June 5: Edward Hirsch, "A Partial History Of My Stupidity," Dumbass

A Partial History Of My Stupidity

by:  Edward Hirsch

Traffic was heavy coming off the bridge,

and I took the road to the right, the wrong one,

and got stuck in the car for hours.

Most nights I rushed out into the evening

without paying attention to the trees,

whose names I didn't know,

or the birds, which flew heedlessly on.

I couldn't relinquish my desires

or accept them, and so I strolled along

like a tiger that wanted to spring

but was still afraid of the wildness within.

The iron bars seemed invisible to others,

but I carried a cage around inside me.

I cared too much what other people thought

and made remarks I shouldn't have made.

I was silent when I should have spoken.

Forgive me, philosophers,

I read the Stoics but never understood them.

I felt that I was living the wrong life,

spiritually speaking,

while halfway around the world

thousands of people were being slaughtered,

some of them by my countrymen.

So I walked on—distracted, lost in thought—

and forgot to attend to those who suffered

far away, nearby.

Forgive me, faith, for never having any.

I did not believe in God,

who eluded me.

_________________________

I start out most of my blog posts talking about myself.  I did this.  I did that.  I hate this.  I love that.  That's what blogging is all about--giving your opinion or ideas about something, for better or worse.  I don't think that I'm an expert on anything.  In fact, I think that I'm pretty stupid about a lot of stuff.

For instance, I don't know how to change the oil on my car.  (I can barely get my spare tire out of my trunk.)

I never remember the rhyme scheme of a villanelle, even though I call myself a poet.  That's what Google is for.

I often forget to bring my lunch to work.

I yell at my kids sometimes, even though they're just being kids.

I eat things that aren't good for me, like Cheetos and chocolate milk.

I secretly love watching Impractical Jokers.

I think Richard Brautigan is kind of a genius.

I prefer Adele songs over Beyonce songs.

I don't care for superhero movies.

I like the film Midnight in Paris, even though Woody Allen is probably a sexual predator.

See what I mean?

Saint Marty is a dumbass about a lot of things.

February 3: Woman and the Pony, Origin of Pornography, Alternative Fact Checking

The woman and the pony were posed before velvet draperies which were fringed with deedlee-balls.  They were flanked by Doric columns.  In front of one column was a potted palm.  The picture that Weary had was a print of the first dirty photograph in history.  The word photography was first used in 1839, and it was in that year, too, that Louis J. M. Daguerre revealed to the French Academy that an image formed on a silvered metal plate covered with a thin film of silver iodide could be developed in the presence of mercury vapor.

In 1841, only two years later, an assistant to Daguerre, Andre Le Fevre, was arrested in the Tuileries Gardens for attempting to sell a gentleman a picture of the woman and the pony.  That was where Weary bought his picture, too--in the Tuileries.  Le Fevre argued that the picture was fine art, and that his intention was to make Greek mythology come alive.  He said the columns and the potted palm proved that.

When asked which myth he meant to represent, Le Fevre replied that there were thousands of myths like that, with the woman a mortal and the pony a god.

He was sentenced to six months in prison.  He died there of pneumonia.  So it goes.

A little history lesson on the origin of pornography from Kurt Vonnegut on a Friday night.

Nowadays, people can turn to the Internet to satisfy their urges for mythological weirdness.  It's one of the curses of the world of mass media.  It caters to the very best of humanity (readers of The New York Times and this blog), and the very worst (pedophiles and President Trump).  I have now made it a rule to fact check anything I read on Facebook.  I must have confirmation from at least three independent news sources.  (Sad thing, most of the news reports that I've questioned and investigated have turned out to be true.  So it goes.)

I enjoy alternative facts.  As I've pointed out in previous posts, in my universe of alternative facts, Tom Hanks is President of the United States.  Chocolate chip cookies contain zero calories.  And I am a graduate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  Go ahead.  Contact Professor Dumbledore if you don't believe me.

