June 3: "Morning Walk," Sniffer, "Night Noises"

Billy Collins takes his dog for a . . .

Morning Walk

by: Billy Collins

The dog stops often

to sniff the poems of others

before reciting her own.

Didn't get to take my puppy for a walk today, except a couple spins around the backyard to take take care of her morning and evening ablutions.

Like the dog in Collins' poem, my dog is a sniffer.  It's how canines understand the world, I think.  Each scent--sweet or rancid, strong or mild--is a way to identify the complexities of the universe.  My dog will stop at the same tree or bush or fire hydrant each time she walks by it.  I can almost hear her mind at work:  "Oooh, what's this?"  Sniff.  "I'm not sure."  Sniff, sniff, sniff.  "Wait, I've been here before!"  Snnnniiiiiffffff.  "Yes, there's my piss!"  Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff.  "I belong here!"

Of course, smell is one of the strongest senses for conjuring up memories.  The smell of bread baking reminds me of the Easter weekends of my childhood.  Orange and cloves transport me to Christmas.  Turkey, of course, conjures up Thanksgiving.  And hot dogs on a grill, hot July afternoons visiting my cousins.

After a busy day of librarying and poeming, I'm tired.  It's late, and I just got home, ate my dinner, and changed into my pajamas.  The house is settling into its nighttime routine, and, pretty soon, I will be the only person awake, listening to the moans and groans and chirps and farts of night.  

For me, sounds--especially music--can be just as evocative as smells.  On my way home this evening, I caught the tune "Sister Christian" by Night Ranger on the radio.  Suddenly, I was 17 years old, cruising with friends, slamming beers.  Judy Garland singing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" conjures the ghost of my mother, humming along with her record player as we decorate the tree.

Just now, I heard a distant train horn (not a whistle) dopplering by--softest, softer, soft, loud, louder, loudest, louder, loud, soft, softer, softest.  That sound is straight out of my Yooper childhood, walking along railroad tracks, scooping up iron pellets from freight cars and cramming them into my pockets.  It's a wistful noise for me.

Saint Marty's feeling a little haunted by the past tonight.

Night Noises

by: Martin Achatz

My dog moans in her sleep.

Kendrick Lamar cranks in my son's room.

Outside the window, a warbler insists

Sweet, sweet, sweet, I'm so sweet!

as if begging the moon for a date.

December 2: You Fool, Regrets, Peter Thabit Jones, "Morning Walk"

Walking home, he had even managed to pass a local church without crossing himself, and he had made his way along the largely deserted streets feeling tremendously lonely and thinking, with the sentiment of an abandoned child, how no woman would ever really want him.  At the same time he found himself repeating in a staccato fashion, "You fool, you fool, you fool."

Ives beats himself up after his first failed attempt to connect with his future wife, Annie.  They share a moment together in an art class.  All the other students have taken a break.  Annie, the nude model for the night, admires Ives' drawings of her, and Ives cannot bring himself to ask her out.  He's tongue-tied.

Missed opportunities.  Regrets.  I have a lot of them right now.  I've sort of dug myself into a hole of grading, and I can't quite see my way out at the moment.  I'm tired (exhausted really) and angry with myself for allowing this to happen.  Yes, I've called myself a "fool" many times tonight.

That's all I have tonight.  I'm a tired fool.

Saint Marty wishes he were in a cabin in Big Sur, where his only responsibilities are writing poems and watching sunrises and sunsets.

Morning Walk

by:  Peter Thabit Jones

I stand above the sea,
Like a colossus of Greece,
The sun on my back.
I reach up and almost cup
A lone grey boat in my hand.

I had to shovel snow this morning.  I'm a fool.