July 31: "The Revenant," Fur Babies, Dumb Ones

Billy Collins is haunted . . . 

The Revenant

by: Billy Collins

I am the dog you put to sleep, 

as you like to call the needle of oblivion, 

come back to tell you this simple thing: 

I never liked you--not one bit. 

When I licked your face, 

I thought of biting off your nose. 

When I watched you toweling yourself dry, 

I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap. 

I resented the way you moved, 

your lack of animal grace, 

the way you would sit in a chair to eat, 

a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand. 

I would have run away, 

but I was too weak, a trick you taught me 

while I was learning to sit and heel, 

and--greatest of insults--shake hands without a hand. 

I admit the sight of the leash 

would excite me 

but only because it meant I was about 

to smell things you had never touched. 

You do not want to believe this, 

but I have no reason to lie. 

I hated the car, the rubber toys, 

disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives. 

The jingling of my tags drove me mad. 

You always scratched me in the wrong place. 

All I ever wanted from you 

was food and fresh water in my metal bowls. 

While you slept, I watched you breathe 

as the moon rose in the sky. 

It took all of my strength 

not to raise my head and howl. 

Now I am free of the collar, 

the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater, 

the absurdity of your lawn, 

and that is all you need to know about this place 

except what you already supposed 

and are glad it did not happen sooner-- 

that everyone here can read and write, 

the dogs in poetry, the cats and the others in prose.

I often wonder if dogs simply tolerate humans, like Collins' revenant.  At night, my puppy usually climbs onto the couch beside me, rolls over on her back so that I can scratch her stomach.  I oblige, sometimes spending ten minutes digging my fingernails into her fur and belly.  However, if I take out my phone for a picture, she quickly rolls away and jumps down, looking at me as if I've just smeared shit on her snout.  

We like to think that, as owners, we are in charge.  However, that feeling of power quickly disappears when our dogs start to make that terrible sound dogs always make right before they decide to throw up.  Suddenly, we owners are scrambling, begging loudly, "No, no, no , no, no--hold on, hold on, hold on," as we rush our dogs out the door.  

Dogs aren't dummies.  They can make us jump up and move fast when they want.  Most people believe we train our dogs, but I believe it's the other way 'round--our dogs train us.  When my dog rings the bells attached to our front door, my wife or I immediately move.  Quickly.  If my dog stands in front of me, stock still, eyes like scalpels, I know she's either hungry or tired, and I move.  Quickly.

See what I mean?  Humans are the dumb ones.  Our dogs allow us to maintain the impression that we're the masters.  In reality, all our fur babies have to do is press wet noses into our palms or faces, and we spring into action, doing exactly what they want us to do.

Excuse Saint Marty.  He has to take his puppy outside so she can bark at the rabbits.

Photo courtesy of Abby Berry

July 30: "The Introduction," T. S. Eliot Syndrome, Picking Wild Strawberries

Billy Collins introduces a poem about strawberries . . . 

The Introduction

by: Billy Collins

I don't think this next poem

needs any introduction--

it's best to let the work speak for itself.

Maybe I should just mention

that whenever I use the word five,

I'm referring to that group of Russian composers

who came to be known as "The Five,"

Balakirev, Moussorgsky, Borodin--that crowd.

Oh--and Hypsicles was a Greek astronomer.

He did something with the circle.

That's about it, but for the record,

"Grimke" is Angelina Emily Grimke, the abolitionist,

"Imroz" is that little island near the Dardanelles,

"Monad"--well, you all know what a monad is.

There could be a little problem

with mastaba, which is one of those Egyptian 

above-ground sepulchers, sort of brick and limestone.

And you're all familiar with helminthology?

It's the science of worms.

Oh, and you will recall Phoebe Mozee

is the real name of Annie Oakley.

Other than that, everything should be obvious.

Wagga Wagga is in New South Wales,.

Rhyolite is that soft volcanic rock.

What else?

Yes, meranti is a type of timber, in tropical Asia, I think,

and Rahway is just Rahway, New Jersey.

The rest of the poem should be clear.

I'll just read it and let it speak for itself.

It's about the time I went picking wild strawberries.

It's called "Picking Wild Strawberries."

I've attended so many poetry readings when the poet takes longer introducing a poem than reading it.  I call it T. S. Eliot syndrome.  When I read an Eliot poem, I often spend more time on Google than on the poem itself.  I don't think it's a bad thing to make the reader work a little bit for a poem.  However, having to look up every other word or name or allusion defeats the purpose of poetry, which is to grab readers viscerally or emotionally, make them see the world differently.

So, Collins hits the nail on the head with this poem.

I will say that I rarely have to resort to research in order to understand a Billy Collins poem.  His work is usually very immediate, taking you by the hand (or grabbing you by the throat) and leading you to your poetic destination.  Even with today's poem, I didn't have to call up Google.  I can completely understand Collins' point through context.  Knowing the obscure names and places isn't necessary to get this poem.  It's the ridiculousness of all of these esoteric references that Collins is aiming his spotlight.  The fact that the poem is about picking wild strawberries heightens the comedy.

I had a fairly busy day at the library, doing paperwork in the morning, a writing workshop in the afternoon, and a blues concert in the evening.  Didn't get home until around 9 p.m.  A great poet friend, Cindy Hunter Morgan, led the workshop, and it was the best part of the day for me.  We spent a couple hours talking about the brass tacks poetry--image, line, rhetoric, word choice.  In particular, we spoke about the junction between poetry and prose, which fascinates me.  And then we wrote a poem.

Now, if you're reading this blog post and thinking "I would rather have my teeth cleaned than talk poetry for two hours," you are reading the wrong blog.  I suggest searching for a food or travel blog, where the posts contain many pictures.  That's probably more up your alley.

So, let's just pretend that this poem is about picking wild strawberries instead of the mechanics of poetry.  Everything that I've just written is one long metaphor for collecting buckets of sweet redness.  

Saint Marty is going to title this post "Picking Wild Strawberry Poems."

July 29: "The Centrifuge," Wonder, Wow Poems

Billy Collins writes a poem for physicists . . .

The Centrifuge

by: Billy Collins

It is difficult to describe what we felt

after we paid the admission,

entered the aluminum dome,

and stood there with out mouths open

before the machine itself,

what we had only read about in the papers.

Huge and glistening it was

but bolted down and giving nothing away.

What did it mean?

we all openly wondered,

and did another machine exist somewhere else--

an even mightier one--

that was designed to be its exact opposite?

These were not new questions,

but we asked them earnestly and repeatedly.

