Call me too busy to come up with anything better.
Welcome to the morning of an insane day. Well, for 20 more minutes it's morning. I've been in a flurry of preparation. Creating programs. Arranging poems. Swearing at printers. Sending text messages. And now, at around noon, I have to go home, get changed, and head to the library for my first poetry reading of the day.
I have not much to give you guys this day. I'm too busy to be thoughtful.
Saint Marty does have a poem to share:
In the Bleak Midwinter
by: Martin Achatz
In
the Ishpeming cemetery, a statue
of
the Virgin Mary stands over
the
grave of a nine-year-old boy.
My
mother once told me myrrh
was
a spice used in death,
that
Mary knew her baby would die.
In
the dark, the statue glows
like
carved moonlight.
The
first time I saw the Virgin at night,
I
looked up, into her face, her forehead
smooth
as ice, her eyes white and liquid,
her
cheeks, stained
as
if she had been crying blood.
This
holiday season, I work my fingers
raw
making wreaths. Winding and pulling,
I
feel the string digging into the creases
of
my knuckles. Sap stains my skin black,
and
for days, I cannot make a fist
without
my hands splitting open,
my
blood smelling like cedar.
Tonight,
snow is falling
on
the ground like notes from a flute,
wavering
and delicate. The Virgin
shines,
catches flakes in the palms
of
her outstretched hands.
A
Christmas wreath rests on the grave
before
her—its ribbon bears two words
in
gold: “Beloved Son.”
I
imagine the boy’s mother kneeling
at
Mary’s feet, placing the wreath
the
way the Magi placed the myrrh,
her
heart swelling with sorrow.
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