May 14: "View from a Bridge," Center of the Universe, "Penny for Your Thoughts"

Billy Collins crosses a bridge . . .

View from a Bridge

by: Billy Collins

I never thought

of myself

as a little universe

inside a big one

until just now.

It's always a little humbling to realize you are not the universe or center of the universe or even an important component of the universe.  Most individuals don't learn this lesson until much later in life.  Children are simply too me-centered to realize that, in the grand scheme of things, we are very small cogs in an infinite machine.  A lot of adults I meet have never experienced this epiphany, either.

I come from a large family, so I had tons of siblings to make me aware of my insignificance.  It was difficult enough getting an extra helping mashed potatoes at the dinner table.  Forget being center stage for any length of time.  Humility was a virtue that was drilled into me from the time I was very young.

Perhaps that's why I have pursued a career in the arts--to get people's attention and recognition.  Although, even now, I try to avoid spotlight situations.  I much prefer to shine the spotlight on other people and accomplishments.  Give me a bag of M&Ms or a slice of pizza, and that's all the acknowledgement I need.  (Really, that's all anyone needs.)

Those are most of Saint Marty's thoughts for today.

Penny for Your Thoughts

by: Martin Achatz

She tasted like Superior,

her skin a glacier under

the current of my tongue,

pushing her closer and closer

to the edge of the world

where whales moan all night.

Did you get your money's worth?

May 13: "Empty House," Mondays, "Funeral Lunch"

Billy Collins enjoys the view . . . 

Empty House

by: Billy Collins

After the old man died

but before the house was torn down,

the windows continued to enjoy

a view of the meadow and the woods beyond.

Monday is never anyone's favorite day of the week.  Often, when I get to my office on Monday morning, I spend several minutes staring out the window at the church across the street, as the sunlight transforms it from orange to gold to brindled sand.  Like the old man in Collins' poem, I never get tired of the view.

It was a really good Monday for me.  I don't say that very often.  About midmorning, I received news that a grant on which I worked for the library in January received funding.  (Unfortunately, I can't go into more detail until the official announcement at the beginning of June, but I worked my ass off on it.)  I never thought my application stood a chance.

So, I've been sort of basking in quiet celebration for most of the day.  Enjoying the view from my window, so to speak.

Saint Marty is done patting himself on the back now. 

Funeral Lunch

by: Martin Achatz

We sit around tables, eat

lasagna, chicken wings,

Aunt Polly's pink lady salad,

drink strong, black coffee,

and start forgetting

the dirty joke about a turkey

and a donkey the dearly departed

told last Thanksgiving.

May 12: "Covid," Mother's Day, "Mother's Day Shopping"

Pandemic Billy Collins . . . 

Covid

by: Billy Collins

Another long day

at home.

I set my phone

on Airplane Mode.

I know this is a strange poem to include in a Mother's Day post.  (For my international disciples, the United States sets aside the second Sunday of May as a day to celebrate mothers and motherhood.)  Yet, there's something in this poem that makes me think of my mom.

Even before the pandemic forced us all into isolation, my mother wasn't doing well.  If memory serves, she fell at home some months into COVID and ended up in the hospital.  From there, she was transferred to a long-term care facility.  So, I didn't see much of her near the end of her life.

It's hard for me to believe that she's been gone for almost three years.  In temperament and personality, I think I take after my mother more than my father.  She was open-minded and loving.  I rarely saw her get angry.  And she was quick to spot the ridiculous in life.  I once read her an Anne Sexton poem when I was an undergraduate, and she laughed her ass off.  (My mom was the first person who taught me that poetry can be funny.)

Every Mother's Day, I share a poem I wrote many years ago for my mom.  It ended up being the poem I read at her funeral:

Heart to Heart

by: Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants. Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast. My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest. Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems. Yes, I told
her. I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said. She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts. This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
me for Mother’s Day. Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm. They
will find a diner to have
coffee together. They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

I know most kids say this, but my mom was a hero, raising nine kids, helping my dad run his plumbing business, volunteering at church, advocating for parents with special needs children.  She did it all with grace and compassion.

