June 21: "The Exception," Visual Art, "Poetry Versus Watercolor"

Billy Collins works on a poem . . . 

The Exception

by: Billy Collins

Whoever said

there's a poem

lurking in the darkness

of every pencil

was not thinking of this one.

I rarely write with pencils.  Anybody paging through my journal will note that I write with fountain pens almost exclusively.  I like the way the ink flows so easily, how dark it sits on the page.  One of my best friends, who is a Methodist pastor, turned me on to fountain pens.  (He also turned me on to Moleskine journals, but that obsession is the topic for another post.)

Not many people know that I also dabble in visual arts.  Mostly pencil and ink sketches.  In no way am I a gifted artist.  I'm passable.  That's about it.  And I can go for months without doodling or sketching.  So it's not a passion.  It's simply something that quiets my mind and, at times, heart.

On the flipside, I have to write every day.  I don't feel complete if I go an entire 24 hours without committing words to page (or screen).  That's one of the reasons I have a blog--it keeps my writing muscles in shape.  I will never introduce myself to a stranger as an artist.  However, I have no problem identifying myself as a poet.

Recently, because I've been watching two British television programs focused on art (Portrait Artist of the Year and Landscape Artist of the Year), I've been feeling the urge to pick up my pen and colored pencils again.  I do get a lot of pleasure creating visual images.  My thoughts settle when I'm sketching, and I experience a sense of peace.  (I don't experience this state when I'm working on a poem.  My mind remains fully engaged when I write.)

I do have lots of really good art supplies to draw with.  Think of me as a person who owns all kinds of fancy fly fishing gear but is, at best, a mediocre fly fisher.  Anyway, I have a tin of colored pencils that came with a paintbrush.  So, I use these pencils to create the illusion of watercolors.  I sketch and then use the brush and some water to wash the image.  I love the effect, but it wrecks the hell out of my journal, warping pages and smudging/smearing/obscuring words I've written (with my fountain pen, of course).

Today, I decided to use this watercolor sketching technique to draw a jellyfish.  It was going well until I introduced the brush and water.  Suddenly, everything started dissolving before my eyes--image and words and lines.  I ended up with an adequate jellyfish and a black puddle that used to be a poem.

From now own, Saint Marty is sticking with words to capture jellyfish.

Poetry Versus Watercolor

by: Martin Achatz

Paint bled all over

my journal pages--

pink, purple, blue

pooled like a beached

jellyfish, washing away

a poem I'd written.  Maybe

those lost words will drift

across the Atlantic

to the shores of Galway

where a beachcomber

will find them, take them

home, polish them 

into a limerick.

May 11: "Wet Morning," Artists at Work, "Rabbit in the Morning"

Billy Collins has a green thumb . . . 

Wet Morning

by: Billy Collins

The big red bougainvillea

is drooping,

an effect of last night's

wind and rain.

Thunder too,

but plants don't have ears,

or is that

what the petals are for?

We got some rain last night.  Not a lot.  However, it was cloudy and wet enough to obscure the auroras that were blazing all over the heavens.  I don't have any bougainvillea in my backyard, but I'm sure my lilac bushes enjoyed their shower.

It is Mother's Day weekend.  I took my son Mother's Day shopping this afternoon.  He wasn't happy about it, but he picked out a card and a present without bloodshed or violence.  That's a win in my book.  This evening, my wife and I attended a fundraiser for a local theater group we support.  My wife drank an overpriced pop.  I drank two glasses of overpriced wine.  And we listened to really good music sung by some talented friends.

My wife is now sleeping.  My son is playing online video games upstairs in his bedroom.  My puppy is in her crate.  And I am getting ready to watch an episode or two of my latest obsession--a British competition show called Landscape Artist of the Year.  My wife hates the show, but I find it endlessly fascinating watching artists at work.

It almost makes Saint Marty want to take up oil painting.  

Rabbit in the Morning

by: Martin Achatz

He watches the dog

from a hunch of dewy grass,

waits for her to charge

or bark.  Instead, she lifts

her snout, sniffs, looks

away, like an old 

girlfriend at a 50th reunion

who can't remember 

your name.

May 2: "Breakfast," Appetites, "Midnight Snack"

Billy Collins feeds some fish . . . 

Breakfast

by:  Billy Collins

In the hotel restaurant,

orange koi in a pond.

I toss in some corn flakes.

Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day.  It always has been.  I know this doesn't make for exciting blog post reading, but I just had to say it.  

As a kid, one of my favorite dinners my mother used to serve up every once in a while was a huge pot of oatmeal and an even huger plate of toast.  Keep in mind that she was feeding nine kids, my dad, and my grandmother.  She had to get creative with meals.

As a diabetic, I am constantly aware of food.  Sometimes, I have to eat when I'm not even hungry.  It's kind of a pain in the ass, to be honest.  Yet, I'm a slave to my blood sugar levels.  I've woken up way too many times to paramedics in my bedroom giving me glucose through an IV.  So, eating is a huge part of my daily routine.

Everyone is a slave to their appetites, in a way.  Musicians crave music.  Athletes crave physical exertion.  Poets crave poetry.  Donald Trump craves porn stars and Russian money.  Human beings are hardwired to seek out what gives us pleasure.

I'm kind of a night owl, if you haven't figured that out.  I'm often still awake at one or two in the morning, watching movies or reading books or trying to solve Wordle.  I've been like this since I was very young.  And, besides breakfast, my other favorite meal of the day is a midnight snack.  Cold pizza.  Leftover lasagna.  A bowl of Cocoa Krispies.

My current late-night obsessions:  a British show called Landscape Artist of the Year and Cosmic Brownies.  I know, I know.  Not very healthy, but highly pleasurable.

Throw in some great poems, and that's Saint Marty's version of paradise.

Midnight Snack

by:  Martin Achatz

Window a black mirror

behind me, I'm not sure

what to eat:  the leftover

chicken in the fridge

or the David Ignatow poems

and Hershey kiss I found

under the couch cushions.