Later, when we were home again--

a family of six having tea--

we raised these questions once more,

knowing that this made us part

of a great historical discussion

that included science

as well as literature and the weather

not to mention the lodger downstairs,

who, someone said,

had been seen earlier leaving the house

with a suitcase and a tightly furled umbrella.

Wonder comes in many shapes and sizes.  Collins' poem is about visiting a humanmade wonder--a centrifuge housed in a huge aluminum dome.  Of course, anything created by humankind can be distorted and abused in the name of progress.  Splitting the atom was an amazing feat, unlocking all kinds of scientific possibilities.  Unfortunately, it also led to the Cold War and nuclear arms race.  See what I mean?

Today, I went for a hike with some artists and writers.  My good friend, poet Cindy Hunter Morgan, is in town to do a poetry reading and lead writing workshop at the library.  So, we decided to head out to Dead River Falls for a little exercise and sightseeing.  Basically, we were on the hunt for some natural wonders.

It was in the low 90s for temperatures, and the forest was so green it almost hurt to look at it.  The Dead River was running strong, and insects were chewing the air with buzzing.  The path we followed was a little challenging at times, but nobody in our hiking party fell or got injured, including an 85-year-old poet friend who put us all to shame, climbing the rocks and roots like Edmund Hillary on the slopes of Everest.  

And we encountered wonders--beautiful vistas of churning waters and lush evergreens, huge knuckles of tree roots, striated stones slick with mist and foam.  It took my breath away and made me want to sit down and write some poetry.  I could imagine Bob Ross setting up his easel on the banks of the Dead River and painting some happy little accidents.

That is the reason I'm a poet.  I'm addicted to wonder.  Yes, I know the science behind ecosystems, how tannins turn water brown and hematite mottles rocks and boulders.  But, first and foremost, it's all about looking at things wide-eyed, not searching for explanations all the time.  Poems express a lot of emotions and ideas, but the poems I love the most are "wow" poems--ones that capture amazement, awe, and wonder.

Saint Marty had a lot of "wow" moments today.

July 28: "On Not Finding You at Home," Surprises, Control Freak

Billy Collins tries to visit a friend . . . 

On Not Finding You Home

by: Billy Collins

Usually you appear at the front door

when you hear my steps on the gravel,

but today the door was closed,

not a wisp of pale smoke from the chimney.

I peered into a window

but there was nothing but a table with a comb,

some yellow flowers in a glass of water

and dark shadows in the corners of the room.

I stood for a while under the big tree

and listened to the wind and the birds,

your wind and your birds,

your dark green woods beyond the clearing.

This is not what it is like to be you,

I realized as a few of your magnificent clouds

flew over the rooftop.

It is just me thinking about being you.

And before I headed back down the hill,

I walked in a circle around your house,

making an invisible line

which you would have to cross before dark.

I'm not a person who spontaneously drops by someone's house for an impromptu visit.  Perhaps it's my upbringing, but I think surprise appearances like the one Collins describes in today's poem border on rudeness.  (And my loyal disciples know how much I dislike surprises anyway.  They rank right up there with oral surgery and compound fractures.)

I prefer surprises that are planned out, announced in advance.  I know, I know.  That is antithesis of a surprise.  However, if you expect me to invest time in any kind of endeavor, I need to be forewarned.  Then I will be able to prepare for spontaneity.  Do not show up at my library office and expect me to go on a joy ride to Dairy Queen.  (Okay, I might be tempted by that one.)  At the very least, send me a text message a couple hours prior, allowing me to restructure my schedule.

Am I a control freak?  A little bit.  Yes.  When you work three and four jobs, you have to be a little . . . stringent when it comes to your day.  I was watching the Paris Olympics last night on NBC, and there was a story about one of the captains of the United States swim team.  This guy works full time, trains for hours every day, and has a wife and five-month-old son.  His life is a series of alarms followed by workouts followed by Zoom meetings followed by more workouts followed by family time followed by even more workouts.

My days during the school year are very similar in terms of switching gears all the time.  I work at the library.  Alarm.  I teach.  Alarm.  I work at the library.  Alarm, I pick up my son from school.  Alarm.  I work at the library.  Alarm.  I pick up my wife from work.  Alarm.  I work at the library (probably hosting a program).  Drive home.  Pick out clothes for the next day.  Write a blog post/poem.  Bed.  

Now, I'm not punishing my body with three hour swims or weight training.  Yet, at the end of the day, I often feel like I've run a marathon or played a game of water polo.  (That's different from a game of Marco Polo, by the way.)  I need structure in order to accomplish everything I do in 24 hours.  Thus, surprises and spontaneity are anathema to me.  A wet dog nose in an unwelcome body crevice. 

Now that Saint Marty has finished this blog post, he will brush and floss, set his alarm for tomorrow morning, and try to sleep.  Just like every other night.

Photo courtesy of Abby Berry

July 27: "The Drive," Supreme Act of Trust, "Precious Cargo"

Billy Collins goes for a ride . . . 

The Drive

by: Billy Collins

There were four of us in the car

early that summer evening,

short-hopping from one place to another,

thrown together by a light toss of circumstance.

I was in the backseat

directly behind the driver who was talking

about one thing and another

while his wife smiled quietly at the windshield.

I was happy to be paying attention

to the rows of tall hedges

and the gravel driveways we were passing

and then the yellow signs on the roadside stores.

It was only when he began to belittle you

that I found myself shifting my focus

to the back of his head,

a head that was large and expansively held.

As he continued talking

and the car continued along the highway,

I began to divide his head into sections

by means of dotted lines,

the kind you see on the diagram of a steer.

Only here, I was not interested in short loin,

rump, shank, or sirloin tip,

but curious about what region of his cranium

housed the hard nugget of his malice.

Tom, my friend, you would have enjoyed the sight--

the car turning this way and that,

the sunlight low in the trees,

the man going on about your many failings,

and me sitting quietly behind him

wearing my white butcher's apron

and my small, regulation butcher's hat.

I'm not a good passenger in a car.  Prefer to be behind the wheel.  It's very difficult for me to give up that control, unless I have complete confidence in the driver's skills or am incapacitated in some way (it happens with insulin-dependent diabetics).  But, given the choice, I will always drive.

Letting another person drive me somewhere is a supreme act of trust--that the driver will not go all Fast & Furious on me and that the driver knows where the hell we're going.  I once saw President Obama's motorcade traveling from the local airport to a speaking engagement at the university.  The vehicles in that convoy were going at least 80 to 90 miles per hour along the highway with a police escort, which convinced me that I would never want to be President of the United States.