Saint Marty wishes all the hero mothers reading this post a Happy Mother's Day.

Mother's Day Shopping

by: Martin Achatz

I stand in front

of the Mother's Day cards

the day before, feeling

like a hyena sniffing

a zebra carcass, knowing

all the good parts have

already been scavenged

by vulture sons for their moms.

May 11: "Wet Morning," Artists at Work, "Rabbit in the Morning"

Billy Collins has a green thumb . . . 

Wet Morning

by: Billy Collins

The big red bougainvillea

is drooping,

an effect of last night's

wind and rain.

Thunder too,

but plants don't have ears,

or is that

what the petals are for?

We got some rain last night.  Not a lot.  However, it was cloudy and wet enough to obscure the auroras that were blazing all over the heavens.  I don't have any bougainvillea in my backyard, but I'm sure my lilac bushes enjoyed their shower.

It is Mother's Day weekend.  I took my son Mother's Day shopping this afternoon.  He wasn't happy about it, but he picked out a card and a present without bloodshed or violence.  That's a win in my book.  This evening, my wife and I attended a fundraiser for a local theater group we support.  My wife drank an overpriced pop.  I drank two glasses of overpriced wine.  And we listened to really good music sung by some talented friends.

My wife is now sleeping.  My son is playing online video games upstairs in his bedroom.  My puppy is in her crate.  And I am getting ready to watch an episode or two of my latest obsession--a British competition show called Landscape Artist of the Year.  My wife hates the show, but I find it endlessly fascinating watching artists at work.

It almost makes Saint Marty want to take up oil painting.  

Rabbit in the Morning

by: Martin Achatz

He watches the dog

from a hunch of dewy grass,

waits for her to charge

or bark.  Instead, she lifts

her snout, sniffs, looks

away, like an old 

girlfriend at a 50th reunion

who can't remember 

your name.

May 10: "Neighborhood," Lovely Man, "Legacy"

Billy Collins has a beautiful day in the . . . 

Neighborhood

by: Billy Collins

What do I care

that they're tearing down

the nice old houses

and putting up brutal ones?

Before very long,

I'll be just a breeze

blowing around town,

trying to avoid all the wind chimes.

Yes, as you age, you do figure out that most things that get people angry or upset don't really matter all that much.  That's what Billy Collins is getting at in this poem.  In the end, it doesn't matter whether you're a billionaire or homeless, a great poet or a great bartender.  What matters is whether you loved and were loved in return.

This afternoon, I learned that a friend from my wife's church passed away on May 4.  His name was Joel, and my best memories of him involve sitting around a table before worship, listening to his stories and jokes.  He always had a smile on his face and loved his family and friends dearly.

Saint Marty knows Joel is probably sharing a beer with Jesus right now.

Legacy

by: Martin Achatz

Will my kids feel my breath

in this poem when I'm gone?

Will they press it against

their cheeks, let my lips

kiss them one last time?

Or will they pack it in a box,

haul it to Goodwill where

it will sit on a shelf, whispering

to grandma's old reading glasses?

May 9: "Tom Thumb's Thumb," Son's Middle College, ""Luke S."

Billy Collins contemplates . . .

Tom Thumb's Thumb

by:  Billy Collins

was so small

it failed to get the attention

of passing cars and trucks.

And what was he doing

out there anyway,

hitchhiking all by himself?

There's something almost paternal in this poem, Billy Collins worrying about Tom Thumb's fate at the hands of strangers.  Another way of phrasing his question is, "Where the hell were his parents?"

We live in a world where children are exposed to adult situations and problems at younger and younger ages.  My son and daughter know a lot more about this weird world than I did at their ages.  My biggest worry when I was a kid was whether or not I had collected the entire series of bubblegum Star Wars trading cards.  In summer, I could disappear from the house after breakfast and not come back until dusk, and nobody worried about me.

I never really appreciated the breadth of freedom I had when I was younger.  It was only when I started working, bought a house and car, became a husband and father that I developed nostalgia for those long July days filled with the buzz saw of insects.

