May 2, 2026: "The Split," Son's Award, "Teenager Hacks into Heaven"

So, National Poetry Month is over.  I survived all the readings and workshops, a quick trip downstate to Ann Arbor and Detroit, plus the entire week of the Great Lakes Poetry Festival at the library.  Now, sitting in the laundromat on a Saturday morning, watching my clothes agitate and spin, I am both sad and relieved.  I’m sure, in a couple months, I’ll be looking back on the past four weeks with nostalgia.  Yes, I’m glad it’s over, but I’ll miss being in the thick of poetry and poetic events every day.  Sort of like the day after Christmas as a kid—you’re haunted by all the anticipation and excitement of Santa Claus.

Marie Howe writes about ghosts . . . 

The Split

by: Marie Howe

I.

She'd start the fires under the bed.
I'd put them out.

She'd take the broom stick and rape all the little girls.
I'd pull them aside, stroke their cheeks, and comfort them.
—How they would cry.

Brit would fight the German soldiers.
She'd crouch by the banister waiting for them
when I was too scared.

And sometimes, she would push me farther into the back woods 

than I wanted to go
But I was glad she did.

She was mean and she liked it.

She'd take off her clothes and dance in front of the mirror 

and she'd say things and she'd swear.

She'd laugh at the crucifix, turn him upside down and watch him hang.
And she'd unhinge that piece of metal cloth between his legs
and run when she heard somebody coming
leaving me.

Mean as she was, I miss her.

Only twice have I heard her laugh since then.
Once, lying on my back in a yellow field,
I heard something that sounded like me in the back of my head
but it was Brit,

and just now, making love with you, it's hard to tell you
but I heard her laugh.

II.

It began as a fear.
There was something, not me, in the room.

And translated into a dumbfounding
forgetfulness

that stopped me on the street
puzzling

over what year it was, what month.

I began to watch my feet carefully.
Nevertheless, I suffered
accidents.

The bread knife sliced my thumb
repeatedly

the water glass shattered on the kitchen floor
and in its breaking there was a low laugh.

Looking up, I saw no one

but felt the old cat stretch inside me
feigning indifference.

Marie, I'd hear in a crowd, Marie
the air so thick with ghosts it was hard
breathing.

One afternoon, the trucks were humming like vacuum cleaners
in the rain.

It was impossibly lonely,
No one but me there:

I called out Brit, the city is burning,
Brit, the soldiers are coming

and she laughed so sudden and loud I turned
and saw her for one second

all insolent grace, pretending
she wasn't loving me.

I’ve had many experiences similar to the Howe is describing.  You’re out and about, not really thinking about the past or future, just being present in the moment.  Suddenly, because of the smell of an orange  or a voice heard in the distance, you’re pulled back into the past (maybe even to childhood).  Last Saturday, walking into church to play the pipe organ for Mass, I saw an old man shambling into the sanctuary, and I swear it was my father.  Same gait.  Same stooped shoulders and back.  It made me stop dead for a few moments, until the present took over again.

The final event of the Great Lakes Poetry Festival is always the awards ceremony for the GLPF Teen Poetry Contest.  Teens are invited to submit one poem to be blindly judged by a panel of poets.  The winners receive gift cards to Snowbound Books, one of the local independent booksellers.  

My son, who will be graduating from high school at the end of the month, entered the contest this year, at my urging.  (He’s entered the contest one other time, and he was awarded second place, if memory serves.). He didn’t want to enter, rolled his eyes every time I reminded him of the deadline.  He’s a really good poet; I might even apply the term gifted to him, but only when he’s not within earshot.  

This year’s judges all agreed that the teen poems this year were the strongest batch we’ve ever received in the history of the contest.  I sat in the Zoom meeting, listening them debate the merits of each entry.  Usually, it takes a little bit of time to come to a consensus on first, second, and third.  Not this year.  Every judge picked the same poem as their number one choice.  

Long story short (too late, I know), my son won first place this year with his poem “Falling Leaves.”  He was so geeked about it that he dropped his indifferent, cool teenager persona for a little while and allowed himself to be excited and proud.  It was really good to see.

