July 15: "Bereft," Loss, Bluegrass Concert

Billy Collins writes about the lucky dead . . . 

Bereft

by: Billy Collins

I liked listening to you today at lunch

as you talked about the dead,

the lucky dead you called them,

citing their freedom from rent and furniture,

no need for doorknobs, snow shovels,

or windows and a field beyond,

no more railway ticket in an inside picket,

no more railway, no more tickets, no more pockets.

No more bee chasing you around the garden,

no more you chasing your hat around a corner,

no bright moon on the glimmering water,

no cool breast felt beneath an open robe.

More like an empty zone that souls traverse,

a vaporous place

at the end of a dark tunnel,

a region of silence except for

the occasional beating of wings--

and, I wanted to add

as the sun dazzled your lifted wineglass,

the sound of the newcomers weeping.

There are two definitions of the word "bereft" that Collins is playing with in this poem.  The first is "deprived or robbed of the possession or use of something," and the second is "suffering the death of a loved one."

We are all beholden to things.  Everyone has one or two things that they would feel lost without--bereft--whether it's a cell phone or mother's ring or lucky penny.  I think of items like this as talismans.  They define who we were/are/will be as a person.

My talismans are my journal (whichever one I'm currently using) and fountain pens.  If I leave these things at home, I've been known to turn the car around to get them, even if doing so will make me incredibly late.  I literally feel lost without them.

And everyone of a certain age has lost a loved one.  If you are alive on this planet, you have had, or will eventually have, this experience.  I've been bereft in my life.  A lot.  And death wasn't always the reason.  When my wife and I were separated, I was bereft.  When my daughter moved into her own apartment, I was bereft.  Of course, when my parents and brother and sisters died, I was bereft.  

Yesterday was my dad's birthday.  In two days, it will be my sister Sally's birthday.  Bereft and bereft.  But tonight, there was nothing to be bereft over.  I hosted a bluegrass concert at the library.  The music was incredibly joyful, even when the songs were about death and sobriety and heartbreak. My son and niece attended the concert and had a blast.  

I enjoy seeing them so happy by just being together.  Joy is contagious, and, over the last day or so, I've found myself smiling and laughing quite a bit, even when I was mowing the lawn this morning.  It's difficult feeling bereft and your heart is full.

Don't worry.  Saint Marty will be back to his normal, bereft self eventually.  It is an election year.

January 20: "Mute Potato," Quirky, My Niece

Billy Collins prepares dinner . . . 

Mute Potato

by:  Billy Collins

Before introducing it to a pot

of boiling water,

I caught a medium-size

Idaho potato

staring up at me

with several of its many eyes.

I've always imagined, since I was a child, that everything had feelings and emotions--dogs and goldfish, grass under our feet, the moon, and, yes, the potatoes we boil for food.  Perhaps this idea came to me watching cartoons--all those anthropomorphized animals, plants, and objects.  Bugs Bunny.  Dancing brooms in Fantasia.  Talking apple trees in The Wizard of Oz.  Not to mention Bambi and Thumper and gang.  Is it that far of a stretch that potatoes look up at us in horror as we peel them and drop them in boiling water?

That's a small glimpse into the convolutions of my mind.  If, after reading the above paragraph, you think I'm weird, that's okay.  I've been this way my whole life.  And by "this way," I mean a little . . . unhinged.  Yet, I've been able to build a career out of my weirdness--as a teacher and writer and poet and actor and musician.

There are politer terms that have been applied to my personality.  Two of my favorites are "eccentric" and "quirky."  I love being a little unpredictable.  (Some of my students at college have told me that they actually show up to class just to see what shit is going to come out of my mouth every day.)  I like to think my quirks make me loveable.

One of my favorite people in the world who completely gets me--in all of my strangeness--is my niece, Aubri.  We have always gotten along really well.  Perhaps we see the world similarly.  (I'm not saying that she imagines her potatoes staring up at her from her soup bowl, but she might.)  Aubri came over tonight to play games with my family.  We had pizza and drinks (I made her my version of a tequila sunrise with peach schnapps), and then we played Jackbox.tv for three hours.  I haven't laughed so hard in a really long time.  

The world is a much better place with Aubri in it.  Not a lot of people get my eccentricities/weirdness, but she is one of them.

Saint Marty is blessed to have her in his life.

May 29: Shoes and Another Blanket, My Niece, Tom Cruise, "Bigfoot Valediction"

The boy worries about the old man . . . 