But that's the truth about any life experience.  It's only in memory that it becomes poignant and wonderful  Childhood (for most people) takes on the gold tint of a daguerreotype.

I've been thinking a lot about my kids today.  (I use the term "kids," even though my daughter is 24 years old and my son is 15.)  Their young childhoods have taken on the patina of nostalgia for me now.  It seems like just yesterday they were staggering around in their diapers.  This afternoon, my son found out that he was accepted into middle college for next year.  That means, by the time he graduates from high school, he will have earned an associate's degree, with all of his expenses (tuition and books) paid for.

My little boy ain't so little any more.

And Saint Marty couldn't be prouder of him.

Luke S.

by:  Martin Achatz

If I was him,

I'd have stayed put,

drank my blue milk,

picked sand out of my ears,

written poems

about twin suns

opening like lizard

eyes on the horizon.

May 8: "Zen Backfire," Mindless Activities, "Existential Sundae"

Billy Collins gets all philosophical again . . .

Zen Backfire

by: Billy Collins

The only time

I cut myself shaving

is when I'm aware

that I'm shaving.

Most of the things I do in a day are mindless activities, including shaving.  I don't think about how to shave each time I lift a razor to my face.  And I don't review all the rules of driving before I sit behind a wheel and turn the key in the ignition.  I rely on muscle memory.  My body, through continuous repetition, simply knows how to shave in the morning and drive to work.

Billy Collins is right, though.  The moment you start thinking about shaving or operating a motor vehicle is the moment bad things happen.  I tie my shoes all the time, but, when my daughter was young and asked me how to tie her shoes, I had a hell of a time explaining the steps.

It is one day past the end of the semester now, and I had to think, really think, about what I was going to do today.  After having the same routine for almost five months, I now need to retrain my mind and body.  I'll have to do the same at the end of August when I start teaching again.  Every three or four months, I have to reinvent myself.

In a lot of ways, writing a poem has become muscle memory for me.  I've been creating poetry for so long that I almost immediately recognize things like weak verbs, trite imagery, clunky lines.  That doesn't mean every time I sit down with my journal I write "The Emperor of Ice Cream" or "The Pope's Penis."  But I can and often do avoid very common mistakes made by less-experienced poets.

When I meet a stranger, usually one of the first question I get asked is "What do you do?"  There are easy answers to that question.  I teach at a university.  I schedule programs at a public library.  I play the pipe organ at a few different churches.  But the answer that is closest to who I am is:  I am a poet.

Try saying that to a complete stranger and see what kind of reaction you get.  If you're at a party, suddenly your conversation partner becomes infatuated with the bean dip.  If you're on an airplane, your seatmate will begin staring out the window at the clouds.

Truth frightens people.

My name is Saint Marty, and I am a poet.  Run for the hills.

Existential Sundae

by: Martin Achatz

If I define a sundae

as ice cream with hot fudge,

is it still a sundae

if I add whipped cream

and a maraschino cherry?

May 7: "Junior Philosopher," Blink of a Cursor, "Peace of Mind"

Billy Collins philosophizes . . .

Junior Philosopher

by:  Billy Collins

I'll have this figured out in no time,

he announced,

as he faced the Cosmic Void.

He was wearing

a clean white shirt

and holding

the tool kit of reason

by its handy leather strap.

On the day Final Grades are due, I always face the Cosmic Void.

At around 11 a.m. today, I clicked the "submit" button, and just like that, the life I've been leading since January vanished in the blink of a cursor.

And now I face the summer, which resembles the Cosmic Void, as well.  I didn't receive a summer class to teach (those having been gobbled up by full-time professors who are looking to make some extra bucks), so the next four months are going to be very lean.

I'm trying to come to terms with the impending financial struggles in June, July, and August, wondering if I have a spare kidney or lung I can hock on the black market for five or six thousand dollars.  I can do nothing to change the situation.  It is out of my control.

So the best Saint Marty can do tonight is become one with poverty.

Peace of Mind

by:  Martin Achatz

I once had a friend

so Zen

she'd actually

heard the sound

of one hand clapping.