Today, I didn't drive too much.  My wife had the car at work, so much of my ambulation was by foot.  I mowed my lawn, took my puppy for a long walk, and, in the afternoon, strolled up to church to play the pipe organ for Saturday evening Mass.  It was close to 90 degrees Fahrenheit today, so I ended up sweating in impolite places for a good portion of my waking hours.

Now Saint Marty's feet are a little sore tonight.

Precious Cargo

by: Martin Achatz

Every time I picked up her daughter

for a date, my future mother-in-law

would tell me, "Drive safe.  You have

precious cargo."  Her words stuck

with me as I got behind the wheel,

turned the key in the ignition.  It was

a matter of trust, the way a mother robin

pushes her baby out of the nest, trusts

air and feather and instinct to keep

that fledgling safe from gravity's hunger.

I would take her daughter to dinner, a movie,

maybe skinny-dipping in Lake Superior, then,

late on some dark road, parked, slipped

into the back seat with her, pressed against

this precious cargo, felt breath and heartbeat

fluttering on my fingertips, a winged thing

trying to take flight for the first time

into the freckled heavens of my body.

July 26: "Constellations," Paris, Perfection, "Perseids"

Billy Collins stargazes . . . 

Constellations

by: Billy Collins

Yes, that's Orion over there,

the three studs of the belt

clearly lined up just off the horizon.

And if you turn around you can see

Gemini, very visible tonight,

the twins looking off into space as usual.

That cluster a little higher in the sky

is Cassiopeia sitting in her astral chair

if I'm not mistaken.

And directly overhead,

isn't that Virginia Woolf

slipping along the River Ouse

in her inflatable canoe?

See the wide-brimmed hat and there,

the outline of the paddle, raised and dripping stars?

It is late.  I just finished watching the Opening Ceremony of the Paris Olympics and stepped outside to do a little stargazing myself.

It was really dark, and the stars weren't really visible.  I wandered around for 15 or 20 minutes, staring upward, breathing the muddy night air.  Not sure what I was looking for.  Maybe inspiration or peace of mind.  I've been struggling these last few weeks with some insomnia, so going for a walk at 1 a.m. isn't all that strange for me at the moment.

I found the Opening Ceremony in Paris quite inspiring.  Lots of weird performance art,  Great music.  The Parade of Nations happening with boats of athletes sailing down the Seine.  And, to cap it all off, Celine Dion singing "L'Hymne à l'mour" by Edith Piaf from the Eiffel Tower.  If the organizers had simply lit the Olympic cauldron and had Dion sing, it would have been enough for me.

I'm sure there's going to be a lot of criticism tomorrow.  There's always people who want to compare and bitch.  Beijing was better.  Or Rio.  Or Seoul.  For me, that's sort of like saying, "Oh, the moon last month was so much brighter," or, "The Perseids were so much better four years ago," or, "Edith Piaf sang that song so much better."  

Humans love to criticize.  Maybe that's why van Gogh only sold a few paintings before he committed suicide.  Or why Emily Dickinson only published ten poems during her lifetime.  I, myself, haven't really pushed myself to release a lot of my poems.  I'm pretty hard on myself when it comes to my writing.  I revise and revise and revise.  Perhaps that's why I've been working on my Bigfoot manuscript, off and on, for around 20 years.  I have a hard time letting go of a poem that's not as perfect as I can make it.  

Of course, perfection is unrealistic.  I'm sure. over the next 17 or so days, there are going to be a lot of athletes who, under the pressure of Olympic competition, will crumble, for many reasons.  I've seen poets who release fantastic debut collections and then fall flat with their sophomore collections.  Great singers go sharp or forget lyrics.

It's the idea of perfection that fucks you up.  If you think you are capable of perfection, you will constantly be disappointed.  It's really about doing the absolute best you can do at a particular moment.  That's it.  

Tonight, this blog post is the best Saint Marty has to offer.

Perseids

by: Martin Achatz

A poet friend tells me they

have come early this year, streaking

between the stars in cat whisker

flashes so instant that I don't

want to blink as I gaze up

into the black bowl of night.

I wonder if those Greek gods

and heroes and monsters up there

even notice them in their annual

game of hide-and-seek, if those

ancients raise their scaled heads, aim

their arrows, grumble at the spirited

young'uns too full of energy to find

a spot to sit down, read a book, catch

their cosmic breaths, let us humans

with our feeble minds give them

a name and a story that explains

their existences.  Maybe, one day,

a group of them will band together

in the shape of me, and I will join

Hercules in that bright living room,

gazing down on the earth, wondering

where the remote is to change the channel,

find something more interesting to watch 

July 25: "The Order of the Day," Rituals, "Backyard"

Billy Collins' morning routine . . 

The Order of the Day

by: Billy Collins

A morning after a week of rain

and the sun shot down through the branches 

into the tall, bare windows.

The brindled cat rolled over on his back,

and I could hear you in the kitchen

grinding coffee beans into a powder.

Everything seemed especially vivid

because I knew we were all going to die,

first the cat, then you, then me,

then somewhat later the liquefied sun

was the order I was envisioning.

But then again, you never really know.

The cat had a fiercely healthy look,

his coat so bristling and electric

I wondered what you had been feeding him

and what you had been feeding me

as I turned a corner

and beheld you out there on the sunny deck

lost in exercise, running in place,

knees lifted high, skin glistening--

and that toothy, immortal-looking smile of yours.

We all have our morning routines like Collins.  Some people get out of bed and immediately light up (tobacco or cannabis).  Other people stumble to the coffee maker.  I usually take a shower, get dressed, and take my puppy out for a spin around the backyard.

Rituals are important in life.  They give our days and nights order and meaning.  I know that my daily/nightly rituals allow me to have a semblance of control over what is happening around and to me.  (This sense of control may be fictional, but it makes me feel less anxious about the possibility of having a stroke or being the victim of a violent crime or lapsing into major depression.)  Perhaps this affinity for ritual comes from my Catholic upbringing.  If there's one thing that Catholics do well, it's ritual--all the bells and smoke and chants.

I like to know, when I get out of bed, exactly what my day holds in store for me.  No nasty, unexpected surprises.  I have been the victim of exactly one surprise birthday party in my life, when I reached a certain milestone age.  It was lovely, filled with joy and gathering together so many people I love.  However, in my life, most of the surprises I've experienced have been less than pleasant.  So, my days are full of rituals to avoid undue misery.

Even when I sit down to write a blog post or draft of a poem or lyric essay, I depend on certain things--a nice fountain pen, a Moleskine journal, maybe a book by my current poetic obsession.  (If you haven't figured it out by now--it's Billy Collins this year.)  If my pen runs out of ink or I forget my journal, I have a very difficult time getting anything down on the page.  

