March 26-28: Poetry Workshop, Snow, Something I Wrote

This will be a Merton-less post.  Too tired for much reflection tonight.

It has been a busy day.  I woke this morning to about five or six inches of snow.  A storm blew in overnight.  After a week or so of spring weather, greening grass, fifty-degree days, winter returned with a vengeance.  Wet and heavy as a load of laundry.

Church in the morning.  Grocery shopping in the afternoon.  Cooked dinner.  Met with my book club.  Flight of the Diamond Smugglers by my friend Matt Frank.  Then, I led a poetry workshop.  Got done a little after 9 p.m.

I'm beat.  But, I wanted to share something I wrote this evening.  Not sure if it counts as a poem.

Saint Marty is not quite ready to face another week.

Reading Yellow Dog

by:  Martin Achatz

It sits on the top shelf, left-hand side, first
stack. Its cover antique yellow, a Daguerreotype
book--something that would look natural
in a Mathew Brady Civil War photo, ground
strewn with wounded, dead. I can imagine
it in the white fingers of a fallen soldier, clutched
like the picture of a wife or girlfriend. These poems,
simple as birch bark, profound as sparrow song, fill
me with feelings I haven't experienced in 40 or more
years, sitting in front of a potbellied stove, reading
Conan and Red Sonja comic books with my sisters,
hearing something large and black nose through
the garbage in the dark outside. 

I open the book's cover, to where 

its author wrote a note to me

three wars ago: For Martin, 

who knows the bear.

August 4: Judith Minty, "Letter About Guilt from California to the Snow Country," Confession

Letter About Guilt from California to the Snow Country

by:  Judith Minty

Last week, rain fell in a rage,
dragging its muddy hair over the hills.
Flood waters, rose, walls and roofs caved in,
redwoods rose, walls and roofs caved in,
redwoods slid and buried lovers in their beds.
Now this warm Monday, sun
spreads out in the pasture and I've peeled back
my clothes to the skin.  A coyote
straggled from the manzanita grove and monarchs
dry their wings over the poppies.

Friend, halfway across the country, you suffer
a different climate.  Where you are, firemen
wear coats of ice and water freezes
when it hits the burning building.  On Lake Michigan
waves break in crystals against the churning boat.
--But I'm trying to speak of guilt, how I
stayed dry, how I'm stealing warmth
from the winter.  I'm thinking about that cardinal
singing in your snow-covered pine tree.
                                        --Santa Cruz, California

_________________________

This poem is about guilt.  About Judith Minty being in warm California winter while her friend is in the frozen north of Michigan.  There's this deep sense of longing in the poem, as well.  As if Minty craves the beauty of snow and ice.  The cardinal in the pine tree.

Guilt is a sneaky emotion.  If you let it creep into your mind, it can completely control you.  Force you to make decisions that are inherently wrong-headed.  Assuaging a guilty conscience is difficult.  I think that's why confession is so important in the Catholic Church.  It's a way of unburdening yourself to another person, and then that person says to you, "You're good.  You're forgiven."  It's a powerful thing to hear those words.

I'm not a theologian.  I'm sort of an armchair philosopher, I suppose.  I think poets, like Minty, point out these human conditions.  They don't offer solutions to problems.  They peel away the skin and let you see things like guilt fully, like a bright red bird in a snowy landscape.

Saint Marty's not feeling guilty today.  He's feeling a little old, a little tired, and grateful it's the weekend.

August 3: Ambergris, Eventful Week, Beauty

Now this ambergris is a very curious substance, and so important as an article of commerce, that in 1791 a certain Nantucket-born Captain Coffin was examined at the bar of the English House of Commons on that subject. For at that time, and indeed until a comparatively late day, the precise origin of ambergris remained, like amber itself, a problem to the learned. Though the word ambergris is but the French compound for grey amber, yet the two substances are quite distinct. For amber, though at times found on the sea-coast, is also dug up in some far inland soils, whereas ambergris is never found except upon the sea. Besides, amber is a hard, transparent, brittle, odorless substance, used for mouth-pieces to pipes, for beads and ornaments; but ambergris is soft, waxy, and so highly fragrant and spicy, that it is largely used in perfumery, in pastiles, precious candles, hair-powders, and pomatum. The Turks use it in cooking, and also carry it to Mecca, for the same purpose that frankincense is carried to St. Peter's in Rome. Some wine merchants drop a few grains into claret, to flavor it.

