May 17: Lump of Cold Rock, Pull of Narrative, Speaking My Truth

The argument over fairy tale and fact continues between Zaphod and Ford . . .

Trillian interrupted.  

"Zaphod," she said, "any minute now we will be swinging round to the daylight side of this planet," adding, "whatever it turns out to be."

"Hey, what do you mean by that?  The planet's where I predicted it would be, isn't it?"

"Yes, I know there's a planet there.  I'm not arguing with anyone, it's just that I wouldn't know Magrathea from any other lump of cold rock.  Dawn's coming up if you want it."

"Okay, okay," muttered Zaphod, "let's at least give our eyes a good time.  Computer!"

"Hi there!  What can I . . ."

"Just shut up and give us a view of the planet again."

A dark featureless mass once more filled the screens--the planet rolling away beneath them.

They watched for a moment in silence, but Zaphod was fidgety with excitement.

"We are now traversing the night side . . ." he said in a hushed voice.  The planet rolled on.

"The surface of the planet is now three hundred miles beneath us . . ." he continued.  He was trying to restore a sense of occasion to what he felt should have been a great moment.,  Magrathea!  He was piqued by Ford's skeptical reaction.  Magrathea!

"In a few seconds," he continued, "we should see . . . there!"

The moment carried itself.  Even the most seasoned star tramp can't help but shiver at the spectacular drama of a sunrise seen from space, but a binary sunrise is one of the marvels of the Galaxy.

Out of the utter blackness stabbed a sudden point of blinding light.  It crept up by slight degrees and spread sideways in a thin crescent blade, and within seconds two suns were visible, furnaces of light, searing the black edge of the horizon with white fire.  Fierce shafts of color streaked through the thin atmosphere beneath them.

"The fires of dawn . . .!" breathed Zaphod.  "The twin suns of Soulianis and Rahm . . .!"

"Or whatever," said Ford quietly.

"Soulianis and Rahm!" insisted Zaphod.

The suns blazed into the pitch of space and a low ghostly music floated through the bridge:  Marvin was humming ironically because he hated humans so much.

As Ford gazed at the spectacle of the light before them excitement burned inside him, but only the excitement of seeing a strange new planet; it was enough for him to see it as it was.  It faintly irritated him that Zaphod had to impose some ludicrous fantasy onto the scene to make it work for him.  All this Magrathea nonsense seemed juvenile.  Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?

This disagreement over Magrathea is a very human one, even though it's happening between two aliens from Betelgeuse.  It's the inherent need for humans to place everything into some kind of context.  To understand and label.  Ford is happy with simply the discovery of a new planet, without any background or narrative.  Zaphod, on the other hand, wants a story, a way to identify what he is seeing, in order for it to make sense to him.  Zaphod is also an attention junkie.

I sort of understand the pull of narrative.  When someone comes home after a long day of being away, one of the first questions to be asked is "How was your day?"  This prompts the someone to launch into the details of his or her hours away from home.  Tales of problems with the boss.  Flunking or acing tests at school.  Bullies on the playground.  Sudden attacks of diarrhea.  Whatever.  It's how human beings communicate.

I like these how-was-your-day stories.  They help me to understand the order of things in my life.  Let me know if I have something to celebrate or worry about.  Help me identify a problem I can help my children or wife cope with.  At this time in my life, I'm pretty much viewed as the level-headed, grounded person in my family.  I'm a problem-solver, a shoulder to cry on.

I don't know how I inherited this reputation.  I'm a poet, for God's sake!  Isn't that the definition of ungrounded and unstable?  The majority of famous poets and writers that I know suffered from a laundry list of issues:  alcoholism, bipolar disorder, abuse, suicidal ideation.  There's a reason why so many of the greats of the 20th century ended their lives prematurely.  Think about it:  Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Richard Brautigan, Yukio Mishima, Hunter S. Thompson, Ernest Hemingway . . .  It's a pretty long list.

