March 15: Unclear in the Head, State of Mind, Lenten Poems

Santiago needs to sleep . . . 

How simple it would be if I could make the line fast, he thought. But with one small lurch he could break it. I must cushion the pull of the line with my body and at all times be ready to give line with both hands.

"But you have not slept yet, old man," he said aloud. "It is half a day and a night and now another day and you have not slept. You must devise a way so that you sleep a little if he is quiet and steady. If you do not sleep you might become unclear in the head."

I'm clear enough in the head, he thought. Too clear. I am as clear as the stars that are my brothers. Still I must sleep. They sleep and the moon and the sun sleep and even the ocean sleeps sometimes on certain days when there is no current and a flat calm.

Unclear in the head.  That pretty much describes my current state of mind.

I don't have much to give today.  As I said in yesterday's post, I am approaching total shutdown in terms of energy.  And I still haven't got my lesson plan done for teaching tomorrow.

So, for the next couple days, I'm going to cheat a little.  Many years ago, I decided that I was going to write a poem a day for Lent.  From Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday, that is exactly what I did.  Before I allowed my head to hit the pillow, I forced myself to write a new poem.  It didn't matter whether it was good or bad.  It simply had to be done.

Tonight, I'm going to start posting some of those old Lenten poems, since it is the middle of Lent, and I am frayed at both ends.  Once I get some sleep this weekend (hopefully), I will start writing more thoughtful blog posts again.

Until that time, Saint Marty is going green--he's recycling old poems, with no guarantees as to their quality.

Ecstatic Stigmatic

by:  Martin Achatz

A Cajun friend told me I’m bleeding
Poetry, that my hands, feet, side, head
Have opened, like Francis of Assisi
After his chat with the burning angel,
Lilacs, roses spilling from my ragged
Skin. Put your hand in my ribs, pull
Out a sonnet or elegy, slick, pink,
Like a newborn as it flushes with breath
For the first time. Dig your fingers
Into my palms, feel the moon rise
In my veins, the tongue of a lover
Brush the dermal ridges of your
Fingertips. On the gauze of bandage
I wrap around my feet, I find
Words, lines of verse in frank, red
Blood that say things like, “ I press
My lips to your mango neck, taste Eden”
And “Rise with me at night, climb
The slope of my body to heaven.”
In the mirror, I examine the mystic
Cut of thorn in my forehead, see
Within my wounds the girl I wanted
In high school, her dark hair,
Curve of back, rosary of body I would
Have kissed over and over with prayer,
See Teresa of Avila in ecstasy,
Her seraph as he pierced her
Heart again and again with his spear
Of gold, made her writhe, moan
In sweet pain until she opened
Her lips, sucked in a breath,
Cried out her love poem for God.