Who would think, then, that such fine ladies and gentlemen should regale themselves with an essence found in the inglorious bowels of a sick whale! Yet so it is. By some, ambergris is supposed to be the cause, and by others the effect, of the dyspepsia in the whale. How to cure such a dyspepsia it were hard to say, unless by administering three or four boat loads of Brandreth's pills, and then running out of harm's way, as laborers do in blasting rocks.

I have forgotten to say that there were found in this ambergris, certain hard, round, bony plates, which at first Stubb thought might be sailors' trowsers buttons; but it afterwards turned out that they were nothing, more than pieces of small squid bones embalmed in that manner.

Now that the incorruption of this most fragrant ambergris should be found in the heart of such decay; is this nothing? Bethink thee of that saying of St. Paul in Corinthians, about corruption and incorruption; how that we are sown in dishonor, but raised in glory. And likewise call to mind that saying of Paracelsus about what it is that maketh the best musk. Also forget not the strange fact that of all things of ill-savor, Cologne-water, in its rudimental manufacturing stages, is the worst.

I should like to conclude the chapter with the above appeal, but cannot, owing to my anxiety to repel a charge often made against whalemen, and which, in the estimation of some already biased minds, might be considered as indirectly substantiated by what has been said of the Frenchman's two whales. Elsewhere in this volume the slanderous aspersion has been disproved, that the vocation of whaling is throughout a slatternly, untidy business. But there is another thing to rebut. They hint that all whales always smell bad. Now how did this odious stigma originate?

I opine, that it is plainly traceable to the first arrival of the Greenland whaling ships in London, more than two centuries ago. Because those whalemen did not then, and do not now, try out their oil at sea as the Southern ships have always done; but cutting up the fresh blubber in small bits, thrust it through the bung holes of large casks, and carry it home in that manner; the shortness of the season in those Icy Seas, and the sudden and violent storms to which they are exposed, forbidding any other course. The consequence is, that upon breaking into the hold, and unloading one of these whale cemeteries, in the Greenland dock, a savor is given forth somewhat similar to that arising from excavating an old city graveyard, for the foundations of a Lying-in Hospital.

I partly surmise also, that this wicked charge against whalers may be likewise imputed to the existence on the coast of Greenland, in former times, of a Dutch village called Schmerenburgh or Smeerenberg, which latter name is the one used by the learned Fogo Von Slack, in his great work on Smells, a text-book on that subject. As its name imports (smeer, fat; berg, to put up), this village was founded in order to afford a place for the blubber of the Dutch whale fleet to be tried out, without being taken home to Holland for that purpose. It was a collection of furnaces, fat-kettles, and oil sheds; and when the works were in full operation certainly gave forth no very pleasant savor. But all this is quite different with a South Sea Sperm Whaler; which in a voyage of four years perhaps, after completely filling her hold with oil, does not, perhaps, consume fifty days in the business of boding out; and in the state that it is casked, the oil is nearly scentless. The truth is, that living or dead, if but decently treated, whales as a species are by no means creatures of ill odor; nor can whalemen be recognised, as the people of the middle ages affected to detect a Jew in the company, by the nose. Nor indeed can the whale possibly be otherwise than fragrant, when, as a general thing, he enjoys such high health; taking abundance of exercise; always out of doors; though, it is true, seldom in the open air. I say, that the motion of a Sperm Whale's flukes above water dispenses a perfume, as when a musk-scented lady rustles her dress in a warm parlor. What then shall I liken the Sperm Whale to for fragrance, considering his magnitude? Must it not be to that famous elephant, with jeweled tusks, and redolent with myrrh, which was led out of an Indian town to do honor to Alexander the Great?

So, an entire chapter on the perfume of whales.  Again, this is one of Melville's digressions, which take up a majority of the entire novel.  Yes, whales were the source of perfumes back in the day.  And yes, the source of ambergris is a little disgusting.  However, I would venture to say that many beautiful things in the world have very unbeautiful sources.  As the old saying goes, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

First, I must apologize for my prolonged absence.  I have had an eventful week of . . . well . . . events.  A tribute to poet Judith Minty on Wednesday night, for which I wrote a brand new poem.  A poetry workshop last night.  In between, I've been doing publicity and making arrangements for a Keweenaw Flood Relief event that I've organized for next Wednesday night.  That has included arranging readers and donations, doing interviews, trying to set up something with the local television station, and contacting a caterer.  Like I said, an eventful week.

