January 9, 2025: "Things That Are Worse Than Death," President Jimmy Carter, "Not My Birthday Poem"

A somber day.  The national memorial service for President Jimmy Carter happened today in Washington, D. C.  The whole country stopped for a couple hours to honor the great man.  I sat in my office at the library, streaming the ceremony, listening to the eulogies and remembrances.

President Biden, in his remarks. said this about Carter:  "Now, it’s not about being perfect, because none of us are perfect. We’re all fallible. But it’s about asking ourselves: Are we striving to do things, the right things? What values? What are the values that animate our spirit? To operate from fear or hope, ego or generosity? Do we show grace? Do we keep the faith when it’s most tested?"

Mr. Biden is correct.  Being a good person doesn't mean that you're perfect.  It means that you operate from a place of generosity, compassion, and love.  Everyone messes up.  Good people learn from their mistakes and become better because of them.

Sharon Olds thinks about . . . 

Things That Are Worse Than Death

by: Sharon Olds

(for Margaret Randall)

You are speaking of Chile,
of the woman who was arrested
with her husband and their five-year-old son.
You tell how the guards tortured the woman, the man, the child,
in front of each other,
"as they like to do."
Things that are worse than death.
I can see myself taking my son’s ash-blond hair in my fingers,
tilting back his head before he knows what is happening,
slitting his throat, slitting my own throat
to save us that. Things that are worse than death:
this new idea enters my life.
The guard enters my life, the sewage of his body,
"as they like to do." The eyes of the five-year-old boy, Dago,
watching them with his mother. The eyes of his mother
watching them with Dago. And in my living room as a child,
the word, Dago. And nothing I experienced was worse than death,
life was beautiful as our blood on the stone floor
to save us that — my son’s eyes on me,
my eyes on my son — the ram-boar on our bodies
making us look at our old enemy and bow in welcome,
gracious and eternal death
who permits departure.

Yes, there are things worse than death.  Certainly, seeing your child harmed in front of you is one of them, as Olds points out.  I don't ever want to see my kids suffer.  Other things I would rank as worse than death:

• No chocolate
• Hallmark Christmas movies
• Pickles
• Insomnia
• World hunger
• Sitting next to Donald Trump at a funeral
• Watching reruns of Two Broke Girls
• Country music
• Poverty
• Adam Sandler movies
• Head cheese
• Anchovies
• Goodbyes

Okay, I may be joking about some of the items on that list.  However, I think that everyone has their own things that are worse than death.  I would rather sacrifice my life than see someone I love suffer in any way.  I like to think that I would do the same for complete strangers, as well, but I'm not sure.  (I certainly wouldn't throw myself in front of a bullet to save the life of the Felon in Chief, so I would make a really shitty Secret Service agent.)

As President Carter demonstrated through the life he led, good people try to make the world a better place.  He didn't just preach about his values.  He picked up and hammer and made a difference, one nail at a time.  Every minute of every day is an opportunity to put love into practice.

Saint Marty wrote an unbirthday poem today, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Today may not be your birthday, but write a birthday poem as if it is.  The poem can either be to yourself on a specific birthday or to a friend as in "To Martha on Her Fortieth Birthday."  Or if you just can't get into the birthday spirit, write a poem to or about Dave Matthews, Richard Nixon, Bob Denver (Gilligan on Gilligan's Island), or Joan Baez, and all who celebrate birthdays today.

Not My Birthday Poem,

January 9, 2025

by: Martin Achatz

Today is not my birthday,

but I still climb to the roof

of a building, stand ankle-deep

in snow, give myself

a present:  a sun as big

as my fist rising over a frozen

Lake Superior.  It's a gift

Bob Denver, who was born

on this day, wouldn't have

been impressed by, stranded

as he was with Skipper,

Professor, Ginger, Thurston

on that island for decades

with nothing but a coconut-

powered transistor to keep

him up on the Beatles, Stones,

Joan Baez (who was also born

today), Tina Turner, Wu-Tang Clan.