So, if you see Saint Marty sitting in a restaurant or laundromat, surrounded by books, scribbling away, don't bother him.  He's in the middle of a ritual, giving meaning to his life.

A poem Saint Marty wrote a couple days ago . . .

Backyard

by: Martin Achatz

I write about my backyard

a lot, its lilac bushes and bees,

how dandelions overtake the grass

with shouts of yellow and gold.

I write about my dog a lot,

the brindled map of her back,

how she stands like a coiled

cobra when she spies a squirrel

tightrope walking a power line

above her, moving like a stone

skipped across a still lake.  And I write

about my son a lot, how he is one

of those construction sites

I drive by every day, noting 

the lack of visible progress until,

one morning, a new building

appears, its glass flashing 

with light.  Why do I write about

these three elements of my life

so much?  I don't know.  But,

when I'm done writing these 

words, I know I will make myself

a cup of coffee, stare out a window,

give thanks for the breath I just

took, and the next.  And next.

Photo courtesy of Abby Berry

July 24: "Reaper," Near-Death, "Traffic Jam"

Billy Collins has a close encounter with death . . .

Reaper

by: Billy Collins

As I drove north along a country road

on a bright spring morning

I caught the look of a man on the roadside

who was carrying an enormous scythe on his shoulder.

He was not wearing a long black cloak

with a hood to conceal his skull--

rather a torn white tee shirt

and a pair of loose khaki trousers.

But still, as I flew past him,

he turned and met my glance

as if I had an appointment in Samarra,

not just the usual lunch at the Raccoon Lodge.

There was no sign I could give him

in that instant--no casual wave,

or thumbs-up, no two-fingered V

that would ease a jolt of fear

whose voltage ran from my ankles

to my scalp--just the glimpse,

the split-second lock of the pupils

like catching the eye of a stranger on a passing train.

And there was nothing to do

but keep driving, turn off the radio,

and notice how white the houses were,

how red the barns, and green the sloping fields.

Most people have these mini near-death experiences occasionally.  It may be as simple as seeing some guy carrying a scythe on his shoulder.  Or driving by a cemetery.  Or finding a dead sparrow in the backyard.

Suddenly, a spike of ice hits your spine, and you're walking hand-in-hand with mortality for a few moments.  Time becomes as present as a popsicle on a hot July afternoon, sweetly fleeting and soon forgotten. Yet, the world shifts, becomes more vibrant and precious for a little while.

This morning, I wrote with one of my best poet friends.  We sat on the roof of the library and scribbled in our journals, and, as seagulls complained overhead and Lake Superior marched iron waves to its shores, poetry was born.

It was a blessing, and I felt blessed.  Not too many people can start their days with birds and words and water.  But, because I'd just read Collins' poem, I was aware of the presence of grace moving around and through me.

In the evening, another blessing--an outdoor concert by a wonderful group of musicians.  They set up their equipment and filled the air with a joyful noise.  And this was grace at work, too.

Here's one of the poems Saint Marty wrote this morning . . . 

Traffic Jam

by: Martin Achatz

I got stuck in a slow crawl

of cars and trucks and motorcycles,

annoyed at the inconvenience

of pace, other drivers trying

to snake in and out of lanes

to arrive 15 seconds sooner

than me at the next dead stop.

I was with a writer friend

who was in no hurry, embraced

the humanness of the situation,

this long line of souls inching

inching inching toward some

unseen obstacle, a toll we had

to pass in order to speed back

into our daily lives.  Around a bend,

we came to the accident, jackknifed

semi, its tire shredded on the rim,

crushed pickup with EMTs

crowded around a stretcher.  We 

glided by like a gondola in Venice,

took in the tragedy, and suddenly

I wasn't all that anxious to arrive.

Instead, I turned up the radio

a little, asked my friend about

her pet donkeys, enjoyed the July

sun streaming through the windshield.

July 23: "The Student," Rules of Poetry, Love and Bone

Billy Collins gives some poetry ground rules . . . 

The Student

by: Billy Collins

My poetry instruction book,
which I bought at an outdoor stall along the river,

contains many rules
about what to avoid and what to follow.

More than two people in a poem
is a crowd, is one.

Mention what clothes you are wearing
as you compose, is another.

Avoid the word vortex
the word velvety and the word cicada.

When at a loss for an ending,
have some brown hens standing in the rain.

Never admit that you revise.
And--always keep your poem in one season.

I try to be mindful,
but in these last days of summer

whenever I look up from my page
and see a burn-mark of yellow leaves,

I think of the icy winds
that will soon be knifing through my jacket.

There are certain rules of poetry that I've picked up throughout my writing life, some very much like the ones that Collins lists in the above poem.

For instance, I was taught not to use the words love and bone in a poem.  Eliminate articles like the and a and an.  Don't say you saw a tree--say you saw a juniper or elm or cottonwood.  Be specific.  Avoid using -ing verbals and gerunds like writing and skiing.  End poems with a concrete image, and, whatever you do, surprise the reader.

I could go on.  You see, each new poem I write teaches me something about writing poetry.  If you're planning on running a marathon, you train for it--with five, ten, or 15 mile runs. And with each run, you become better, stronger.  Artists do preliminary sketches.  Computer programmers design and redesign code.  The Paris Olympics are kicking off on Friday; for most of the athletes, those 17 days are the culmination of a lifetime of conditioning, practicing, struggling, and competing.  

I will say that I like breaking rules.  My Bigfoot manuscript is a collection of love poems, believe it or not.  The word love appears many times throughout the book, breaking one of the rules I listed above.  (I think the word bone appears a few times, too.)  It's a challenge to make old tropes and ideas new and fresh again.  That's one of the most exciting things about being a poet.

I've been a student of poetry for a majority of my life.  When I die, I will still be a student of poetry.  I'll keep writing new poems, breaking rules, pursuing beauty until I draw my last breath.  Every sunrise and moonrise is a call to be a better poet or husband or father, rules be damned.

Saint Marty is always in training.

July 22: "Genius," Hard Work, Bonnie Jo Campbell

Billy Collins defines genius . . . 

Genius

by: Billy Collins

was what they called you in high school
if you tripped on a shoelace in the hall
and all your books went flying.

Or if you walked into an open locker door,
you would be known as Einstein,
who imagined riding a streetcar into infinity.

Later, genius became someone
who could take a sliver of chalk and square pi
a hundred places out beyond the decimal point,

or a man painting on his back on a scaffold,
or drawing a waterwheel in a margin,
or spinning out a little night music.

