March 19: Forgiveness, Sherman Alexie, "The Powwow at the End of the World"

Yes, this is my third post of the day.  I didn't want to short-change Sherman Alexie, the Poet of the Week.  He's such a fantastic writer.

This poem is all about forgiveness.  As my two Constant Readers know, forgiveness is something I struggle with.  I still haven't forgiven this kid named Tim who threw a snowball at my head in the sixth grade.

Of course, I know that holding grudges isn't healthy.  I know it only harms me in the long run.

But, dammit, Saint Marty still would like to pound the shit out of that little bastard Tim.

The Powwow at the End of the World

by:  Sherman Alexie

I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall   

after an Indian woman puts her shoulder to the Grand Coulee Dam   

and topples it. I am told by many of you that I must forgive   

and so I shall after the floodwaters burst each successive dam   

downriver from the Grand Coulee. I am told by many of you   

that I must forgive and so I shall after the floodwaters find   

their way to the mouth of the Columbia River as it enters the Pacific   

and causes all of it to rise. I am told by many of you that I must forgive   

and so I shall after the first drop of floodwater is swallowed by that salmon   

waiting in the Pacific. I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall   

after that salmon swims upstream, through the mouth of the Columbia   

and then past the flooded cities, broken dams and abandoned reactors   

of Hanford. I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall   

after that salmon swims through the mouth of the Spokane River   

as it meets the Columbia, then upstream, until it arrives   

in the shallows of a secret bay on the reservation where I wait alone.   

I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall after   

that salmon leaps into the night air above the water, throws   

a lightning bolt at the brush near my feet, and starts the fire   

which will lead all of the lost Indians home. I am told   

by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall   

after we Indians have gathered around the fire with that salmon   

who has three stories it must tell before sunrise: one story will teach us   

how to pray; another story will make us laugh for hours;   

the third story will give us reason to dance. I am told by many   

of you that I must forgive and so I shall when I am dancing   

with my tribe during the powwow at the end of the world.

March 19: Grief, Sherman Alexie, "Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World"

I have become aware of something recently in my life.

I know grief is a process, that it takes time to adjust to a great loss.  Days, months, years.  Yet, I never realized how sneaky grief can be.  It sits quietly in a corner until you forget about it, and then it makes its move.

One night last summer, I was sitting on my couch.  The TV wasn't on.  My kids were not home, and my wife was at work.  As I sat there in the silence, reading a book, I started to hear something.  A scratching sound.  It was quiet at first, but, over the course of about an hour, it got louder and louder.  The scratching became a chewing sound.  I finally realized that I was hearing a mouse somewhere behind the couch.

Now, I am not a fan of rodents.  The next day, I went out and bought a couple mouse traps.  Within two days, I had rid my house of the source of that sound.  But, when I'm sitting on my couch and it's quiet in the house, I remember that night last summer.  I sort of sit and listen for that sound.  The pulpy gnawing.

That's the way grief sneaks up on you, I think.  Like a mouse in the wall, nibbling away until you become aware of it.

Yesterday, driving home from work, I went by the cemetery where my sister was laid to rest.  I pulled into the entrance and drove to her grave.  I sat and just stared at her headstone, and I thought about how different my life is now because of her absence.  Slowly but surely, my family is stitching itself back together, but there are still large holes that remain unmended.

My son is going to be making his First Communion this year at church.  My sister was his godmother.  It's strange to think that she won't be there, sitting in the pew with us, watching and smiling.

Saint Marty wishes he could go out and buy a grief trap.  Something quick and painless to remove the sadness clawing apart the walls of his house.

Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World

by:  Sherman Alexie

The morning air is all awash with angels—Richard Wilbur, “Love Calls Us to the Things of This World”

The eyes open to a blue telephone

In the bathroom of this five-star hotel.

I wonder whom I should call? A plumber,

Proctologist, urologist, or priest?

Who is blessed among us and most deserves

The first call? I choose my father because

He’s astounded by bathroom telephones.

I dial home. My mother answers. “Hey, Ma,”

I say, “Can I talk to Poppa?” She gasps,

And then I remember that my father

Has been dead for nearly a year. “Shit, Mom,”

I say. “I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry—

How did I forget?” “It’s okay,” she says.

“I made him a cup of instant coffee

This morning and left it on the table—

Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years—

And I didn’t realize my mistake

Until this afternoon.” My mother laughs

At the angels who wait for us to pause

During the most ordinary of days

And sing our praise to forgetfulness

Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.

Those angels burden and unbalance us.

Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.

Those angels, forever falling, snare us

And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.

