April 23: "Google Maps," Find Their Ways, "A Poets Circle"

Billy Collins finds his way . . . 

Google Maps

by:  Billy Collins

My parents' grave

is 1198 miles north of here.

17 hours and 23 minutes

from now,

I'll make believe I'm there.

Everyone, every day is just trying to find their ways.  I do.  You do, too.  Admit it.  I'm not talking about a physical way.  I'm talking about friends and family and joy and love and all the things that give meaning to life.

Collins has buried his mother and father, who are, for most people, the first Google maps, telling us what to do, keeping us safe.  I still hear my mother's voice in my head sometimes, telling me to make the bed, wash the dirty pans in the sink.  And my dad still reminds me now and again to mow my lawn or shovel snow off my roof.

Tonight at the library, a group of poets from the Yooper Poetry anthology read their work as part of the Great Lakes Poetry Festival, and it took my breath away.  I think poetry can be a map, too, giving directions on how to view the universe.  Poetry helps me make sense of seemingly senseless situations sometimes.  It grounds me.  Reminds me who I am and where I am.

Saint Marty might be lost, but, with poetry, he can find his way home.

A Poets Circle

by:  Martin Achatz

Why not a square?

Or a rhombus?

I'm partial to equilateral

triangles, no side larger

or smaller than the other.

Yet, there's something comforting

about gatherings without

beginning or ending,

like a cup of coffee

that the waitress constantly

refills.

April 22: "November Morning," Diane Glancy, "April Afternoon"

Billy Collins admires ducks . . .

November Morning

by:  Billy Collins

My appearance on the shore

has surprised this pair of wood ducks--

the wild-haired male, the smooth-headed hen.

They've left the cover of reeds

to begin their day together,

and I have an afternoon flight to Milwaukee.

It has been a day seeped in poetry.  The Headline Poet of the Great Lakes Poetry Festival, Diane Glancy, read this evening at the library, and she was (no surprise) amazing.

Prior to the reading, I gave Diane a tour of the library and then took her to dinner with a group of poet friends.  Lively conversation.  Mushroom risotto.  Lots of laughter.

Tomorrow morning, like Billy Collins, Diane has a flight home (not to Milwaukee), and the rest of us wood ducks will go about our day together in the reeds of life.

Saint Marty is still a little drunk . . . on words.

April Afternoon

by:  Martin Achatz

The poet stands on the roof,

spreads her arms

as if to take flight,

calls out, "I'm never leaving!"

just as she blossoms

feathers and wings

off into the empty 

page of the day.

April 21: "Dogma," State of the World, "Catechism"

Billy Collins takes us to church . . .

Dogma

by:  Billy Collins

I might be an atheist

were it not

for all the tall angels

and the pudgy cherubs 

in the silvery clouds

presiding over all those miracles.

This is a good poem for a Sunday.

Looking at the state of the world at the moment (wars and climate change and politicians hawking Bibles), it's hard not to question the existence of an Almighty.  How can a Higher Power let all this shit happen?

Gone are the days when angels would sometimes knock on your front door and ask for some hospitality (dinner and a warm bed).  Lepers aren't walking down streets, ringing bells and shouting "Unclean!  Unclean!"  The blind don't see, and the lame don't walk.  Miracles just don't happen with great frequency in this day and age.  Or do they?

Here's the thing--and I think this is the point Billy Collins is making with today's poem--angels and miracles are all around us.  Every day.  That hasn't changed since baby Moses went for his little boat ride in the bulrushes.  Modern people have just become immune to the holy weird of the world.  For example, I saw a wild turkey on the side of the road today, and I ate a lavender vanilla bean gelato for lunch.  Tonight, I picked up a poet at the airport and drove her to her hotel.  This poet has won, among other accolades, the American Book Award.  Miracle upon miracle upon miracle.

I've had angels in my life, as well.  These angels have gone out of their ways to help me at various times when I've felt irredeemable.  My friend, Helen, was one of those angels.  She believed in the inherent goodness of everyone she met.  Every day was an adventure in wonder for her, from the deer feeding in her backyard to the raspberries growing along the side of a path.  She lived in the realm of the earthly sacred.  And Helen believed in me.