The boy had brought them in a two-decker metal container from the Terrace. The two sets of knives and forks and spoons were in his pocket with a paper napkin wrapped around each set.

"Who gave this to you?"

"Martin. The owner."

"I must thank him."

"I thanked him already," the boy said. "You don't need to thank him."

"I'll give him the belly meat of a big fish," the old man said. "Has he done this for us more than once?"

"I think so."

"I must give him something more than the belly meat then. He is very thoughtful for us."

"He sent two beers."

"I like the beer in cans best."

"I know. But this is in bottles, Hatuey beer, and I take back the bottles."

"That's very kind of you," the old man said. "Should we eat?"

"I've been asking you to," the boy told him gently. "I have not wished to open the container until you were ready."

"I'm ready now," the old man said. "I only needed time to wash."

Where did you wash? the boy thought. The village water supply was two streets down the road. I must have water here for him, the boy thought, and soap and a good towel. Why am I so thoughtless? I must get him another shirt and a jacket for the winter and some sort of shoes and another blanket.

These past few days, the passages from The Old Man and the Sea have all focused on the boy's kindness and devotion toward Santiago.  It's something you don't hear a lot about these days--the goodness of young people.

Today, I did a few things.  Took my son clothes shopping.  He's graduating from the eighth grade on Wednesday, and he didn't have any nice outfits.  So, we took him to Kohl's and let him choose some shirts and a pair of pants.  He loved every minute of it.  When we left the store, he said, "You know, I really like fashion."

Then I attended the high school graduation party for my niece.  It was a wonderful celebration of her accomplishments.  Lots of food and family and friends.  She is a beautiful, smart young woman and has a really bright future.  Like the boy in The Old Man and the Sea, she's full of kindness and compassion.  Plus, she's funny as heck and loves my Bigfoot poems.  That's why I wrote a new Bigfoot poem, made a broadside, and gave it to her this afternoon as a graduation present.  

After the party, I went to see Top Gun:  Maverick with my wife, son, and wife's cousin and family.  I forced my son to watch the original film with me on Friday, so he was all set.  It was a good,  In fact, I would say it's a little better than the original.  Of course, it had a gratuitous shirtless-football-game-on-the-beach scene with lots of flexing and grunting.  (The female members of my group took exception with my use of the word "gratuitous.")  All in all, a nice way to end a pretty nice day.

Saint Marty gives thanks for clothes shopping with his son, my super-talented niece, and Tom Cruise flying at mach 9.

Bigfoot Valediction

for Brianna, May 27, 2022

by:  Martin Achatz

He is all goodbye, a dark palm
waving from the window of woods
on his way to some other place
where morels blossom like hairs
on his shoulders and porcupines gnaw
birch bark to paste. He is the letting
go of summer into harvest,
harvest into hibernation, the thunder
of his snores splitting cold nights
like a sharp tooth on the tongue
where the names of dead
grandmothers and lost friends
sit. He is the fixed foot
of the compass, solid as mother
or father, and the wandering
foot of child, ever circling
wider and wider to find,
define its own circumference.
As you follow him tonight,
sweet girl, into the swamps
of frog song and mosquito sting,
remember to pause every then
and now, pick up a fallen
branch, and knock hard
on a cypress trunk. To let us
know you are alright. To remind
yourself of that nest of woolly
love you were born to leave.

October 28: Very Cold, Halloween Snow, Aubri

Five figures wandered slowly over the blighted land.  Bits of it were dullish gray, bits of it dullish brown, the rest of it rather less interesting to look at.  It was like a dried-out marsh, now barren of all vegetation and covered with a layer of dust about an inch thick.  It was very cold.

That is a description of the surface of the planet of Magrathea from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  It could also be a description of what I will wake up to tomorrow.  There is a winter weather advisory in effect for my little corner of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for this evening.  Two to four inches of the white stuff.  Now, having lived in the U. P. for most of my life, except for a brief stint in Kalamazoo, I shouldn't be surprised by this forecast.  In fact, I should expect it.

However, just as I was unwilling to let go of summer a little while ago, I'm finding it very difficult to relinquish my grip on autumn, especially right before Halloween.  In my youth, Halloweens were generally warm.  I recall very few All Hallow's Eves where I was bundled up in my winter coat to go trick-or-treating.  The last warm Halloween I can recall occurred about 11 years ago, when my son was newly born.  That year, I wore a full gorilla costume to go trick-or-treating with him, and I nearly died of heat stroke.  It was a very warm night.  Ever since then, Halloween has been the unofficial start of winter.

