June 26: "Halloween," Good Friends, "Chicken and Beer"

Billy Collins and trick-or-treating . . . 

Halloween

by: Billy Collins

When I said hello

to a very small cowboy,

he gave me the trigger finger.

Ah, kids say and do the darndest things, usually at the most inconvenient times.  Any parent can vouch for that.  Halloween, in particular, heightens this possibility.  Having a small child in costume, hyped up on sugar and tired from walking around the neighborhood, is a recipe for these kinds of embarrassments.  I can't tell you how many times I stopped one of my kids on Halloween to remind them to say "thank you" after receiving their treat.  Usually, said kid halted mid-flight, turned, and mumbled the words as if they tasted like Kaopectate on their tongues.  One time, my daughter was offered some candy she didn't like, and she politely closed her treat bag and said, "No, thank you,  I don't like those," and walked away from the stunned homeowner.

Kids get a free pass when it comes to expressing brutal honesty because, frankly, it's kind of hilarious.  Adults, on the other hand, can get themselves into trouble sometimes if they actually say what they are thinking.  The one phrase that has prime real estate on the tip of my tongue is "you have got to be fucking kidding me!"  As in, someone reminds me about a meeting at work, and I whisper to myself, "You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

Because of this constant need to monitor thoughts, speech, and actions, adulting can be pretty exhausting.  That's why good friends are so important.  You don't have to apologize to them for being yourself.  They know and understand.  

Once a week, my wife and I have dinner and beer with another couple.  They are very good friends.  None of us feels the need to obfuscate if asked the question, "So, how was your day?"  Sometimes, the answer is "Great!"  Other times, the answer is "Complete rubbish!"  And then we spend our time together sorting through the trash heap of the day.  We know and care deeply about each other, and it's wonderful.

Tonight, my wife and I had KFC and beer with our friends.  We unpacked our days, aired our victories and struggles, and left feeling heard and loved.  The food and drink nourished our bodies, and the conversation nourished our spirits.  I always leave these dinners feeling better about myself and the universe.  It's a sacred moment of connection that I rarely experience at any other time.

Saint Marty gives thanks for good friends.

Chicken and Beer

by: Martin Achatz

with friends is Holy

Communion on Wednesday

evening, minus the betrayal,

arrest, crucifixion.  I'll save

that for Saturday night.

June 25: "Siren," Music, "Fatherhood"

Billy Collins on an odyssey . . . 

Siren

by: Billy Collins

So enchanting was her singing,

I turned the boat around

and tied her to my mast

so as to enjoy her melodies

as I sailed around this fascinating world.

I love all kinds of music,  Classical, liturgical, blues, folk, rock, you name it.  I can't remember a time when music hasn't been a part of my life.  I've been playing piano since fifth grade (15 years of lessons).  My mother introduced me to Doris Day and Patti Page and Bing Crosby at nap times.  The soundtrack of my adolescence was a mixture of 1980s pop, movie musicals, and Jethro Tull.  That's what I've enjoyed listening to as I've sailed around this fascinating world.

I hosted a concert at the library tonight by some truly wonderful musician friends--Brian Wallen and Mavis Farr.  They lifted my spirits, even though they were singing blues.  I find it amazing that songs about heartbreak and tragedy can make a person feel so good.  Perhaps that's the appeal of the blues--it makes you think that, even if your life is shitty, it's not as shitty as being broke, drunk, and dying.  

I've been struggling since Sunday with some pretty dark moments.  Recently, it seems I frequently say or do the wrong things (unintentionally, mind you).  I think I'm being helpful.  However, my loved ones don't want advice or suggestions.  They just want to be heard.  That's it.  No fixing required.

I need to learn to keep my mouth shut, even when I think someone I care about is making a mistake.  Logic doesn't prevail over emotion.  So, for now, I'll just stand back and wait to pick up the pieces.

In the meantime, Saint Marty is going to listen to some Leonard Cohen.

Fatherhood

by: Martin Achatz

Sometimes I just want

to sit on the couch

in my underwear, eat

a whole pepperoni pizza

by myself, read poems

so loud my son shouts

down the stairs, You know

some people in this house

have to go to school 

in the morning!

June 24: "Bad Hotel," Head Lice, "Lake Superior Sunrise Poetry Reading"

Billy Collins should check for bedbugs . . . 

Bad Hotel

by: Billy Collins

I told the woman

from housekeeping,

who was eager to do my room,

to just come in

and pretend I'm not here,

which is exactly 

what I had been doing

ever since I checked in.

When traveling, we've all stayed in rooms that look like breeding grounds for head lice.  Most of the time when checking in, before I even unpack my clothes, I check the mattresses and dressers for creepy crawlies.  In one instance, because of a drawer full of many-legged creatures, we received an upgrade to a suite with five bedrooms, two Jacuzzis, a kitchen, four TVs, and a huge balcony.  This place was probably reserved for U. S. Presidents, rock stars, and Clarence Thomas on "vacation."

As part of my job at the library, I frequently book rooms for visiting writers and presenters.  Because I live in the area, I know which hotels are good and which ones should be flea bombed.  As a visiting poet myself, I've had rooms booked for me by my hosts, and, generally, I've had positive experiences.  There's only been a couple times where I've been tempted to sleep in my car instead.

However, I always appreciate the efforts at hospitality.  Reading poetry at a library is a privilege.  Getting paid to share my poems, a blessing.  A free hotel room and continental breakfast, bonus on top of bonus.  Poets don't usually command a whole lot of money or resources for public appearances.  I semi-joke that I'm used to getting paid in brownies and wine.

This morning, I found myself standing on the shores of Lakes Superior at sunrise.  It was one of those rare occasions where I was asked to read at a public event.  Because I was selected as Writer of the Year by the City of Marquette last October, I was commissioned to compose a poem for the opening of Art Week.