March 18: Terribly Bitter, Adventure, Sherman Alexie, "How to Write the Great American Indian Novel"

Monarchs have always been assumed to taste terribly bitter, because of the acrid milkweed on which the caterpillars feed...

Yes, Dillard is writing about eating monarch butterflies.  A little later, she talks about an entomologist who put the above statement to the test.  He ate several monarchs and concluded that they tasted like "dried toast."  Imagine that.  During the annual monarch migration, when they are flying in great swarms over Lake Superior, they are, basically, winged loaves of bread.  It kind of kills the beauty of the image.  Turns it into a sort of Alice in Wonderland scene.

I love the idea of seeing a scientist munching on butterfly wings smeared with orange marmalade or peanut butter.  I have a writer friend who wouldn't have a problem with this.  He's tried a lot of foods that I would never let close to my lips.  Grasshoppers, deep fried into popcorn.  Pig brains on some sort of homemade tortilla served by a shriveled Mexican peasant woman. 

I am not like my friend.  I'm not adventurous when it comes to food . . . or anything.  This weekend, about the only adventurous thing I may do is sleep in a little tomorrow morning.  I have too much crap to get done over the next two days.  Grading.  Cleaning.  Reading.  I don't have time for adventure.  Ever. 

The only adventure Saint Marty will have this weekend is waking his daughter up for church on Sunday morning.

How to Write the Great American Indian Novel

by:  Sherman Alexie

All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.

Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.

The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably

from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.

If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender

and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man

then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.

If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white

that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.

When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps

at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature:

brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.

If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.

Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.

Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.

Indian men, of course, are storms. They should destroy the lives

of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love

Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust

at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him.

White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.

Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man

unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.

There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.

Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.

Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions

if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian

then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry

an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed

and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male

then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.

If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside

a white woman. Sometimes there are complications.

An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman

can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances,

everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.

There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.

For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender

not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.

In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written,

all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.

March 14: Taproot, Dog Tired, Sherman Alexie, "On the Amtrak from Boston to New York City"

And under the cicadas, deeper down than the longest taproot, between and beneath the rounded black rocks and slanting slabs of sandstone in the earth, ground water is creeping.  Ground water seeps and slides, across and down, across and down, leaking from here to there minutely, at the rate of a mile a year.  What a tug of waters goes on!  There are flings and pulls in every direction at every moment.  The world is a wild wrestle under the grass:  earth shall be moved.

Yes, the ground water is moving, shifting ground and stone.  Everywhere Dillard looks, she senses the battle going on beneath her feet.  She knows, even though she's in a state of stasis, the world is still rockin' and rollin'.  At a rate of a mile a year. 

I am dog tired.  After yesterday's marathon grading session, all I want to do tonight is hibernate.  My eyes hurt.  I don't even know if I will be able to rise from my couch after I'm done typing this post.  I may simply fluff up my laptop and take a nap.  Even though this little planet we is spinning at a rate of approximately 1,037 miles per hour, the ground is shifting at a rate of a mile a year, I am ready to surrender.

I am hoping this state is not the start of an illness.  My daughter has had it (throwing up and diarrhea).  Ditto my son.  My wife is currently in its throes.  Today, I have felt this torpor creeping up on me.  I had plans to grade more papers.  Maybe do some work in my online class.  I have changed my plans.

I now intend to, as my college students say, crash.  Big time.  Let the earth spin through the cosmos as I study the inside of my eyelids.

But, before I do this, I must name the new Poet of the Week.  It is Sherman Alexie.  I first encountered Alexie when he came to the university where I teach to give a reading many years ago.  A really nice guy.  Great writer.  Enjoy.

Saint Marty is waving his white flag.

On the Amtrak from Boston to New York City

by:  Sherman Alexie

The white woman across the aisle from me says 'Look,
look at all the history, that house
on the hill there is over two hundred years old, '
as she points out the window past me

into what she has been taught. I have learned
little more about American history during my few days
back East than what I expected and far less
of what we should all know of the tribal stories

whose architecture is 15,000 years older
than the corners of the house that sits
museumed on the hill. 'Walden Pond, '
the woman on the train asks, 'Did you see Walden Pond? '

and I don't have a cruel enough heart to break
her own by telling her there are five Walden Ponds
on my little reservation out West
and at least a hundred more surrounding Spokane,

the city I pretended to call my home. 'Listen, '
I could have told her. 'I don't give a shit
about Walden. I know the Indians were living stories
around that pond before Walden's grandparents were born

and before his grandparents' grandparents were born.
I'm tired of hearing about Don-fucking-Henley saving it, too,
because that's redundant. If Don Henley's brothers and sisters
and mothers and father hadn't come here in the first place

then nothing would need to be saved.'
But I didn't say a word to the woman about Walden
Pond because she smiled so much and seemed delighted
that I thought to bring her an orange juice

back from the food car. I respect elders
of every color. All I really did was eat
my tasteless sandwich, drink my Diet Pepsi
and nod my head whenever the woman pointed out

another little piece of her country's history
while I, as all Indians have done
since this war began, made plans
for what I would do and say the next time

somebody from the enemy thought I was one of their own.

