March 8: "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow," International Women's Day, Laughter

Caution:  Emily Dickinson allusion ahead!

Billy Collins on a Longfellow in the grass . . . 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

by:  Billy Collins

Trouble

was not

his middle name.

If you haven't noticed, I dislike people who take themselves too seriously.  Perhaps that's why Billy Collins' poems appeal to me so much.  He doesn't mind having fun.  Popping inflated egos.  Seeing the ridiculous and the sublime.  

Today was International Women's Day.  I've been around strong women my whole life.  My mother and sisters.  My beautiful wife and daughter.  Mentors and best friends.  The man sitting here tonight typing this post is a product of the women he's had the privilege to know and love.

One of the greatest lessons I've learned from these wonderful women is humor.  Women have to have senses of humor to deal with all the stupid shit men have done and do in this world.  Think about it.  The Cold War.  Healthcare.  World Hunger.  Climate change.  All the result of male ego, ignorance, and hostility.  

If women had been in charge, the Cuban Missile Crisis could have been solved over a couple Bloody Marys.  Universal health care in the United States?  No problem for a government run by Mother Teresa.  Put Greta Thunberg in charge of combatting climate change.  Julia Child could have ended world hunger decades ago.  And my mom could have stopped all of the insurrectionists on January 6 by just standing on the steps of the Capital with one of her wooden spoons.  

The world would be a much happier place if women were in charge.  There would be a lot more laughter and compassion, and a lot less name-calling and stick throwing. I believe this to the marrow of my bones.  (Of course, there are some exceptions--Marjorie Taylor Greene and Lauren Boebert come to mind.  And, let's be honest, Lindsey Graham.)  

So, for all the joy and love and support that the women in his life have given him, Saint Marty salutes you.

May 22: For My Daughter, Growing Up Too Fast, "Between Cross and Snow"

Another poem I wrote for my daughter some years ago, when I was feeling as if she was growing up a little too fast.

Little did Saint Marty know . . . 

Between Cross and Snow

by:  Martin Achatz

after Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's “The Cross of Snow”

How does Longfellow contain years
Of grief in fourteen lines, words
Black, unsubstantial as the upward
Lift of ash or reflections in mirrors

Of black swans at midnight?  No tears
Fall with his rhymes.  With alphabetic shards,
He combs the smoke and sear from a beard
White as whale foam.  He still hears,

After all this changeless time, her voice
Echo through sun-defying ravines
In the West, through the shadows

Between cross and snow.  In this holy space,
I find my daughter, running in evergreens,
Climbing.  Away.  Up.  Up.  To where woman grows.

September 28: Aurora Borealis, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "Saint Marty's Day Bells"

Before the aurora borealis appears, the sensitive needles of compasses all over the world are restless for hours, agitating on their pins in airplanes and ships, trembling in desk drawers, in attics, in boxes on shelves.

Yes, as Dillard points out, compasses worldwide tend to go a little cuckoo when the aurora borealis is about to appear in the skies.  Their needles twist and flit and jump and agitate, as if they can't wait for the advent of green light in the skies.

People all over the world get the same way about Saint Marty's Day.  In seven days, citizens of the planet will be twisting and flitting and jumping and agitating in celebration of Saint Marty.  I must admit that it sometimes gets a little embarrassing, especially when I see people from the Salvation Army dressed up as Saint Marty, ringing bells on street corners and outside of Walmart.

Of course, my favorite moment of the entire Saint Marty's Day season is in church, at midnight.  The lights are dimmed in the sanctuary, candles are lit, and the organ begins to softly play a Saint Marty's Day carol like "O Come, O Come, Saint Marty" or "What Saint Marty Is This?"  The bells begin to chime, and everyone sings.  Quietly.  Reverently.

I have another famous Saint Marty's Day poem for you this evening.  

Saint Marty's Day Bells

by:  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I  heard the bells on Saint Marty's Day
    Their old, familiar carols play,
        And wild and sweet
        The words repeat
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

    And thought how, as the day had come,
    The belfries of all Saint Martydom
        Had rolled along
        The unbroken song
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

    Till ringing, singing on its way,
    The world revolved from night to day,
        A voice, a chime,
        A chant sublime
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

    Then from each black, accursed mouth
    The cannon thundered in the South,
        And with the sound
        The carols drowned
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

    It was as if an earthquake rent
    The hearth-stones of a continent,
        And made forlorn
        The households born
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

    And in despair I bowed my head;
    "There is no peace on earth," I said;
        "For hate is strong,
        And mocks the song
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

    Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
    "God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
        The Wrong shall fail,
        The Right prevail,
    With peace on earth, good-will to men."