It's the weekend.  I encourage all of my disciples to embrace their own alternative facts.  Fritos and cheese dip are health foods.  This Sunday, there isn't going to be a football game--just four hours of really good commercials.  Adele is going to show up at your house tomorrow night with Barbra Streisand to sing lullabies.  You look good in spandex.

See, it's easy.  A willing suspension of disbelief.  I'm willing to look like George Clooney and paint like Picasso while sawing away at a cello like Yo-Yo Ma.  Not to mention that fact that Pope Francis just canonized me while I'm still alive.

Saint Marty is grateful for truth and all its alternatives.

December 29: Thanks His Host, Book Club Christmas Party, Crescent Weenies

What book should I use next year on the blog?  Take the poll:

Book Poll 


I think that they drying pray at the last not "please," but "thank you," as a guest thanks his host at the door . . .

I chose this quote because it sort of reflects my entire day, which has been consumed by two things:  funeral plans and book club plans.

This evening, I hosted my book club's Christmas party.  Agatha Christie.  Chili.  A cheese fountain with warm, soft pretzels.  Lemon bars and fruit tarts, among other goodies.  Plus, we had a Secret Santa exchange.  I got a book of poems by Tracy K. Smith (Life on Mars) and an Adele CD (21).  It was a good night, full of good will.

Tomorrow will be all about the funeral service for my wife's grandmother.  I will be playing the music on the pipe organ.  Nothing difficult--"How Great Thou Art" and "In the Garden."  Two of her grandma's favorite hymns.  Just finished cooking some crescent weenies for the lunch after the service. 

It's been a busy day.  I'm pretty beat, and there's not a while lot of relaxation in store for me this weekend.  Three church services, including the funeral.  New Year's Eve.  New Year's day.  Right now, I keep falling asleep with my fingers on the keyboard.  I just typed "bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbblllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll."

Translation:  it's time for Saint Marty to go to bed.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Martin Achatz):

Vote for next Poet Laureate of the U. P.

February 15: Blindfolded, Grammy Awards, Quincy Troupe, "Eighth Avenue Poem"

In the eighteenth century, when educated European tourists visited the Alps, they deliberately blindfolded their eyes to shield themselves from the evidence of the earth's horrid irregularity.  It is hard to say if this was not merely affectation, for today, newborn infants, who have not yet been taught our ideas of beauty, repeatedly show in tests that they prefer complex to simple designs . . . 

It's a question of beauty.  Is beauty in simplicity or complexity?  Certainly, it's easy to find beauty in, say, a glass of water.  There's less to take in, consider.  A mere eight ounces of liquid and light.  But nobody in his or her right mind would argue that a glass of water is more beautiful than the Pacific Ocean.  Like a newborn infant, we would all choose complexity (Pacific Ocean) over simplicity (a glass of water).

I have been sitting in my living room, watching the Grammy Awards.  There have been some really great moments (Adele, tributes to Glen Frey and Lionel Richie).  Moments that touched beauty.  Then there have been other moments that simply made me feel old (performances by Kendrick Lamar, Justin Bieber and Skrillex).  I didn't find a whole lot of beauty in the latter.  Art, however, does not need to always be pleasing,  It can be challenging, upsetting.  It can make me feel like a Pope Benedict at a gay wedding.  There may have been beauty in the Biebster's act.  I just didn't see it.

But, that's the way with all art--music, paintings, poetry.  The song doesn't always have to be "Ave Maria."  The portrait doesn't always have to be a Norman Rockwell.  And the sonnet doesn't always have to be by William Shakespeare.  Sometimes there's a Kendrick Lamar or Jackson Pollock or Gertrude Stein.  Art that pushes the limits of beauty.

Quincy Troupe is Poet of the Week.  Troupe isn't always beautiful in what he writes.  He can challenge and confound.  But he isn't Justin Bieber.

Saint Marty is not a Belieber.

Eighth Avenue Poem

by:  Quincy Troupe

on eighth avenue
between 116th and
121st streets
some of the junkies
have feet so bad
they could step
on a dime
and tell you
whether it's
heads or tails

She must have seen Justin Bieber on the Grammy Awards, too . . .