September 6: Poetry Workshops, Good Tired, "History of Pepperoni"

This past week, I led a couple poetry workshops based on prompts from John Ashbery poems.  The anniversary of Ashbery's death was September 3.  The great poet would have been 93 this year.

For all my friends who put up with my Ashbery musings and obsessing this week, I offer the poem below.  Something I wrote on Thursday.  I'm not sure if it's any good, but it makes me happy.

I'm tired this evening, but a good tired.  The result of mowing the lawn this afternoon, leading a Zoom workshop this evening, and drinking a couple glasses of cheap wine.  My son is screaming at one of his friends on the computer, and my puppy is sleeping next to me on the couch.  She's also exhausted.  From barking at passing cars.  Jumping up and down from the couch.  Chewing on things she's not supposed to chew.

I am ready for some rest.  A good night's sleep.

Saint Marty wishes all his disciples pleasant dreams.

History of Pepperoni

by:  Martin Achatz

after "Sleepers Awake"

Just before or during or after,
I turn myself inside out, look
for what I've just lost, mid-snore
or mid-dream, where I was
at Pizza Hut with John Ashbery,
him telling me about the history
of pepperoni, its roundness and spice,
how he painted with it, or was that Jackson
Pollock?  Maybe Andy Warhol,
Study in Pepperoni No. 32.  Ashbery
was old and young.  Fell asleep
mid-sentence, but kept talking,
writing, it was his best work
about love in his eighties, most
of his life in a museum somewhere,
and his lover (Husband, godammit!
he growled) would change his clothes
when he soiled them, wash
the flaccid flesh of his old young
body, tell him how beautiful he was
in his sleep, when poems hovered above,
around him like mosquito angels.

September 4: I Would Become Better, Stuart Smalley, Quiet is Better

Merton's fears about praying in church . . .

Another thing which Catholics do not realize about converts is the tremendous, agonizing embarrassment and self-consciousness which they feel about praying publicly in a Catholic Church. The effort it takes to overcome all the strange imaginary fears that everyone is looking at you, and that they all think you are crazy or ridiculous, is something that costs a tremendous effort. And that day in Santa Sabina, although the church was almost entirely empty, I walked across the stone floor mortally afraid that a poor devout old Italian woman was following me with suspicious eyes. As I knelt to pray, I wondered if she would run out and accuse me at once to the priests, with scandalous horror, for coming and praying in their church—as if Catholics were perfectly content to have a lot of heretic tourists walking about their churches with complete indifference and irreverence, and would get angry if one of them so far acknowledged God’s presence there as to go on his knees for a few seconds and say a prayer! 

However, I prayed, then I looked about the church, and went into a room where there was a picture by Sassoferrato, and stuck my face out a door into a tiny, simple cloister, where the sun shone down on an orange tree. After that I walked out into the open feeling as if I had been reborn, and crossed the street, and strolled through the suburban fields to another deserted church where I did not pray, being scared by some carpenters and scaffolding. I sat outside, in the sun, on a wall and tasted the joy of my own inner peace, and turned over in my mind how my life was now going to change, and how I would become better.

I think everybody goes through moments like this--Christians, Jews, Muslims, Rastafarians, agnostics, atheists, you name it.  At some time or other, everyone has a moment of clarity, where all the tumblers of life seem to click into place.  When you feel as if you're in exactly the place you're supposed to be, doing what you were meant to do, with the person you were meant to do it with.  Sometimes those moments last a long time.  Sometimes they are as fleeting as afternoon light.

I haven't felt like that in a while.  I've had a few hours--leading poetry workshops, teaching classes, visiting with old friends--when I'm reminded that, as Stuart Smalley says, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!"  Unfortunately, my existential moments have been outnumbering my Stuart Smalley moments in the last year or so.  You know, being awake at 3:27 a.m., searching through kitchen cupboards for Fig Newtons, and questioning the meaning of life.

It's Friday night as I type this post.  I started it two days ago, after a session of Zoom writing and wine with a friend.  I continued writing it last night, after I led an outdoor poetry workshop inspired by the work of John Ashbery.  And tonight, I just got home from cleaning two churches after a ten-hour work day at the medical office.  It's 10 p.m., and I'm exhausted.  (I'm also eating some blueberry Newtons that I've been hoarding for a couple weeks.)

Nobody's lives are perfect.  Struggle is part of the human condition.  It's what makes us human.  Imperfection.  My personal failings are multitude.  If asked to list them all, I would need three Moleskine journals, three or four ink cartridge refills for my fountain pen, and several bottles of cheap wine.