May 6: "Dictionary Wanderings," Strange or Dirty Words, "Final Exams"

Billy Collins checks his spelling . . . 

Dictionary Wanderings

by: Billy Collins

The two silent "els"

in talk and calf

find a place

of prominence in llama.

As a kid, I loved wandering through the dictionary, window shopping for strange or dirty words.  I learned a lot about life (and sex) by doing this.  And I probably doomed myself to be a poet.

I spent most of the day and night grading papers and exams.  Final grades are due by noon tomorrow, so I'm under the gun, so to speak.  Currently, I'm wading through my students' essay exams for Intro to Mythology.  Prior to that, it was reading journals for my Good Books class.

I love teaching, but I'm not a big fan of grading.  I may be in the minority of educators, but I truly believe that grades interfere with a student's ability to learn.  Instead of trying to grapple with course content, students spend their time worrying about what they need to do to earn an "A" from their instructors.  It's pointless.

I would much prefer a Pass/Fail system of evaluation.  If a student demonstrates mastery of the course material, the student passes.  If the student still doesn't know the difference between "to/too/two" at the end of the semester, the student fails.  Simple and easy, eliminating all the stupid competition that occurs in higher education.

Of course, Saint Marty has been grading for about 16 hours today, so that may be influencing his judgement a little bit right now.

Final Exams

by:  Martin Achatz

Grading them

at 1 a.m.

reminds me

of cramming for them,

minus the gin and panic.

May 5: "Octopus Sonneteer," a Little Fun, "Lilac Poetry"

What do you get when you cross Billy Collins with a mollusk?

Octopus Sonneteer

by:  Billy Collins

He wrote the octave

all at once

the dashed off the final six

while uncorking a bottle of champagne.

Billy Collins is having a little fun with this poem.

I did not have a whole lot of fun today, aside from leading a lovely poetry workshop with some friends this evening.  Spent the day grading and wishing I wasn't grading.

However, when I took my puppy out for a walk around my backyard this afternoon, I did notice that my lilac bushes are sprouting green leaves and purple buds, which means the summer is closer than I thought.

When Saint Marty submits his final grades, that will be the official start of summer.

Lilac Poetry

by:  Martin Achatz

I watch the bushes

revise my backyard

into bruised monostiches,

couplets, tercets

until I wake one morning

to the perfume of a purple

Paradise Lost.

May 4: "Face Up," Relativity, "Trampoline"

Billy Collins plays cards . . . 

Face Up

by:  Billy Collins

The jack of diamonds

lying supine

on the table,

a prince sleeping

in a pasture--

fifty-one cows.

I haven't had a whole lot of time for cards or poetry or anything else today.  It's the end of the semester, so my focus was grading papers and exams.  About the only other things I did was play the pipe organ for Mass this afternoon and take my puppy for a long walk.

I remember how weekends seemed to last forever when I was a kid--from Saturday mornings watching Bugs Bunny through Sunday evenings and the The Wonderful World of Disney.  These days, if I blink on Friday, it's already Sunday with the work week looming over me.

It's all about Einstein and relativity.  The older you get, the less time you seem to have.  More grading tomorrow.  Poetry workshop in the evening.

Saint Marty sure misses having a whole lot of time and a whole lot of nothing to do.

Trampoline

by:  Martin Achatz

The trampoline has stood

for two years in my backyard,

abandoned by my kids

who used it to touch

the sun until they came

down with a case 

of gravity.

May 3: "Divorce," Marriage, "Bliss"

Billy Collins on unwedded bliss . . . 

Divorce

by:  Billy Collins

No more heavy ball,

just the sound

of the dragged chain

with every other step.

This poem is a little cynical.  I suppose anyone who has experienced marital problems understands Collins' point, though.  Even after a marriage ends, the two people involved will still be linked in some way forever--in memory or children or therapy or photos or music or poetry.

Next year, my wife and I will celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary.  There are some people who would have bet large sums of money that we would never reach that milestone, myself included at times.  It has been a rollercoaster of three decades.  Because of mental illness and addiction, our marriage has teetered on the brink of collapse a few times.  But here we are.  Still together.  In love.  