So, at 5:45 a.m., there I was with a group of about 12 or 14 people on the beach, watching the sun unzip the horizon.  And, as the water began to shimmer and spark, I read the poem I'd written.  It was an incredibly moving experience.  Elemental.  My voice mixing with waves and seagulls.  I'm not sure if everybody felt the same, but I felt part of something sacred.

And Saint Marty didn't even have to check his body for ticks or lice afterward.

Lake Superior Sunrise Poetry Reading

by: Martin Achatz

I recite my words just before

the sun takes the stage,

seagull screams nearly drowning

out my voice as if I'm opening

for John, Paul, George, and Ringo

on The Ed Sullivan Show.

June 23: "Medieval Photography," Cut That Shit Out, "Sea of Galilee"

Billy Collins believes a memory is worth a thousand pictures . . . 

Medieval Photography

by: Billy Collins

Nothing came out very well.

People thought sitting still was odd.

Black-and-white had yet to be conceived,

even though many days were grey

with low clouds and unpredictable rain.

You remembered someone by closing your eyes.

I miss the days when my kids were kids, before puberty and peer pressure and all the shit that goes along with growing up.  Life was a lot simpler before we had to navigate all the mine fields of angst and hormone-driven anger.  I close my eyes and remember those nights when my daughter was eight, holding her infant brother in her lap like he was the best birthday/Christmas present she'd ever received.

This weekend, I listened to four separate sermons on the Gospel story of Jesus and his disciples crossing the Sea of Galilee when I storm blows in.  You know what happens.  Jesus is napping, and the disciples wake him up because they're afraid the boat is going to founder and capsize, killing them all.  Jesus basically says, "Cut that shit out," and the wind and waves calm down.

The gist of all of the sermons was pretty simple--trust in God when you encounter storms in your life.  Easy to say.  Hard to do.  Yeah, I know that's what faith is all about--trust and belief, blah blah blah.  Yet, when a storm in screaming in your face and you think you're going to drown, it's pretty damn difficult to think, "Oh, no worries.  God's got my back."

So nostalgia kicks in, and you start rationalizing, "Wow, things were so much better five, six, seven, ten, or 20 years ago."  Of course, that's a load of crap, too.  Being a human being pretty much guarantees that life is going to be imperfect.  We're all fuckups, from the moment we enter crying to the moment we exit dying.  That means that all of our little boats are going to be tossed and swamped every day. 

If you're trying to read subtext in this post, forget it.  Yes, something shitty happened today.  No, I'm not going to discuss it.  You will just have to be satisfied knowing that I'm angry and sad tonight.  I'm trying to work through it, but the storm is still raging.  And I can't wake Jesus up to fix things miraculously.  (God hasn't worked like that for a long, long time.)

Instead, Saint Marty's just going to keep paddling and hoping he reaches the shore before his lungs fill with water.

Sea of Galilee

by: Martin Achatz

Sure, Jesus was napping

while the waves howled--

he remembered to take

his Dramamine.

June 22: "Quickie Ekphrasis," Art, "Everyday Ekphrasis"

Billy Collins at tea time . . .

Quickie Ekphrasis

by: Billy Collins

I looked at a postcard

of Mount Rushmore

while I cooled my tea with a spoon

then I turned over

the postcard of Mount Rushmore

and bit into a buttered scone.

Art happens every minute of every day.  Ask any poet or painter or quilter or musician.  Sure, every once in a while, inspiration strikes and something new and beautiful is born.  However, if an artist (or poet or musician or fill-in-the-blank) always waits to be inspired before picking up a brush (or pen or violin or fill-in-the-blank), then there would be much less painting and poetry and punk in the world.  (Yes, punk music is an art.)

I have to confess that I don't really believe in inspiration.  My poems are usually written through struggle and stress, each one going through draft after draft.  The trick for me is practice.  I write all the time.  Even if I'm just running to the post office to mail a postcard, I take my journal and pen with me.  Because you never know when a poem will tap you on your shoulder.  You have to be ready.  All.  The.  Time.

And, as I said at the beginning of this post, we are surrounded by art every day.  We just have to train our eyes (or ears or bodies) to recognize it.  Once a person opens up to that recognition, it becomes much easier to write a new poem or paint a new landscape.

It has been raining since I woke up this morning.  It's cool tonight, with no stars or moon.  In short, not a day that inspires anything but naps and comfort food.  Yet, I managed to write this blog post and the poem below.  Through sheer stubbornness.

Saint Marty may write about the callous on his big toe tomorrow

Everyday Ekphrasis

by: Martin Achatz

Isn't every poem

an act of ekphrasis,

including this one

about my dog shitting

in my backyard

as rain turns the grass

into a pond Monet

would have painted?

June 21: "The Exception," Visual Art, "Poetry Versus Watercolor"

Billy Collins works on a poem . . . 

The Exception

by: Billy Collins

Whoever said

there's a poem

lurking in the darkness

of every pencil

was not thinking of this one.

I rarely write with pencils.  Anybody paging through my journal will note that I write with fountain pens almost exclusively.  I like the way the ink flows so easily, how dark it sits on the page.  One of my best friends, who is a Methodist pastor, turned me on to fountain pens.  (He also turned me on to Moleskine journals, but that obsession is the topic for another post.)

Not many people know that I also dabble in visual arts.  Mostly pencil and ink sketches.  In no way am I a gifted artist.  I'm passable.  That's about it.  And I can go for months without doodling or sketching.  So it's not a passion.  It's simply something that quiets my mind and, at times, heart.

On the flipside, I have to write every day.  I don't feel complete if I go an entire 24 hours without committing words to page (or screen).  That's one of the reasons I have a blog--it keeps my writing muscles in shape.  I will never introduce myself to a stranger as an artist.  However, I have no problem identifying myself as a poet.

