November 9: Poet of the Week, D. H. Melhem, "Nearing Glacier," "Ives" Dip, Off the Top of My Head

I am going to do something that I haven't done before right now.  I am going to choose a Poet of the Week that I know nothing about.  By the end of the week, I am hoping that I will have found a new favorite poet (I have many).

So, I have a box of poetry collections sitting on the floor of my university office.  The books were given to me by a friend and colleague who retired a couple years ago from the English Department.  On top of one of the stacks is a book titled Country:  An Organic Poem.  Its cover is beautiful, and, flipping through its pages, I find a couple of lines of poetry that are beautiful.  Like icicles in the sun.

D. H. Melhem is Saint Marty's Poet of the Week, and I'm going to start with this poem:

Nearing Glacier

by:  D. H. Melhem

Past Havre, past Butte, Montana
earth upon earth arises till
clouds are the range.

God in the mountains
indifferent to personal cries
talks eternity
to the clouds.

I'm a sucker for a poem that talks about eternity and God.  This poem is right up my alley.  The God here isn't really warm and fuzzy.  This God is like a famous writer you want to meet at a dinner party.  He stands by the shrimp plate, talking to a Yeats scholar, while you watch from across the room, questions about art and music boiling in your mind.

I always have tons of unanswered questions about death and poetry and the Kennedy assassination.  Lately, I have been dealing with questions like "Why did my sister die?" and "Why can't I provide better for my wife and children?" and "Will J. J. Abrams mess up Star Wars?"  You know, the BIG questions.

Yet, despite my struggles and frustrations today (and there is a fairly large list), I am thankful to have this office at the university.  I'm thankful to be able to stand in front of students and talk about subjects that I love.  I am thankful to be a teacher.

But, getting back to the J. J. Abrams question:

Is the new Star Wars movie going to be any good?

And the answer from Ives is:

And now, he thought, his boy was dead, and even if he were to rise, to be reincarnated in some other form, their lives would not be the same.

Yeesh, that doesn't sound very promising at all.  Reincarnation.  Star Wars in some other form.

Maybe Saint Marty should stay home on December 18.

Off the Top of My Head

November 2: Poet of the Week, Robert Hass, "Basho: A Departure," "Ives" Dip, Off the Top of My Head

I do not have much time this evening to be reflective.  In a little over an hour, I have to meet my wife and attend a performance given by my daughter's dance studio.  It's an annual event that usually takes place right after Halloween.  So, I am feeling a little rushed at the moment.

However, I did have time to choose the next Poet of the Week.  Robert Hass.  I chose him simply because I love the following poem from his collection Field Guide:

Basho:  A Departure

by:  Robert Hass

     Summer is over and
we part, like eyelids,
     like clams opening.

First, I love haiku.  Second, I love the longing and loss in these three really short lines.  It's a poem that really captures autumn in all its letting-go-ness.  October and November are letting-go months.  Summer lets go.  Leaves let go.  Light lets go.  It's a season of parting.

I am not going to get all morose on you tonight.  I did that in yesterday's post.  In fact, in the days leading up to the American holiday of Thanksgiving, I have decided to give thanks for something in every post.  This task may sound easy, but I am a perpetual pessimist.  Some people see the glass as half-full, and some see it as half-empty.  I see the glass as a petri dish of virulent bacteria.

So, setting aside my normal tendencies, today I give thanks for . . . my daughter's dance performance.  It's something to which I look forward every year.  The music is good, and I get to see my daughter doing something she loves.  Plus, for an hour or so, I don't worry about bills to pay or papers to grade.  It's a great escape.

That wasn't as painful as I thought it was going to be.

It is also time for my weekly Ives dip.  There's only one question really pressing on my mind this evening:

Will I be able to afford to get the brakes on my car fixed soon?

And the answer:

Then they were silent.  They walked up a stretch of the block, across the way from the projects, a nerve-racking experience, even with a guard in a booth, because people were always getting held up, sometimes stabbed on that street.  They had reached Broadway when Robert added:  "You know, sometimes I think about what it would be like to be dead.  All I know is that He will be waiting.  It scared me for a long time, but you know what, Pop?  It doesn't anymore."

I suppose that response could mean that I don't really have to worry.  Robert isn't afraid of death anymore because he knows that God is going to be there for him.  Maybe I should stop fretting about my brakes because God is already working on a solution.

Saint Marty just has to trust.  Have faith.  Give thanks.