My son struggled so much in elementary and middle school.  Bullies and ADHD and suicidal depression, among other things.  His younger self still haunts me on a daily basis.  I made so many mistakes in those years.  I should have pulled him from the school he was attending.  Should have insisted on an IEP and additional help.  There were some people at the school who really did their best to assist him, but, by the time he reached eighth grade, he was labeled a “bad kid.”  My last interactions with the school district’s superintendent in the weeks prior to the end of that final middle school year proved to me that my son was doomed if he stayed in that educational system.

Thus, my son started attending an alternative high school as a freshman.  He was an unknown quantity.  Clean slate, as the saying goes. And he has thrived.  He went from receiving C’s and D’s on his report card to being one of the people at the top of his class.  The teachers at the high school quickly discovered he had many talents, especially for math and English and writing.

I’m not saying there haven’t been some setbacks, but I am completely convinced that the decision to switch schools saved my son’s life, literally.  The ghost of that struggling little boy was in the room last Saturday when he won the Teen Poetry Contest, and that tiny spirit jumped up and down, hollered and clapped.  It was an amazing moment of triumph that, five years ago, I never would have predicted.

Poetry saves lives.

Saint Marty wrote the following poem as a challenge . . .

Teenager Hacks into Heaven

by: Martin Achatz

Maybe he’s like Matthew Broderick
playing Global Thermonuclear War
with Joshua, something as innocent
as tic-tac-toe triggering Armageddon.

Or maybe he’s prompted to change
his password by a link sent
from his dead grandmother’s
email, and he clicks on it because
he misses her chocolate chip banana
bread still warm form the oven.

Or maybe, just maybe, he craves
everlasting life, like Elizabeth Báthory
simmering in a hot tub of virgin blood,
Keats spying on a nesting nightingale,
Donald Trump carving his face on Rushmore.

He doesn’t want to be a lost soul
knocking at strangers’ houses, hoping
to find the back door to paradise
where Amazon packages are delivered,
garbage bags hunch, and feral cats prowl
for leftover Communion table scraps.

Now that he’s a poem, perhaps
someone in a hundred years
will read him, encounter him
like a forgotten classmate
at a 50th reunion, you know, that kid
who always sat by himself at lunch,
waiting for the cafeteria ladies to give
away the leftover pizza and tater tots.
If you get close enough, you might
be able to read his name tag.

May 7, 2025: "On the Subway," Different Lives, "When I Come Back"

Well, I'm done teaching for a little while.  Submitted my final grades for the semester yesterday at around 11:58 a.m.  (They were due at noon.)  Then I sat and just breathed for a little while, thinking of the last four or so months--teaching and the NEA Big Read and the Great Lakes Poetry Festival and the death of a pope and my sisters moving and my daughter moving and my son finishing up his junior year in high school.  I'm not even going to get into politics.  The beginning of 2025 has literally felt like a couple centuries long.

I've been evaluating my life a lot since January.  Thinking about jobs and family and friends and death and failure and success.  What makes me happy and sad.  What my dreams and hopes are.  Even when I was a kid, I wanted to make a difference in the world somehow.  Cure something incurable.  Discover something undiscovered.  Write something heretofore unwritten.

Now that I'm old(er), I'd be happy just knowing that I made someone smile on a bad day.

Sharon Olds confronts the racial divide while . . . .

On the Subway

by: Sharon Olds

The boy and I face each other.
His feet are huge, in black sneakers
laced with white in a complex pattern like a
set of intentional scars. We are stuck on
opposite sides of the car, a couple of
molecules stuck in a rod of energy
rapidly moving through darkness. He has the
casual cold look of a mugger,
alert under lowered eyelids. He is wearing
red, like the inside of the body
exposed. I am wearing old fur, the
whole skin of an animal taken
and used. I look at his unknown face,
he looks at my grandmother's coat, and I don’t
know if I am in his power —
he could take my coat so easily, my
briefcase, my life —
or if he is in my power, the way I am
living off his life, eating the steak
he may not be eating, as if I am taking
the food from his mouth. And he is black
and I am white, and without meaning or
trying to I must profit from our history,
the way he absorbs the murderous beams of the
nation’s heart, as black cotton
absorbs the heat of the sun and holds it. There is
no way to know how easy this
white skin makes my life, this
life he could break so easily, the way I
think his own back is being broken, the
rod of his soul that at birth was dark and
fluid, rich as the heart of a seedling
ready to thrust up into any available light.

