"Hi," he said to a small knot of creatures from the press who were standing nearby wishing that he would stop saying Hi and get on with the quotes. He grinned at them particularly because he knew that in a few moments he would be giving them one hell of a quote.
Of course, this is about Zaphod Beeblebrox, President of the Imperial Galactic Government, just before he is about to steal the Heart of Gold spaceship with his girlfriend, Trillian. Nobody else knows what is about to happen. The press is there to report on the unveiling of the Heart of Gold, nothing more. The entire universe is about to be surprised.
I think most of my days are like this. I show up to work or teaching, planner in hand, book/laptop bag on my shoulder, thinking that it's going to be like any other day. I say "hi" to people, make jokes, go about the business of my life. I don't expect anything earth-shattering to happen. I save the earth-shattering stuff for when I sit down to write. At least, I try to.
You see, I'm of the opinion that anything can be earth-shattering. For instance, I'm pretty hungry right now. I'm eating a piece of leftover pizza for dinner. On another day, in different circumstances, I wouldn't really be paying too much attention to this slice. However, because of my empty stomach, and because I just worked eight hours and then taught for another two and am getting ready to teach for another three-and-a-half hours, eating this triangle of pizza is turning into a pretty earth-shattering experience for me.
For me, that's what poetry is all about. Finding the earth-shattering in the everyday things in life. Like pizza. Or a drink of water. Or a stick of pepperoni. Or a discarded Band-aid. Whatever. The best poems--the ones I love the most--are about these kinds of mundane experiences, when the poet is suddenly contemplating string theory while tying her shoes. That is the kind of poetry that unhinges my head from my shoulders.
Two days ago, I wrote what I think is the finished draft of a poem. It had been sitting on a page in my journal, collecting dust, since August. I didn't think it was very good, so I sort of abandoned it. For some reason, I felt myself drawn back to it on Monday. I reread it and saw something breathing on the page. So I decided to shape it, give it life.
It's a poem about my son. And it's about authenticity. And joy. And time. And seeing something earth-shattering. At least, that's what I think it's about. Sometimes, writers are the worst people for understanding what they've written. Because most of what writers do is instinctual. I let my mind go where it needs to go, create whatever beautiful mess it needs to create. If it ends up being a poem, all the better.
I've decided to include it below, let you be the judge. Is it a poem or just a beautiful mess? A piece of pizza or the meaning of life? Both? Neither?
Take a bite of this poem, and tell Saint Marty if it changes you in any way.
Harvest Time
by: Martin Achatz
He begged me for just ten more minutes
before he had to shower, wash off
the math and lunchroom and homework
of the day. He stands in
the backyard
by the woodpile, holds a stick
the size of his arm, swinging
it through the dusk. Wild
chops
that guillotine the swarm of mosquitoes
in front of his face. Then
he turns, swings
in the other direction, towards the neighbor’s
house. The arc bisects the
navel orange
sun. Back and forth he
threshes the air,
the way I saw a Russian peasant boy
in an old newsreel slash down wheat
with a scythe. All the time
my son
does this, his mouth moves.
He’s talking
or shouting or singing. I
can’t hear
him through the kitchen window.
But he’s smiling a smile that is all him.
A smile he saves just for himself.
I’ve never seen it before.
It’s not meant
for my eyes or anyone’s eyes.
I turn
away from the glass. Let
him be
his own, harvesting these last
golden bushels of daylight.
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