December 4: Christmas Poems, Sylvia Plath, "Balloons"

So, I'm going to see if, for the next 20 days, I can find Christmas poems that don't smell of Hallmark or Edgar Guest. 

My first offering comes from Sylvia Plath.  You can say a lot of things about Plath, but you can never call her sentimental.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for Christmas balloons.

Balloons

by:  Sylvia Plath

Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk

Invisible air drifts,
Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish—
Such queer moons we live with

Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these traveling
Globes of thin air, red, green,
Delighting

The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small

Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,

Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.

May 1: Balloons, Molly Peacock, "My Vast Presumption"

As we drove up to Howell High School this evening for the dance competition, there were balloonists getting ready to take flight.  The baskets were still anchored to the ground, but it was apparent that they were about to climb into the atmosphere.  They were billowing striped reminders that summer is just around the corner.

I am not too adventurous.  I don't think I would voluntarily go ballooning.  If the opportunity ever presented itself, I would need medication and alcohol to take advantage of it.  But I can certainly admire the spectacle of other people taking to the heavens.

Saint Marty prefers to be a little more grounded than that.

My Vast Presumption

by:  Molly Peacock

The balloon ride was his birthday present
three years ago.  He never cashed the ticket,
I know, because periodically I'm sent
reminders in the mail.  "I didn't take it,
not yet," he said for nearly a year.  We don't
bring it up any more.  I thought I'd try
a rescue, thought I should--the mire he was in,
his father, his job.  Since we were kids, a lie
was a sin, still is.  He's my favorite cousin.
I'd love to see him way up in the air
billowed over the farms below, the red stripes
teetering from cloud to cloud, from when to where,
far away from bleak here.  "I'm not the type,"
he finally said from his own balloon,
never waving, since never leaving home,
the faintly hysterical first good-bye,
"See you again, soon!"

Up, up, and away

July 4: The Fair Grounds, Independence Day, Fireworks

When they pulled into the Fair Grounds, they could hear music and see the Ferris wheel turning in the sky.  They could smell the dust of the race track where the sprinkling cart had moistened it, and they could smell hamburgers frying and see balloons aloft.  The could hear sheep blatting in their pens.  An enormous voice over the loudspeaker said:  "Attention, please!  Will the owner of a Pontiac car, license number H-2439, please move your car away from the fireworks shed!"

I chose the above paragraph because it reminds me of Independence Day celebrations.  Music.  Rides.  Hamburgers.  Balloons.  Fireworks.  It pretty much describes my entire day.

I attended two parades, ate a ton of bratwurst and kettle corn, and watched a fireworks display.  In fact, I just home.  It's a little past midnight, and some fools down the street a setting off firecrackers and bottle rockets.  It's been a really good day.

I don't know if I have the energy to write a fairy tale this evening.  So, let me just say that once upon a time, a bunch of colonists dumped some tea into Boston Harbor.  Over 200 years later, we all barbecue hot dogs, drink beer, and get sunburned on July 4.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Anybody want  little tea?

December 31: Balloons, Cheetos, and Hope

Well, I finished decorating for the New Year's Eve party.  The balloons are inflated and dangling from the ceiling.  Pretty much, it's all over but the eating and drinking.  And blogging.

I've been trying to come up with some scrap of wisdom I've gained from the year 2012.  It hasn't been easy.  I mean, nothing has really changed for me.  I'm still part-time at the university (although, I'm unionized now, so I'm officially underpaid).  I'm still working for the outpatient surgery center (although, the surgery center is owned by a national health care organization now, so I'm being undervalued locally and from a distance).  I'm still looking for a publisher for my new book of poems, and I'm still living in the same house.  Money is still an issue for us, and exhaustion is still pretty much my constant companion.

President Obama was reelected, and Mitt Romney was sent back to his multi-million dollar estates and life.  (I'm still not sure who got the better deal there.)  The Middle East is still in upheaval, and school shootings in the United States are still a constant reality.  America is still a long way away from universal healthcare, and I still haven't won the Nobel Prize in Literature (or the Pulitzer Prize or the National Book Award) or been named Adjunct of the Year.

My daughter is gorgeous and twelve.  My son is destructive and four.  The oil companies are still bleeding us dry at the gas pumps, and Cheetos are still one of my favorite snacks.

Tonight, at the stroke of midnight, I will raise my cup of sparkling fruit juice and toast the new year with my family and friends.  It will be a moment of happiness and hope.  A time when anything seems possible.  A tenured professorship at the university.  A new home.  A Best Actress Oscar for Miss Piggy.  (Hey, I said anything.)  Hope is the flavor of the day.

Saint Marty is ready to sing "Auld Lang Syne."

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