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
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