So, Saint Marty agrees with Billy Collins:  angels and cherubs and miracles, oh my!

Catechism

by:  Martin Achatz

I learned to recite

the "Our Father" in Latin

when I was a kid,

so I speak guilt

in two languages.

April 20: "Quatrain," Music, "Tacet"

Billy Collins sees music everywhere . . . 

Quatrain

by:  Billy Collins

When a woman

in a low-cut blouse

walked by,

the grocer in the doorway

raised his eyebrows

revealing the four lines in his forehead.

Music has always been a big part of my life.  I remember my mom playing Doris Day as she cooked in the kitchen.  Falling asleep to soundtracks of South Pacific and Oklahoma.  Cruising with my brother in his van, listening to "Bungle in the Jungle."  Church music.  Disco.  Country.  Broadway.  Classical.  Punk.  Pop.  Acid.  I listened to them all.  Perhaps that's why poetry seems like breath to me.

It has been a quiet day.  The most excitement I had was walking to church to play the pipe organ for Mass.  I took my puppy for a few walks, too.  And, for some reason, I thought about my sister, Rose, a lot.

Most of my faithful disciples know Rose had Down syndrome.  And she loved music, too.  She couldn't really carry a tune, but she could move and dance like Chita Rivera.  All day long, I've been hearing Rose's voice and laugh.  This morning, when I took my dog for her first spin around the backyard, the lilac bushes along the property line were full of birds singing in the bright sunshine.  That made me think of Rose, as well.

She's been gone for a couple years now, but she's still present somehow, like an old tune that reminds me the world can be really beautiful.

Saint Marty misses his sister's offkey voice.

Tacet

by:  Martin Achatz

Birds in the lilac bushes

this morning reminded me

of my sister's eyes right

before she died:  

               

               as if she

was surprised by her silent

heart and lungs, her spirit

still perched for a few seconds

in the branches of her body

before taking flight.

April 19: "Yamaha," Music Nights, "Church Music"

Billy Collins plays some music  . . 

Yamaha

by:  Billy Collins

I gun my baby grand

along blacktop roads,

and I play Claire de Lune

in my helmet and boots.

Friday nights are music nights for me.

I play at two and three different churches every weekend, so, after dinner on Fridays, I grab my bag of music and head out the door.  Two or three hours later, I'm back home after practicing the hymns and preludes and postludes.

When I was taking piano lessons as a kid, I never thought I'd actually make any money playing the keyboard.  Now, I'm a fulltime accompanist at one Lutheran church, part-time accompanist at another Lutheran church, and the fulltime Saturday evening accompanist at a Catholic church.  Plus, a lot of other churches of various denominations have my name on their lists of in-case-of-musical-emergency-break-glass organists.

Saint Marty's piano lessons have paid off.

Church Music

by:  Martin Achatz

I once played

"Amazing Grace"

with a boogie

bassline 

during communion,

God buying 

a round of drinks

for everyone

in the joint.

April 18: "Three for a Quarter," Johnny Cash, "Old Country Music"

Billy Collins shows his age . . . 

Three for a Quarter

by:  Billy Collins

I was forced to listen to a lot of country music when I was a kid.  Every morning, while I ate breakfast, I had to endure the local country station on the radio.  It was the only thing my dad listened to.

So, I got very familiar with all the old country tunes that only cost a nickel to play on a jukebox.  Hank Williams.  Willie Nelson.  Johnny Cash.  Loretta Lynn.

Perhaps that ages me, too, just like Collins.  All the 1980s songs that define my high school days are now considered vintage or golden oldies.

Does that make Saint Marty a classic?

Old Country Music

by:  Martin Achatz

Every morning,

WJPD on the radio

with my Lucky Charms.

Then I hopped a train

to school, hunted down

the dirty S.O.B.

who failed me in Trig,

and shot his dog.

April 17: "Olden Plea," Bad Attitudes, "Emotional Eating"

Billy Collins makes a request . . . 