Off the Top of My Head

October 5: Saint Marty's Day, Poet of the Week, "When They Draw Us," "Ives" Dip, Adventures of Stickman

Happy Saint Marty's Day!

Yes, the day has finally arrived.  Hopefully, all of my disciples have had a chance to celebrate.  Tonight, I'm sure, everyone will be gathering around their Saint Marty's Day trees to share bowls of tapioca and bask in the warm glow of the twinkling lights.  Maybe put on a little Saint Marty's Day music by Judy Garland or Bing Crosby.

I, myself, have had a very nice Saint Marty's Day.  My desk at work was bedecked with signs and banners when I arrived.  Later, I was given a box of Saint Marty's Day candies (chocolates and taffy and truffles).  All of my coworkers stopped by to wish me "Happy Saint Marty's Day!"  Tonight, when I get home, I will relax with a cup of Saint Marty's Day cheer.

On this auspicious day, I am pleased to announce that the Poet of the Week is Eric Torgersen.  I've had his 2012 collection of poems, Heart. Wood., for a while, and I find the fierce simplicity and clarity of his lines hypnotic.  I think you will, too: 

When They Draw Us

by:  Eric Torgersen

When they draw us, the children,
as great beaming sun-faces
balanced on sticks, waving sticks,
can it be that they see us so soon
with a clarity we believe
comes only with age?

They draw us out
of ourselves, our trembling palaces,
into the fragile worlds
they play, dream fear into being,
as if they know even now
we will be going.

A haunting little poem that strikes at the heart of every parent.  Yes, children do seem to grasp the fragility of life at a very young age, I think.  A few weeks ago, my seven-year-old son was listening to songs from one of my CDs.  He looked at me and said, "Umm, Daddy, when you die, can I have this CD?"  That's it.  He knows that I'm not going to be around forever, and he's laying claim to my belongings.  Happy Saint Marty's Day!

In the spirit of the holiday, my Ives dip question deals with one of the most important Saint Marty's Day mysteries:

Will Saint Marty be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature this year (winner to be announced on October 8 at the Swedish Academy)?

And the answer from Ives this blessed night:

"Please," Ives was saying.  "In good conscience I can't condone it.  No."

Well, I don't think that answer is very clear.  I guess I'll just have to wait until Thursday morning to find out.

Saint Marty, Nobel Laureate.  Just trying it on for size.

Adventures of STICKMAN

September 21: Poet of the Week, Tomas Transtromer, "After a Death," "Ives" Dip, Adventures of Stickman

Since it is approaching Saint Marty's Day, which, coincidentally, usually falls during the same week that the Swedish Academy announces the recipient of the year's Nobel Prize in Literature, I have decided to feature Tomas Transtromer as the Poet of the Week.  Two years ago, Transtromer won the Big Prize, which was convenient since he lives in Stockholm and had a very short commute to the Prize Ceremony.

Transtromer is not well-known in the United States, but he is an incredible poet, his work lyrically complex.  I must admit that I have become a great fan.

After a Death

by:  Tomas Transtromer

Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside.  It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.

One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.

It is still beautiful to feel the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales.
 

You all know how I've been struggling in the weeks following my sister's death.  Up days and down days.  Today was mixed.  Cleaning out my e-mail inbox at work, I came across a message my sister sent to me three years ago on my birthday.  The body of the message wasn't profound.  It was simply the words of "Happy Birthday" typed out, like so:

Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday, dear Martin.
Happy birthday to you.

For a few moments, I could see her sitting at her desk, early in the morning, typing those words and then clicking the "send" button.  It made me both incredibly happy and incredibly sad.  I didn't delete the message.  In a couple of weeks, on Saint Marty's Day, I will open it again.  Reread it.  Think of how she would call me at work on my birthday, sing in my ear at five o'clock in the morning.

For me, my sister's e-mail was like Transtromer's shimmering comet tail, the afterglow of a life cut far too short.  I am participating in another nature essay event this evening, and, as I stand up to read, I will be thinking of her.  The bright flash of her among the stars.

So, my question this evening for my Ives dip is this:

Does my sister know how much she is missed?

And the answer:

And then Ives blinked and found himself standing on the sidewalk beside his wife, across the street from the Church of the Ascension.  On the pavement, just by his feet, was a large piece of canvas, and under it a body, stretched out.  Then the officer lifted off the canvas and shined a flashlight onto the face to reveal the shocked and bewildered expression of his son.