But earlier this week on a wooded path,
I thought the swans afloat on the reservoir
were the true geniuses,

the ones who had figured out how to fly,
how to be both beautiful and brutal,
and how to mate for life.

Twenty-four geniuses in all,
for I numbered them as Yeats had done,
deployed upon the calm, crystalline surface—

forty-eight if we count their white reflections,
or an even fifty if you want to throw in me
and the dog running up ahead,

who were at least smart enough to be out
that morning—she sniffing the ground,
me with my head up in the bright morning air.

It's a word I don't use very often, because I'm not really sure how to define it or apply it.  How do you know people are geniuses?  Can they sit down at a piano and play "Rhapsody in Blue" without ever taking a single lesson?  Or recite pi to the 100th decimal place, as Collins writes?  Compose a sonnet sequence in the space of an hour or so?  Sculpt Michelangelo's "David" out of mashed potatoes?  Write a novel about Bigfoot that wins the Pulitzer Prize?  

I spent a good portion of today in the company of an old friend from grad school--Bonnie Jo Campbell.  I appeared on TV with her this morning, and she gave a reading/presentation tonight at the library.  At one point, we got stuck in a traffic jam for about a half hour, and so we had a lot of time to visit and catch up on each other's lives.

Bonnie is a writer.  She's been nominated for the National Book Award and has won a Pushcart Prize.  Her latest book, The Waters, was featured as a "Read with Jenna" selection on The Today Show.  Many people would call Bonnie a genius.  Except Bonnie.

During her presentation at the library this evening, Bonnie said she doesn't really believe in those kinds of labels--"genius" and "gifted" and "talented."  Instead, she believes in hard work and discipline when it comes to writing.  For example, The Waters (a brilliant novel) took Bonnie eight-and-a-half years to complete.  She kept on referring to the hundreds of drafts of the book she went through.  It sounded like a real struggle for her, physically and emotionally.

The next question that you're probably asking is "Why put yourself through that much stress and pain?"  I can answer that question for Bonnie, since I've been through sort of the same struggle with my manuscript of Bigfoot poems, which took me over 20 years (from first poem to last) to complete:  You do it because you HAVE to.  An idea takes hold of you, and nothing short of another ice age can stop you from bringing that idea to fruition.  

In between the first word embedded on the first page and the final punctuation mark on the final page, there are all kinds of challenges:  self-doubt, bad drafts, revisions of revisions of revisions, deaths, illnesses, marital strife, global pandemics, government insurrections.  In very few instances is there a straight line from "once upon a time" to "happily ever after."  Writing a book takes a lot of once upon a times.

And a lot of hard work.  If you define "genius" or "talent" of "giftedness" by the number of hours/days/weeks/months/years it takes to create or accomplish something, then Bonnie is a genius.  So am I.  So is every young person graduating from high school and college (that's, at minimum, at least 14 years of continuous labor).  

I do believe that a person can have a natural affinity for writing or music or art or sculpting or plumbing or mathematics.  That's just the way the human brain works.  But that doesn't mean that a person who can string words together more easily than others or sit at a piano and sight-read a concerto is a genius.  Nope.  My poems always go through multiple drafts.  Each blog post I publish goes through at least four or five versions before I release it into the world.  One of my lyric essays can take months to complete.

In short, here is the equation Saint Marty is proposing:  genius = time + hard work + luck.

July 21: "Boy Shooting at a Statue," Full Moon, President Biden

Billy Collins meditates on history . . . 

Boy Shooting at a Statue

by: Billy Collins

It was late afternoon,

the beginning of winter, a light snow,

and I was the only one in the small park

to witness the lone boy running

in circles around the base of a bronze statue.

I could not read the carved name

of the statesman who loomed above,

one hand on his cold hip,

but as the boy ran, head down,

he would point a finger at the statue

and pull an imaginary trigger

imitating the sounds of rapid gunfire.

Evening thickened, the mercury sank,

but the boy kept running in the circle

of his footprints in the snow

shooting blindly into the air.

History will never find a way to end,

I thought, as I left the park by the north gate

and walked slowly home

returning to the station of my desk

where the sheets of paper I wrote on

were like pieces of glass

through which I could see

hundreds of dark birds circling in the sky above.

It's an interesting poem to land on tonight--all about history and dark birds and violence.

Last night, the moon was incredible, fat and full and orange in the heavens.  My niece, Abby, and I went outside and tried to capture it with the different cameras at our disposal.  Abby had a much nicer camera and got some great shots, including the one below.  It was a great way to end a great week with her.

My wife drove Abby to Lake Michigan to meet up with Abby's mom today while I attended an all-day author/artist fair with one of my best writer/poet friends.  It was incredibly hot, but lovely, as well.  I visited with some good friends, met some interesting people, and made a little bit of money by selling CDs and instant poems.  

About halfway through the day, Abby sent me a text telling me that President Biden was stepping down from running for reelection.  She and I had just talked about this possibility last night, and I predicted that it was going to happen soon.  (I wasn't happy about it, but I knew it was only a matter of time.)

I just have a few words for my Democrat friends and acquaintances who are celebrating tonight.  These last few weeks since the debate between Trump and Biden, I have witnessed the worst kind of ageism I've ever seen.  On the basis of 90 minutes of bad TV, these friends somehow forgot all the good President Biden has accomplished in the last three-and-a-half years.  I didn't hear my friends complain when President Biden canceled student debt relief.  They didn't complain as he navigated the country out of the pandemic and chipped away at unemployment, not to mention stimulating a failing economy.  

I'm not saying that I oppose the possibility of a Kamala Harris presidency.  In fact, I'm excited about the prospect.  However, if you are one of my friends who was calling for President Biden to step aside because of his age, I think you need to do a little soul searching.  You literally canceled a good, decent public servant because of his age.  Isn't that sort of akin to Trump mocking a reporter with a disability?

Yes, I believe Donald Trump needs to be defeated in November to preserve democracy in this country.  Yes, I am excited by the possibility of seeing the first female President of the United States.  Yet, I think the attacks on President Biden from both sides of the political spectrum these last few weeks have been disappointing at best,  intensely ugly at worst.

I told Abby last night that I didn't think I was going to live to see a woman as President of the United States.  I hope to be eating those words in the next few months.

In the meantime, Saint Marty may be doing some more moongazing tonight.

July 20: "The Lanyard," Camp, Beautiful Young People

Billy Collins goes to summer camp as a kid . . .

The Lanyard

by: Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

This is a poem about a kid learning to make a lanyard at summer camp.  It's a poem about all the sacrifices a mother makes for her child.  It's about a grown child trying to honor the memory of his mother.  Most of all, this is a poem about love.