I think that writers (and especially poets) feel the world a lot more fully than other people.  It kind of goes with territory.  Poets don't turn away from darkness.  They dissect it, cook it, slice it up, and eat it for dinner.  It's all about truth.  At least, that's what it's about for me as a poet.  It's about communicating my truth to the world.  People can read what I write and either accept my truth or think that I'm full of shit.

Frankly, I don't care which of those two choices my readers make.  I care that they're reading and engaging in my truth in some way.  I don't mind being told that I'm wrong.  I have a ten-year-old son who frequently tells me that I'm wrong.  Debates with me on a nightly basis.  That's alright.  He's speaking his ten-year-old truth.

I don't know where I'm headed with this post tonight.  I sat down thinking that I wanted to address the necessity of narrative.  Wanted to speak to its power to heal and set things aright.  (Yes, I just used the word "aright."  Deal with it.)  And the best narratives are ones that address deeper truths about life.  And poets seek out those deeper (sometimes painful) truths.

And that's Saint Marty's brooding poet story for tonight.

June 5: Edward Hirsch, "A Partial History Of My Stupidity," Dumbass

A Partial History Of My Stupidity

by:  Edward Hirsch

Traffic was heavy coming off the bridge,

and I took the road to the right, the wrong one,

and got stuck in the car for hours.

Most nights I rushed out into the evening

without paying attention to the trees,

whose names I didn't know,

or the birds, which flew heedlessly on.

I couldn't relinquish my desires

or accept them, and so I strolled along

like a tiger that wanted to spring

but was still afraid of the wildness within.

The iron bars seemed invisible to others,

but I carried a cage around inside me.

I cared too much what other people thought

and made remarks I shouldn't have made.

I was silent when I should have spoken.

Forgive me, philosophers,

I read the Stoics but never understood them.

I felt that I was living the wrong life,

spiritually speaking,

while halfway around the world

thousands of people were being slaughtered,

some of them by my countrymen.

So I walked on—distracted, lost in thought—

and forgot to attend to those who suffered

far away, nearby.

Forgive me, faith, for never having any.

I did not believe in God,

who eluded me.

_________________________

I start out most of my blog posts talking about myself.  I did this.  I did that.  I hate this.  I love that.  That's what blogging is all about--giving your opinion or ideas about something, for better or worse.  I don't think that I'm an expert on anything.  In fact, I think that I'm pretty stupid about a lot of stuff.

For instance, I don't know how to change the oil on my car.  (I can barely get my spare tire out of my trunk.)

I never remember the rhyme scheme of a villanelle, even though I call myself a poet.  That's what Google is for.

I often forget to bring my lunch to work.

I yell at my kids sometimes, even though they're just being kids.

I eat things that aren't good for me, like Cheetos and chocolate milk.

I secretly love watching Impractical Jokers.

I think Richard Brautigan is kind of a genius.

I prefer Adele songs over Beyonce songs.

I don't care for superhero movies.

I like the film Midnight in Paris, even though Woody Allen is probably a sexual predator.

See what I mean?

Saint Marty is a dumbass about a lot of things.

September 24: Birthday Party, Richard Brautigan, "Storm Over Fallon"

Monday is my son's eighth birthday, and my wife has insisted on throwing a party at the local bowling alley for him and his friends.  That means buying cake and ice cream, sending out invitations, worrying that nobody is going to show up, assembling gift bags.  It has been an ongoing assault for about three or four weeks.

Today, we have to take care of last-minute details.  Pick up the cake.  Stuff gift bags.  I've never understood the whole idea of giving presents to every child that shows up for a birthday party.  I would like to know what brilliant parent came up with that idea.  In my day, the highlights of going to a friend's birthday party were the cake and ice cream.  I didn't expect to receive any present for attending.

Yet, my wife and I cave to the modern practice of gift bags for my son's friends and cousins, because that's what is expected.  And we don't want my son to be known as a birthday party loser.

 It is now the Twelve Days until Saint Marty's Day.  Sing along:  "On the first day of Saint Marty, my true love gave to meeeee . . ."

