February 6: The Meaning of Poetry, "Fear Not," Vote

Can I be serious for a few moments in this post?

I've been asking people to vote for me for Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula over a week now.  I've made jokes, passed out "I Voted" stickers, and sent out daily reminders.  I want to put that all aside for a second.

You see, I really do believe that poetry is something necessary.  It's truth communicated with image and sound.  A good poem, for me, connects to something bigger, more important, than myself.  It says something that I already knew but never had words for.  It's like opening an oyster and finding something precious inside.

Poetry can be a vehicle for change.  It can feed you when you're hungry.  Put a blanket around your shoulders when it's cold outside.  Most of all, it reminds you what it is to be a human being.

Saint Marty thinks everyone needs poetry in their lives, every single day.

Fear Not

by:  Martin Achatz

My sister Rose spoke with the Virgin
One night when lightning laced
The sky and thunder rolled
Like a wailing ambulance.
Rose, with black hair, eyes dark
As baker's chocolate.  Rose, who listened
To the rain drill the ground, felt terror
In her chest, blooming like a mushroom.
Rose, with Down's Syndrome,
Her speech thick,
Weighing on her tongue like rust.

She knew nothing of atmospheres,
Weather fronts, lightning that traveled
From the ground to the heavens
Like a white hot soul.  She knew
Nothing of raining frogs,
Hailstones the size of peach pits.
Hers was a child's fear, as simple
As shadow in a closet.
When she knelt at the foot of her bed,
Folded small fingers,
Her prayers opened like sunflowers
In the still air.

Mother found Rose that night,
Speaking with the darkness.
She looked like moonlight, her words
Agates, smooth, round, polished.
Rose, imperfect since birth,
Slower than summer heat,
Filled the room with light.

Anne came upon her daughter
Like that, too, Mary in the dark,
Her childhood fears sitting
On the windowsill like empty bowls
Waiting for rain.

Mary spread her arms,
Wrapped them around the angel,
Pressing her mouth to his neck.
She tasted lightning and shadow
On his bright skin, swallowed them,
Felt them take root
In her belly.  She opened
Her robe, guided his lips
To her boy chest,
Motherhood swelling
In her rose nipple.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula at the link below:

Vote for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the U. P.