If forced to choose my biggest failing, I would have to say that I overthink everything.  I mean everything.  Dinner.  Blog posts.  Answers to the simplest questions.  Relationships.  Poems.  For example, I'm drinking a glass of wine at the moment.  Before pouring this glass, I sat at my kitchen table, questioning whether I have been drinking too much recently.  In doing so, I went over the last month of my life, trying to remember every time I drank before I went to bed.  Once I had that number, I thought of all the money I've spent on alcohol in the last 30 days.  Finally, I thought about the strong strain of addiction that runs through my genetics.  I came to the conclusion that I don't have a drinking problem, and I grabbed the wine bottle out of the fridge.

That is the way my mind works.  Reading this, you might think I'm a tad obsessive.  But, by analyzing and scrutinizing, I am able to avoid most unpleasant surprises.  Think of me as the guy who's always in the crow's nest, scanning the horizon for icebergs.  But despite all my emergency preparedness, I've been blindsided by a lot of unpleasant realities recently.  The tumblers of my life are not falling into place.  Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.  I've lost my equilibrium.

I could blame Donald Trump.  The pandemic.  Mental illness.  Addiction.  This year has been like a boil that's burst open, all kinds of poison pouring out into the universe.  A good friend, who's dealing with struggles similar to mine, recently said to me, "Quiet is better."  Better than arguing with life, because, in the end, life always wins the argument.  That's what she meant.  Practicing silence is meditation.  Brings peace to moments of great discord.  Allows you to find balance.

That is my wisdom for this night.  Quiet is better.  It's a miracle, as a matter of fact.  It lets you sleep.  Reflect.  Write.  Pray.

All the things that help bring Saint Marty back to center.

September 9: Anxious Times, John Ashbery, "The Problem of Anxiety"

Sorry for my absence yesterday.  I'm still getting used to the obligations and needs of my fall schedule.  Last night, I found myself running from work to home to football game (where I watched my daughter play in the pep band).  Until I sat down on my couch at about 10 p.m., things didn't slow down.

I find myself filled with anxiety right now, mostly because of the changes in my day-to-day.  Teaching things and work things and poetry things.  I am like the metaphorical juggler, adding more and more bowling pins into my act.  Once I get used to it, I'm sure I'll be fine.  At the moment, it's easy to feel overwhelmed.

In these anxious times, Saint Marty needs to take some deep breaths, read some poems, and tell himself that the world isn't coming to an end.  Yet.

The Problem of Anxiety

by:  John Ashbery

Fifty years have passed
since I started living in those dark towns
I was telling you about.
Well, not much has changed. I still can't figure out
how to get from the post office to the swings in the park.
Apple trees blossom in the cold, not from conviction,
and my hair is the color of dandelion fluff.

Suppose this poem were about you - would you
put in the things I've carefully left out:
descriptions of pain, and sex, and how shiftily
people behave toward each other? Naw, that's
all in some book it seems. For you
I've saved the descriptions of chicken sandwiches,
and the glass eye that stares at me in amazement
from the bronze mantel, and will never be appeased.

September 7: Mental Illness and President, John Ashbery, "People Behaving Badly a Concern"

Once again, the goings-on in the Oval Office have left me flummoxed and angry and sad this week, an emotional state that I should be used to by now.  I'm not.

There has been much made of mental illness and the current President of the United States.  I want to believe in an explanation like that, because it, at least, allows me to understand him in some way.  I get mental illness.  I don't, however, get people simply choosing to do bad things knowingly.  Letting poor people suffer with chronic illnesses.  Bringing the entire world to the brink of nuclear war.  Calling racists and Nazis "good people."

I know that good people sometimes do bad things.  I know bad people do good things. 

But Saint Marty doesn't understand how so many people in Washington, D. C., can simply behave so badly every day.

People Behaving Badly a Concern

by:  John Ashbery

Aggressive panhandling, public urination, verbal threats,
public nudity and violation of the open container law
followed us down the days, for why
are we here much longer,
or even this long? I ask you
to be civil and not interrupt night's business.

It was fun getting used to you,
who couldn't have been more nicer.
This was as modern as it had ever been.
They were influenced by him: some dirty magazine
on the air tonight. (Amid the chaos, reports of survivors.)