Saint Marty's Day in Hawaii.  Aloha!

May 18: Another Run, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

I went for a run this afternoon.  A very short one.  At the moment, I can barely push myself for a mile.  I'm not sure if rhinos sweat, but, if they do, I was sweating like a rhino at the end of my run.  It was around 60 degrees, and it felt like I was on the African savanna.

I have sort of recovered.  It took four glasses of water and a Diet Mountain Dew, but I'm simply moist now instead of drenched.  Usually, by this time of year, I'm able to run my three-mile route without getting out of breath.  The winter has thrown off my whole exercise regime, and it's almost June.

The following episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired exactly two years ago.

May 18, 2012:  A Walk, New Poem, "Between Cross and Snow"

Just got done with a walk along the shores of Lake Superior.  No, I'm not going to start quoting "The Song of Hiawatha."  It was a lovely afternoon, with temperatures near 80 degrees.  My wife and I had time to kill while our daughter was at her dance class, so we went for a stroll.  It really feels like summer has arrived.  Thank God.

S-U-M-M-E-R!!

I promised a new poem tonight, and I am going to make good on that promise.  The sonnet I wrote is in response to the Longfellow poem I discussed yesterday.  In my poem, I'm trying to somehow find entry into Longfellow's poem.  I think I found both Longfellow and myself.  I think.  I'd be interested to hear my disciples' opinions.  It's still too fresh for me to have any objectivity.

Saint Marty needs to get his butt moving.  His daughter is done with dance.

Between Cross and Snow

inspired by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Cross of Snow”

How does Longfellow contain years
Of grief in fourteen lines, words
Black, unsubstantial as the upward
Lift of ash or reflections in mirrors

Of black swans at midnight? No tears
Fall with his rhymes. With alphabetic shards,
He combs the smoke and sear from a beard
White as whale foam. He still hears,

After all this changeless time, her voice
Echo through sun-defying ravines
In the West, through the shadows

Between cross and snow. In this holy space,
I find my daughter, running in evergreens,
Climbing. Away. Up. Up. To where woman grows.


Disclaimer:  The following cartoon is much funnier if you are familiar with SpongeBob Squarepants.

Confessions of Saint Marty

May 18: A Walk, New Poem, "Between Cross and Snow"

Just got done with a walk along the shores of Lake Superior.  No, I'm not going to start quoting "The Song of Hiawatha."  It was a lovely afternoon, with temperatures near 80 degrees.  My wife and I had time to kill while our daughter was at her dance class, so we went for a stroll.  It really feels like summer has arrived.  Thank God.

S-U-M-M-E-R!!

I promised a new poem tonight, and I am going to make good on that promise.  The sonnet I wrote is in response to the Longfellow poem I discussed yesterday.  In my poem, I'm trying to somehow find entry into Longfellow's poem.  I think I found both Longfellow and myself.  I think.  I'd be interested to hear my disciples' opinions.  It's still too fresh for me to have any objectivity.

Saint Marty needs to get his butt moving.  His daughter is done with dance.

Between Cross and Snow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Cross of Snow”

How does Longfellow contain years
Of grief in fourteen lines, words
Black, unsubstantial as the upward
Lift of ash or reflections in mirrors

Of black swans at midnight? No tears
Fall with his rhymes. With alphabetic shards,
He combs the smoke and sear from a beard
White as whale foam. He still hears,

After all this changeless time, her voice
Echo through sun-defying ravines
In the West, through the shadows

Between cross and snow. In this holy space,
I find my daughter, running in evergreens,
Climbing. Away. Up. Up. To where woman grows.

May 17: Longfellow, "The Cross of Snow," New Book

So, I've began working on a new book of poems.  I will give you a first sample from it tomorrow afternoon.  Today, I want to talk about a poem I love.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote the sonnet "The Cross of Snow" eighteen years after the death of his second wife.  His second wife died as the result of severe burns.  In some accounts, she was sealing some envelopes with wax.  The envelopes contained clippings of hair from the Longfellow children.  A spark landed on her dress, and, when Longfellow came to her rescue, she was completely engulfed in flames.  Longfellow threw a rug over her to put out the fire, in the process severely injuring his hands and face.  (That's why Longfellow always had a long, white beard and moustache--to hide his scars.)  Longfellow's wife died within a day or so after the fire.

Eighteen years later, Longfellow wrote the poem below.  It's beautiful and heartbreaking.

Saint Marty hopes you love it as much as he loves it.

The Cross of Snow

In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face--the face of one long dead--
Looks at me from the wall, where 'round its head
The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.

Here in this room she died, and soul more white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.

There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.

Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she died.

H. W. Longfellow