Felt like this all week . . .

February 4: Twitter Poetry, Micropoetry, Elizabeth Alexander

One of the recent developments in poetry is what has been termed micropoetry.  Poets use the constraints of Twitter to write short, concise, beautiful poems.  Almost haiku.  In 140 characters.  It's a difficult challenge.  But some of the best poets working do it.  Billy Collins.  Sherman Alexie.

And Elizabeth Alexander. Alexander was the poet for President Obama's first inauguration.  Widely unknown before January 20, 2009, she became a poet of note.  A poet to listen to.  A poet whose words matter.

She is also a poet who tweets poems, and she does it beautifully.

Saint Marty would kill to write a poem so concise and gorgeous.

Tweet

by:  Elizabeth Alexander

Inside the darkened bathroom/ we looked into the black mirror/ cracked the wintergreen candy/ watched sparks fly from our teeth.

How shall I tweet thee...

January 19: Favorite Poem, Sherman Alexie, "Sonnet, with Pride"

I know I haven't been doing a second post for the last week or so.  I'm sorry about that.  I've been busy, tired, [insert other lame excuse here].  Long story short, it's been a nutty seven to ten days.

This week, I've decided to share some of my favorite poems from The Best American Poetry 2014.  I have a great poem for you guys tonight.  It's one of my favorites in the collection.  A prose poem.  A political poem.  A small, lyric essay, in a way.

This one takes Saint Marty's breath away.

Sonnet, with Pride

by:  Sherman Alexie

Inspired by Pride of Baghdad
by Brian K. Vaughan & Niko Henrichon

1.  In 2003, during the Iraq War, a pride of lions escaped from the Baghdad Zoo during an American bombing raid.  2.  Confused, injured, unexpectedly free, the lions roamed the streets searching for food and safety.  3.  For just a moment, imagine yourself as an Iraqi living in Baghdad.  You are running for cover as the U. S. bombers, like metal pterodactyls, roar overhead.  You are running for cover as some of your fellow citizens, armed and angry, fire rifles, rocket launchers, and mortars into the sky.  You are running for cover as people are dying all around you.  It's war, war, war.  And then you turn a corner and see a pride of freaking lions advancing on you.  4.  Now, imagine yourself as a lion that has never been on a hunt.  That has never walked outside of a cage.  That has been coddled and fed all of its life.  And now your world is exploding all around you.  It's war, war, war.  And then you turn a corner and see a pride of freaking tanks advancing on you.  5.  It's okay to laugh.  It's always okay to laugh at tragedy.  If lions are capable of laughter, then I'm positive those Baghdad lions were laughing at their predicament.  As they watched the city burn and collapse, I'm sure a lioness turned to a lion and said, "So do you still think you're the King of the Jungle?"  6.  I don't know if the lions killed anybody as they roamed through the streets.  7.  But I'd guess they were too afraid.  I'm sure they could only see humans as zookeepers, not food.  8.  In any case, the starving lions were eventually shot and killed by U. S. soldiers on patrol.  9.  It's a sad and terrible story, yes, but that is war.  And war is everywhere.  And everywhere, there are prides of starving lions wandering the streets.  There are prides of starving lions wandering inside your hearts.  10.  You might also think that I'm using starving lions as a metaphor for homeless folks, but I'm not.  Homeless folks have been used far too often as targets for metaphors.  I'm using those starving lions as a simple metaphor for hunger.  All of our hunger.  11.  Food-hunger.  Love-hunger.  Faith-hunger.  Soul-hunger.  12.  Who among us has not been hungry?  Who among us has not been vulnerable?  Who among us has not been a starving lion?  Who among us has not been a prey animal?  Who among us has not been a predator?  13.  They say God created humans in God's image.  But what if God also created lions in God's image?  What if God created hunger in God's image?  What if God is hunger?  Tell me, how do you pray to hunger?  How do you ask for hunger's blessing?  How will hunger teach you to forgive?  How will hunger teach you how to love?  14.  Look out the window.  It's all hunger and war.  Hunger and war.  Hunger and war.  And the endless pride of lions.

Hunger, war, and lions