannis is in a state of shock, searching for some source of comfort, and he turns to Ives.  In about a year or so, Ives will lose his own son, but, at this point, the two men are drawn together by friendship and respect.  Grief and sadness will come later.

For some reason, I felt a lot like Mr. Mannis today, walking around with a pall of devastation hanging over my head.  For the first time since the day of my sister's funeral, I visited the Website of the funeral home and read my sister's page.  Several more people had added tributes to the guest page.  Then, I clicked on the file containing the audio of my sister's Mass.

I simply wanted to listen to my eulogy, since I have no real recollection of what I said.  But, after 15 minutes, I was completely undone.  Sitting at my computer at work, after everyone else left, weeping.  It's my own fault.  For the past month, I've tried to keep myself busy in order to avoid the messy business of grieving.  Tonight, I realize that was probably not the best course of action.

So, my nerves are a little raw this evening.  I'm tired of dealing with the troubles of the world.

Today, the MacArthur Foundation announced the winners of the 2015 Genius Grants.  One of the lucky recipients was poet Ellen Bryant Voigt, whom I once named as Poet of the Week for this blog.  That's right.  On top of being a Saint Marty Poet of the Week, Voigt is now also a MacArthur Genius.

I know money is not the key to happiness, but I truly can't imagine receiving the kind of stipend that accompanies this award (currently $625,000 over five years).  Doing the math, that's a little over $100,000 a year, no strings attached.

As I said, money cannot make the troubles of the world vanish.  It certainly can't bring my sister back or take away my sadness.  It would, however, allow me to grieve in a house with a finished attic, a repaired kitchen ceiling, and maybe a second bathroom.

In honor of Ellen Bryant Voigt's award, I have decided to include one of my favorite Bryant poems.  You be the judge if it's genius.

Saint Marty needs to get to sleep now.  He's not a genius and needs to work in the morning.

A Marriage Poem

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

1.

Morning: the caged baby

sustains his fragile sleep.

The house is a husk against weather.   

Nothing stirs—inside, outside.   

With the leaves fallen,

the tree makes a web on the window   

and through it the world

lacks color or texture,

like stones in the pasture

seen from this distance.

This is what is done with pain:

ice on the wound,

the isolating tourniquet—

as though to check an open vein

where the self pumps out of the self

would stop the second movement of the heart,   

diastolic, inclusive:

to love is to siphon loss into that chamber.

2.

What does it mean when a woman says,   

“my husband,”

if she sits all day in the tub;

if she worries her life like a dog a rat;

if her husband seems familiar but abstract,

a bandaged hand she’s forgotten how to use.

They’ve reached the middle years.   

Spared grief, they are given dread

as they tend the frail on either side of them.   

Even their marriage is another child,   

grown rude and querulous

since death practiced on them and withdrew.

He asks of her only a little lie,

a pale copy drawn from the inked stone   

where they loll beside the unicorn,   

great lovers then, two strangers

joined by appetite:

                              it frightens her,

to live by memory’s poor diminished light.   

She wants something crisp and permanent,   

like coral—a crown, a trellis,

an iron shawl across the bed

where they are laced together,

the moon bleaching the house,

their bodies abandoned—

3.

In last week’s mail,

still spread on the kitchen table,

the list of endangered species.

How plain the animals are,

quaint, domestic,

but the names lift from the page:   

Woundfin. Whooping Crane. Squawfish.   

Black-footed Ferret. California Least Tern.

Dearest, the beast of Loch Ness, that shy,   

broad-backed, two-headed creature,   

may be a pair of whales or manatee,   

male and female,

driven from their deep mud nest,

who cling to each other,

circling the surface of the lake.

Adventures of STICKMAN