July 13: Poet of the Week, Beverly Matherne, "Daddy's Hands"

So, I'm going to feature Beverly Matherne as Poet of the Week.

Beverly has been a friend of mine for going on thirty years, and I can honestly say that I wouldn't be a poet if it weren't for her.  She suggested that I take my first poetry workshop in college.  Somehow, she recognized something in me that I didn't see myself.  She has been my poetic mentor ever since.

She is originally from Louisiana.  Her father was a tobacco farmer, and she is Cajun.  So, that would make her now a Cajun Yooper.

This weekend, we are celebrating my father's 90th birthday, on top of all the other things going on.  They are throwing him a little party, and a bunch of my cousins are driving up for the occasion.  My dad's sister is going to be there, too.  It will be a really special time.

Saint Marty needs to get a birthday present for him tomorrow.

Daddy's Hands

by:  Beverly Matherne

Big hands,
strong hands,
browned by the son.

Camel-cigarette hands,
tractor-grease hands,
tough to the touch.

Grip the planting shaft,
grind it in the moist black
just beneath the crust.
See that eternal belly!

Push, push, sweat on the brow
till sundown.
Push, push, sweat on the brow
through life.

Knuckled hands,
soft hands
that rocked me to sleep.

Hands Mama stopped holding,
hands I held in mine,
when you died.

September 7: Just a Few Thoughts...

Yes, I avoided any real political discussion with my post this morning, and I will continue to avoid political discussion with this post.  (Obama)

I just purchased a birthday present for my pastor friend downstate.  It was a book of poems I thought he'd like.  (Obama)  I've had this collection in my Amazon cart for almost half a year, waiting for my friend's birthday to roll around.  His birthday is September 11, so I decided I'd better stop dragging my rear.  I think he's really going to like my gift.  (Obama)

Today, I'm going to have to adjust to my wife's new work schedule.  Usually, by the time I get home from work on Fridays, my wife has the vacuuming and floor washing done.  All I have to do is clean the bathroom and dust.  Now it's all me.  She won't be home until well past 4 p.m.  She's taking my daughter to a doctor's appointment.  So, I am going to bust my ass to get the cleaning done before my son steps off the bus at 3:30 p.m.  (Obama)

I try to get my housework done in the afternoons on Fridays because I like to have a completely free night at the end of the week.  About the only thing I like to do on Friday evenings is, maybe, weed through magazines and pitch outdated issues.  That's my goal.  (Obama)

Well, I need to get back to work.  I'm meeting with a colleague from the university to edit some poems for the literary magazine this morning.  We didn't meet last night.  We were both too tired.  We have to get this editing done, though.  I think they want to get the magazine to the printer pretty soon.  Passages North only comes out once a year, so we like to get the proofreading done in the autumn.  (Obama)

I did it.  I wrote this entire post without saying a word about politics.  (Obama)

My name is Saint Marty, and I approved this message.  (Obama)

My friend's birthday present (Obama)

May 4: Fractals, Friends, and New Poem

I love fractals.  The idea of fractals.  Fractals in nature.  For those of you who don't know what a fractal is, it is "a rough or fragmented geometric shape that can be split into parts, each of which is (at least approximately) a reduced-size copy of the whole..."  That's the definition from Wikipedia.  I find the best way to understand a fractal is to look at pictures of them.  Here you go:

The reason I'm talking about fractals is because you have to understand the concept in order to really get the poem for today.  I started writing this poem while I was waiting to meet with my friend to give her the birthday story I wrote for her.  She loved the story, since no cocker spaniels were harmed in its writing. 

Since the story I wrote was, in essence, about sorrow, this poem is about the recursive power of sorrow, its fractal-ness, if you will.  Hold onto your hats, because, in some ways, it's another language poem.  I don't know why I'm suddenly writing language poems, but it's always good to push yourself.

Now, after your lesson on fractals, I think you're ready to read the poem.  Think of it as an M. C. Escher poem.  That may help.

Saint Marty now presents a little fractal of verse.

Fractally Speaking

I give my friend a bag of sorrow

For her birthday, infinitely green

As forest moss, filled with the kind

Of chocolate truffles I gave my wife

On our last anniversary, dark, bitter

Cocoa my mother dusted on her

Brownies made from my grandmother’s recipe

The autumn after she died under

An August sun.  Blood vessel burst

In her brain as she watered

Her garden, zucchini, carrots, tomatoes

My father couldn’t get to ripen

In cold, Michigan August, bending

Instead to grass, dirt, to killing

Moisture and worm, turning soft, black

Coat I wore to a friend’s wake

Where people hung at the bar,

Drank whiskey, stout, talked about

How she could drink any of us under

The kitchen table with an empty cookie plate,

A note to Santa from my daughter

Saying, I don’t believe in you any more,

But I want a laptop and cell phone and

All these fractals of loss, of tears,

Tiny as paper cuts, large as tsunamis,

Recursive snowflake and coastline

Reflections of all the times I’ve sat,

Listened to my hollow chest

Ring like a church bell tolling Angelus,

I give it to my friend today,

Hope she knows where to plant this birthday
Gift so next spring it will sprout into

Cauliflower and crystal, lightning and broccoli.