Olden Plea

by:  Billy Collins

Could we skip the hanging

and the quartering

and just do some drawings--

maybe of a pillory, an urchin, or a herring?

Gonna be a short one tonight, disciples.  It's been a long day dealing with lots of bad attitudes (including my own).  I'm ready for bed.

This whole week has been an exercise in simply treading water, and today was no different.  I made it to bedtime without hanging or quartering anybody.

Saint Marty counts that as a victory.

Emotional Eating

by:  Martin Achatz

I ate a handful

of anger and grief

this afternoon.

It tasted a lot

like Cheetos and M&Ms.

April 16: "4'33" by John Cage," Silence, "Pin Drop"

Billy Collins indulges in some quiet jazz . . .

4'33" by John Cage

by:  Billy Collins

As I listened,

the scales

fell from my eyes.

If you're not familiar with 4'33" by John Cage, this poem simply won't work for you.  Watch a video, and you will see someone sitting at a piano for four minutes and thirty-three seconds playing . . . absolutely nothing.  There's music sitting in front of the performer, and, every once in a while, the pianist may turn the page or lift a hand to the keyboard, but no sound is made.  Not a note.

If you've ever sat in forced silence, you know it isn't easy.  There's a human impulse to fill moments of prolonged nothing.  Almost five minutes of noiselessness is tantamount to waterboarding for some individuals.

Quiet doesn't bother me, but I'm a poet.  I need absence (of sound and people and distraction) to get words down on paper.

So, John Cage is right up Saint Marty's alley.

Pin Drop

by:  Martin Achatz

If you can

hear a pin drop,

pick up the bastard

before I step on it.

April 15: "Physical," Geese, "Morning Geese"

Billy Collins' heart . . .

Physical

by:  Billy Collins

The nurse quipped

my pulse was so slow

she could take it with a sundial.

In a garden,

she watches the shadow move

while I sit there, ticking away.

It's going to be a short post tonight, disciples.  It's been a long day, and I'm tired.  I can feel my heart slowing down, my mind getting ready to reboot.

This morning, when I took my puppy out for her morning stroll around the backyard, we were surrounded by the cries of geese.  It sounded like an Independence Day parade of honks and barks and horns.

Above us, the sky was overflowing with geese, returning from their winter retreats, I imagine.  It was kind of miraculous to witness.  It lasted almost five minutes--flock after flock forming and reforming into V's, winging across the heavens.

It made Saint Marty's heart beat a little faster.

Goose Morning

by:  Martin Achatz

So many arrows

of Canadians

in the dawn sky,

calling out,

Spring, eh!  Spring, eh!

April 14: "Angelus," Letter Writing, "Birthday Card"

Billy Collins gets some mail . . . 

Angelus

by:  Billy Collins

Church bells

from across the water--

a breeze blows

the letter I was reading

into the lake.

People don't write letters anymore.  They email.  Text.  Send snaps.  Communication these days is instantaneous.  Unless you're standing on the summit of Mount Everest or diving to the bottom of the Mariana Trench, you can get in touch with practically anybody in the time it takes to sneeze.

I come from a letter-writing generation.  Maybe the last letter-writing generation.  If I went on vacation, I sent home postcards.  When my girlfriend (now wife) and I were separated while I was in grad school in Kalamazoo, I wrote long letters to her every day.  Sad letters.  Sexy letters.  Joyful letters.  Angry letters.  It was how I kept myself connected with my distant love.

We've lost something in this social media age.  It takes me maybe 30 seconds to send a text ("Can you bring my car keys with you when you come to the church?").  It takes even less time to answer a text ("K" or "Yes" or a thumbs up emoji).  Writing a letter takes time and thought and a more than a little creativity.  It also takes a person who can read and write cursive (a rarer and rarer skill these days).

Perhaps I'm old fashioned.  Maybe I'm a Luddite.  But I get more excited about receiving a handwritten letter or card than any email or text  Electronic communications are transitory.  Here today, deleted tomorrow  Yesterday, I took a book off my shelf and opened it up.  Inside, I found a birthday card from a good friend who has been dead close to ten years.