This poem is not easy.  It's confronting racism--the life of a wealthy white woman versus the life of a poor black young man.   The white woman feels threatened by the young man's presence, even though she has no reason to.  Through her words, Olds is trying to put a face on prejudice, make it not about ideologies but about real people.

That's what all poets do--speak truth, even when that truth is difficult.  Truth can open people's eyes (unless you own a MAGA hat).  That's why Stalin imprisoned poets and writers in gulags.  It's also why dictators do things like ban books and attack journalists and arrest protestors.  Truth is the greatest weapon against tyranny.

So, I'm going to share some of my truths tonight, even though my words are not going to stop the war in Ukraine or make the current President of the United States sane.

Currently, in Rome, around 130 some Catholic cardinals are conclaving in the Sistine Chapel to choose the next pope.  Around 1:30 p.m., black smoke came pouring out of the chimney, indicating that no pontiff had been selected.  Voting begins again tomorrow.

I was baptized by a bishop.  His name was Joseph M. Breitenbeck.  I never met the man, but I did see him on TV serving Mass with Pope John Paul II at the Pontiac Silverdome in 1987.  I think my mom thought I was her best shot at having a priest son.  However, I never felt that call.  The best I could do was become a church organist.

Except for a few years (high school into college) when I avoided religion, I've been a pretty faithful churchgoer most of my life.  I find the history of the Catholic church fascinating, especially the highly secretive process of selecting popes.  So, for the last couple weeks (ever since the funeral of Pope Franics), I've been reading up on the rules of a conclave and the names of the papabile (favored cardinals).

I'm sure the mothers of each of those cardinals had dreams of their sons becoming pope.  Perhaps, as Bishop Breitenbeck was drowning me with holy water, my mom had some thought about me becoming the first pope from the United States.  (The first of many disappointments she experienced because of me.)  

Maybe I was a pope in a former life.  Personally, I’d prefer to be the reincarnation of Robert Frost or Flannery O’Connor or Sylvia Plath (without the mental illness, I’ve already got daddy issues).  Of course, before Pope Francis was pope, he was just Jorge from Buenos Aires, and before Flannery O’Connor was THE Flannery O’Connor, she was just Mary from Savannah.  Fame is an artificial construct.  It can change people, sure, but, for the most part, I’d bet Pope Francis still felt like that little Argentinian boy even while blessing the crowds from the balcony of Saint Peter’s.  

I will never be a priest or bishop or cardinal or pope.  I will never be a Southern gothic writer from Georgia.  As Popeye says, “I yam what I yam.”  I’m a poet from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  I’m also a husband, father, teacher, friend, church musician, and library programmer.  In a year’s time, I might be something else.

Whether I like it or not, life is about change and reinvention.  I will not be the same person tomorrow that I am today.  Yes, a bishop baptized me—the same bishop who served Communion with Pope John Paul II over 40 years ago in Detroit.  That doesn’t mean the cardinals are going to elect me the first pope from North America.

Saint Marty wrote a poem tonight about reincarnation, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

On this day in 1977, Seattle Slew won the Kentucky Derby.  Since racehorses have the most interesting names, look up the names of horses (they don’t have to be famous) and use ten to fifteen of them in a poem.  Or make a list of your own made-up humorous, poignant, or whimsical racehorse names.  Write a poem about something other than a horse race using either list of names.

When I Come Back

by: Martin Achatz

it will be as a flower

with a name like Charismatic

or American Pharoah or Tim Tam.

My petals will be striped purple,

my stem laced with thorns

to discourage being plucked for vases.

