August 9: Day Two of Vacation, Date Night, Planet of the Apes

This is Day Two of my vacation.  My two-year-old son actually let me sleep until 9 a.m.  I was amazed and a little concerned, thinking he may have aspirated his pacifier or smothered under his pillow.  He was just fine, hit the ground running.  Literally.

I don't have a lot to report today, which is a blessing.  I just received a phone call from one of my best friends downstate.  His wife had spinal surgery yesterday to remove a cyst.  Everything went well, but she's experiencing a lot of pain and can't feel one of her arms right now.  The doctor told her is was because of swelling and she should be back to normal in a few days.  Pretty scary.  I know if I woke up from spinal surgery and couldn't feel an appendage, I may be a little concerned.  Actually, I might go apeshit.

Which brings me to my next topic.  Tonight, my wife and I have our date night.  We're going to see Rise of the Planet of the Apes, which I was shocked to discover my wife wanted to see.  I grew up watching Charlton Heston and Roddy McDowell in those movies.  I don't know how many times I've tried to growl like Heston, "Take your stinking paws off me, you damn, dirty ape!"  Anyway, this new movie has gotten great reviews, so I'm looking forward to seeing it.

Tomorrow I'm going to try to have another new poem to post.  The one I wrote yesterday was really difficult to write.  I wasn't sure what it was trying to say.  I revised it a little bit just a few minutes ago.  I think it's working much better.  I hope tomorrow's poem comes a little more easily.

By the way, my good friend from the university said that he can't get published in the Black Warrior Review either.  I don't feel quite so bad now.  My friend has three books under his belt (two of them collections of poems) and a couple more on the way.

Saint Marty is on the mend.  He's not the only Black Warrior loser.

August 8: Rejection All 'Round, New Poem

Yes, it was a good first day of vacation.

My son let me sleep until 7 a.m.  That may not sound like much, but when you're used to rising at 4 a.m., that's an extra three hours of sleep.  I got to have ice cream with a good friend, and I drove my daughter to her dance lesson, where she learned she's going to be dancing a solo this year in competition.  She's a little excited.

When I got back home, I checked my e-mail, and I found out that my friend from the university and his wife can't accompany my family to camp on Thursday.  In the same batch of e-mails, I found a rejection from the magazine Black Warrior Review.  No big surprise there really.  BWR is pretty experimental, publishes language poems, the stuff that's very in vogue right now.  My prediction is that those kinds of poems are going to be pretty forgettable ten or 15 years from now.  However, double rejection never sits well.

I just got back from a budget meeting at church, talking about new boilers and furnaces.  It was about as exciting as attending a meeting of the local chapter of Young Republicans.

I do have a new poem for today.  I've been struggling with it for the last few hours.  I have to let it go.  I think it's done.  For now.

Saint Marty, signing out.

New Poem Day

With its August heat,
Its swallowtails, rain-starved
Grass, cumulus sky, its lack
Of wind outside my office window,
Today seems like a new poem day.
It could be the bags of clothes
I dropped off at Good Will,
Shirts and pants and socks too small
For my almost teen daughter,
Who discovered two hairs
In her armpit last night,
Took them as a talisman
For the upcoming school year,
Changes about to burst open
In her body like tulip bulbs.
It could also be these quiet minutes,
When I sit with pen, notebook,
Scribble syllables, lines, search
The details of daylight for meaning:
Flat tire on my son's stroller,
Brown spot on my banana
Where I dropped it this morning,
Accidental violence to its ripe
Curve, a bruise so deep
I contemplate amputation of the lower
half.  I can't stand the imperfection
In this fruit, want it to be yellow,
White, untouched, smooth
As a toddler's calf.  It could also
Be the argument I had yesterday
With my father, when he yelled
About Democrats, I yelled
About Republicans, he slammed
A plate in the sink so hard
It shattered, sliced his thumb,
Or the guilt I've felt today,
Like a sinus infection in my nose,
Throat, raw as January ice.  This new poem
Could bandage my father's hand,
Return us to the entropy of late summer,
But he doesn't understand,
Won't read or accept my words
To heal his wounded flesh.
Instead, he'll crumple up this day,
Toss it into the garbage.
Like an empty beer can.
A greasy napkin.

July 26: Ego, Blessed Titus Brandsma, Humility

OK, for the last week or so, I've been totally focused on sending out work for publication.  This morning, I submitted five more poems, this time to the Black Warrior Review.  This magazine is one of the long shots.  If I get published there, it will be a huge deal.  My motivation for this push to publish is purely selfish:  if I don't get more publications, I will never be even considered for a full-time teaching position at the university where I'm currently an adjunct.  And I'm tired of being the writer on the panel with only one book and a couple magazine credits.  I want to be better known.

That is a total ego thing.  I don't want to be a starving poet.  I want to be a poet with a full-time, well-paying job.  Plus a few prizes and awards.  That's all I'm asking for.  I really don't want to spend the rest of my life working two jobs and 13-hour days.  It's no fun.

Of course, when I'm feeling this self-absorbed, God sends me a little reminder about humility.  Today's saint is Titus Brandsma, a Carmelite priest who died in a concentration camp.  Before World War II, Titus did a lot of things:  taught at the Catholic University of Nijmegen, wrote as a journalist, traveled, and evangelized.  When Hitler came into power in Germany, Titus refused to hide from the Third Reich.  That's how he ended up at Dachau.  At Dachau, he was beaten daily, tortured, and experimented on.  The end of his life humbles me:

On July 26, 1942, Titus gave his Rosary to his nurse who had left the Church.  She administered poison by injections, and Titus died in ten minutes.  His body was cremated at Dachau.

Titus didn't really care about being published, even though he was a journalist.  He used his work to combat injustice in the world.  (He once wrote about marriage laws against Jews in Germany, condemning them publicly.)  In comparison, my poems seem pretty trivial, even silly.  I'm not fighting Nazis or terrorists, unless you count Republicans.  For Titus, it was all about helping the children of God.  For me, it's all about helping a child of God.  Myself, to be exact.

Titus, keeping me honest

I guess I need to keep things in perspective.  Yes, it would be nice if I published some poems, but nobody is going to die if I don't.  In the grand scheme of the universe, my poems are about as important as a crystal of ice on Uranus.  Maybe I need to refocus my efforts.  Instead of trying to help just myself, I need to look around, see who really needs help.  That's what Titus Brandsma would have done.  That's what any saint would do.

Saint Marty needs to make a difference, one poem at a time.