My wife, kids, niece, puppy, and I went to camp this afternoon.  It was a bon voyage celebration for another one of my nieces who is moving to Germany soon to start a new job.  So, we stuffed the back of our Subaru Impreza with bathing suits, a fruit tray, cookies, a hammock, fishing rods and tacklebox, and we headed out to Lake Arfelin (about a 40 minute drive from our house).

It was a wonderful gathering of in-laws, nephews, nieces, great nephews, great nieces--full of laughter and food and swimming and saunas.  We arrived around 1:30 in the afternoon and got back home around 9:30 at night.  It was a perfect day.  Relaxing.  Full of affection and love.  I am truly going to miss Aubri, my niece who is heading to Deutschland.  She's funny, genuine, and, truly, one of the best people I know.  

Just before we left, my nieces Abby and Brianna (another one of my favorite people), decided to go frog and tadpole hunting.  Armed with a fishing net and buckets, they managed to find several frogs in various stages of development, from tadpole onward.  One particular specimen looked like a fully-grown frog with a salamander tail.  To me, it resembled a mutant alien.  Abby loved it, holding it in her hands, taking pictures.

Tomorrow, Abby leaves for home.  In a few weeks, Aubri boards her airplane.  I hope they both know how much joy they bring me just by being a part of my life.  Like Collins giving his mother that insignificant lanyard, all I can offer nieces are these words.  They don't seem an adequate way to express my love for them, but they're all I have.

Saint Marty is so grateful for these two beautiful young people in his life.

July 19: "Special Glasses," Out of Mind, Gratitude

Billy Collins has special vision . . . 

Special Glasses

by: Billy Collins

I had to send away for them

because they are not available in any store.

They look the same as any sunglasses

with a light tint and silvery frames,

but instead of filtering out the harmful

rays of the sun,

they filter out the harmful sight of you--

you on the approach,

you waiting at my bus stop,

you, face in the evening window.

Every morning I put them on 

and step out the side door

whistling a melody of thanks to my nose

and my ears for holding them in place, just so,

singing a song of gratitude

to the lens grinder at his heavy bench

and to the very lenses themselves

because they allow it all to come in, all but you.

How they know the difference

between the green hedges, the stone walls,

and you is beyond me,

yet the schoolbuses flashing in the rain

do come in, as well as the postman waving

and the mother and daughter dogs next door,

and then there is the tea kettle

about to play its chord--

everything sailing right in but you, girl.

Yes, just as the night air passes through the screen,

but not the mosquito,

and as water swirls down the drain,

but not the eggshell,

so the flowering trellis and the moon

pass through my special glasses, but not you.

Let us keep it this way, I say to myself,

as I lay my special glasses on the night table,

pull the chain on the lamp,

and say a prayer--unlike the song--

that I will not see you in my dreams.

It would be highly convenient to be able to purchase glasses that filter pain from your life.  I would pay good money right now for a pair of glasses that filtered Donald Trump from my eyesight.  It's so much easier ignoring a problem if you can't see it.  As the old saying goes, out of sight, out of mind.

I'm not really sure that's the way it works, though.  I mean, even if Collins can't see the woman in the above poem, he's still writing about her (or her absence).  Yet, there's something attractive about a day-to-day existence that is devoid of upset or heartbreak or struggle.  I know problems don't magically vanish if you ignore them, but I also know that obsessively thinking about problems isn't healthy, either.

On the flipside, it would be amazing to own a pair of glasses that only allow you to see joy and happiness.  Or that transform everything into joy and happiness.  Think about it.  Anxiety becoming peace.  Grief becoming resurrection.  All without medication.  

Of course, you don't really need a pair of glasses to focus on happiness.  It's simply a matter of attitude.  If I choose to see only darkness, that's all I'm going to see.  And if I choose to see only sunlight, I'm going to need a pair of sunglasses and sunscreen.  

So, I'm focusing on what make me happy today:

• I screened E. T. the Extraterrestrial at the library today and sat in the back of the room, feeling like a kid again and blubbering until my eyes were sore.
• I had a chicken potpie pasty for dinner tonight, and it was delicious.
• I went for a walk with my wife, son, niece, and puppy after supper and got ice cream.  I got a vanilla malt.
• I watched another Bigfoot movie with my son and niece tonight (Exists--a really decent horror flick).
• It's Friday.
• I get to sleep in a little tomorrow.

That's a pretty good gratitude list.  All without looking through magic lenses.  

Just like Billy Collins, Saint Marty is hoping to have sweet, joyful dreams.

July 18: "Building with Its Face Blown Off," Modem and Router, Lucky

Billy Collins writes about war . . . 

Building with Its Face Blown Off

by: Billy Collins

How suddenly the private

is revealed in a bombed-out city,

how the blue and white striped wallpaper

of a second story bedroom is now

exposed to the lightly falling snow

as if the room had answered the explosion

wearing only its striped pajamas.

Some neighbors and soldiers

poke around in the rubble below

and stare up at the hanging staircase,

the portrait of a grandfather,

a door dangling from a single hinge.

And the bathroom looks almost embarrassed

by its uncovered ochre walls,

the twisted mess of its plumbing,

the sink sinking to its knees,

the ripped shower curtain,

the torn goldfish trailing bubbles.

It's like a dollhouse view

as if a child on its knees could reach in

and pick up the bureau, straighten a picture.

Or it might be a room on a stage

in a play with no characters,

no dialogue or audience,

no beginning, middle, and end--

just the broken furniture in the street,

a shoe among the cinder blocks,

a light snow still falling

on a distant steeple, and people

crossing a bridge that still stands.

And beyond that--crows in tree,

the statue of a leader on a horse,

and clouds that look like smoke,

and even farther on, in another country

on a blanket under a shade tree,

a man pouring wine into two glasses

and a woman sliding out

the wooden pegs of a wicker hamper

filled with bread, cheese, and several kinds of olives.

No, I'm not going to write about Ukraine or Gaza tonight, although Collins' poem lends itself well to these topics.  There are innocent people dying all over the world due to the ravages of war.  Thousands of them.  Men, women, children.  Young and old.  War doesn't discriminate.

Meanwhile, in my first world existence, I had to hang around my house this morning for the cable guy to show up.  (Can I call him the cable guy if I don't have cable anymore?)  My router and modem decided to become enemies at around 11:30 last night, and I was up until 2 a.m. trying to fix them.  I wasn't successful, so I called for help from a technician.  

When he showed up about two hours late, said technician poked around a little bit.  Tested all of my devices.  Replaced my modem.  Reset my router.  Got me back in business.  First world problem, I know, but it was pretty annoying.

