July 26: "Constellations," Paris, Perfection, "Perseids"

Billy Collins stargazes . . . 

Constellations

by: Billy Collins

Yes, that's Orion over there,

the three studs of the belt

clearly lined up just off the horizon.

And if you turn around you can see

Gemini, very visible tonight,

the twins looking off into space as usual.

That cluster a little higher in the sky

is Cassiopeia sitting in her astral chair

if I'm not mistaken.

And directly overhead,

isn't that Virginia Woolf

slipping along the River Ouse

in her inflatable canoe?

See the wide-brimmed hat and there,

the outline of the paddle, raised and dripping stars?

It is late.  I just finished watching the Opening Ceremony of the Paris Olympics and stepped outside to do a little stargazing myself.

It was really dark, and the stars weren't really visible.  I wandered around for 15 or 20 minutes, staring upward, breathing the muddy night air.  Not sure what I was looking for.  Maybe inspiration or peace of mind.  I've been struggling these last few weeks with some insomnia, so going for a walk at 1 a.m. isn't all that strange for me at the moment.

I found the Opening Ceremony in Paris quite inspiring.  Lots of weird performance art,  Great music.  The Parade of Nations happening with boats of athletes sailing down the Seine.  And, to cap it all off, Celine Dion singing "L'Hymne à l'mour" by Edith Piaf from the Eiffel Tower.  If the organizers had simply lit the Olympic cauldron and had Dion sing, it would have been enough for me.

I'm sure there's going to be a lot of criticism tomorrow.  There's always people who want to compare and bitch.  Beijing was better.  Or Rio.  Or Seoul.  For me, that's sort of like saying, "Oh, the moon last month was so much brighter," or, "The Perseids were so much better four years ago," or, "Edith Piaf sang that song so much better."  

Humans love to criticize.  Maybe that's why van Gogh only sold a few paintings before he committed suicide.  Or why Emily Dickinson only published ten poems during her lifetime.  I, myself, haven't really pushed myself to release a lot of my poems.  I'm pretty hard on myself when it comes to my writing.  I revise and revise and revise.  Perhaps that's why I've been working on my Bigfoot manuscript, off and on, for around 20 years.  I have a hard time letting go of a poem that's not as perfect as I can make it.  

Of course, perfection is unrealistic.  I'm sure. over the next 17 or so days, there are going to be a lot of athletes who, under the pressure of Olympic competition, will crumble, for many reasons.  I've seen poets who release fantastic debut collections and then fall flat with their sophomore collections.  Great singers go sharp or forget lyrics.

It's the idea of perfection that fucks you up.  If you think you are capable of perfection, you will constantly be disappointed.  It's really about doing the absolute best you can do at a particular moment.  That's it.  

Tonight, this blog post is the best Saint Marty has to offer.

Perseids

by: Martin Achatz

A poet friend tells me they

have come early this year, streaking

between the stars in cat whisker

flashes so instant that I don't

want to blink as I gaze up

into the black bowl of night.

I wonder if those Greek gods

and heroes and monsters up there

even notice them in their annual

game of hide-and-seek, if those

ancients raise their scaled heads, aim

their arrows, grumble at the spirited

young'uns too full of energy to find

a spot to sit down, read a book, catch

their cosmic breaths, let us humans

with our feeble minds give them

a name and a story that explains

their existences.  Maybe, one day,

a group of them will band together

in the shape of me, and I will join

Hercules in that bright living room,

gazing down on the earth, wondering

where the remote is to change the channel,

find something more interesting to watch 

March 10: Americans Had No Choice, Alternative Year, Year of Saint Marty

The speaker at the Lions Club meeting was a major in the Marines.  He said that Americans had no choice but to keep fighting in Vietnam until they achieved victory or until the Communists realized that they could not force their way of life on weak countries.  The major had been there on two separate tours of duty.  He told of many terrible and many wonderful things he had seen.  He was in favor of increased bombings, of bombing North Vietnam back into the Stone Age, if it refused to see reason.

"Americans had no choice."  That's a phrase that sounds pretty familiar these days in the United States.  Along with "make America great again."  Of course, back in the 1970s, Americans proved that they actually DID have a choice.  The Vietnam War ended, and Richard Nixon resigned from the Presidency.  And making America great again implies that America WASN'T great to begin with.  The problem with that statement is that it involves overlooking the fact that millions of Americans have health insurance who didn't have health insurance a few years ago, and the fact that America has seen the longest stretch of job growth in its history.  Plus, there was the whole first African American President of the United States thing to be proud of, as well.