Didn't the flowers' restoration cat fugue keep spilling,
and like that? It wouldn't be the first time, either.
The pro-taffeta get up and laugh,
investigate or communicate. The night you were
going to stay up late, others will kiss,
and he talks about you, and I don't know what.
Come in, anyway,
and don't lack for tales of the Assertion.

We're talking civilian unrest.
Yes, well, maybe you should take one.

(Do not bite or chew.)

September 6: Chicken Sandwich, John Ashbery, "Mean Particles"

Welcome to the second half of my day.

I'm sitting in my office at the university, trying to gather some energy for teaching my night class.  I have classical music playing (Mozart), and, after I'm done blogging, I'm going to walk down the hall and get my dinner out of the English Department's fridge.  Chicken sandwich.

If you can't tell, I'm struggling right now.  I've been up since 4:45 this morning, so the prospect of another six hours of work is not very appealing.  Perhaps I will put my head down on my desk for a little while.  Try to nap.

I'm not complaining.  This is my life.  I'm used to it.  When I woke up this morning, I hated everyone.  If I were a dog, I would have hid under the bed and bitten anyone who came near me.  I'm still feeling like that.  A little.

Saint Marty needs to make peace with his day, or his students are not going to have a good night.

Mean Particles

by:  John Ashbery

Sometimes something like a second
washes the base of this street.
The father and his two assistants
are given permission to go.
One of them, a woman, asks, "Why
did we come here in the first place,
to this citadel of dampness?"

Some days are worse than others,
even if we can't believe in them.
But that was never a concern of mine,
reasoned the patient.

Sing, scroll, or never be blasted by us
into marmoreal meaning, or the fist for it.
Kudos to the prince who journeyed here
to negotiate our release, if you can believe it.

You're right. The ballads are retreating
back into the atmosphere.
They won't be coming round again.
Make your peace.

September 5: First Day of School, John Ashbery, "Last Month"

The first day of school for my kids.  They rose, complaining about the loss of summer.  My son first pulled the pillow over his head, whined about the early hour.

It's true that this last month of summer came and went like a freight cloud.  Fast and full of baggage.  And now, a new month, new season, new way of living.  It seems like a year ago that we were splashing in swimming pools and drinking gin and tonic.

Saint Marty isn't ready for autumn.  Not just yet.  The leaves must stay green, and the black bears must stay awake.

Last Month

by:  John Ashbery

No changes of support—only
Patches of gray, here where sunlight fell.
The house seems heavier
Now that they have gone away.
In fact it emptied in record time.
When the flat table used to result
A match recedes, slowly, into the night.
The academy of the future is
Opening its doors and willing
The fruitless sunlight streams into domes,
The chairs piled high with books and papers.

The sedate one is this month's skittish one
Confirming the property that,
A timeless value, has changed hands.
And you could have a new automobile
Ping pong set and garage, but the thief
Stole everything like a miracle.
In his book there was a picture of treason only
And in the garden, cries and colors.

September 4: Poet of the Week, John Ashbery, "My Philosophy of Life"

I just learned this morning that the great poet John Ashbery died yesterday at his home.  He was 90 years old, born the same year as my father. 

Ever since I was infected with the poetry bug, John Ashbery has always been there, like Mount Rushmore or the Grand Canyon.  I know I'm using hyperbole, but he was immense in intellect and poetic beauty.

So, this week, John Ashbery is Poet of the Week.

Saint Marty wishes Ashbery safe travels, and may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. 

My Philosophy of Life

by:  John Ashbery

Just when I thought there wasn't room enough
for another thought in my head, I had this great idea--
call it a philosophy of life, if you will.Briefly,
it involved living the way philosophers live,
according to a set of principles. OK, but which ones?

That was the hardest part, I admit, but I had a
kind of dark foreknowledge of what it would be like.
Everything, from eating watermelon or going to the bathroom
or just standing on a subway platform, lost in thought
for a few minutes, or worrying about rain forests,
would be affected, or more precisely, inflected
by my new attitude.I wouldn't be preachy,
or worry about children and old people, except
in the general way prescribed by our clockwork universe.
Instead I'd sort of let things be what they are
while injecting them with the serum of the new moral climate
I thought I'd stumbled into, as a stranger
accidentally presses against a panel and a bookcase slides back,
revealing a winding staircase with greenish light
somewhere down below, and he automatically steps inside
and the bookcase slides shut, as is customary on such occasions.
At once a fragrance overwhelms him--not saffron, not lavender,
but something in between.He thinks of cushions, like the one
his uncle's Boston bull terrier used to lie on watching him
quizzically, pointed ear-tips folded over. And then the great rush
is on.Not a single idea emerges from it.It's enough
to disgust you with thought.But then you remember something
William James
wrote in some book of his you never read--it was fine, it had the
fineness,
the powder of life dusted over it, by chance, of course, yet
still looking
for evidence of fingerprints. Someone had handled it
even before he formulated it, though the thought was his and
his alone.