Recently, because I've been watching two British television programs focused on art (Portrait Artist of the Year and Landscape Artist of the Year), I've been feeling the urge to pick up my pen and colored pencils again.  I do get a lot of pleasure creating visual images.  My thoughts settle when I'm sketching, and I experience a sense of peace.  (I don't experience this state when I'm working on a poem.  My mind remains fully engaged when I write.)

I do have lots of really good art supplies to draw with.  Think of me as a person who owns all kinds of fancy fly fishing gear but is, at best, a mediocre fly fisher.  Anyway, I have a tin of colored pencils that came with a paintbrush.  So, I use these pencils to create the illusion of watercolors.  I sketch and then use the brush and some water to wash the image.  I love the effect, but it wrecks the hell out of my journal, warping pages and smudging/smearing/obscuring words I've written (with my fountain pen, of course).

Today, I decided to use this watercolor sketching technique to draw a jellyfish.  It was going well until I introduced the brush and water.  Suddenly, everything started dissolving before my eyes--image and words and lines.  I ended up with an adequate jellyfish and a black puddle that used to be a poem.

From now own, Saint Marty is sticking with words to capture jellyfish.

Poetry Versus Watercolor

by: Martin Achatz

Paint bled all over

my journal pages--

pink, purple, blue

pooled like a beached

jellyfish, washing away

a poem I'd written.  Maybe

those lost words will drift

across the Atlantic

to the shores of Galway

where a beachcomber

will find them, take them

home, polish them 

into a limerick.

June 20: "Reclining on Clouds," Longest Day, "Summer Solstice Night"

Billy Collins won't pray . . . 

Reclining on Clouds

by: Billy Collins

I would pray for you

but the gods would know

I was talking

to myself

and would turn

their curly

golden heads

the other way.

I pray.  A lot.  Most of the time, my prayers are short, almost desperate:  help! or Jesus Christ! or fuck me!  (Yes, I tend to be a little profane in my conversations with my Higher Power.  It's just who I am.  If God can't handle it, she better look for another job.)  However, there are times when my prayers express awe:  wow! or holy shit! or fuck me!  (Yes, "fuck me!" works in many situations, its meaning dependent on context.)

Prayer is a habit I picked up as a kid.  I grew up in a family where, after dinner, my dad and mom forced us kids to get on our knees and recite a rosary.  In the mornings, my parents sat at the dining room table, their prayer books next to their coffee cups, saying their morning devotions.  Prayer was habit for them, and, by osmosis, it became a habit for me.

There's something very comforting for me in saying a prayer.  The very act makes me feel less alone, as if I always have someone willing to listen to my complaints or worries or needs or joys.  I spent most of today getting many small tasks done at the library--things that I've been meaning to accomplish all week long.  At around 11 a.m., I sat back from my keyboard for a second and said out loud, "Fuck me!"  It was an expression of frustration (how much more shit do I have left to do?!) and satisfaction (how awesome am I for getting shit done!) and relief (how shitty was that? glad it's done!).  

This evening, I led a virtual open mic.  Only two other people showed up (my wife and a new poet friend), but it was an amazing hour or so of sharing and conversation.  (Another fuck me! holy moment.)  I went into the event a little tired, and now, sitting at my desk, typing this post, I'm totally energized with gratitude for the gift of friends and words in my life.  

It is the summer solstice.  An almost full moon tonight.  (Strawberry moon tomorrow.)  The longest day of the year in the Western Hemisphere.  It's about 9:28 p.m. right now, and the sky is just getting a little dusky as I type these words.  It is fairly overcast, so the chances of me seeing that almost full moon tonight are slim to not a chance in hell.  I may take a stroll in my backyard in a little while to see if the stars are having a little solstice party,

If Saint Marty sees the moon, he may say a little prayer of thanks that goes something like this:  fuck me!

Summer Solstice Night

by: Martin Achatz

won't begin until around

10 p.m. when the moon shows

up with her girlfriends--

Cygnus, Lyra, Aquila--puts

Purple Rain on the record player,

starts to grind and twerk

against the dark hips of heaven.

June 19: "Symphony No. 4 (Brahms)," Piano Lessons, "Writing Poetry at McDonald's"

Billy Collins on music appreciation . . . 

Symphony No. 4 (Brahms)

by: Billy Collins

The kettle drummer

fell asleep

while the triangle player

counted out his rests.

Music has been a part of my life since middle school.  I started taking piano lessons when I was in the fifth or sixth grade.  I've probably told this story before, but I was a very energetic kid.  I bounced from on distraction to another all day long.  Focus was not in my vocabulary, unless it was something that really excited me.

My mother, in an attempt to slow down her pinball child, decided I should take piano lessons.  To make me sit still and concentrate, at least for an hour or so a day.

Well, I took to piano more than my mother anticipated.  Now, some 40 or so years later, I still play.  In fact, I earn money each weekend for my musical skills, playing at two (sometimes three and four) separate churches.  All because of my wildly busy brain.

I'm sitting at McDonald's right now, writing this post.  My wife is working, and I had an interview at the local public radio station this morning to talk about an NEA grant the library received.  The library itself is closed in honor of Juneteenth, so I have a few hours to kill.  I ordered a large Diet Coke and set up shop in a booth.  Laptop.  Fountain pens.  Books.  I'm surrounded by kids who seem slightly puzzled/curious.  I can almost hear their thoughts:  What's that weirdo doing?

Saint Marty is doing what his mother taught him so many years go:  sitting still, concentrating, trying to create something beautiful.

Writing Poetry at McDonald's

by: Martin Achatz

I sit in a booth, wait

for my order of large

fries with chicken nuggets,

try to come up with a rhyme

for atherosclerosis.

June 18: "Cornish," Pasties, "Heat Wave"

Billy Collins must not be a fan of pasties . . . 

Cornish

by: Billy Collins

Would someone

please translate

her long memoir

into a language

almost no one speaks

or understands anymore?

The Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where I live, is a place where a lot of Cornish families settled, mainly because of the mining industry.  During the 18th century, the Cornish were considered to be the best hard rock miners in the world (Cornwall being the global hub of mining at the time), so it's no surprise that they came to this region to work in the copper and iron mines.  

Hence the fact that the U.P. is also famous for, among other things, its pasties (a Cornish specialty).  Because these meat pies were portable and provided a full meal (bread, meat, potatoes, vegetables), Cornish miners packed them in their lunch buckets as they headed belowground to work.  Nowadays, you can't drive through a city, village, or town in the Upper Peninsula without finding at least one pasty shop.

So, the heritage of Cornwall, if not the language, is alive and well in my neck of the woods.  I am not of Cornish stock.  I'm a mixture of English and German, mostly.  My sister worked for the mines, but my ancestors did not.  However, I grew up eating pasties and hearing stories of mining disasters like the Barnes-Hecker collapse.  

Today was the first really hot day of the summer, with high temperatures and humidity.  Stepping outside, I almost felt like a baking pasty.  I'm not complaining.  Given the choice between 20 below zero and 90 degrees, I'll take 90 any day.  I love hot weather.  Of course, I was in an air-conditioned library most of the time.

I hosted a poetry reading at the library this evening for three poet friends who've recently released books.  It was a wonderful event, full of great poetry.  And a ton of people showed up.  If I sound surprised, I was.  Usually, poetry doesn't garner all that much enthusiasm from the general public.  Yet, there were only a few empty seats in the audience tonight, and, afterward, everyone just hung around, talking, laughing, and buying books.  I almost felt bad rushing people out the door into the heat at 8:30 p.m. when the library closed.

Now, I'm sitting on my couch at around 11:30 p.m., unable to sleep, thinking of those Cornish miners riding those elevators down into the mine shafts.  How, even at the height of summer, they were surrounded by the cool and damp of the earth.  I wonder if it felt like being buried alive every day.  Maybe, as they worked, they sang Cornish songs or recited Cornish poems and nursery rhymes.

And now Saint Marty is hungry for one of his mother's pasties.

Heat Wave

by: Martin Achatz

A wasp nest nestles

under the eave of my garage,

a paper fist clenched so tightly

its gray knuckles sizzle

in the frying pan of June.

June 17: "Light-Year," Bad News, "Sharing Good News"

Billy Collins, the astronomer/physicist (sort of) . . . 

Light-Year

by: Billy Collins

Being the amount of light

that falls every year

on this green pasture

where I pulled the car over

to write down

what I just thought of.

Technically, that's not really what a light year is.  (Astronomical definition:  a unit of astronomical distance equivalent to the distance that light travels in one year.)  But I can get on board with Collins' description.  When you live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, you are very aware of the amount of sunlight available at any given time.  I remember one particular winter when we didn't see blue sky for over a month.

It rained hard in my neck of the woods this afternoon, accompanied by some good-sized hail.  It's supposed to start raining again in about an hour.  (Confession:  I'm writing this post around 5:30 p.m.)  However, I'm sitting in my office at the library right now looking at an almost clear sky, so I'm not completely convinced that the heavens will open up and unleash again.

I'm supposed to host an outdoor concert on the library steps this evening, but I made the decision around 2 p.m. to move it inside.  If you haven't realized it yet, faithful disciple, I abhor disruptions to plans I make.  Most people who know me personally are very aware of this fact.  Yet, some individuals still delight in breaking bad news to me.  One such person today, shaking head, with a mild expression of concern/amusement:  "Just saw the forecast.  Doesn't look good."

Human beings get a kind of . . . thrill (I guess that's the best word I can come up with) when sharing information that's potentially upsetting or sad.  (Maybe that's why everyone pays so much attention to Donald Trump.  It's not because they believe or respect him.  It's because he's a walking, talking airplane crash--disaster in the flesh.)

On the flip side, good news is always delivered with a spoonful of criticism.  You may have just won the Nobel Peace Prize for battling climate change or caring for homeless squids, and you'll still be the subject of gossip and insult.  Perhaps it's jealousy.  Or just outright meanness.  As the adage goes, misery loves company.

Saint Marty isn't miserable right now.  Just mildly annoyed with the weather.

Sharing Good News

by: Martin Achatz

Bake Grandma's lemon bars

to share at tomorrow's potluck

and count how many people

eat them, smile, then point out

you didn't add enough butter

to the crumble crust.

June 16: "After the Concert," Thoughts, "Father's Day Rain"

Billy Collins enjoys some peace and quiet . . . 

After the Concert

by: Billy Collins

It's so quiet now--

standing in the kitchen,

I can hear myself think.

I think way too much.  My thoughts are constant and loud.  When I get up in the morning, I spend the first half hour or so planning and prioritizing.  By the time I step out my front door, I know what I'm having for lunch and dinner, how I'm going to spend the majority of my day, and who will play a part in that majority.  At night, when I try to go to sleep, my mind doesn't shut down easily, and I frequently see 1 or 2 a.m.

It's Father's Day, and, believe it or not, I was able to quell the chatter in my head today.  Played the pipe organ for a church service in the morning, and then took a nap in the afternoon.  My sisters had a Father's Day barbecue at their house (bratwurst--my favorite).  My kids came, and we had a grand time.  After dropping off my daughter and her significant other at their apartment, I stopped by the cemetery to visit my dad.  Now, once I'm done typing this blog post, I'm going to watch one of my favorite Spielberg films, Close Encounters of the Third Kind (the original, not the stupid special edition where you see inside the mother ship).  

In short, it was a pretty damn good day.  No surprises or emergencies.  Cloudy and rainy, so I didn't feel guilty staying inside on my couch, watching movies, sleeping, reading, and writing.