But I did have many moments of beauty in the midst of all this chaos.  The Judith Minty tribute was beautiful and funny and moving.  I loved hearing the stories from friends and acquaintances.  And I loved hearing Minty's poems read aloud by so many different voices, including a singer/songwriter who put a couple of them in musical settings.  So inspiring.

That was the first beautiful thing in a week of chaos.

At this event, I also had a very unexpected compliment come my way.  I was speaking with the chair of the English Department before things got rolling, and she said, "I want you to know how impressed I've been with the work you've done as Poet Laureate.  How you've used the position to focus on charities and different causes.  That's been really wonderful."

I don't deal with praise well.  Don't think what I do is all that unique or special.  I do what my mother taught me when I was very young:  I try to use the gifts that I've been given to do some good in the world.  Plain and simple.  So, given a position like Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula, I view it as a wonderful vehicle not only to demystify poetry for the public, but also to focus a little more attention on things like homelessness and hunger and, next Wednesday, flood relief.

I thanked my boss for the compliment and said something like, "It's something that I feel very strongly about."

That was the second beautiful thing in a week of chaos.

Last night, I was given the opportunity to lead my monthly poetry workshop.  These workshops have become one of the highlights of my time as Poet Laureate.  At the university, I'm not given many opportunities to talk about and teach poetry.  That's saved for the full-timers.  So, being able to share my passion for poetry with a group of like-minded people is very fulfilling.  It recharges my poetic batteries.

And that was the third beautiful thing in a week of chaos.

Next week promises more chaos.  A poetry workshop, open mic, and the Flood Relief event.  However, I know there will also be moments of beauty, as well.  And that makes it all worthwhile.

Saint Marty is thankful this evening for chaos.

August 3: Judith Minty, "Deer at the Door," Haunted

Deer at the Door

by:  Judith Minty

What drew them up the hill, away
from sheltering pines, overgrown sumac, everything
in leaf now that summer's nearly here?
Was it light inside this little house,
our soft conversation, our attention
to the roast, the salad, before us?
What is it they saw, standing by the window,
their gentle heads raised, then browsing
again in the grass?  Was it our shadows
bent over our plates, our acceptance
of what we have, what we are,
as the slow weight of day began to leave?
--I remember the beginning of a moment
the sparrow's throat opening, the dog
rising from her place on the rug, me standing, you
looking up, the song starting, the dog and I
crossing the room, my hand on the door,
the smiles on our faces, the song on its last notes,
everything in harmony for a few beats of the heart.
Then the door opened
and their heads lifted, the air turned still.
I heard the rustle of grass, saw their white tails flash
as they darted awkwardly down the hill,
and dusk came on like the closing of an eye.

_________________________

This evening, I give you Judith Minty, because I have been haunted by her and her poetry all week.  It's a good haunting, full of slow beauty and revelation.  I've enjoyed being in the company of her spirit.  I've carried a couple of her books with me since Monday.

Judith was a force of nature.  A blizzard and a hurricane at one time.  Black bear and deer.  Greening leaf and fresh snow.  All of it.

Saint Marty was lucky to have known her.

November 18: Fallow of Winter, Judith Minty, 27 from "Fall"

You know, with everything going wrong with my father, I've been thinking a lot about aging and declining.

There's a pine tree in my backyard.  It was uprooted and blown over by a windstorm this past May.  Its roots have become branches, and its branches have become roots.  It was certainly past its prime.  I haven't had the tree removed because I can't afford it.  However, I've become fond of its horizontal existence.

Saint Marty is ready for the fallow of winter.

27 of "Fall" from Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

These trees are past their prime.
Over sixty feet tall, lower branches
stripped of needles, roots
heaved up, bent like arthritic hands.

I fill the front of my shirt
with pine cones.  Later, when I rocK
on the porch, nodding my head,
I will smell the floor of the woods.

November 17: For My Father, Judith Minty, 3 from "Fall"

Saint Marty has a poem tonight for his father . . .

3 of "Fall" from Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

My father's slippers, found
in a trunk, now mine to wear.
Too large, creases in the leather
barely touch the flesh.
I slide my toes to the end, along the old ridges.

His feet clump over linoleum floor,
table to dishpan, woodbox to stove.
Only the scrap of rug by the door
muffles his presence.

November 16: A Friend, Judith Minty, 21 of "Fall"

I have a friend who was recently diagnosed with breast cancer.  She is preparing for surgery and chemo.  I don't think she sees herself as brave or strong, but she is.  When I spoke with her this afternoon, she talked about breast cancer as simply a bump in the road on her journey to becoming a registered nurse. 