Storm Over Fallon

by:  Richard Brautigan

Thunder roared
across the sky
like the voice
of an angry man.

Rain started falling,
slowly at first,
then faster and faster,
and louder and louder.

The man became silent.

The voices of the rain
chattered like
little children
at a birthday party.

Saint Marty's Day in Rome

September 22: Collection of Poems, Richard Brautigan, "Private Eye Lettuce"

I finished revising a new poem this afternoon.  I've been working on various drafts for over three or four weeks.  That's nothing, though.  Poet Elizabeth Bishop worked on some poems for years.  Years.  It's another Bigfoot poem.  Number five or six.

I am giving a Halloween poetry reading in October.  I'm billing it as the debut of my new poetry collection.  Of course, I have a long way to go before I have a new book.  That's OK.  For now, I'm just happy that I have one new poem, because that's how a collection of poems comes into being:  one poem at a time.

Saint Marty is on his way.

Private Eye Lettuce

by:  Richard Brautigan

Three crates of Private Eye Lettuce,
the name and drawing of a detective
with magnifying glass on the sides
of the crates of lettuce,
form a great cross in man's imagination
and his desire to name
the objects of this world.
I think I'll call this place Golgotha
and have some salad for dinner.

September 21: Serious Subjects, Richard Brautigan, "I Feel Horrible. She Doesn't"

If you can't tell by my last post, I'm trying not to take things too seriously tonight.

Sure there are things in this world that should be taken seriously:  poverty, hunger, disease, famine, war, racism, sexism, homophobia, addiction.  I will not be making jokes about any of those subjects.  They are worthy of earnest discussion.  Let's face it, though:  how many of us discuss poverty or homophobia over a large order of fries at McDonald's?

My daughter is not having a good night.  She just went to the AT&T store with my wife and sister to pick out a new phone, since her new Samsung Galaxy Note 7 was recalled for having a tendency to explode.  Well, something went down that did not please my daughter.  A phone was ordered for her.  I'm not sure if it was the phone she wanted or not.  All I do know is that there were tears, shouts, and slamming doors afterwards.

I want to tell my daughter that, whether she gets an iPhone 7 or 6s, it's not going to bring about gender equality in the world or cure cancer.  She's taking it way too seriously.

Maybe Saint Marty should let her read a Richard Brautigan poem.

I Feel Horrible.  She Doesn't

by:  Richard Brautigan

I feel horrible. She doesn’t

love me and I wander around

the house like a sewing machine

that’s just finished sewing

a turd to a garbage can lid.

Speaking of turds . . .

September 20: Quick Laugh, Richard Brautigan, "Haiku Ambulance"

Okay, I only have a short while before I have to go teach.  Just enough time for a quick laugh.

Tonight's laugh is brought to you by Richard Brautigan.

It's one of Saint Marty's favorite haiku.

Haiku Ambulance

by:  Richard Brautigan

A piece of green pepper

   fell

off the wooden salad bowl:

   so what?

September 19: Poet of the Week, Richard Brautigan, "My Nose is Growing Old"

Sometimes, I take myself way too seriously.  Okay, most of the time, I take myself way too seriously.  This week, I wanted to give you some poems from one of the funniest poets I know:  Richard Brautigan.

His work always makes me laugh, and, let's face it, we could all use a good laugh considering the current presidential election in the United States.  I'm sure Bruatigan would have loved to write some poems about Donald Trump's hair.  Or nose. 

So, Saint Marty's Poet of the Week is Richard Brautigan. 

My Nose is Growing Old

by:  Richard Brautigan

Yup.
A long lazy September look
in the mirror
say it's true.

I'm 31
and my nose is growing
old.

It starts about 1/2
an inch
below the bridge
and strolls geriatrically
down
for another inch or so:
stopping.

Fortunately, the rest
of the nose is comparatively
young.

I wonder if girls
will want me with an
old nose.

I can hear them now
the heartless bitches!

"He's cute
but his nose
is old."