Now, I am trying to catch up with my schoolwork. Grading and writing. Creating a midterm exam. It's going to be a long night. Hopefully, I will be able to focus and get shit done quickly, because I'm about ready to drop dead from exhaustion.
A year ago, I was dealing with a different kind of stress . . .
October 8, 2016: Mockingbird on the Chimney, Panel of Poets, Swedish Spies
No; we have been as usual asking the wrong question. It does not matter a hoot what the mockingbird on the chimney is singing.... The real and proper question is: Why is it beautiful?
Dillard is talking about birdsong in this little passage, and the fact that people spend a great deal of time talking about what the mockingbird on the chimney is saying. Is it singing about the sun on its feathers? The hawk circling in the sky? Its nest of eggs in the pine tree? No, Dillard says. We're missing the point. It's not the message so much as the package. Sort of like looking at all the beautiful packages sitting under the Saint Marty's Day tree and not really thinking about what they contain.
Today, in about twenty minutes to be exact, I have to go to a local library to participate in a panel of poets. It's part of a celebration of independent booksellers. I was invited last week, and I agreed. Of course, then all the low self-esteem kicked in. I've known all the other poets for many, many years. They are accomplished and successful. My doubts and fears are unfounded. I know that. Like Dillard says, it's not really about what the mockingbird is singing. It's about the beauty of the song. I must keep that in mind.
So, I will show up, try to sell a few books, talk about poetry for an hour, maybe read some poems, and answer some questions. I will be on the chimney with all the other mockingbirds, trying to create something uplifting, something that touches the heavens. That's the goal, anyway.
No word from the Swedish Academy yet, although Saint Marty suspects there will be some very Scandinavian members in the audience today.
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| The Swedish Academy's motto. I think it translates as "Saint Marty is great!" |
I am grateful for this day of celebration. And I have a gratitude poem for tonight about my mother and pie:
Pecan Pie
by: Martin Achatz
Mix eggs, sugar and Karo,
melted butter, vanilla from Mexico
in a bowl until it all runs
yellow as corn silk. Add pecans,
one-and-a-quarter cups. Fold
them into the gold syrup,
the way a farmer folds
manure into a field of hay
or my son folds a Tootsie Roll
under his tongue, plants it there,
lets it feed the furrows
of his young body. Pour this filling
into a shell, edges fluted
by my wife's hands, crimped
between thumb and forefinger
to peaks and troughs of dough.
Bake at 350 degrees.
Forty-five minutes to an hour.
You'll know when it's done.
The house will smell
brown and warm and sweet.
Dip a butter knife blade
into the center of the pie.
If it comes out hot and clean,
take the pie out of the oven. Put it
on the front porch to cool.
You can leave it there overnight.
It'll be waiting in the morning.
Cover it with a hand towel. Carry
it to your parents' house,
where your mother asks you
"Is it cold outside?"
over and over as you cut
the pie. "Yes," you tell her.
And "yes" when she asks again.
It is cold this Thanksgiving.
And, yes, pecan pie is her favorite.
Give her a large slice,
with extra Cool Whip
and a hot cup of coffee.
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