She isn't alone.  She is surrounded by love, and she knows this.

Saint Marty has a poem for his friend this evening . . .

21 of "Fall" from Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

When the sun falls,
oaks pull in their branches
and shadows
creep closer to the cabin.
I am never alone in these woods.

November 14: Inner Hermit, Judith Minty, 6 from "Fall"

I spend most of my days talking with people.  That's my job.  I register patients for surgery, answer phones, meet with students, teach classes.  My days are all about words.

In a single 24-hour period, I may have sixty or so minutes where I'm allowed to withdraw and not think about the rest of the world, if I'm lucky.  Usually, I spend a portion of that time writing these blog posts.  So, in a way, I'm still talking.  I just get to choose what I want to say more freely, without fear of alienating anyone. 

Sometimes, I dream of being Thoreau, living in the woods with my notebook and pen.  Or Judith Minty, retreating to her father's cabin on the Yellow Dog River.  The thought of that kind of isolation appeals to me at the moment.

Saint Marty is getting in touch with his inner hermit.

6 from "Fall" of Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

All day, I stay close to the cabin.
My ax rings the morning.  And half the afternoon
I gather kindling, spread the sticks
to dry.  I am menstruating and have heard
that bear are attracted to women when they bleed.

I haven't spoken in three days, have seen nothing
bigger than chipmunks and squirrels
at the woodpile.  It is only beyond the perimeter
that black shapes hide, breath steaming,
low growls circling their throats.
When the branch falls, I swirl to the sound, ax raised.

November 13: Black-and-White Sadness, Judith Minty, 7 from "Fall"

For some reason, I am drawn to older poetry collections this month, books that I have read and reread many times.  This week, it's Judith Minty's Yellow Dog Journal, which still ranks in the top five of my all-time favorites. 

I am melancholy today.  Perhaps it's the coming of winter.  The gray and slush and cold.  The darkening of the sky at five o'clock in the afternoon.  I found myself at home alone this afternoon, after a doctor's appointment, lying on my bed with the lights out.  The silence, which I usually welcome, was oppressive.  My mind wandered back and forth over my life--births and deaths, successes and failures. 

By the time I climbed out of bed, I was steeped in black-and-white sadness.  Haven't been able to shake it off yet.  I'm sitting in my office at the university, a stack of papers in front of me, filled with a kind of dread that has nothing to do with grading.

My life seems to be sliding by way too fast.  I'm feeling a little out of control, and, when I'm like this, I want to hibernate.  Shut myself away from the world and just read and read, write and write.  That's all.

Or maybe Saint Marty just needs some spiked eggnog. 

7 from "Fall" of Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

Sitting on the porch.
Can't tell if I was dozing or reading,
the eye had wandered from words,
turned inward,
so that I only saw it
after the chipmunk's scream.

The hawk spread its wings,
so close I might have touched his feathers,
and lifted the chipmunk up
out of the clearing
and made no sound.

July 1: Independence, Judith Minty, "Section 9 of Spring"

Welcome to the first day of July.  In a few days, the United States of American celebrates Independence Day.  For me, it's a bittersweet holiday, because of the current political situation here.  Freedom seems to be at a premium right now, as well as truth and compassion.

In times like this, I think that words are important.  Language is important.  Poetry is important.  It serves as a balm in times of struggle.  It lifts the spirit, soothes, heals.

I celebrate everything that Independence Day represents.  Freedom.  Choice.  Love.  Truth.  Empathy.  Happiness.  Beauty.  Courage.  Compassion.  A welcoming heart.

Funny, that's a pretty good description of poetry, too.

Saint Marty's just sayin'.

Section 9 of "Spring" from Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

All winter, my poems
were thin and icy, my head
filled with other people's words.
Those dark months, I lived
in the corners of failure
Now, here by the river,
the hermit thrush opens his throat,
lines flow over the page, the afternoon sun
warms my shoulders, my back
in its slow circle.

June 30: Dinner, Judith Minty, "Section 16 from Fall"

I'm really hungry.  Since I got home from work this afternoon, I've been grading assignments for my students.  Now, I've written two blog posts.  Pretty soon, I will sit down and eat dinner.  I don't know what it's going to be.  Something warm and filling hopefully, washed down with a bottle of cold water.

That sounds like a paradise to me at the moment.  Tonight, the beginning of a holiday weekend, I will stay up late and write some more or read a good book or watch a favorite movie.  A reward for the work I have completed today.

