May 29, 2025: "I Cannot Forget the Woman in the Mirror," Quiet, "Poem for an Ordinary Day on which I Wasn't Exposed to Measles and Lilacs Are Beginning to Bloom"

Some days are just . . . quiet.  

Nothing special happens.  No catastrophes or Nobel Prizes.  You just get up, go about your normal, daily business, have dinner, maybe watch a little television, and then go to bed.

Most people don't realize that quiet days like today are gifts.  Blessings.  Full of common, everyday miracles.

Sharon Olds writes about living her true life . . . 

I Cannot Forget the Woman in the Mirror

by: Sharon Olds

Backwards and upside down in the twilight, that
woman on all fours, her head
dangling, and suffused, her lean
haunches, the area of darkness, the flanks and
ass narrow and pale as a deer's and those
breasts hanging down toward the center of the earth like 

               plummets, when I
swayed from side to side they swayed, it was
so near night I couldn’t tell if they were yellow or
violet or rose. I cannot get over her
moving toward him upside down in the mirror like a
fly on the ceiling, her head hanging down and her
tongue long and purple as an anteater's
going toward his body, she was so clearly a human
animal, she was an Iroquois scout creeping
naked and noiseless, and when I looked at her
she looked at me so directly, her eyes all
pupil, her stare said to me I
belong here, this is mine, I am living out my
true life on this earth.

Olds isn't describing anything earthshattering in this poem.  It's simply a sexual encounter in front of a mirror, her watching her mirror self "living out" her "true life on this earth."  

Most of people aren't really cognizant of their true lives.  They go through their daily routines with blinders on, moving from one mundane thing to another.  That pretty much describes almost every one of my days.  I never really stop to smell the lilacs.  Instead, I rush everywhere, trying to milk as much productivity as I can out of each second that passes.

I literally have to remind myself to pause, look around, and give thanks for all the quotidian miracles around me.  Staples.  A good fountain pen.  Sunlight.  A bad joke.  A good joke.  A nickel in my pocket.  Trillium blossoming in the backyard.  Because I'm a poet, I do this kind of thing all the time.  If you look for moments of grace, you'll find they.  Or they will find you.

Now, not all grace is beautiful or transcendent.  The writer Flannery O'Connor said this about grace:  "All human nature vigorously resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful . . . The reader wants his grace warm and binding, not dark and disruptive."  Ultimately, all grace is good, even if it causes discomfort or pain.  

Yes, it's difficult to see grace in all situations.  Yet, if you look around right now, I'd bet you could list at least five things for which you're grateful.  Gratitude is an acknowledgement of grace.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about grace tonight, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

On this day in 1903, comedian Bob Hope was born.  Bob Hope was known for his own rendition of the song "Thanks For The Memories."  Write a poem where you give thanks, but make sure it includes humor as well as gratitude.

Poem for an Ordinary Day

     on which I Wasn't Exposed to Measles

     and Lilacs Are Beginning to Bloom

by: Martin Achatz

Nothing happened today.

The sun rose.  I ate breakfast.

My son went to school.  I went

to work, as did my wife.

Had a spinach salad for lunch,

topped with chicken breast and flax seeds.

Ate two Hershey bars for dessert.

Read about a measles case reported

in my county.  Immediately checked

my body for welts and rubeola.

Two birds shit on my freshly washed

car.  Found a joint in the backseat.

Probably my son's.  Smoked it.

Ate a hotdog for dinner, then took

my dog for a walk.  Ended up at a local

ice cream shop.  Ordered a vanilla malt.

Stood in my backyard for 20 minutes

surrounded by lungs of lilacs

inhaling, exhaling the dusky light.

Jesus, I wish every day could be like this.