March 13: Dickinson Period, Blue Period, "Praise for the Nun of Amherst"

I think this is a love poem.  Wrote it a long time ago, in a Dickinson period.  Sort of like how Picasso had a blue period.

Saint Marty sort of understands right now why Emily didn't come out of her room much.

Praise for the Nun of Amherst

by:  Martin Achatz

Lord—send the buzz of poetry

A fly—black as the grave—

Bless me with the gift of verse—

The ghost of Emily.

Fill my lines with feathers—Lord—

Song perches in my skull—

My spirit hops—It caws—It crows—

It fills the air with hymns.

If my psalm seems narrow—weak—

Thin fellow in the grass—

Pardon my unbraiding words—

They stumble into bog.

But if my music makes White Heat

Against vermilion cloud—

Take flight with me—My Heart—My Love—

Toward dim Eternity.

May 20: New Expenses, Part-Time Dreams, Dodo

Once settled in, Ives decided, having so many new expenses, to find a full-time job, and eventually began his long tenure with the Mannis Advertising Agency...

Working in advertising was not Ives' dream.  He wanted to be a serious artist, with paintings hanging in MoMA and the Met.  He wanted to draw for Disney, with his creations on kids' shirts and cereal bowls.  Yet, Ives has a wife and kids that he has to support, so he settles.  He takes a job that pays the bills and provides health insurance and paid vacations.  He never becomes Picasso.

My medical office job is a lot like Ives' job at the Mannis Advertising Agency.  It started out as a part-time gig while I was in graduate school, getting my MFA.  I was filling in for a woman out on maternity leave.  The woman never came back.  Part-time turned into full-time turned into 17 years.  It wasn't my dream to have a career in the medical field.  It still isn't my dream.  I've settled.  For my wife and kids.  For stability.  For a home.

I still have dreams of becoming a famous writer.  That's why I write this blog every day.  It keeps my dream alive somehow.  I know people are reading my words.  Maybe people are even being moved by what I post.  I write poems and essays.  I conduct writing workshops for community school programs.  I volunteer to teach poetry to elementary school students.

I do all these things because to not do them would mean that I have given up.  That my dreams have gone the way of the passenger pigeon and dodo.  I'm not quite ready for that.  I don't want my epitaph to be "Professional Clinic Office Clerk."  I would much prefer "Poet" or "Teacher" or "Thinker" or "Dreamer."  I could live with any of those titles.

Saint Marty doesn't want to be a dodo.

I wonder if he dreamed of being an ostrich