Edward and Annie Ives confronting the death of their son.  It's incredibly moving, and the two words that always stick with me are "shocked and bewildered," as if Robert can't believe what's happened to him.  Maybe my sister feels the same way, wherever she is.  Or maybe she's looking down on me, right now, wanting to tell me she's OK.  Happy even.


That thought gives Saint Marty some comfort.

Adventures of STICKMAN

May 11: Pictures, Charlie Brown, "Ives" Dip

My wife's church is putting together a new church directory.  That means that all the families in the congregation have to sign up to get their pictures taken.  As incentive, each family receives a free 8X10 of the picture that will appear in the new directory.

This evening, I had the dubious pleasure of sitting down with my wife and kids for our portrait session.  My kids looked great.  My wife looked beautiful.  I looked like Charlie Brown on prednisone.  My head was round and huge, and, because of my blue shirt, I looked like a cross between the blueberry Violet Beauregarde and a Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon.

I have struggled with my weight for most of my life.  I've gone up and down in sizes more times than Oprah.  I'm not happy with myself right now, and I have to do something about it.  Tomorrow, I'm going to go to the gym right after I'm done with work.  I'm also going to try to curb my chocolate consumption.  Drink more water.  Eat more fruit.  Exercise daily.

At least, that's my plan tonight.  I may have to print out a picture of Charlie Brown and put it on the refrigerator, with the caption, "You're a fat man, Charlie Brown."

Which brings me to my Ives dip question:

Is the new Peanuts movie going to be any good?  (Bet you thought I was going to ask a question about losing weight.)

And the answer from the universe of Ives is:

...Then he would end up in the kitchen where his plate would be heaped with food, even if he had already eaten.

Hmmmm.  I have no idea what the sentence has to do with Charlie Brown and Snoopy.

Saint Marty is going to go to the kitchen and get a big bowl of Cheetos ice cream cone piece of pizza cup of water.

A selfie...

January 5: Home for the Holidays, Christmas Music, "Ives" Dip

I am sitting on my couch.  The furnace is blasting out heat.  It's -9 degrees outside.  With the windchill, that's about -30 degrees.  It's a good day to be on vacation.  Home for the holidays, if you will.  I have nothing to do but listen to Christmas music, type a couple of blog posts, and feed my kids (whose vacations have been extended by at least one day, thanks to the temperatures).  Religion and dance classes have been cancelled for this evening.  It's time to hibernate in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

My wife got called into work this morning.  The phone rang around 7 a.m.  I thought it was my sister calling from the hospital.  It wasn't.  So, on the first day of my vacation, there I was at 7:10 a.m., clearing the bottom of my driveway in 40-below-zero windchills.  I am happy to report that both cars started, all snow has been moved, and my wife got to her place of employment safely.

I truly have no plans today.  I want to read.  I want to rest.  Tomorrow, I will start putting my syllabi together for the coming semester.  Maybe I'll go out to lunch with a friend, depending on whether my kids have school.  I'm not used to this kind of freedom.  Generally, I'm not the play-it-by-ear person.  I like lists and schedules.  Today, however, I'm going to indulge myself.

I just received a phone call about my sister in the hospital.  After three days, she finally has a diagnosis:  sepsis.  I thought her caretakers (and I use that term loosely) had already ruled out that possibility.  Call me silly, but my sister has been battling a chronic infection for almost two months.  Sepsis should have been one of the first things for which she was tested.

Yes, I'm a little upset.  Having worked in the health care industry for going on 17 years, I can't stand incompetence and mismanagement.  I'm trying to avoid a rant here.  I think I'll just ask my question for my first Ives dip of the year:

Is my sister going to be alright?

And the answer from Mr. Ives' Christmas is:

And then Ives blinked and found himself standing on the sidewalk beside his wife, across the street from the Church of the Ascension.  On the pavement, just by his feet, was a large piece of canvas, and under it a body, stretched out.  Then the officer lifted off the canvas and shined a flashlight onto the face to reveal the shocked and bewildered expression of his son.

OK, that is about the last paragraph I wanted my finger to land on this afternoon.  Not very comforting.  Thank goodness, I'm not a superstitious person.  Superstition is for people who have little trust in God.  I trust God.  I may not always like His answers to my prayers, but I trust Him.

I phoned a friend after I got the news about my sister.  After a short conversation, my friend said, "I don't know what to say about all this.  But I do know that we have a good God."

Saint Marty's counting on that.

I choose goodness