It's fine, in summer, to visit the seashore.
There are lots of little trips to be made.
A grove of fledgling aspens welcomes the traveler.Nearby
are the public toilets where weary pilgrims have carved
their names and addresses, and perhaps messages as well,
messages to the world, as they sat
and thought about what they'd do after using the toilet
and washing their hands at the sink, prior to stepping out
into the open again.Had they been coaxed in by principles,
and were their words philosophy, of however crude a sort?
I confess I can move no farther along this train of thought--
something's blocking it.Something I'm
not big enough to see over.Or maybe I'm frankly scared.
What was the matter with how I acted before?
But maybe I can come up with a compromise--I'll let
things be what they are, sort of.In the autumn I'll put up jellies
and preserves, against the winter cold and futility,
and that will be a human thing, and intelligent as well.
I won't be embarrassed by my friends' dumb remarks,
or even my own, though admittedly that's the hardest part,
as when you are in a crowded theater and something you say
riles the spectator in front of you, who doesn't even like the idea
of two people near him talking together. Well he's
got to be flushed out so the hunters can have a crack at him--
this thing works both ways, you know. You can't always
be worrying about others and keeping track of yourself
at the same time.That would be abusive, and about as much fun
as attending the wedding of two people you don't know.
Still, there's a lot of fun to be had in the gaps between ideas.
That's what they're made for!  Now I want you to go out there
and enjoy yourself, and yes, enjoy your philosophy of life, too.
They don't come along every day. Look out!  There's a big one...

August 15: Powerful Speaker, Nobel Prize in Literature, Arguing

“Let me hear another sound from you," said Scrooge, “and you’ll keep your Christmas by losing your situation.  You’re quite a powerful speaker, Sir,” he added, turning to his nephew.  “I wonder you don’t go into Parliament.”

Scrooge is not a pleasant guy, at least not at the beginning of the book.  He threatens poor Bob several times in the opening pages.  He argues with his nephew, Fred, and pretty much tells him to go to hell.  Yet, Scrooge also seems to obtain great pleasure in this verbal sparring.  When Scrooge gets the better of the two gentlemen seeking a charitable donation a little while later, he practically gloats (Scrooge resumed his labors with an improved opinion of himself, and in more facetious temper than was usual with him).  Scrooge likes to argue.

This morning, I started reading a conversation thread on the World Literature Forum on the Internet.  The thread deals with the 2012 Nobel Prize in Literature.  Most people who follow the Nobel Prize are nerdy literature students and professors and translators and wannabe writers.  I proudly claim my spot in that company.  This particular discussion thread was started just last week, and there are already six pages of comments and barbs and witty (sometimes) repartee.  Nobody agrees about anything or anyone.  Some love Cormac McCarthy.  Some love Chinua Achebe. Some love Amos Oz.  Everyone hates Philip Roth.

About the only thing everyone agrees upon (aside from Philip Roth hatred) is the fact that they all love the game of argument.  Who is right or who is wrong is irrelevant come October when the winner of the Nobel is announced.  What is important is who sounds smart and well-read and literary.  Some of these people can read six languages.  Others have a clear-cut agenda, simply pushing one writer to the forefront of the discussion.  One year, there was a rabid John Ashbery fan whose response to anyone seemed to be, “Yes, but what about John Ashbery?”

I can get into these discussions, although I never engage in them.  I like to sit on the sidelines and watch the lions tear each other apart.  Funny thing is, none of the people in this Nobel discussion thread will get it right.  They will just cannibalize each other for the next two months and then move on until next July or August, when the whole process starts over again.

I kind of get the feeling that Scrooge is a lot like these literary duelists.  They all think they’re right.  They all think they’re smart.  They all think they’re funny. In the end, they’re all wrong, just like Scrooge.  And they’ll all be haunted by the Ghosts of Nobel Past, Present, and Future.

By the way, in case you’re interested, Saint Marty is going to win the 2012 Nobel Prize in Literature.

Ashbery--always a bridesmaid