Tonight, I hosted an online open mic.  Only two other people showed up, and one of them was my wife.  Despite the scarcity of attendees, it was a really good evening of sharing and revealing with people I love and care about.

Speaking of which, my niece and son had a down day at home, since I had to work.  I didn't force them to hike up a mountain or push them off a cliff into Lake Superior or make them go hunt Bigfoot.  One of my son's friends came over in the evening to hang out with them.  Abby is an artist, so she took some time to sketch and draw today.

The world is such a strange place.  While I'm going about my little life in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, other people are fighting for their lives against bombs and bullets.  The United States is fractured by politics, and my house is filled with laughter and love and creativity.

Saint Marty sometimes forgets how lucky he is.

July 17: "Boyhood," Sister's Birthday, Living and Afterliving

Billy Collins plays with his model train . . . 

Boyhood

by: Billy Collins

Alone in the basement,

I would sometimes lower one eye

to the level of the narrow train track

to watch the puffing locomotive

pull the cars around a curve

then bear down on me with its dazzling eye.

What was in those moments

before I lifted my head and let the train

go rocking by under my nose?

I remember not caring much

about the fake grass or the buildings

that made up the miniature town.

The same went for the station and the master,

the crossing gates and flashing lights,

the milk car, the pencil-size logs,

the metallic men and women,

the dangling water tower,

and the round mirror for a pond.

All I wanted was to be blinded

over and over by this shaking light

as the train stuck fast to its oval course.

Or better still, to close my eyes,

to stay there on the cold narrow rails

and let the train tunnel through me

the way it tunneled through the mountain

painted the color of rock,

and then there would be nothing

but the long whistling through the dark--

no basement, no boy,

no everlasting summer afternoon.

I remember those long, long days as a kid.  Summer vacation seemed to last forever, each moment an eternity.  As you get older, time has a way of speeding up like a runaway train.  One day, you're twelve, and the next, you're planning for retirement.

Today was one of those long, quiet days that seemed to stretch and stretch, where the horizon never gets any closer.  I was supposed to take my son and niece on a Pictured Rocks boat cruise in the afternoon.  Had the tickets all purchased.  Then I received a text a little after 8 a.m. saying that all the cruises had been canceled for the day due to rain and high winds.

And it did rain and blow pretty much all day.  Thought about going geocaching, but the weather just didn't cooperate.  Instead, we watched a movie--Letters from the Big Man.  Yes, it was another Bigfoot movie, and I think my niece liked it.   Then, I picked up my wife from work.

On the way home, I stopped by the cemetery to wish my sister, Sally, a happy birthday.  She would have been 63 today.  In my mind, I imagine she would have been retired for a few years by now,  Maybe bought an RV and gone cross-country camping.  Or scheduled monthly trips to Disney World (one of her favorite places).  Or taken up oil painting.  Or just relaxed, all day, every day--something she never really allowed herself to do all that much.

She's been close by me all day long.  I woke thinking about her.  Scribbled things in my journal about her during the day.  When I dug a hand into my son's bucket of leftover Independence Day parade candy, I pulled out a banana Laffy Taffy--Sally's favorite.  Even though she's been gone for nine years, she's never really been gone for me.  

Tonight, one of my oldest friends (the best man at my wedding), stopped by for dinner and games.  He's visiting from New Zealand.  So, he brought Chinese food, and my kids and niece and wife and sister-in-law (who's been my little sister since my wife and I started dating) and Brian and I played games and laughed.  A lot.  He stayed late--left a little after midnight.

This week is a treasure trove of grace for Saint Marty, filled with love and some of his favorite people, living and afterliving.  

NOTE:  I had some internet and router issues last night, so that's why this is so late in being posted.

July 16: "Flock," Son and Niece, Natural Poets

Billy Collins is my shepherd . . . 

Flock

by: Billy Collins

It has been calculated that each copy of the

Gutenburg Bible . . . required the skins of 300 sheep.

     --from an article on printing

I can see them squeezed into the holding pen

behind the stone building

where the printing press is housed,

all of them squirming around

to find a little room

and looking so much alike

it would be nearly impossible

to count them,

and there is no telling

which one will carry the news

that the Lord is a shepherd,

one of the few things they already know.

I love obscure facts like the one Collins uses in this poem.  I frequently do the same.  One of the poems in my new manuscript is titled "Chipmunks See in Slow Motion."  Poetry helps me understand life in different ways, through different lenses.  These facts aid in that endeavor.

I spent most of today driving my son and niece to different places.  We started early in the morning by climbing Sugarloaf Mountain and having breakfast at its summit, Lake Superior on one side of us, unbroken forestland on the other.  We picked blueberries, took pictures.  I was pretty proud of myself for keeping up with the young'uns until the last incline I had to descend into the parking lot.  Fell on my knees and hands hard, but did not require a trip to the ER.

Then we traveled to a local attraction called Lakenenland that features outdoor metal sculptures by a local artist.  Dinosaurs.  Bigfoot.  Giant insects.  A rock concert (heavy metal, no doubt).  Again, we moseyed through the displays, took pictures.  No injuries to report.

Lastly, we drove to Presque Isle on Lake Superior.  My two charges went wading and rock hunting.  My niece wanted to jump off a particular cliff into the lake.  However, due to some flooding because of heavy rains last night, the road was temporarily closed.  Again, no injuries to report.

After a couple bubble teas, I brought them home, and I think they both took long naps.  (I did wake these teenagers up at 6 a.m., mind you.)  Tomorrow, we drive to Munising for a little Pictured Rocks boat ride, if the weather cooperates.  It's supposed to rain and be a little windy.

I love being with young people.  They allow me to see the world through different lenses, as well, because they are natural poets, unjaded and curious.  My son and niece have most of their lives ahead of them.  Everything they encounter is new and exciting.  Which makes me see everything as new and exciting again.  

Saint Marty is going to take some ibuprofen and watch a movie now.  Something he's seen before--because there's something to be said for old and comforting.

July 15: "Bereft," Loss, Bluegrass Concert

Billy Collins writes about the lucky dead . . . 

Bereft

by: Billy Collins

I liked listening to you today at lunch

as you talked about the dead,

the lucky dead you called them,

citing their freedom from rent and furniture,

no need for doorknobs, snow shovels,

or windows and a field beyond,

no more railway ticket in an inside picket,

no more railway, no more tickets, no more pockets.

No more bee chasing you around the garden,

no more you chasing your hat around a corner,

no bright moon on the glimmering water,

no cool breast felt beneath an open robe.

More like an empty zone that souls traverse,

a vaporous place

at the end of a dark tunnel,

a region of silence except for

the occasional beating of wings--

and, I wanted to add

as the sun dazzled your lifted wineglass,

the sound of the newcomers weeping.