Saint Marty is ready for some food.

Section 16 from "Fall" in Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

This good French bread
from the Negaunee bakery
has lasted almost a week.
I tear off a piece, then lather it
with butter.  I remember
she apologized it wasn't a long loaf.
No doubt, hearing my downstate accent,
she thought I meant to cut it with a knife.
How could she know my tongue
ached to thank her in the northland gutteral,
that I would kiss the bread before I ate.

June 29: Simplest Things in Life, Judith Minty, "Section 23 from Spring"

Sometimes, the simplest things in life are the best.  I know that is a cliche, but it's true.

Example: 

I was sitting at my dining room table, writing a blog post this afternoon.  I heard music outside my door.  I went to the window and saw the ice cream truck parked on the corner of my street.  What did I do?  Like a little kid, I went flying through the house, searching for dollar bills.  I found three.  I ran across the street, right in front of an approaching car, and bought myself an M&M ice cream cookie sandwich.  It was heaven.

Simple things bring light to your life.

Saint Marty is just a kid at heart.  His wife would have looked at me this afternoon and said, "What, are you five years old?"

Section 23 from "Spring" in Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

As darkness settles,
only trillium blossoms
and the bark of birch trees
hold the light.

June 28: Feeling Old, Judith Minty, Section 9 from "Fall"

I'm feeling a little old tonight for some reason.

I didn't sleep well last night.  It was a combination of a mind that wouldn't stop thinking and a really high blood sugar.  I was up and down all night long.  I woke up more tired than when I went to sleep.  When I looked in the mirror in the bathroom, I saw an old person.  It was a little depressing.

That feeling has stayed with me for most of the day into the evening.  As I sit typing this post, I'm still feeling slightly ancient.

Saint Marty needs a good night's sleep and a drink.

Section 9 from "Fall" in Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

The stories that stay with you.
Like Sally's, about the bear
that looked in at her while she was looking out.

This cabin has no curtains.
What's the point,
there are no people here.
But tonight fur rises on my neck
when the bear bawls for Mother and all I see is
an aging woman at my window.

June 27: Nightmares about Rodents, Judith Minty, "Section 27 from Spring"

I hate mice.  I hate bats.  I understand where Judith Minty is coming from in the poem below.  The only thing I don't understand is the guilt at the end.  I can't.  I have nightmares about rodents (with feet or wings).  It all stems back to childhood exposure to the movie Willard.  (If you have never seen the film, don't bother.  It's a hideous film about a boy who can control rats.)

But, putting that aside, I will say that Minty's poem is beautiful, despite its subject matter.

Saint Marty does not feel guilty about this post.  At all.

Section 27 from "Spring" in Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

Since I have been here, I have killed
two mice in traps and one bat
I beat to death in the outhouse.
Last night my dreams were colorless.
I think I missed the whir of wings,
the sound of tiny nails on the floor,
fur skimming close to my face.  Something
gnaws inside my head.  It asks forgiveness.

June 26: Poet of the Week, Judith Minty, "Section 13 from Spring"

Sometimes, I return to collections of poetry and poets because I miss them, like old friends.  I have certain books that I've read many times in my life.  Books from which I can quote entire passages.  They have been my companions for years.

Judith Minty is the Poet of the Week, and I'm going to be giving you poems from her collection Yellow Dog Journal because it makes me happy, gives me hope.

Saint Marty needs an old friend this week.

Section 13 from "Spring" in Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

Though nearly midnight,
the sky is dawn's, shadows
of trees balanced against gray.
When I step onto the chill porch
to look for her, the moon
is there.  Nearly full
she forms a cross through the screen:  north, south,
east and west, reaching out
to mark us all in lunacy,
to set us mixing days and nights.

September 12: Share Secrets, Poet Dad, Judith Minty, "Celebrating the Mass," Confessions of Saint Marty

When Caroline was in college Annie would spend hours with her on the telephone, and they would talk like sisters.  They would often share secrets...

Annie Ives tries to remain close to her daughter.  Ives has drifted into a pattern of grief:  overwhelming sadness, dark brooding evenings, outbursts of anger followed by immediate remorse.  Annie has become estranged from her long-suffering husband, and she feels her family slowly drifting away.  Caroline is the lighthouse in the turbulent sea of her life.

Last night, my wife and I attended a football game at my daughter's high school.  I am not a fan of sports.  I can count on one hand the number of live football games I've attended in my life.  My daughter, however, is part of the school pep band.  So I went to hear and see her play. 