It's getting late now.  Everybody's winding down, settling in for the night.  My wife just went to bed.  My son is upstairs playing online video games and cursing like Eddie Murphy in Raw.  I'm trying to relax, but my thoughts have decided to throw a house party in my head, with three kegs and a bad garage band.

Saint Marty may have to call the cops if the party gets too out of control.

Father's Day Rain

by: Martin Achatz

God's in the bathroom

trying to fix the leaky toilet

before it floods everything again

while Mrs. God whips up

some forbidden fruit salad

for dinner because he's trying

to lose weight.

June 15: "Birthday Poem," Typical Father Things, "A Poet Father's Plea"

Billy Collins re-gifts . . . 

Birthday Poem

by: Billy Collins

Remember that birthday poem

I wrote for you?

It just stopped being about you.

I did some very typical father things today.  Mowed my lawn.  Watched Portrait Artist of the Year.  Had barbecued bratwurst and chips for dinner.  Visited with my father-in-law who is in the Upper Peninsula for the weekend.  Did final edits on my poetry manuscript.

Okay, maybe some of those things aren't typical for all fathers, but I have never been a cookie-cutter kind of dad.  My kids seem to be turning out okay, despite my flaws (strengths?) in the fathering department.

My dad was not what you would call an emotionally available man.  I know he loved me, but he showed his love by working his ass off his whole life.  We never went hungry.  Had new clothes and shoes at the beginning of every school year.  He showed up for every school play, concert, award ceremony, or sporting event.

The last time he came to one of my poetry readings before he died, my father sat in the front row and kept his eyes closed the entire time I was speaking.  I thought he'd fallen asleep.  He came up to me afterward and said, "I closed my eyes so I could concentrate on every one of your words."  And he hugged me.

Saint Marty may not be a typical father, but hopefully his kids know they are loved ferociously.

A Poet Father's Plea

by: Martin Achatz

Don't buy me

a jigsaw or drill,

necktie or Turtle Wax

for Father's Day.

Get me a Moleskine

journal, fountain pen,

so I can write a poem

about how your newborn

toes tasted like prayer

on my lips the day

you were born.

June 14: "Young Webster," Love Stories, "Friday Night Lights Near Summer Solstice"

Billy Collins tells a love story . . .

Young Webster

by: Billy Collins

After he spied her

in a garden

holding a parasol,

he defined love as

"something of

or pertaining to me."

Some love stories have happy endings, and some don't.

Love is not easy.  Oh, sure, falling in love may be simple.  You glimpse a person who makes your heart flutter and knees turn to jelly.  After that, the hard work begins.

I've been married almost 29 years, and I can emphatically say that I still love my wife deeply.  But the last three decades have not all been one long honeymoon.  There have been major struggles.

True love is messy.  Ugly even at times.  I'm sitting on my couch right now, listening to my wife sleep.  Reflecting on how much shit we've gone through together and put each other through--times of tremendous joy and tremendous despair.

Yet, our love has endured and grown stronger.  We have two great kids as proof.  And a really cute puppy.

Saint Marty is feeling blessed this June evening, a little less than a week before summer solstice.

Friday Night Lights Before Summer Solstice

by: Martin Achatz

The moon and stars still

haven't shone up for the game.

June 13: "Fay," Breath and Fury, ""Hail Mary Storm"

Billy Collins on meteorology . . . 

Fay

by: Billy Collins

never amounted

to a hurricane,

just a lot of rain

with a girl's name.

There's a joke told by Yoopers (people who grew up and/or live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan):  if you don't like the weather, just wait five minutes and it'll change.

Weather is very unreliable at my longitude and latitude.  I have seen forecasts go from snow flurries to blizzard warnings in the space of a few hours.  I call it the Lake Superior effect.  The big lake just has a mind of its own when it comes to atmosphere and temperament.

This afternoon, I was sitting in my office at the library (which is less than half a mile from the shores of Superior), engrossed in editing a podcast and finishing up a report.  Even though my desk is right by a window, I hadn't looked outside for a few hours.

Then I heard a sound like a semi-truck landing on the roof, and I looked up.  I could barely see across the street through the hail and rain.  The sky had gone ashy black, and the wind was tearing away at the trees.

I sat watching the storm until it lost its breath and fury.  Confession:  I love watching bad weather.  Lightning.  Gale-force winds.  Waves the size of freight cars.  Thunder snow.  Yoopers love this shit.  It's in our DNA.  Prick us, and we bleed winter.

Saint Marty still hasn't put his snow shovels away at home.  You never know.

Hail Marty Storm

by: Martin Achatz

Did Gabriel's greeting

sound like a million

bullets of ice shredding

the air with God's need

for her young body?

June 12: "The English Professor," Love, "Man at Work"

Billy Collins misdiagnoses someone . . . 

The English Professor

by: Billy Collins

When I asked him

if he was in love,

he accused me

of anthropomorphizing him.

Love is a word that gets thrown around a lot.  For example, this afternoon, someone offered me a Twix candy bar, and I said, "I love Twix!"  Other examples:  I've claimed to love, at various times, The Godfather, Tracy Chapman songs, long naps, cheddar bay biscuits from Red Lobster, writing poems, and River Phoenix.

Love, in our present age, has been devalued as a concept, and I'm just as guilty as anyone else.  The word "love" used to be reserved for certain bonds or relationships between living creatures.  "Love" indicates a depth of emotion and devotion that can't really be applied to songs or food or inanimate objects.  I love my kids and would sacrifice my life for them.  I also love Cheetos, but I wouldn't donate a kidney to get a family-size bag of them.  See the difference?

I try to be very aware of how I use the word "love" in my everyday conversations, reserving it for when I'm interacting with honest-to-God loved ones--my wife or kids or siblings or close friends or dog.  (Yes, pets can be loved ones.)  I can say "I love you" to them without feeling disingenuous.  I truly do love them.