I'm sure Bob saw plenty 

of beach sunrises, got sick of them,

they way he got sick of eating

coconut cream pie every year

on this day, blowing out candles

made from gorilla ear wax.

So, my sunrise wouldn't even 

tempt Bob to leave his hammock

in the early morning, where

he was probably dreaming

of Mary Ann, the gingham folds

that hid the tanned slopes

of her calves and thighs.  She was

always my favorite.  I imagined

Gilligan and her ending up

together, sharing one of those

thatched huts, listening to waves

as they rocked together on a

mattress stuffed with palm fronds.

If I remember right, Mary Ann was

played by an actress named Dawn.

As I watch Lake Superior crack open

like an egg and the yolk of sun

ascend into the sky, I dream

of being marooned somewhere,

the arms of a Kansas farmgirl pulling

me down, her body filling me

with cornfields and the crow of a rooster.

January 8, 2025: "Aesthetics of the Shah," Darkness, "Listening to Christmas Music on January 8"

Okay, the poems in the first section of The Dead and the Living by Sharon Olds are pretty political.  Olds never shies away from difficult or controversial subject matter.  Stick with me.  There is always something beautiful in what Olds writes, even if that beauty is dark or tinged with violence.

Sharon Olds writes again about a terrible beauty . . .

Aesthetics of the Shah

by: Sharon Olds

(The poster, up all over town, shows

dissidents about to be executed in Iran.)

The first thing you notice

is the skill

used on the ropes, the narrow close-grained

hemp against that black cloth

the bodes are wrapped in.  You can see the fine

twist-lines of the twine, dark and

elegant, the intervals exact,

and the delicate loops securing the bagged

bodies to the planks like cradle boards.

The heads are uncovered, just the eyes

bound with rag.  Underneath

the mustaches like blood.  There is not a

white hair on the whole row,

not a strand.  They are young men and

still alive, swaddled to the neck in this

black bunting, the ropes lovely as

spider-lines against wet stone.

It snowed pretty much all day.  From the window of my office at the library, I watched white pile on white pile on white.  Every once in a while, a plow would rumble by, kicking up a blinding cloud of (you guessed it) white.

I have been avoiding news reports these last few days, unless they are about President Carter's memorial services.  Just can't deal with talk of annexing Canada, invading Panama, or buying Greenland.  Hatred and stupidity are simply not beautiful, period.  However, President Carter's work and life inspires me.  He reminds me what a person with a beautiful soul and intellect can accomplish in this broken world.

When I walk with my puppy at night now, I notice fewer and fewer Christmas trees glowing in windows.  Most houses have returned to huddled, snowy darkness instead.  That rather depresses me.  Tonight, I only saw the glow of TV screens in people's windows, painting everything a weird shade of blue.  

I don't understand this rush come January to jettison all the beauty of the Christmas season.  Darkness will come soon enough.  Why not hold on to the warmth and joy a little while longer?  In most Christian denominations, the Christmas season doesn't officially end until Epiphany, which falls on January 6.  For Catholics, the season doesn't end until the Feast of the Baptism, which is celebrated the Sunday following Epiphany.  

My Christmas decorations will be around for a while longer.  They make me happy at night when I turn off the TV and living room lights and sit on the couch, staring at the tree.  Darkness is right outside my window, pressing its nose against the pane, but there's also a bright moon and stars pressing through the clouds, as well.  Light is never far away.

Saint Marty wrote a poem today about music, possibility, and hope, if you can believe it.  It is based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Close your eyes and listen to music that has no words.  While you listen, what images come to mind?  Allow your mind to go to all areas of the world, into your memories, and into all areas of time.  Do certain instruments bring back childhood memories?  Do certain sounds come with emotions--happy or sad, fear or confidence?  Open your eyes and make a list of everything you saw.  Use at least five of those images in a poem.  If you are having trouble beginning, borrow the line, "I am skimming the edges . . ." from Kelli Russell Agodon's poem, "Yakima Ferry at Sunset."