It was a really cold evening, and, when the sun dipped below the horizon, it was hot chocolate time.  People were screaming and laughing and talking.  Every once in a while, I'd look over at my daughter in the band.  She was purposely not looking for my wife and me.  It was all about her friends and classmates.

I have noticed that my daughter has been pulling away from me a little bit.  She no longer kisses me hello or goodbye or goodnight.  If prodded, she will present her forehead for me to venerate.  I understand why she's doing this.  She's a high school freshman, trying to become her own person.  I'm no longer the cool dad.  I'm the poet dad.  Dance fan dad.  Musician dad.  Embarrassing dad.

When we're together and nobody else is around, she is her old self.  Funny.  Affectionate.  Loving.  This afternoon, we're going to a dance store to purchase a new pair of pointe shoes.  Then we're going to do a little more school clothes shopping for her.  It will be a good afternoon, once she fully wakes up.  Maybe we'll even go to Dairy Queen for ice cream on the way home.  A daddy-daughter day.

I know moments like these are going to be fewer and farther between in the upcoming years.  Soon, I will be the man who doesn't know anything and doesn't understand.  Then, I will be the banker.  Transporter.  Car-provider.  Birthday- and Christmas-present giver.  Curfew enforcer.  Hopefully, I won't have to be the ranter or worrier or reality-checker too much.

I love my daughter and son.  Being a parent has been one of the great joys of my life.  I'm entering a new phase in my parenthood.  I have a received a promotion to father/manager of a teenage girl.

God help Saint Marty.

Celebrating the Mass

by:  Judith Minty

In this hospital room, lacking the hands
of a nurse, I braid my daughter's hair
into corn rows.  She is nineteen now.
When did I stop touching my child?
We have eaten sandwiches brought in and picked
at food on her tray, then turned to the mirror.
Helpless in these weeks of testing, waiting,
we want to alter her life in some way.

I think of those other mothers who have done this,
their backs aching, their hands tightening.
I think of them standing long hours
on porches of farm shacks maybe, or in tenement rooms.
I think of them weaving dark strands
to make their daughters beautiful
after the meals were served, after
the mending, the washing hung, the fields hoed.

Here, a comb sets our boundaries.
Fingers separate and part, we begin
another row:  blond hair lifted, pulled,
the pattern worked in.  I sculpt to the shape of bone.
Now six braids done.  Now an hour.  Now nineteen years.
We learn each other again.  Hands to head,
fingers knitting a cap, we begin
at the temple, around the ear, crown to nape.

Confessions of Saint Marty

September 11: Once a Year, September 11 Anniversary, Judith Minty, "Hawk," Adventures of Stickman

And once a year, in the winter, a day or two after Christmas, he and Annie would visit their son's grave.  Standing in the cemetery before his son's marker out in Long Island, as the years went by, Ives did not for a moment envision a seventeen-year-old in eternal repose, but a man the age his son would have been.  And there were occasions when he viewed the grave as some kind of "stopover" his son had made on his way to another, more beautiful place.  Sometimes Ives felt that a kind of trick had been played on him.  Why else would he walk into a church and have the sensation that his son was that priest up by the altar, raising the Host and saying Mass?  Why did he often think that he would see Robert again, his face serene and secure in his intimate knowledge of the Lord, that way Ives once used to see it?

The annual pilgrimages that Ives makes to his son's grave are not passive moments of reflection and sadness.  Even years after Robert's murder, Ives continues to imagine that his son grew up, entered the seminary, and became a priest.  Robert is not frozen in Ives' mind.  Instead, Robert grows older, grayer, wiser.  Basically, he is everything that Ives dreamed he would be.

Today was the fourteenth anniversary of the 9-11 attacks.  There were concerts performed, poems recited, and songs sung.  This evening, I attended a football game at my daughter's school.  Before the game began, the announcer asked everyone in the stadium seats to stand and observe a moment of silence.  And then, as the flag was raised to half-staff, the pep band played the national anthem.

I found the moment incredibly moving.  For those few moments, it felt like everyone was united in remembrance.  A collective grief and pride.  I could hear a few people in the stands singing The Star Spangled Banner quietly. 

I often wonder why it takes tragedy to bring human beings together.  For my sister's funeral, my brother from Pennsylvania came.  It was the first time I'd seen him in several years.  In the days following the 9-11 attacks,. I felt incredibly close to everyone--family, friends, complete strangers.  Everyone comes together in moments of despair.