This evening, I hosted a concert at the library.  A duo named Flagship Romance that I admire a lot.  (I almost used the "l" word.)  They sang almost all completely original songs with harmonies so close they sounded like one voice.  It was a lovely way to end my day.  (NOTE:  "lovely" is a much more usable word that doesn't require a marriage license or birth control or paternity test.)  These performers are obviously very passionate about what they do.  (Dare I use the "l" word?)  They have been blessed with incredible musical talents.

I have been blessed, I think, with writing talents.  I can't imagine a day going by without me scribbling or typing a poem or short story or essay or blog post.  Writing is a part of who I am.  Do I love writing?  Hmmmmm . . . I guess it depends on how your define the word.

The ancient Greeks identified and defined eight different types of love:

1. Eros:  sexual passion
2. Philia:  deep friendship
3. Ludus:  playful love
4. Agape:  love for everyone
5. Pragma:  longstanding love
6. Philautia:  love of the self
7. Storge:  family love
8. Mania:  obsessive love

My love of poetry and writing borders on mania at times.  If I'm working on a piece of writing, I can be more than a little obsessive.  My love for my kids:  storge.  My love for the music of Flagship Romance tonight:  philautia tinged with mania.  

A popular saying these days is "Love is Love."  It's mostly used to confront homophobes and transphobes (basically any kind of love phobe).  You don't pick who you fall in love with.  Love picks you.  Period.  As long as you don't eros you cocker spaniel.

Saint Marty is now going mania the shit out of a bag of M&Ms. 

Man at Work

by: Martin Achatz

If you spy me sitting

on a bench by a lake,

staring at a paddling duck,

please know that I'm hard at work

writing a poem.

June 11: "The Student," Summer Vacation, "Poetry Gardening"

Billy Collins writes about . . . 

The Student

by: Billy Collins

She made asterisks

next to passages she liked,

little stars that kept shining

after she closed the book.

Today was the last day of school for my student son.  Summer vacation has officially begun, so he won't be annotating any books for the next three or so months.

Me?  I worked on my poetry manuscript again, among all my other tasks.  Today, I organized poems, created sections, and proofread.  It was a little anxiety-inducing to say the least.  (Reminder:  I have been living with this book for over 20 years.  That's almost as long as my daughter has been alive and five years longer than my son has been on this planet.)  The floor of my office was a minefield of poetry for a good portion of the afternoon.

However, I'm happy with the results.  Maybe "happy" is too strong a word.  It's more like I'm satisfied with my work.  It holds together.  Makes sense.  Feels done.  However, I have been at this point before and then worked another half a decade on various poems.  (One poem in particular took me ten years to complete.)

Saint Marty is cautiously optimistic, which is not an emotion he experiences often.

Poetry Gardening

by: Martin Achatz

Poems spread across the floor, 

sprouts and dandelions

waiting for me to start 

weeding.

June 10: "Sunday Morning," Imperfection, "Haunted"

Billy Collins' cat waits patiently . . .

Sunday Morning

by: Billy Collins

Opening a book of poems

about flowers,

the cat amuses herself

while she waits for me to wake up.

Poetry has been distracting me all day.  Revising poems.  Arranging poems.  Reading poems.  Revising those poems again.  If I had a wealthy patron, I'd have zero problems just staring out my window and scribbling in my journal for extended periods.  I truly can amuse myself for hours and hours with poetry.

Tonight, I performed in a show at the library where I (you guessed it!) read poetry again, as well as acted in skits, sang, and told stories.  I was lucky enough to share the stage with some really talented writers, musicians, and actors, as well.

Near the end of the show (theme:  imperfection), I told a story about my sister and read the poem I wrote for her funeral.  As soon as I started speaking, I knew it was a mistake.  I could feel the emotion climbing into my throat to choke me, which it did.  I could barely speak by the end of it, and I felt like an idiot.

After the show, everyone was incredibly kind to me, with hugs and thank yous and words of encouragement.  And I still felt like an idiot.

Next time, Saint Marty is going to talk about something safe.  Like politics.

Haunted

by: Martin Achatz

I wonder if my sister's ghost

gets tired of my visits to her

grave, rolls over, pretends

to be resting in peace when

she sees my car pull through

the cemetery gates.

June 9: "A Rake's Progress," Puzzle Pieces, "Morning Rain"

A fall meditation ala Billy Collins . . . 

A Rake's Progress

by: Billy Collins

An autumn afternoon,

the neighbor's boy at work,

a pile of red and yellow

leaves growing even higher.

This poem reminds me of William Carlos Williams' red wheelbarrow and white chickens.  So simple and beautiful.  Of course, one of Williams' most famous quotes is this:  "No ideas but in things."  He found the everyday almost sacred, immortalizing it in his work.  Collin does the same in today's poem, making something ordinary into something wondrous.

Took my puppy for a walk this evening.  On our route, we came across the box for a 1000-piece puzzle.  It was flattened, and the puzzle pieces littered the road for a good half mile.  The image, as far as I could tell from the wrecked box, was a pile of fruits on a table.

My puppy went a little crazy over the pieces, sniffing and licking at them like they were actual slices of apples and oranges and watermelon.  I actually had to pull her along to keep her from eating them.

There was something incredibly beautiful about walking through that puzzle mine field.  I found myself avoiding stepping on the pieces, as if I would get juice and pulp all over my sneakers if I did.

These are the things that Saint Marty had ideas about today.

Morning Rain

by: Martin Achatz

I hear it between

awake and asleep--

tap tap . . . taptaptap--

like woodpeckers

feasting on the sweet

gums of dawn.

June 8: "Corn Field," Pride Fest, "Pride"

Billy Collins goes swimming.  Sort of . . . 

Corn Field

by: Billy Collins

Far from any lake,

I walk in over my head.

