April 21: Fly Away Like Birds, Chipped Coffee Mug, "Instructions on What to Do with a Broken Heart"

Merton writes the first real poem of his life . . . 

Down in the village I bought a bottle of some kind of gaseosa and stood under the tin roof of the porch of the village store. Somewhere in one of theshacks, on a harmonium, was played: “Kyrie Eleison, Kyrie Eleison, Kyrie Eleison.” 

And I went back to Santiago. 

But while I was sitting on the terrace of the hotel, eating lunch, La Caridad del Cobre had a word to say to me. She handed me an idea for a poem that formed so easily and smoothly and spontaneously in my mind that all I had to do was finish eating and go up to my room and type it out, almost without a correction. 

So the poem turned out to be both what she had to say to me and what I had to say to her. It was a song for La Caridad del Cobre, and it was, as far as I was concerned, something new, and the first real poem I had ever written, or anyway the one I liked best. It pointed the way to many other poems; it opened the gate, and set me travelling on a certain and direct track that was to last me several years. 

The poem said: 

The white girls lift their heads like trees,
The black girls go
Reflected like flamingoes in the street.

The white girls sing as shrill as water,
The black girls talk as quiet as clay.

The white girls open their arms like clouds,
The black girls close their eyes like wings:
Angels bow down like bells,
Angels look up like toys,

Because the heavenly stars
Stand in a ring:
And all the pieces of the mosaic, earth,
Get up and fly away like birds.

I really love this Merton moment--him feeling divinely inspired, like he's taking dictation from God.  Finishing dinner, going back to his hotel room, and typing this poem out without correction or struggle.  I have experienced moments like this myself, but they are rare.

They are gifts from a Higher Power, I suppose.  They certainly don't come from any way of writing a poem that I know.  Sometimes I sit down with my journal and free write, but the results aren't ever finished lines of poetry.  Rather, they are word shards that, through hard work and a lot of glue, may be pieced together into something that resembles a poem.  Possibly diamond faceted.  More likely, an old, chipped coffee mug.

Last night, I attended a poetry workshop led by a good friend of mine.  He took us through several writing exercises, and my results were pretty rough.  No surprise there.  However, I did write something that I really like, and I worked it into what I think is a new poem.  Not divinely inspired.  But not something that holds coffee, either.

Saint Maty thinks that it has the potential to get up and fly away like birds.

Instructions on What to Do with a Broken Heart

by:  Martin Achatz

Call your PCP. When they ask
why you need to see the doctor,
say, Something is wrong with my heart.
You will get an appointment
within an hour or two, or be told
to go to the ER, call an ambulance.
Follow whatever instructions
you receive. When you find yourself
staring face-up at a physician, she will
ask you to rate your pain on a scale
from one to ten, ten being the worst
pain you have ever felt in your life.
Tell her your pain is Pi, a number
infinite and unrepeating. You may
end up in an OR or hospital room,
surrounded by submarine sounds,
sonar pings. They may cut you
open, or just watch you for a while,
tell you that you're fine, send you
home. None of this will cure
a broken heart. Here is what
will do that: 

a bed, a body

next to you, 

darkness, 

an arm, a hand 

that reaches out,
touches you, 

doesn't move
for the rest
of the long, 

long night.