March 29: The Future, In My Face, Poem from "Kyrie"

Right now, I try not to think too much about the future.  The furthest I allow myself to think of the future is this:  what is for dinner tonight?

I am not being an ostrich, sticking my head in the sand.  I am fully engaged in what is going on in the world.  Don't have a choice about it.  I'm a teacher and healthcare worker and church musician, professions that have been impacted greatly by this pandemic.  Reality is in my face all day, every day.

Being a poet, I also grapple with the truth of this crisis.  That's what poets have been doing since the beginning of time.  Homer dealt with the Trojan War and its aftermath.  Thomas Nashe wrote about the Black Plague, that killed 30% to 50% of the world's population.  (Chaucer grew up during the time of the Black Plague.)  Walt Whitman dealt with the Civil War in the United States  So did Emily Dickinson, although she did it slant.  Poets stare truth directly in the face.

So, that is what I am doing.  I'm dealing with the daily truths I encounter.  I write about them.  Wrestle with them.  Kick them out of my head.  Invite them back inside.  

But Saint Marty is thinking about dinner right now.

A poem from Kyrie about war and pandemic and thinking about the future . . . 

from Kyrie

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

Dear Mattie, Pug says even a year of camp

would not help most of us so why not now.

Tomorrow we take a train to New York City,

board a freighter there.  You know how the logs

are flushed through the long flume at Hodnett's Mill,

the stream flooding the sluice, the cut pines

crowding and pushing and rushing, and then

the narrow chute opens onto the pond?

I'll feel like that, once we're out to sea

and seeing the world.  I need to say

I've saved a bit, and you should also have

my Grandpa's watch--tell Fan that I said so.

Keep busy, pray for me, go on with Life,

and put your mind to a wedding in the yard--

Thanks to my sister-in-law for my new mask

November 24: Wave Breast of Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Day, Thanks for Everything

There is the wave breast of Thanksgiving--a catching God's eye with the easy motions of praise--and a time for it.  In ancient Israel's rites for a voluntary offering of thanksgiving, the priest comes before the altar in clean linen, empty-handed.  Into his hands is placed the breast of the slain unblemished ram of consecration:  and he waves it as a wave offering before the Lord.  The wind's knife has done its work.  Thanks be to God.

A wave breast of Thanksgiving.  That's my favorite part of the turkey.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of my loyal disciples.  If you're not from the United States, let me explain.  Today (the last Thursday in November) is set aside in this country as a day to celebrate all of the blessings in your life.  I was raised with the story of the first Thanksgiving being a day when the pilgrims of the colonies shared a meal with their Native American neighbors.  It's a quaint origin myth, somewhat based on truth.

However, the real reason we celebrate Thanksgiving, in its present incarnation, is because of a woman named Sarah Joespha Hale.  Ms. Hale wrote a series of editorials during the Civil War, promoting the holiday.  In 1863, Abraham Lincoln declared the last Thursday of November to be a federal day of "Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens."

One of my Thanksgiving traditions is running a 5K race in the morning.  I've been participating in this Turkey Trot for over ten years.  This year, I ran it with one of my best friends from work.  It was cold and damp, but my friend was great company.  She was able to keep my mind off the fact that I haven't ran any considerable distance for close to three months.  Sad but true.  But I managed to cross the finish line without needing oxygen.

And then, of course, I attended two Thanksgiving dinners--one with my wife's family and one with my family.  It was a good day, filled with lots of laughter.  I was around people I love.  I got to eat food I love.  Now, I'm sitting in my living room, writing this blog post about gratitude.

I want to take this moment to thank everybody who reads this blog regularly.  I've been doing this for close to seven years.  Over three thousand posts.  That's a lot of angst, misery, and joy.  And you've stuck it out with me, even during the darkest of times.  So, thanks for everything.

Saint Marty is going to bed soon.  The tryptophan is kicking in.

November 2: Make America Great Again, Walt Whitman, "Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field one Night"

Walt Whitman worked as a nurse during the Civil War, caring for wounded and dying soldiers.  As I said last night, he saw the very best and very worst of humanity.  And he still believed in America, in the hope and ideals of democracy.

I'm not sure that Uncle Walt would recognize The United States right now, with its racism and homophobia and hatred.  Or maybe he would.  After all, I would bet the Civil War was full of Donald Trumps, fighting to "make America great again," whatever that means.

Saint Marty is tired of people trying to make America great again.

Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field one Night

by:  Walt Whitman

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;

When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,

One look I but gave which your dear eyes return’d with a look I shall never forget,

One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach’d up as you lay on the ground,

Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,

Till late in the night reliev’d to the place at last again I made my way,

Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,

Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,

Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,

Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade—not a tear, not a word,

Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,

Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)

Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear’d,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop’d well his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,

And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,

Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim,

Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten’d,

I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,

And buried him where he fell.