I worked today at our local Pride Fest, handing out flyers, talking about the library's concerts and summer reading programs.  I was not far from any lake.  In fact, our table was only 50 or so feet from Lake Superior.

The sun was bright, and everyone was having a blast.  I love being at Pride Fest for one simple reason:  there is so much love abundantly present.  Old people.  Teens.  Toddlers.  Drag queens.  Trans people.  Heterosexual couples.  Gay couples.  I think I saw a German Shepherd in a tutu.  All happy being together, listening to music, eating tacos, collecting free shit from vendor booths--without encountering sidelong glances or whispers or worse.

And the young people led the charge in this love parade.  They always do, not caring if their friends are goth, studded with piercings, sleeved with tattoos, wearing a dress or tuxedo or fishnets.  They just throw their arms around each other like classmates at a 60th reunion.  Joyfully.  Without inhibition.

People can say what they want about the younger generation being lazy (no, they just want a living wage), entitled (is it too much to get an education and healthcare without having to sell a kidney?), liberal (when did being generous and open-minded become a negative character trait?), and immoral (I assume because they don't judge or condemn other people).

The young people whom Saint Marty saw, met, and spoke with today gave him great hope for the future.

Pride

by: Martin Achatz

Surrounded by flags 

of so many colors, here

is what makes me proud:

an old man and woman

walking hand in hand, 

eating cookies, wearing

matching T-shirts that read

Love is Love, Ya Fuckin' Homophobe!

June 7: "Angler," Day Off, "Revision"

Billy Collins goes fishing . . . 

Angler

by: Billy Collins

Alone

with my thoughts

I spent the day

in the stream

of consciousness.

Had a day off from the library.  That doesn't mean I did nothing.  It's nearly impossible for me to remain idle, floating in my own stream of consciousness, to borrow Collins' image.

Currently, I'm working on final revisions of a manuscript that has been over 20 years in the making, from the time I was first married until now.  That's two kids, several cars, an MFA, a dog, a pandemic, six deaths (one brother, two sisters, both parents, and a best friend) later.

I'm also writing final poems for a second manuscript.  This one has had a much shorter gestation--about three or so months.  I started this book because I needed a break from the magnum opus I described in the previous paragraph.

Now I find myself in the strange position of having two almost done manuscripts.

I'm sure by now some of you are asking yourselves why it has taken me so long to complete the first manuscript.  I can't answer that question easily.  I tinker and revise poems endlessly, never really satisfied with the outcomes.  Poet Paul Valery said, "A poem is never finished, only abandoned."

Saint Marty has reached the abandonment stage.

Revision

by: Martin Achatz

is all about friction,

rubbing words together

until they smoke, spark,

ignite and change states:

solid to liquid to heartbreak.

June 6: "Saying," Smart Work, "Plums"

Billy Collins doesn't kill two birds . . . 

Saying

by: Billy Collins

Two birds,

wings flapping

in a puddle of fresh rainwater.

Why kill them,

I wondered,

with one of even many stones?

We've all heard the saying Collins is referring to.  It's about efficiency, accomplishing something in the least amount of time with the least amount of effort.

I believe in being smart about the work I do.  For example, while I was listening to an author speak at the library tonight, I was also drafting a poem in my head.  Two birds, one stone.

I'm not sure the poem works.  You're all going to have to judge it and decide.  I don't think it's the worst poem I've written.  It's certainly not Shakespeare.

In the mean time, Saint Marty is going to eat the plums that were in the icebox and which someone was probably saving for breakfast.  Forgive Saint Marty, they were delicious, so sweet, and so cold.  Just saying.

Plums

by: Martin Achatz

Went to a talk tonight

by a writer so passionate

about plums I boiled

her words with pectin

and made jam.

June 5: "Poems," Writing Projects, "New Poem"

Billy Collins meditates on his art . . . 

Poems

by: Billy Collins

Because words

move from left to right,

the three fish

in the print on the wall,

who are facing the other way,

appear to be swimming upstream.

I've been thinking about poetry a lot these last few days.  Out of necessity.  Currently, I'm working on the final edits of a manuscript that has been over ten years in the making.  If that weren't enough, this month I will finish a second manuscript, as well.  I sort of feel like Collins' fish swimming upstream against the current.  I will eventually get to the spawning pool, but not before I jump up a few waterfalls.

Don't get me wrong.  I enjoy the challenge of poetry.  Love revising and rewriting.  I get great joy in seeing a poem emerge from a slag heap of words on a page.  Poet Natalie Goldberg used this image for the process:

Our bodies are garbage heaps: we collect experience, and from the decomposition of the thrown-out eggshells, spinach leaves, coffee grinds, and old steak bones out of our minds come nitrogen, heat, and very fertile soil. Out of this fertile soil bloom our poems and stories. But this does not come all at once. It takes time. Continue to turn over and over the organic details of your life until some of them fall through the garbage of discursive thoughts to the solid ground of black soil.

 Yes, I'm seeking the solid ground of black soil for my two current writing projects.  I've been composting for quite some time.  There's a whole lot of eggshells and coffee grinds (not to mention Bigfoot scat) on my pile, and I've been turning it over and over for years.

Saint Marty is hoping something beautiful will bloom soon.

New Poem

by: Martin Achatz

That's what I write on the top

of the page before I start

scribbling away, hoping

those two words

sound sweet enough

to attract a waltz of bees

or rave of hummingbirds.

June 4: "3:00 AM," a Whopper, "Threat of Rain"

Billy Collins can't sleep . . . 

3:00 AM

by: Billy Collins

Only my hand

is asleep,

but it's a start.

Yes, I'm writing this close to midnight.  No, I'm not tired.  Yes, I know I should get eight hours of sleep every night.  No, my hand isn't asleep.  Yes, I'm watching Letters from the Big Man for around the 28th time.  (If you've never seen it, you should.)  No, I'm not eating a Cosmic Brownie.  Really.  I'm not.  I swear.