As I read the words he'd scribbled inside the card in his tall, thin script, it was like he was right there with me.  I could actually hear his laugh followed by the watery intake of breath that always followed it.

That's not something you can get from an antiseptic, autocorrected electronic message.  It's something

living.  Breathing.  Like a poem.

And Saint Marty will take a poem over a text any day.

Birthday Card

by:  Martin Achatz

from a dead friend, 

found in the pages

of Leaves of Grass,

mixing with

the beer and peanuts

of Whitman's breath.

April 13: "A Small Hotel," My Daughter, "Buying a Pizza"

Billy Collins starts a fire . . .

A Small Hotel

by:  Billy Collins

When a match touched

the edge of the page,

my poem filled with smoke,

then a few words

were seen to stumble out

in nothing but their nightgowns

with no idea which way to run.

Sitting here tonight on my couch, listening to a crow scratch at the stars with its caws.  My daughter just left a little while ago.  She came over to help me set up a new Fire TV Stick and to do her laundry.

It reminded me how much I miss having her living at home.  Miss her humor and affections.  How she can make her 15-year-old brother smile and shine like a brand new penny.  How she will sometimes put her head on my shoulder when she's sitting next to me.

Saint Marty doesn't need to set a page on fire to find a poem.

Buying a Pizza

by:  Martin Achatz

She prefers stuffed crust

topped with chicken.

Two or three pieces

with leftovers for breakfast.

Poetry is a cheap date.

April 12: "New York Directions," Getting Lost, "How to Get Home"

Billy Collins in the Big Apple . . .

New York Directions

by:  Billy Collins

It's down

in the Village

between

Bleek

and Bleekest.

In the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, directions to any place usually involve turning at a white pine down a dirt road until you see a wooden sign that has just a family name on it--"Larson" or "Rintimaki" or "Johnson."

Me?  I can get lost walking around the block.  So don't tell me to go east on Magnetic Street.  That just doesn't work for me.  I am a traveler of habit.  I follow the same route every time, never deviating, and it takes me five or six trips before I commit the directions to memory.

I hate getting lost.  Always have.  Since childhood, it's been one of my biggest fears.  I like knowing where I am and where I'm going all the time.  No adventures for me.

Here are some directions from Saint Marty . . . 

How to Get Home

by:  Martin Achatz

Click your heels

together three times

and repeat after me:

Call me a cab,

call me a cab.

April 11: "Hotel Room," Poetic Response, "Lunar Eclipse in a Hotel Room"

Billy Collins travels . . . 

Hotel Room

by:  Billy Collins

Unlike

the breakfast menu,

I had no desire 

to be hung

outside

before 2 a.m.

Sometimes, I have a lot to say about Collins' poems.  Sometimes, I have just a little.

Saint Marty's poetic response for today . . . 

Lunar Eclipse in a Hotel Room

by:  Martin Achatz

2 a.m.

I look out

my window

watch the moon

skinny dip

in the deep

lake of night.

April 10: "ENG 243: The History of Egotism," Accomplished People, Nobel Prize in Literature

Billy Collins gives a lesson on humility . . . 

ENG 243:  The History of Egotism

by:  Billy Colins

You will notice, class,

that Wordsworth did not write

"Edward, the butcher's son,

wandered lonely as a cloud."

I'm not a big fan of ego.  In fact, I find any person who suffers from an acute case of egotism kind of dull and annoying.  Unless you have a Nobel Prize or Oscar sitting on your bookshelf, don't try to impress me.  It ain't gonna work.

I deal with a lot of artists in my job at the library.  Musicians and writers and actors.  I've had conversations with two U. S. Poets Laureate and a Pulitzer Prize winner.  In New York once, I had a close encounter with Alex Baldwin.  I've taken a writing workshop with a novelist who won the National Book Award.  One of classmates from graduate school is a New York Times bestselling author. 

In my experience, very accomplished people don't have to brag about their achievements.  They don't want to be treated like celebrities or gods.  They crave normalcy, not adulation.  Sure, there are perks to a certain amount of celebrity--trips and money (sometimes) and kind words.  But there are also downsides--loss of privacy and constant scrutiny and the need to prove yourself (over and over and over).

