August 10: "Fool Me Good," Busy Life, Paris Olympics

I never do one thing at a time.  I'm a multitasker.  So I guess that would make me a terrible Buddhist.  My busy life, however, requires me to work on two or three tasks at once.  Tonight, I'm watching the Paris Olympics, typing this blog post, and making a grocery list for shopping tomorrow.

I wonder, if I hadn't divided my mind like this, whether I would have published more books by now or accrued more money in my savings account or painted oil landscapes (a skill I've always admired).  Or maybe I would have read a lot more.  Been a better cook.  Learned how to change the oil in my car.  I'll never know.  There are no do-overs in life.

Billy Collins multitasks in today's poem . . . 

Fool Me Good

by: Billy Collins

I am under the covers
waiting for the heat to come up
with a gurgle and hiss
and the banging of the water hammer
that will frighten the cold out of the room.

And I am listening to a blues singer
named Precious Bryant
singing a song called “Fool Me Good.”

If you don’t love me baby, she sings,
would you please try to fool me good?

I am also stroking the dog’s head
and writing down these words,
which means that I am calmly flying
in the face of the Buddhist advice
to do only one thing at a time.

Just pour the tea,
just look into the eye of the flower,
just sing the song —
one thing at a time

and you will achieve serenity
which is what I would love to do
as the fan-blades of the morning begin to turn.

If you don’t love me, baby,
she sings
as a day-moon fades in the window
and the hands circle the clock,
would you please try to fool me good?

Yes, Precious, I reply.
I will fool you as good as I can,
but first I have to learn to listen to you
with my whole heart,
and not until you have finished

will I put on my slippers,
squeeze out some toothpaste,
and make a big foamy face in the mirror,

freshly dedicated to doing one thing at a time —
one note at a time for you, darling,
one tooth at a time for me.

So, my goal at the end of this post is to concentrate on one thing at a time.

Right now, it's watching the men's 10,000 meter final race at the Paris Olympics.

Then eating a Hershey's nugget.

Perhaps going outside to see if I can spy any Perseids (depending on cloud cover).

Eating another nugget.

Brushing my teeth, one tooth at time, like Collins.

Reading some Neruda odes, which is sort of like praying.

Trying to go to sleep, which is always a struggle.

Eating another nugget, because why not?

Counting Bigfoots until I finally drift off.

Saint Marty may be a Buddhist by tomorrow morning.

July 28: "On Not Finding You at Home," Surprises, Control Freak

Billy Collins tries to visit a friend . . . 

On Not Finding You Home

by: Billy Collins

Usually you appear at the front door

when you hear my steps on the gravel,

but today the door was closed,

not a wisp of pale smoke from the chimney.

I peered into a window

but there was nothing but a table with a comb,

some yellow flowers in a glass of water

and dark shadows in the corners of the room.

I stood for a while under the big tree

and listened to the wind and the birds,

your wind and your birds,

your dark green woods beyond the clearing.

This is not what it is like to be you,

I realized as a few of your magnificent clouds

flew over the rooftop.

It is just me thinking about being you.

And before I headed back down the hill,

I walked in a circle around your house,

making an invisible line

which you would have to cross before dark.

I'm not a person who spontaneously drops by someone's house for an impromptu visit.  Perhaps it's my upbringing, but I think surprise appearances like the one Collins describes in today's poem border on rudeness.  (And my loyal disciples know how much I dislike surprises anyway.  They rank right up there with oral surgery and compound fractures.)

I prefer surprises that are planned out, announced in advance.  I know, I know.  That is antithesis of a surprise.  However, if you expect me to invest time in any kind of endeavor, I need to be forewarned.  Then I will be able to prepare for spontaneity.  Do not show up at my library office and expect me to go on a joy ride to Dairy Queen.  (Okay, I might be tempted by that one.)  At the very least, send me a text message a couple hours prior, allowing me to restructure my schedule.

Am I a control freak?  A little bit.  Yes.  When you work three and four jobs, you have to be a little . . . stringent when it comes to your day.  I was watching the Paris Olympics last night on NBC, and there was a story about one of the captains of the United States swim team.  This guy works full time, trains for hours every day, and has a wife and five-month-old son.  His life is a series of alarms followed by workouts followed by Zoom meetings followed by more workouts followed by family time followed by even more workouts.

My days during the school year are very similar in terms of switching gears all the time.  I work at the library.  Alarm.  I teach.  Alarm.  I work at the library.  Alarm, I pick up my son from school.  Alarm.  I work at the library.  Alarm.  I pick up my wife from work.  Alarm.  I work at the library (probably hosting a program).  Drive home.  Pick out clothes for the next day.  Write a blog post/poem.  Bed.  

Now, I'm not punishing my body with three hour swims or weight training.  Yet, at the end of the day, I often feel like I've run a marathon or played a game of water polo.  (That's different from a game of Marco Polo, by the way.)  I need structure in order to accomplish everything I do in 24 hours.  Thus, surprises and spontaneity are anathema to me.  A wet dog nose in an unwelcome body crevice. 

Now that Saint Marty has finished this blog post, he will brush and floss, set his alarm for tomorrow morning, and try to sleep.  Just like every other night.

Photo courtesy of Abby Berry

July 23: "The Student," Rules of Poetry, Love and Bone

Billy Collins gives some poetry ground rules . . . 

The Student

by: Billy Collins

My poetry instruction book,
which I bought at an outdoor stall along the river,

contains many rules
about what to avoid and what to follow.

More than two people in a poem
is a crowd, is one.

Mention what clothes you are wearing
as you compose, is another.

Avoid the word vortex
the word velvety and the word cicada.

When at a loss for an ending,
have some brown hens standing in the rain.

Never admit that you revise.
And--always keep your poem in one season.

I try to be mindful,
but in these last days of summer

whenever I look up from my page
and see a burn-mark of yellow leaves,

I think of the icy winds
that will soon be knifing through my jacket.

There are certain rules of poetry that I've picked up throughout my writing life, some very much like the ones that Collins lists in the above poem.

For instance, I was taught not to use the words love and bone in a poem.  Eliminate articles like the and a and an.  Don't say you saw a tree--say you saw a juniper or elm or cottonwood.  Be specific.  Avoid using -ing verbals and gerunds like writing and skiing.  End poems with a concrete image, and, whatever you do, surprise the reader.

I could go on.  You see, each new poem I write teaches me something about writing poetry.  If you're planning on running a marathon, you train for it--with five, ten, or 15 mile runs. And with each run, you become better, stronger.  Artists do preliminary sketches.  Computer programmers design and redesign code.  The Paris Olympics are kicking off on Friday; for most of the athletes, those 17 days are the culmination of a lifetime of conditioning, practicing, struggling, and competing.  

I will say that I like breaking rules.  My Bigfoot manuscript is a collection of love poems, believe it or not.  The word love appears many times throughout the book, breaking one of the rules I listed above.  (I think the word bone appears a few times, too.)  It's a challenge to make old tropes and ideas new and fresh again.  That's one of the most exciting things about being a poet.

I've been a student of poetry for a majority of my life.  When I die, I will still be a student of poetry.  I'll keep writing new poems, breaking rules, pursuing beauty until I draw my last breath.  Every sunrise and moonrise is a call to be a better poet or husband or father, rules be damned.

Saint Marty is always in training.