Listening to Christmas Music on January 8

by: Martin Achatz

This morning I can actually see

red/green/gold lights, trees,

mangers and wreaths disappearing

like blue whales migrating

from one deep place in the Pacific

to another deep place, their flukes, 

humps of their backs packed

into storage boxes in the briny attic.

Soon, everyone will pull on

the winter jackets of their lives,

forget all the brightness

of the last few weeks, resume

their ordinary days, like the one

where my dad died in a hospital bed, 

Mom holding his hand, telling him

he was a good husband, a single tear

clinging to his cheek like an unshaved

whisker.  I don't know what song

they first danced to at their wedding,

but I like to think it was Doris Day,

maybe "Whatever Will Be Will Be,"

or "Secret Love," the violins filling

their young bodies with longing,

my mother whisper-singing into

his ear.  Neither knew how many

Christmases they would share together,

and perhaps they didn't care, swept 

up as they were in their closeness

to each other in that tinseled

moment as they swayed, held

on, slowly inching, inching 

slowly toward a future where 

I waited impatiently for them.

December 29, 2024: "A Word About Transitions," President Jimmy Carter, Moral and Ethical

Some transitions are easy:  the Darrens on Bewitched.  Some transitions are difficult:  President Biden to President-elect Musk . . . I mean Trump.  

Billy Collins says a few things about transitions . . . 

A Word About Transitions

by: Billy Collins

Moreover is not a good way to begin a poem

though many start somewhere in the middle.

Secondly should not be placed

at the opening of your second stanza.

Furthermore should be regarded

as a word to avoid.

Aforementioned is rarely found

in poems at all and for good reason.

Most steer clear of notwithstanding

and the same goes for

nevertheless, however, 

as a consequence, in any event,

subsequently,

and as we have seen in the previous chapters.

Finally's appearance at the top

of the final stanza is not going to help.

All of which suggests (another no-no)

that poems don't need to tell us where we are

or what is soon to come.

For Example, the white bowl of lemons

on a table by a window

is fine all by itself

and, in conclusion, so are

seven elephants standing in the rain.

Today was a difficult transition day.  Earlier this afternoon, I learned the President Jimmy Carter died at the age of 100.  So, we are now transitioning to a post-Jimmy Carter world.  

Jimmy Carter was the first President of the United States I remember.  I was too young for Nixon or Ford to have made any kind of impression on me.  But I remember clearly the Jimmy Carter years, which were marked by long lines at the gasoline pump and the Camp David Peace Accords (for which he won the Nobel Peace Prize), among other things.  

Jimmy Carter was by no means a perfect man or president, and he would have been the first person to admit that.  Humility was a huge part of who he was.  He recognized his mistakes, owned them, and learned from them.  In his post-presidential years, he did remarkable things.  Habitat for Humanity.  The Carter Center.  Books of memoir, religion, and poetry.  He was faithfully married to his wife for 77 years.  

In short, Jimmy Carter was moral, ethical, and honest in his personal life and as President of the United States.  Some people criticize his progressive values and label his four years in the Oval Office as a failure.  My response to such criticisms:  we should be so lucky to have a failure like him as President-elect right now.

I'm not kidding when I say that I hope I can be half the man that James Earl Carter was.  It feels like the Grand Canyon has been filled in or the Mississippi River has dried up.  I know, I know.  People die.  Death and taxes, blah blah blah.

I just wish this particular transition had been gentler, like the shift of light from afternoon to evening,  Or the last minor chord in Irving Berlin's "White Christmas," when we're all reminded of things we used to know.  

So, finally and in conclusion, Saint Marty gives thanks for the life and work of Jimmy Carter, who once said, "The measure of a society is found in how they treat their weakest and most helpless citizens."

Amen, Mr. President.  Amen.