March 4: "An Old Story," Sue, Bigfoot and Poetry

Mary Oliver tells . . . 

An Old Story

by:  Mary Oliver

Sleep comes its little while.  Then I wake

in the valley of midnight or three a.m.

to the first fragrances of spring

which is coming, all by itself, no matter what.

My heart says, what you thought you have you do not have.

My body says, will this pounding ever stop?

My heart says:  there, there, be a good student.

My body says:  let me up and out, I want to fondle

those soft white flowers, open in the night.

It is that time of year when winter and spring keep trading places.  One day, 50 degrees.  The next, five degrees and winter storm warnings.  I haven't experienced the first fragrances of spring yet, and those soft white flowers are still buried by snow.

I went for a short walk with my family and friends before the Midwest Weirdfest started this afternoon.  The air was crisp, and people were fishing on the Eau Claire River.  Getting away from home for a few days feels good, even if I'm not lounging on a beach in the Bahamas.

Big and Marty premiered this afternoon at the festival.  There was a good-sized audience, and an old friend, Sue, who lives about 15 minutes away from Eau Claire. showed up.  I haven't seen her in over two years, and we had a reunion in the theatre lobby.  It involved long hugs and some tears.  Then we started ribbing each other and exchanging barbs, as if no time had passed.

After the screening and Q & A (during which Sue asked me a question even though I forbade her from doing so before the movie started), we snapped a picture.  I'm looking at it right now as I type these words.  

Sue has been one of my best friends for over 30 years, through some of the happiest and most difficult times of my life.  I think she would say the same about me.  We understand each other.  We both had siblings with Down syndrome.  She grew up in the late 1960s/early 1970s.  I grew up in the 1980s.  We like the same movies and books, and we both share the same political beliefs.  Spiritually, we adhere to the rule of disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed.

So, it was amazing to have her sitting next to me while Bigfoot and Marty premiered on the big screen.  (I will admit that seeing my head as big as King Kong's was a little disconcerting.)  She laughed, shook her head, laughed some more, and paid close attention, as if she was watching Citizen Kane with Bigfoot and poetry.

So, tonight, Saint Marty is telling an old story--friends reunited after a long separation, sitting in a dark theatre, behaving like middle schoolers on a fieldtrip.

November 14: Compose Himself, Sue, D. H. Melhem, "33," Confessions of Saint Marty

Ives wore a blue suit and stood by the door, speaking with one of the parish priests and greeting, ever so quietly, people as they came in.  But now and then he would look off toward the casket and turn his back on the people, as the darkest thoughts overwhelmed him, and he would have to compose himself again.  Every so often Ramirez went up to him, took him by the arm, and whispered, "You are all right, my friend."

Ramirez is Ives' best friend.  Ramirez is not a saint, by any means.  He cheats on his wife, physically abuses his son.  Yet, he has a bond with Ives that lasts over half a century.  Ives recognizes his best friend's faults.  He gently pushes Ramirez to correct his behavior toward his wife and son, without preaching or anger.  They respect each other and see each other through some very difficult times.  In the end, this friendship saves each man from loss and despair.

On Thursday night, I hosted my book club meeting.  At the appointed time, our friends and family showed up, bearing food and jokes.  We ate and talked and discussed the night's selection (Hannah Nordhaus' American Ghost--a great read).  Yet, the whole night was tinged with a little sadness for me.

One of my best friends is in the book club.  I've known Sue for over 20 years, since before I married my wife.  Sue has been the Ramirez to my Ives for a very long time.  She's lifted me up when I've fallen, and I've done the same for her.  We've seen each other through family deaths and marital strife.  Sure, we don't always see eye-to-eye on everything, but we respect each other.  Love each other.

Sue is moving away this weekend.  She is now divorced and without family in the Upper Peninsula.  So, she has decided to relocate to be near her son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren.  I'm happy for her, but I'm going to miss her a great deal.  She is a kind, sweet, sharing soul.  Like Eleanor Roosevelt in D. H. Helhem's poem below, Sue has had a way of speaking to me in the loneliest times of my life.  And for that, I am truly thankful.

So, as I put up my Christmas tree this afternoon with my daughter and son this afternoon, I will be thinking of Sue.  Her friendship and what it has meant in my life.  I will miss seeing her in the front pew at church.  Miss her brownies at book club gatherings.  Miss her long, rambling stories.  Miss her.

Saint Marty has been blessed with a really good friend.

33. (from Country:  An Organic Poem)

by:  D. H. Melhem

Eleanor Roosevelt
                            walking underground to workers
reminds a president that what he can't see
exists

I saw you once in my high school auditorium
thought you were not real     having stepped out of
the radio and The New York Times
you hand a kind voice that spoke to loneliness

you were
beautiful

Confessions of Saint Marty

April 9: Gorilla, Psalm 32, McDonald's Search

You may have noticed that I greatly revised Psalm 31 from yesterday.  I just wasn't happy with it.  I talked to my Cajun poet friend last night, and it didn't work for her either.  Therefore, at about 10 p.m. last night, I sat down and revised.  The result is what you currently can read in my April 8 post.  It's better.

Today, I turn back to a free verse poem.  I was at McDonald's this morning with my kids, family, and a friend.  We got to talking about the Detroit Zoo, reminiscing about the mean bastard of a gorilla who resided in the ape house in the early 1970s, when I frequently visited the zoo.  This silverback was so mean he scared me.  He would throw things at the viewers, anything at hand.  Food.  Toys.  Shit.  Of course, this was at the time when the apes were literally caged in small rooms.

Well, nobody could remember the name of the gorilla in our group.  My friend, Sue, had her laptop with her.  She spent an hour and a half searching for the name of this gorilla.  We found out the name of the gorilla up until 1968--Bobo.  We found the name of the gorilla from 1996 until 2005 or 2006--Sunshine.  Sue searched until the battery on her computer gave out.  Finally, my brother showed up, and, within a minute, he supplied the name of the ape in question:  Caesar. 

So, I owe props for this poem to my brother, my family, and Sue, who sacrificed her computer.

Saint Marty has a slice of pizza waiting for him now.  He hopes you have a good night.

Psalm 32:  Planet of the Ape

Caesar hated his home
In the ape house in Detroit,
Sat with his silver spine
To visitors, crushing his truck
Tire like machines in the Ford plant,
Over and over and over,
Planning his next rebellion.
A handful of feces flung
Through cage bars at the glass
Protecting kids, mothers, dads
From his frustration, boredom.
Bananas, lettuce, apples, grapes
Smashed on keepers' heads,
Ground with the force
Of tropical rain, hard
Enough to splinter trees.
Caesar suffered indignities,
Vets observing him, his mate,
Lulu, in intimate moments, he,
Unable to scream, beat his chest
In wild pleasure, or lose himself
To the moment of brute release.
For decades, he stared, placid
As the Sphinx, day after day,
Waited for night to come,
When people went away, when
He closed his eyes, drifted back, back,
Back in blood, in DNA,
In ancestral memory,
To mountain and jungle,
To moon in a canopy
Green as Eden, to the beginning,
When he was named before names.
Thunder.  Earthquake.  Hurricane.
Eclipse in trees and rocks.
Avalanche of fist and tooth and hunger.

Mean bastard gorilla