I do not have any pithy words of wisdom this evening.  In honor of the thousands of people who lost their lives on this day fourteen years ago, I offer two things:  1) a prayer of healing for anyone who is grieving a loss; and 2) a poem.

Saint Marty has no fairy tale this evening.  There is no happily ever after on this day for many people.

Hawk

by:  Judith Minty

Dead hawk outside my bedroom window,
even the cats won't touch it.
I laid low for three days,
didn't leave the house,
and wrote my Cherokee friend.
He hasn't answered, the hawk's
been waiting.  Today I took

the tail feathers and geet.
I feel worst about the feet,
hanging from the backporch beam--
fists clenched, claws like my own hand
holding the knife.  I knew
when the other one flew over, keening,
he wouldn't recognize her like that.

               --Jacoby Creek, California

Adventures of STICKMAN

September 10: Surface of Jupiter, Moment of Grace, Judith Minty, "Purple Finches," Adventures of Stickman

Not one to read books on spiritual subjects, on out-of-body experiences, reincarnation, spiritualism, or mysticism, witchcraft or voodoo, Ives was left confounded by the strangeness of his vision.  He sighed, wishing that he had seen the Virgin Mother floating over Forty-first Street and Madison Avenue instead.  Somehow, in his mind, it all related to his ideas of afterlife.  He would think of all the depictions of Christ on the Cross, his tortured eyes looking upward, heaven just beyond, and wonder, to his horror, just what Christ might have been seeing.  What if he had looked up and seen the whirling center of a chaotic universe swallowing him up?  He felt disappointed that he had neither the education nor intelligence to fathom what had happened to him.  On some of those nights, he had concluded that death would not be a joyous ramble with ethereal and eternally pleasant angelic beings, but a chaotic, mysterious, and dark experience, as if a soul, in leaving the body, would alight upon the surface of Jupiter or Mars or some other mysterious planet, such as he had read about in Astonishing Stories magazine, or in the science-fiction books whose covers he had upon occasion illustrated.

Both the above passage from Mr. Ives' Christmas and the poem below from Judith Minty are about moments of transport.  Ives' vision is other-worldly.  Swirling colored winds, as if out of some strange science fiction story.  Minty's vision is transformative, the speaker somehow becoming wing and wind and color.  Both are connected with something natural and something divine.

I am incredibly tired this evening.  It has been a difficult day.  At work, I found myself short-tempered, impatient with anyone and everyone.  My medical office job puts me in contact with people who are sometimes very sick and sometimes, literally, out of their minds with worry.  They have chest pain, shortness of breath.  Their hearts feel like they're running ultra-marathons in their chests.  They feel like they're dying.  I understand.  I empathize.

However, there are times when my well of compassion runs a little dry.  Today was one of those days.  I didn't feel like I was connected to anything transformative.  I experienced no moments of transport.  They only time I felt something extraordinary was when I sat on a pencil in my car.  I didn't feel God's presence a whole lot.

That doesn't mean that I didn't have a moment of grace.  After my good books class, I spoke with a student who thinks he has bipolar disorder.  I listened to him, offered him advice.  He needed someone to listen.  I listened.  He seemed to physically relax as we spoke.  Tonight, I said a prayer for him.

There was nothing transcendent about the conversation I had with my student.  I didn't feel the Holy Spirit enter my body.  I didn't speak in tongues.  It was one human being talking to another human being about being broken, about finding help.  No swirling, colored winds.  No finch wings or birdsong.

Just Saint Marty being Saint Marty in all his imperfections and petty jealousies.

Purple Finches

by:  Judith Minty

They come in the morning.  Even before she is awake, she hears the tap-tap of their beaks, a scratching, faint whistles in the air.  When sun drifts along the bed, she floats to the surface.

They ripple over the feeder.  The males flame in the light, their pink and rose feathers.  The females are delicate, softer.  She wants to say, "Look, they are beautiful," but there is no one.  They fly up and wait in the pines, then sink back.

The window mutes their voices.  She circles the room slowly so they won't startle.  They bend to the seeds and crack them with their beaks.  They were not here yesterday or the day before.  They will not come tomorrow.  She puts her finger to the glass and enters their rhythm.  She steps inside their color.

Adventures of STICKMAN

September 9: Well into Mid-Career, Daily Grind, Judith Minty, "Starlings"

Forty-five years old, Ives was considered well into midcareer, and was already thinking about retiring in another ten years or so; there was a grind about the job that was slowly wearing him down, even if he no longer put in the kind of hours he had when he was in his late twenties and early thirties...