The term "wedded bliss" paints a landscape of idyllic days and nights suffused with impressionistic light.  But I know that marriage is not a Monet painting of water lilies.  Marriage is hard, hard work.

I say all this with zero cynicism.  It's the absolute truth in my experience.  But that hard work is worth it in my experience, as well.

Saint Marty is blissed out on gratitude tonight.

Bliss

by:  Martin Achatz

Sometimes it's wedded.

Sometimes you follow it.

It's sometimes ignorance.

But tonight it's a woodwind

section of peepers

tuning their voices

to spring.

May 2: "Breakfast," Appetites, "Midnight Snack"

Billy Collins feeds some fish . . . 

Breakfast

by:  Billy Collins

In the hotel restaurant,

orange koi in a pond.

I toss in some corn flakes.

Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day.  It always has been.  I know this doesn't make for exciting blog post reading, but I just had to say it.  

As a kid, one of my favorite dinners my mother used to serve up every once in a while was a huge pot of oatmeal and an even huger plate of toast.  Keep in mind that she was feeding nine kids, my dad, and my grandmother.  She had to get creative with meals.

As a diabetic, I am constantly aware of food.  Sometimes, I have to eat when I'm not even hungry.  It's kind of a pain in the ass, to be honest.  Yet, I'm a slave to my blood sugar levels.  I've woken up way too many times to paramedics in my bedroom giving me glucose through an IV.  So, eating is a huge part of my daily routine.

Everyone is a slave to their appetites, in a way.  Musicians crave music.  Athletes crave physical exertion.  Poets crave poetry.  Donald Trump craves porn stars and Russian money.  Human beings are hardwired to seek out what gives us pleasure.

I'm kind of a night owl, if you haven't figured that out.  I'm often still awake at one or two in the morning, watching movies or reading books or trying to solve Wordle.  I've been like this since I was very young.  And, besides breakfast, my other favorite meal of the day is a midnight snack.  Cold pizza.  Leftover lasagna.  A bowl of Cocoa Krispies.

My current late-night obsessions:  a British show called Landscape Artist of the Year and Cosmic Brownies.  I know, I know.  Not very healthy, but highly pleasurable.

Throw in some great poems, and that's Saint Marty's version of paradise.

Midnight Snack

by:  Martin Achatz

Window a black mirror

behind me, I'm not sure

what to eat:  the leftover

chicken in the fridge

or the David Ignatow poems

and Hershey kiss I found

under the couch cushions.

May 1: "Children," Endless Summer Vacation, "School Playground"

Billy Collins and a movie trailer . . .

Children

by:  Billy Collins

There's a new movie out

titled Children.

I don't know

what it's about

but I like the voice

on the radio

when it says:

"Children:  now playing everywhere."

There is something truly joyful about seeing children play.  Kids don't have the self-awareness to worry over what other people think about them.  It's what's in front of their faces that counts, not what's behind or ahead.  They are creatures of the present.

I think the world would be a much better place if everyone adopted this way of existing.  Me?  I'm constantly worried about what's coming around the corner.  Maybe that's simply a byproduct of getting older.  Instead of endless summer vacation, there's work and health problems and bills.  College loans.  Mortgages.  Car payments.  I'm not saying that planning for the future is a bad thing.  In fact, it's necessary.  But, when all you're doing is saving your money for the future, you're just going to end up a rich corpse.  

Poetry depends upon living in the present.  Paying attention.  That's why kids are such natural poets.  Each moment of the day is an adventure, and, for young people, those moments stretch out like Lake Superior.  No shore or beach in sight.  Just endless blue.  I have difficulty cultivating that youthful, live-in-the-present perspective.  When I'm in the fever of writing, I can tap into it.  

Most of the time, however, Saint Marty just catches glimpses from a distance, like when he watched his son and daughter from the playground's chain link fence. 

School Playground

by:  Martin Achatz

Those days on

swings, slides, monkey bars

with other kids,

they taught me a lot

about poetry--

like how to get 

sweaty, wild words

to stand in a single-file line

without pushing or kicking.

My two best poems