Of course, I have no control over the weather, just as I have no control over a lot of things in my life.  God has been very diligent in reminding of this fact.  Frequently.  I like to think that I run my own life, that I can decide whether I'm happy or sad, successful or a failure.  In short, I've been trying to play God for quite a long time.  I believed that I controlled the weather in my life, from Halloween to Christmas to Independence Day.

This morning, my niece, Aubri, got on an airplane and flew off to San Francisco to start a new job and a new life.  Aubri is one of my favorite people in the whole world.  She's funny and smart, and she shares my sense of humor.  At family gatherings, we frequently found ourselves seated beside each other, sharing inside jokes and mean girl comments.  Aubri can always make me laugh, even on the darkest of days.

Saying goodbye to Aubri this weekend was like accepting a forecast of snow for Halloween.  I knew it was coming.  I was expecting it.  Yet, when it finally happened, I found myself saying, "It's too soon.  Too soon."  This is one of those life things that I have no control over.  Snow is inevitable.  Young people growing up and leaving is inevitable.  Goodbyes are inevitable.

Join me in wishing my niece, Aubri Cheryl--beautiful girl, ray of sunlight, fellow mean girl--Godspeed.  When I wake up to snow on my car tomorrow morning, I will think of her and all the joy she has brought into my house.  And I will smile, knowing that God has bigger plans for her than I can even imagine.

This Saint Marty knows for sure.

February 5: Zaphod Beeblebrox, President Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, My Niece

So, I'm not going to talk about a certain event that's happening tonight in Washington, D. C.  I'm avoiding posts on all platforms regarding any person with an orange complexion.  Instead, let's return to Hitchhiker's and the President of the Imperial Galactic Government, Zaphod Beeblebrox . . .

Only six people in the entire Galaxy understood the principle on which the Galaxy was governed, and they knew that once Zaphod Beeblebrox had announced his intention to run as President it was more or less a fait accompli:  he was ideal presidency fodder.*

*President:  full title President of the Imperial Galactic Government.

The term Imperial is kept though it is now an anachronism.  The hereditary Emperor is nearly dead and has been for many centuries.  In the last moments of his dying coma he was locked in a stasis field which keeps him in a state of perpetual unchangingness.  All his heirs are now long dead, and this means that without any drastic political upheaval, power has simply and effectively moved a rung or two down the ladder, and is now seen to be vested in a body that used to act simply as advisers to the Emperor--an elected governmental assembly headed by a President elected by that assembly.  In fact it vests in no such place.

The President in particular is very much a figurehead--he wields no real power whatsoever.   He is apparently chosen by the government, but the qualities he is required to display are not those of leadership but those of finely judged outrage.  For this reason the President is always a controversial choice, always an infuriating but fascinating character.  His job is not to wield power but to draw attention away from it.  On those criteria Zaphod Beeblebrox is one of the most successful Presidents the Galaxy has ever had--he has already spent two of his ten presidential years in prison for fraud.  Very very few people realize that the President and the Government have virtually no power at all, and of these few people only six know whence ultimate political power is wielded.  Most of the others secretly believe that the ultimate decision-making process is handled by a computer.  They couldn't be more wrong.

You see my dilemma with this post.  The above passage is a perfect set-up for me to launch into a discussion of the current resident of the Oval Office.  I'm not going to do that.  He is going to be all over TV this evening.  Therefore, I will not draw more attention to President Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.

When I got home from work this afternoon, I began cutting branches from the trees on the side of my property.  They were coated with ice, and one of the limbs was resting on the roof of my house.  Therefore, with the help of my daughter's boyfriend, a saw, and my dad's old tree trimmers, I deforested a little.  I can now park on the side of my house again without fear of severe damage.

I also drove down to my mother's house.  The damage to her trees was much worse.  One tree was lying on the snow, snapped off at the base of the trunk.  Branches littered her entire front yard, and there were limbs on the roof.  At the base of her driveway was a wedge of ice boulders.  So, I spent some time there shoveling, chipping, and collecting some of the fallen lumber.

And now, I am sitting at my kitchen table, visiting with one of my favorite people in the world--my niece, Aubri.  She just graduated from college last December, and she came over to cut and dye my wife's hair.  My niece and I have similar senses of humor.  We recognize the ridiculous and hypocritical, and we revel in making fun of it.  (That's the nicest way I can describe it.  To put it another way:  we can be mean girls when we get together.)

 However, Saint Marty can't think of a better way to spend this State of the Union evening.  Cutting branches.  Eating ranch pretzels.  Laughing with his niece.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula:

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