There are two definitions of the word "bereft" that Collins is playing with in this poem.  The first is "deprived or robbed of the possession or use of something," and the second is "suffering the death of a loved one."

We are all beholden to things.  Everyone has one or two things that they would feel lost without--bereft--whether it's a cell phone or mother's ring or lucky penny.  I think of items like this as talismans.  They define who we were/are/will be as a person.

My talismans are my journal (whichever one I'm currently using) and fountain pens.  If I leave these things at home, I've been known to turn the car around to get them, even if doing so will make me incredibly late.  I literally feel lost without them.

And everyone of a certain age has lost a loved one.  If you are alive on this planet, you have had, or will eventually have, this experience.  I've been bereft in my life.  A lot.  And death wasn't always the reason.  When my wife and I were separated, I was bereft.  When my daughter moved into her own apartment, I was bereft.  Of course, when my parents and brother and sisters died, I was bereft.  

Yesterday was my dad's birthday.  In two days, it will be my sister Sally's birthday.  Bereft and bereft.  But tonight, there was nothing to be bereft over.  I hosted a bluegrass concert at the library.  The music was incredibly joyful, even when the songs were about death and sobriety and heartbreak. My son and niece attended the concert and had a blast.  

I enjoy seeing them so happy by just being together.  Joy is contagious, and, over the last day or so, I've found myself smiling and laughing quite a bit, even when I was mowing the lawn this morning.  It's difficult feeling bereft and your heart is full.

Don't worry.  Saint Marty will be back to his normal, bereft self eventually.  It is an election year.

July 14: "In the Evening," Abby, Fellow Insomniac

Billy Collins at the end of day . . . 

In the Evening

by: Billy Collins

The heads of roses begin to droop.

The bee who has been hauling his gold

all day finds a hexagon in which to rest.

In the sky, traces of clouds,

the last few darting birds,

watercolors on the horizon.

The white cat sits facing a wall.

The horse in the field is asleep on its feet.

I light a candle on the wood table.

I take another sip of wine.

I pick up an onion and a knife.

And the past and the future?

Nothing but an only child with two different masks.

It is the end of day for me, too.  Collins is savoring the last remnants of the evening in this poem, and that is exactly what I'm trying to do.

Most of this Sunday, I've been traveling.  First, we came home from Calumet early this morning, dropped off my suitcase, picked up my son and puppy.  Then, we made a quick trip to Mackinaw City to pick up my great niece, Abby--one of my favorite people in the world

Abby is going to be spending the week with us, and my son couldn't be more excited.  These two truly get each other, and it's great to see them together.  Abby and I just finished watching the film Sasquatch Sunset, and she loved it.  (There are reasons why she's one of my favorite people in the world.)

Now, everyone is going/has gone to bed, and, despite the fact that I'm operating on about seven or eight hours of sleep over these past 72 hours, I'm not feeling particularly tired.  It could be because it's so warm--almost 90 degrees today, and it's still about 78 or so.  Or it could be my mind decompressing after a very busy weekend.  Or my mind anticipating a very busy week.

Whatever the reason, I am very much awake.

Maybe I'll read a little.  Or watch another movie.  Go for a walk.  Count some stars.  Eat some of the fudge I bought in Mackinaw City.  Write a poem.  Revise a poem.  Draw a picture.  Or I may just enjoy the quiet.  (Well, semi-quiet.  As I said, it's hot, and I have a fan blowing on me.)

Abby's kind of a night owl, so, she's probably still awake upstairs right now.  If she's anything like me, her brain probably has a hard time shutting down.  Too many things to think about.

Saint Marty is going to enjoy having a fellow insomniac in the house for a week.

July 13: "Breathless," Sid, Calumet

Billy Collins contemplates his death . . .

Breathless

by: Billy Collins

Some like the mountains, some like the seashore,

Jean-Paul Belmondo says

to the camera in the opening scene.

Some like to sleep face up,

some like to sleep on their stomachs,

I am thinking here in bed--

some take the shape of murder victims

flat on their backs all night,

others float face down on the dark waters.

There there are those like me

who prefer to sleep on their sides,

knees brought up to the chest,

head resting on a crooked arm

and a soft fist touching the chin,

which is the way I would like to be buried,

curled up in a coffin

in a fresh pair of cotton pajamas,

a down pillow under my weighty head.

After a lifetime of watchfulness

and nervous vigilance,

I will be more than ready for sleep,

so never mind the dark suit,

the ridiculous tie

and the pale limp hands crossed on the chest.

Lower me down in my slumber,

tucked into myself

like the oldest fetus on earth,

and while cows look over the stone wall

of the cemetery, let me rest here

in my earthy little bedroom,

my lashes glazed with ice,

the roots of trees inching nearer,

and no dreams to frighten me anymore.

This admission may or may not shock you:  I think about death.  A lot.  In the last nine or so years, death has been a frequent visitor in my life.  I should know death's first name, but I don't.  So I will assign death a name:  Sid.

I've been close to Sid a few times in my life, due to my diabetes.  When I have an extremely low blood sugar, I experience a kind of slowing down, as if the world is a motion picture going by one slow frame at a time, so that I can study each one in intimate detail.  It's not frightening or traumatic.  It's also not comforting or warm.  Sid doesn't come as the Grim Reaper, but Sid also doesn't come as a long lost relative.

It's been a long day of rehearsing and performing in Calumet.  Spent the morning writing and rewriting scripts and sketches.  The afternoon, practicing and rewriting some more.  The evening, acting and singing and reciting poetry.  It was stressful, but I was surrounded by people I care about deeply.  

Now, I'm Sid-tired.  I just had the rest of my meatball sub for dinner and watched an episode of Portrait Artist of the Year.  Once I'm done typing this blog post, I will be going to bed.  (Isn't sleep just practice for when Sid comes calling?)

I guess I would be remiss if I didn't mention that Sid tried to take out Donald Trump tonight, but failed.  (Among other things, this blog is also a way of recording notable historical events and my reactions to them.)  Everyone knows I'm not a fan of Trump.  However, I'm not sure if somebody killing the former Insurrectionist and Chief is the best way to dispel the MAGA brand of insanity that has plagued the United States since before the plague of COVID.  (By the way, Sid did take Richard Simmons and Dr. Ruth in the last couple days.  He's been busy.)

I don't have any profound piece of wisdom to pass on tonight, about Sid or politics or poetry.  I'm tired, and I have a long day of travel tomorrow.

Saint Marty just hopes Sid takes the rest of the weekend off.