I come from a family background that didn't really encourage pride.  Hard work was the name of the game.  If that hard work paid out in money or a certain amount of recognition, all the better.  However, I've never sought praise or attention.  Those things make me feel . . . uncomfortable, and I will often redirect the conversation or situation (when I can) if I find myself in the spotlight.

Don't get me wrong--I won't turn down a Pulitzer Prize or National Book Award or Nobel Prize.  (Heck, I won't turn down a free order of French fries from McDonald's).  But, given a choice, I will take my dog for a walk rather than talk about myself on TV or radio.

If, next October, Saint Marty gets a phone call from the Swedish Academy, naming him the first blogger/poet to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, you will probably find him on some trail in the woods, thanking the trees for their shade.

April 8: "Creché," Solar Eclipse, "Reflections on a Good Life Before a Solar Eclipse"

A moment of Christmas wonder with Billy Collins . . .

Creché

by:  Billy Collins

For a moment,

the ox and a sheep

looked over at each other,

then they turned away

and went back 

to adoring the Child.

It is difficult to maintain wonder for an extended period of time, even in the presence of the son of God.  Ask the ox and sheep.  Yes, there were angels singing, and, according to legend, talking doves and chickens (maybe) and a donkey (who probably just complained about how sore his hooves were after plodding across deserts and mountains).  However, as I said, wonder is hard to sustain.  It has a half life--eventually transmutating into awe and then surprise and then mild interest and then boredom.

Today, a total solar eclipse happened.  Not where I was, but in parts of the country.  My relatives in Detroit almost got totality, but some friends in Ohio experienced it all:  first contact to second contact to totality and back.  Me?  I got about 82.4%.  Still a pretty great show.

What amazed me most was the fact that everyone wasn't outside with proper eyewear to witness it.  I was working at the library, and, while the sun was being gobbled up by the moon's shadow, there people sat at the public computers, playing solitaire and researching genealogy and God knows what else.  All while one of the true miracles of the universe was happening above their heads.  Even the ox and sheep in Collins' poem eventually turn back to the Child.

I try hard not to become immune to wonder.  I've been married for almost 30 years to the same woman.  We've been through a lot together, some of it incredible and some of it terrible.  We are both human, and we both have made mistakes.  A lot of them.  Yet, we are still together and very much in love.  That is cause for wonder.  And we have two great kids who aren't meth addicts or sex workers or Republicans.  Another cause for wonder.  

I experienced something full of wonder this afternoon.  The sun almost completely disappeared for a little while from the heavens.  However, every day of my life, I experience something else full of wonder:  love.  As Bonnie Tyler sings--a total eclipse of the heart.

Here is a poem Saint Marty wrote last night in honor of today's wonder . . . 

Reflections on a Good Life Before a Solar Eclipse

by:  Martin Achatz

after Tracy K. Smith

The terrible thing about living

a good life is that you never

know you are living a good

life until it has become

memory, gilded in gold

leaf and bound in leather

on the bookshelf of the past.

Those newlywed days

when my wife waited 

every morning for calls

from schools desperate 

for warm bodies to fill

seats of missing teachers,

me writing after she left

until I had to report

to the book store where

I arranged porn mags,

recommended poetry

by Sharon Olds and sold

copies of John Grisham's

latest legal masterpiece,

those were good days, 

and when enough good days

are strung together, they become

a good life where, at night,

we pulled out the futon, 

got naked, covered ourselves

with a quilt, ate Oreos

as we read novels or watched

Seinfeld and laughed until

we were weak in each other's

arms.  Some nights, we slept

there, not bothering to stumble

to the bedroom, and we would

kiss and touch each other

until my body eclipsed hers

or her body eclipsed mine,

and we basked in the totality

of each other.

April 6: "Koan in the Rain," Eternity, Memories

Billy Collins imparts wisdom . . .

Koan in the Rain

by:  Billy Collins

You want to know

the sound of one hand clapping?

It is the same

as the sound of the other hand

holding the umbrella,

only slightly louder.