Or I will find myself buried

in a field of goldenrod, nestled

in the rib cage of a long-dead 

moose or sealed in a tomb 

of sun-baked manure—yes, I will

be a stone so precious it defies

words, begs to be placed on

the tongue and sucked until

it’s smooth as a frozen

tear or frog belly.  At night,

the moon will call me, sing

out my name:  Sunday Silence.

Or maybe I’ll sprout as a feather

in a peacock tail, ride all day

behind her until she shivers

herself into glory at dusk, a pleasant

colony of eyes blinking at the heavens.

A field of Ferdinand grass, swale

crowded with cattails, flash

flood in Thunder Gulch where

unbridled waters swallow

rock, mesa, saguaro in one

big brown gulp—I could be

all of these when I come back.

Or just maybe I’ll be a word or breath

in a poem that makes everyone 

say Damn! then Damn! again,

as if they’ve just found twenty dollars

in an old coat pocket or been kissed

hard by an old lover they haven’t seen

since high school or college.

April 26: "Medium and Message," Beauty, "Mind Blown"

Billy Collins admires beauty . . .

Medium and Message

by:  Billy Collins

If John Keats

had ever held in his hand

a photograph of Marilyn Monroe,

his mind would have been blown twice, at once.

One of John Keats' most famous quotes is this:  "A thing of beauty is a joy forever; its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.  Beauty is truth, truth beauty that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

I think, in a way, this is what Collins' poem is about.  Keats wrote about beauty (and mortality and immortality, among other things).  He was very aware of the fragility and transience of life.  Lilacs bloom and wither in the space of a few weeks.  Sunrises give way to day.  Sunsets, to darkness and stars.  Notre Dame cathedral was destroyed by fire.  

Tonight, I took part in a poetry reading for the Great Lakes Poetry Festival.  Several authors from Harvard Square Press read from their books, and the venue was standing room only.  The highlight of the evening for me was a reading by a great friend whose chapbook was just published.  The poems were dazzling, and I was thrilled listening to my friend give them breath.

Saint Marty's mind was blown, and he wasn't even holding a picture of Marilyn Monroe.

Mind Blown

by:  Martin Achatz

It doesn't take much, just

a line of poetry so strong

it could flatten a Kansas

town with the tornado

of its breath.

Picture courtesy of Sarah Still

April 23: "Google Maps," Find Their Ways, "A Poets Circle"

Billy Collins finds his way . . . 

Google Maps

by:  Billy Collins

My parents' grave

is 1198 miles north of here.

17 hours and 23 minutes

from now,

I'll make believe I'm there.

Everyone, every day is just trying to find their ways.  I do.  You do, too.  Admit it.  I'm not talking about a physical way.  I'm talking about friends and family and joy and love and all the things that give meaning to life.

Collins has buried his mother and father, who are, for most people, the first Google maps, telling us what to do, keeping us safe.  I still hear my mother's voice in my head sometimes, telling me to make the bed, wash the dirty pans in the sink.  And my dad still reminds me now and again to mow my lawn or shovel snow off my roof.

Tonight at the library, a group of poets from the Yooper Poetry anthology read their work as part of the Great Lakes Poetry Festival, and it took my breath away.  I think poetry can be a map, too, giving directions on how to view the universe.  Poetry helps me make sense of seemingly senseless situations sometimes.  It grounds me.  Reminds me who I am and where I am.

Saint Marty might be lost, but, with poetry, he can find his way home.

A Poets Circle

by:  Martin Achatz

Why not a square?

Or a rhombus?

I'm partial to equilateral

triangles, no side larger

or smaller than the other.

Yet, there's something comforting

about gatherings without

beginning or ending,

like a cup of coffee

that the waitress constantly

refills.

April 22: "November Morning," Diane Glancy, "April Afternoon"

Billy Collins admires ducks . . .

November Morning

by:  Billy Collins

My appearance on the shore

has surprised this pair of wood ducks--

the wild-haired male, the smooth-headed hen.

They've left the cover of reeds

to begin their day together,

and I have an afternoon flight to Milwaukee.

It has been a day seeped in poetry.  The Headline Poet of the Great Lakes Poetry Festival, Diane Glancy, read this evening at the library, and she was (no surprise) amazing.

