Saturday, December 15, 2018

December 15: Call Me Ishmael, Insane Day, "In the Bleak Midwinter"

Call me Ishmael . . .

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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