Just looked outside.  It's supposed to rain overnight.  Judging by the wind right now, there's a storm blowing in.  A whopper.  (Yes, that is an allusion to The Wizard of Oz.)  Maybe I should close my eyes, click my heels together three times, and say, "Donald Trump's a felon, Donald Trump's a felon, Donald Trump's a felon," hoping some winged monkeys will fly my neighbor's "Trump 2024" lawn sign off to Saskatchewan.  

Saint Marty has way too much on his mind tonight.

Threat of Rain

by: Martin Achatz

The meteorologist on TV

says there's a threat of rain

tonight.  Does that mean

when God gets home from work

and finds out about climate change

he's going to go all Noah on our asses?

June 3: "Morning Walk," Sniffer, "Night Noises"

Billy Collins takes his dog for a . . .

Morning Walk

by: Billy Collins

The dog stops often

to sniff the poems of others

before reciting her own.

Didn't get to take my puppy for a walk today, except a couple spins around the backyard to take take care of her morning and evening ablutions.

Like the dog in Collins' poem, my dog is a sniffer.  It's how canines understand the world, I think.  Each scent--sweet or rancid, strong or mild--is a way to identify the complexities of the universe.  My dog will stop at the same tree or bush or fire hydrant each time she walks by it.  I can almost hear her mind at work:  "Oooh, what's this?"  Sniff.  "I'm not sure."  Sniff, sniff, sniff.  "Wait, I've been here before!"  Snnnniiiiiffffff.  "Yes, there's my piss!"  Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff.  "I belong here!"

Of course, smell is one of the strongest senses for conjuring up memories.  The smell of bread baking reminds me of the Easter weekends of my childhood.  Orange and cloves transport me to Christmas.  Turkey, of course, conjures up Thanksgiving.  And hot dogs on a grill, hot July afternoons visiting my cousins.

After a busy day of librarying and poeming, I'm tired.  It's late, and I just got home, ate my dinner, and changed into my pajamas.  The house is settling into its nighttime routine, and, pretty soon, I will be the only person awake, listening to the moans and groans and chirps and farts of night.  

For me, sounds--especially music--can be just as evocative as smells.  On my way home this evening, I caught the tune "Sister Christian" by Night Ranger on the radio.  Suddenly, I was 17 years old, cruising with friends, slamming beers.  Judy Garland singing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" conjures the ghost of my mother, humming along with her record player as we decorate the tree.

Just now, I heard a distant train horn (not a whistle) dopplering by--softest, softer, soft, loud, louder, loudest, louder, loud, soft, softer, softest.  That sound is straight out of my Yooper childhood, walking along railroad tracks, scooping up iron pellets from freight cars and cramming them into my pockets.  It's a wistful noise for me.

Saint Marty's feeling a little haunted by the past tonight.

Night Noises

by: Martin Achatz

My dog moans in her sleep.

Kendrick Lamar cranks in my son's room.

Outside the window, a warbler insists

Sweet, sweet, sweet, I'm so sweet!

as if begging the moon for a date.

June 2: "Summer," Blooming, "June Sunday"

Billy Collins enjoys a summer evening . . . 

Summer

by: Martin Achatz

The two of us

one night in lawn chairs,

music coming from somewhere.

You explained 

what we were hearing 

was the B-side of the moon.

When I was a kid, summer lasted forever, stretched out and out before me without horizon in sight.  As I got older, June, July, and August became heartbeats (maybe breaths), here and gone before I even had a chance to break out my shorts and swimsuit.

Despite being one quarter of the year, summer now is the briefest, most fragile season for me.  (Being a resident of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, I would nominate winter as the longest, cruelest season--hanging on like a bad case of bronchitis, coughing and coughing.)  I was just in my backyard and noticed that the lilac bushes are already paling and dotted with scabs of brown.

I'm always deeply grateful for these warm months which remind me--in their bounties of colors and fragrances--how miraculous life on this planet can be.  Seeding.  Sprouting.  Blooming.  Wilting.  Dying.  Repeat.  Over and over.

Saint Marty is one big blossom tonight.

June Sunday

by: Martin Achatz

So much green in the world

this morning, everything

else seems dull, the way

chocolate isn't all that special

the day after Halloween.

June 1: Refrigerator Light," Thirsty Bee, "Mowing the Lawn"

Billy Collins sees what's in the fridge . . .

Refrigerator Light

by: Billy Collins

The minute

she slams the door

I stop

thinking about her.

Two of the challenges of writing incredibly short poems is 1) picking a subject, and 2) making that subject surprising and new.

Most of the time, Collins chooses subjects that are beyond everyday.  They're almost invisible, like the light in the refrigerator.  When you open the door, you just expect the inside to be illuminated so you can see the leftovers and eggs and milk and bread and condiments.  You don't spend any time pondering the miracle of that illumination.  It just is.

Today, I did an everyday thing:  I mowed my lawn.  I've been putting it off for a couple weeks, letting my backyard become a landscape of dandelions and grasses and clover, reveling in the appearance of each thirsty bee and hungry rabbit.

However, social conventions dictate that lawns must be manicured and controlled, lest neighbors think you po' white trash and invoke lawn ordinances.  So, I fired up my lawnmower at 9 a.m. and got to work.  (Sorry neighbors who were trying to sleep, but you brought it on yourselves.)

Two hours later, under a sky burgeoning with rain, I was done.  And a little whipped.  I put away my lawnmower, closed my garage door, and walked around my house, surveying my handiwork.

Get out your rulers, neighbors.  Saint Marty's grass is now regulation height.

Mowing the Lawn

by: Martin Achatz

I love the trillium, violets,

lilacs, even dandelions

in my yard, yet I gave

my lawn a crewcut 

this morning because

I don't want my neighbors

to report me to the police

for being a poet drunk

on 200 proof spring.