Well, it seems like a lot of people are choosing fantasy over reality.  Alternative facts over real facts.  I am not going to devolve into a diatribe or rant.  I read way too many Facebook posts like that every day.  No, tonight I am simply going to write a blog post based upon alternative facts.  I want to see if, by doing this little exercise, it will somehow alter my world view in any way.

So, ever since winning the Nobel Prize in Literature last October, I have been inundated with job offers and speaking engagements.  While flattering, these opportunities have interfered with my writing, and I find that I now must retreat from public view to focus on my next opus--a Dantesque, three-volume poem written in terza rima about the rise of Hillary Clinton to the Presidency of the United States.

Next, I have been appointed Poet Laureate of the United Nations.  Over the summer, I will be traveling to each continent of the world, delivering readings to indigenous peoples everywhere.  Tickets to these events are being scalped for prices that rival ticket prices for Hamilton.

Pope Francis has invited me to celebrate Easter Sunday with him at the Vatican.  I will attend a private Mass with the pontiff, and then we will have dinner together.  Placido Domingo and Celine Dion will serenade us as we eat, after which Frank, as the pope insists I call him, will canonize me, making me the first living saint.

In the fall, I will win the Nobel Peace Prize for my tour as Poet Laureate of the United Nations.  In the citation, I will be lauded for "promoting, though poetry, peace and understanding between all races and religions and peoples of the planet."  At the award ceremony in December, I will be mobbed by hundreds of thousands of adoring fans.

In December, I will choose to celebrate Christmas in the Holy Land, where I will deliver a moving poem at the Church of the Nativity.  The world will declare 2018, the Year of Saint Marty.

Saint Marty is thankful this evening for alternative facts. 

October 3: Curious Dream, Celine Dion, "In the Bleak Mid-Autumn"

I had a curious dream last night that stirred me . . .

Dillard writes a lot about dreams in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.  Dreams are the things of hope and despair, love and war.  Dreams drive human beings to write poetry and recite prayers.  They bring saints closer to God, and children closer to angels.

Tomorrow night, the whole world will be dreaming of one thing:  Saint Marty's Day.  All the craziness will be over--the shopping and decorating and baking and gift wrapping.  Church bells will peal, and the faithful will make their way to worship services, wearing their Saint Marty's Day finest.  Peace will settle on the planet, and tapioca will be bubbling in pots on stoves.

Tomorrow night, on Saint Marty's Day Eve, I plan to listen to my favorite album of Saint Marty's Day music.  Celine Dion singing classics like "Silent Night, Marty Night" and "Ave Marty-a."  I may indulge in some Diet Mountain Dew, a traditional Saint Marty's Day beverage.  The lights on the tree will spark ruby and emerald and topaz in the darkness.

One day left.  Less than 36 hours.

Dreams of Saint Marty's Day dancing in everyone's heads.

In the Bleak Mid-Autumn

In the bleak mid-autumn
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Leaves had fallen, leaf on leaf,
Leaf on leaf,
In the bleak mid-autumn
Long ago.

What can I give him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man
I would do my part;
Yet what I can, I give him -
Give my heart.  And tapioca.

Aaaaaaave Martyyyyyyyy-a . . .

September 30: Five More Shopping Days

I'm sure you've all got your Saint Marty's Day decorations up at home by this time.  Just last night, I was sitting by the fireplace, enjoying a cup of Saint Marty nog, watching It's A Wonderful Saint Marty on the television.  It's a wonderful time of year.

There's only five more shopping days left.  Still plenty of time to pick up those last minute Saint Marty's Day gifts.  And don't forget the ingredients for the traditional Saint Marty's Day tapioca pudding.  You can't really celebrate the holiday without a huge bowl of fresh, piping hot tapioca.

Last night, I addressed the last of my Saint Marty's Day cards.  I'll be dropping them in the mail tomorrow morning.  Tonight, I'm going to put Celine Dion's Saint Marty's Day CD in the player, turn off the lights, and relax.  There's nothing better than Celine singing "I'll Be Home for Saint Marty's Day" in French.

As Tiny Tony said in Charles Dickens' A Saint Marty's Day Carol, "God bless us, every one!"

Sing it, Celine!