For those of you who know nothing about Zen Buddhism, a koan is a riddle/anecdote used to demonstrate the failings of logical thought and also to provide some kind of enlightenment.  So, for example, Collins answers the question "What does one hand clapping sound like?" with the image of the other hand "holding the umbrella, / only slightly louder."  It's not a logical response, but somehow it feels right.  Appropriate.

So the koan for this blog post is:  What is eternity?

It is Saturday, and I've been alone with my dog for most of the day.  The memory of the blizzard from the past week is melting away outside (I can hear watery fingers drumming on the roof and sidewalks).  I haven't accomplished a whole lot--a load of laundry, a long walk with my puppy, and quite a bit of heavy self-reflection.

Recently, in a therapy session, I found myself talking about memories that I haven't allowed myself to think about for a very long time.  I'm not going to delve into the details of these recollections, but they were quite painful, physically and mentally.  Things that happened over the course of many, many years.  (I apologize if you find my reticence to provide a fuller explanation frustrating.  Perhaps, in the future, I will be ready to open up.  Not today.)

What I will say is that I've been crying today.  A lot.  (I'm not telling you this to elicit sympathy,  I'm telling you this in order to answer the koan about eternity,)  Opening the door to these memories and feelings was like punching a hole in a dike.  The hole just keeps getting bigger and bigger, and more and more details from the past keep flooding through.

It's a little like being in a bad horror film where there are ghosts around every corner.  Each ghost is trying to talk to me or hand me something or take over my body.  I've been ignoring these ghosts for so long that they're a little pissed, and, now that I've let my defenses down, they're unleashing on me.  And that's not a bad thing.  It's time for some exorcisms.

As most of my faithful disciples know, I struggle with sadness at times.  And free-floating anxiety.  I wouldn't say these emotions are crippling.  I've become very used to them and have developed ways of coping that allow me to function every day.  Most of my acquaintances would probably describe me as funny, upbeat, positive.  That is true.  I love my friends and family.  However, when I'm alone, I often find myself mired in self-criticism, self-doubt, and low self-esteem.  (That admission may shock more than a few of you.)  I can't remember a time in my life when I haven't felt like this.

Don't worry.  I'm not going to harm myself.  Been down that road before, not going down it again.  The last few days have just been . . . long.  Filled with painful recollections, some panic, and barely-controlled weeping.

The world is thawing.  Water is flowing,  Everywhere.

That's Saint Marty's definition of eternity.

April 3: "The First Straw," Blizzard Warning, Yellow Snow

Billy Collins doesn't break camels' backs . . . 

The First Straw

by:  Billy Collins

The camel felt nothing

as it stood outside the tent,

its nose lifted in the desert air.

It has been a camel's back-breaking kind of day.  

I woke this morning to snow.  A lot of it.  And wind.  A lot of it.  And school closings (including the university).  A lot of them.  It wasn't a surprise.  The National Weather Service had given ample warning (from Winter Storm Watch to Winter Storm Warning to Blizzard Warning), so it's not like I was standing outside my house, nose lifted in the winter air, oblivious to the oncoming apocalypse. 

But yesterday, there was yellow-to-green grass all over, and spring seemed not a distant hope but a distinct possibility.  I could smell mud.  Always a good sign.  Now I'm staring at piles of plowed snow as tall as myself, and my body is sore from six or seven rounds with my shovel.  In short, I feel as if warmth and blossoms have flown to Walt Disney World for an extended vacation, and I'm left behind to clean things up.

That in itself feels like a last-straw moment, not a first-straw.

Spent the day working from home, answering emails, writing scripts, scheduling and rescheduling events.  All that in between taking my puppy out to bark at snow blowers and sniff around for those places where she's pissed.  (Don't eat yellow snow.)

It is almost 7 p.m. now.  The snow is still snowing, wind is still winding, and the National Weather Service has amended its predictions, calling for another nine inches of white by 8 a.m. tomorrow morning.  (I'm a little exhausted and am tempted to stand outside and go all ape-shit at the next plow that blasts by my driveway.)

Saint Marty's well of wisdom is dry tonight.  Snow in April just plain S-U-C-K-S.