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.

November 1: Growing Up, Daughter and a Party, Warren Leamon, "All Saints' Day," New Cartoon

Happy All Saints' Day.

The two days following All Hallows' Eve in the Christian calendar year are All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day.  Tonight and tomorrow in churches all over the world, people are going to be remembering and celebrating loved ones who have died.  Candles will be lit.  Prayers will be recited.  Tears will be shed.

Of course, dealing with loss is all a part of growing up.  Along with going to school, leaving home, getting a job, falling in love.  Last night, my daughter went to a Halloween Party thrown by a friend from school.  A male friend from school.  When I went to pick her up, she was standing outside with "Tim," talking.  All the other guests had left.  My daughter has insisted for a couple of weeks that Tim is just a friend.  I'm not buying what she's selling.

She came bounding over to the car and slipped into the back seat.  She was really happy, but she wouldn't talk about the party at all.

Me:  "Was there dancing?"

Her:  "No."

Me:  "Did you play games?"

Her:  "No."

Me:  "Did you eat anything?"

Her:  "I wasn't hungry."

Me:  "Did you bob for apples?"

Her:  "What?"

You get the picture.  One and two syllable answers from her.  Increasing frustration from me.  I don't know if Tim is a friend or more than a friend.  I don't know if she roasted marshmallows or played naked Twister.  I don't know anything.

I wasn't this secretive when I was thirteen.  Well, except for the normal teenage boy stuff that involved uncontrollable hormones, bodily functions, and a poster of Alyssa Milano.  Which makes me trust Tim even less.

Saint Marty isn't ready to be the father of a teenage daughter.  He needs a firearm and some ammunition.

All Saints' Day

by:  Warren Leamon

A solitary tree atop a mountain rises
straight against a cloudless sky, and I remember
what the medieval painters would have seen:
a cross devoid of depth, flat from head to foot,
from nail to bloody nail, all lines of vision ending
in the innocent agony of a dying man.
We can’t say what they saw was mere distortion
(any serf knew well the depth of hill and sky);
nor can we say they saw no beauty in the world
(like us they loved lush color, reds and blues and yellows
split by smoke twisting up through icy air).
We can only say they knew too well the limits
of the flesh and caught on stark flat surfaces the truth
that haunts me now in the cold fields of November.

Confessions of Saint Marty