At about the age I am now, Ives has lost the drive he once had as a young advertising executive.  He has made his mark in the professional world, and he no longer has to prove himself on a daily basis.  Ives has made "it," whatever "it" may be.  Now, he is considered a member of the old school in his place of employment, with newer, younger artists hungry to take his place.  Ives is getting tired of the daily grind.

And, yes, today I am tired of the daily grind.  I've been working since 6 a.m.  I've taught two classes, registered close to 70 patients, attended a meeting for the university's literary magazine, and spent my entire evening on lesson plans and schoolwork.  I am beat.  Tired.  Exhausted.  Grumpy.  Hungry.  Short-tempered.  Uninspired.

I am waiting for my energy and enthusiasm for work to return.  I am waiting for the sadness to dissipate even a little.  For weeks, I haven't felt normal, and I want to feel normal again.  Until it does, I will be dragging myself through my days, finding inspiration wherever I can.

This morning, I saw the aurora borealis in great green sheets over a lake.  That inspired me.  Tonight, when I put my son to bed, he hugged me hard, told me that I was a great daddy.  That inspired me.  Judith Minty's poems inspire me.

Saint Marty is tired of the daily grind.

Starlings

by:  Judith Minty

When I lived along the coast, starlings filled my lawn.
Shrieking, the black cloud descended,
then lifted as if to shake loose the frenzy,
then lit again to pierce the soil.
They bickered and pecked in a wildness magnified by numbers, then
glinting sparks, they rose,
swarmed sideways to my neighbor's yard,
rapacious voices never ceasing, no time left for breath.

Yup, that's inspiring

Septmeber 8: Working Late, Trade-Offs, Juidth Minty, "Walking with the Bear," Adventures of Stickman

For years he [Ives] found working late dispiriting, for he lived to see his kids.  On his desk, among the piles of mechanicals, memoranda, purchase orders, magazines, and page proofs, and upon his walls were a number of photographs:  a shot of himself and his father and brother and sister taken years ago in front of their house on Carroll Street; a picture of Robert, ten years of age, shaking hands with Pope John XXIII during a general audience at the Vatican, "the greatest moment of my son's life," Ives used to think; and a third and favorite shot, of himself and Annie and the kids when they were small, about 1956, posed in the park before Grant's Tomb...

Above all, Ives is a family man.  Nothing gives him more pleasure than spending time with his wife and kids.  Working late is something that fuels his melancholic disposition.  It means time away from the people and things that give his life meaning.  Work, for Ives, is simply a way to provide for his family.  Work isn't his passion, although he enjoys it.  It is a necessary distraction.

Today was the first day of school for my daughter (a high school freshman this year) and son (a second grader now).  It was also my first day back at work since my sister's funeral.  After I dropped my kids off at the bus stop, I drove to the medical center.  I must admit that walking into the medical office where I work filled me with more than a little dread.  Not because I don't like the people with whom I work.  I just didn't feel ready to face nine hours of phones and patients.

I survived, but now I'm in my office at the university, waiting to attend a reading being given by visiting writer Leslie Jamison, author of The Empathy Exams.  This morning, I was looking forward to hearing her.  Now, sitting in my office, I find myself simply wanting to jump in my car and go home.  Like Ives, as I sit at my desk, I'm thinking about my daughter, who texted me that she was "really tired."  About my son, who, according to my wife, had a great day.  About my wife, who seemed more than a little down for some reason when I spoke with her on the phone.

Any time I take time away from my family, I feel guilty.  Yes, I will enjoy Leslie Jamison this evening, but I should be at home, listening to my daughter tell me about high school and my son rambling about his classmates.  Guilt.  My wife is upset about something, but I will not see her for at least another couple of hours.  More guilt.

Happiness for me is always a matter of trade-offs.  When I met poet Judith Minty once a long time ago, she struck me as a supremely happy, successful woman.  Confident in the choices she had made with her life.  Yet, I knew that she had made sacrifices, for her work, for her art.  She had lived a life of trade-offs, too.

This evening, Saint Marty isn't sure he made the right choice.

Walking with the Bear

by: Judith Minty

New Snow, and I follow
the dim path through woods, sink
into silence.  Meadow vole, squirrel,
snowshoe hare, fox:
my tracks walk next to theirs.
If it still falls tonight, by dawn
none of us have traveled here.

Adventures of STICKMAN