Prior to the reading, I gave Diane a tour of the library and then took her to dinner with a group of poet friends.  Lively conversation.  Mushroom risotto.  Lots of laughter.

Tomorrow morning, like Billy Collins, Diane has a flight home (not to Milwaukee), and the rest of us wood ducks will go about our day together in the reeds of life.

Saint Marty is still a little drunk . . . on words.

April Afternoon

by:  Martin Achatz

The poet stands on the roof,

spreads her arms

as if to take flight,

calls out, "I'm never leaving!"

just as she blossoms

feathers and wings

off into the empty 

page of the day.

April 24: Until I Die, Cindy Hunter Morgan, Pizza and Wine

Santiago has some regrets . . . 

The old man watched for him to come again but neither shark showed. Then he saw one on the surface swimming in circles. He did not see the fin of the other.

I could not expect to kill them, he thought. I could have in my time. But I have hurt them both badly and neither one can feel very good. If I could have used a bat with two hands I could have killed the first one surely. Even now, he thought.

He did not want to look at the fish. He knew that half of him had been destroyed. The sun had gone down while he had been in the fight with the sharks.

"It will be dark soon," he said. "Then I should see the glow of Havana. If I am too far to the eastward I will see the lights of one of the new beaches."

I cannot be too far out now, he thought. I hope no one has been too worried. There is only the boy to worry, of course. But I am sure he would have confidence. Many of the older fishermen will worry. Many others too, he thought. I live in a good town.

He could not talk to the fish anymore because the fish had been ruined too badly. Then something came into his head.

"Half fish," he said. "Fish that you were. I am sorry that I went too far out. I ruined us both. But we have killed many sharks, you and I, and ruined many others. How many did you ever kill, old fish? You do not have that spear on your head for nothing."

He liked to think of the fish and what he could do to a shark if he were swimming free. I should have chopped the bill off to fight them with, he thought. But there was no hatchet and then there was no knife.

But if I had, and could have lashed it to an oar butt, what a weapon. Then we might have fought them together. What will you do now if they come in the night? What can you do?

"Fight them," he said. "I'll fight them until I die."

Another poetry reading this evening for the Great Lakes Poetry Festival.  Cindy Hunter Morgan and Lynn Domina reading in Morgan Chapel at Saint Paul's Episcopal Church.  Pizza and wine afterward.

Saint Marty's koan for this evening:  in the immortal words of Commander Peter Quincy Taggart from Galaxy Quest:  "Never give up . . . and never surrender."

April 18: Everything Kills Everything, Another Documentary, Frozen Yogurt

Santiago knows a bad time is coming . . . 

Besides, he thought, everything kills everything else in some way. Fishing kills me exactly as it keeps me alive. The boy keeps me alive, he thought. I must not deceive myself too much.

He leaned over the side and pulled loose a piece of the meat of the fish where the shark had cut him. He chewed it and noted its quality and its good taste. It was firm and juicy, like meat, but it was not red. There was no stringiness in it and he knew that it would bring the highest price in the market. But there was no way to keep its scent out of the water and the old man knew that a very bad time was coming.

The breeze was steady. It had backed a little further into the north-east and he knew that meant that it would not fall off. The old man looked ahead of him but he could see no sails nor could he see the hull nor the smoke of any ship. There were only the flying fish that went up from his bow sailing away to either side and the yellow patches of gulf-weed. He could not even see a bird.

He had sailed for two hours, resting in the stern and sometimes chewing a bit of the meat from the marlin, trying to rest and to be strong, when he saw the first of the two sharks.

Tonight, I screened another documentary as part of the Great Lakes Poetry Festival at the library.  Except for myself, my wife and son, and my co-organizer and his son, nobody else showed up.  We still showed the movie, but it was kind of a disheartening experience.  Poetry isn't a huge draw, I know.  But, after investing so much time and effort into planning events, it's hard not to take nights like this one a little personally.

However, I did get frozen yogurt.

Saint Marty's koan for this evening:  when life gives you sharks, eat frozen dairy products.