May 2: Marvin Trudged, End of Semester Crush, Uncle Walt

Back to Marvin, the depressed robot . . .

Marvin trudged on down the corridor, still moaning.

"And then of course I've got this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left-hand side . . ."

"No?" said Arthur grimly as he walked along beside him.  "Really?"

"Oh, yes," said Marvin, "I mean I've asked for them to be replaced but no one ever listens."

"I can imagine."

Arthur is feigning interest in what Marvin is saying.  To be polite, I guess.  Marvin is simply difficult to be around.  He complains all the time.  The universe is a bleak and miserable place in Marvin's head space.  It's not Marvin's fault, though.  He was programmed that way.  

I, on the other hand, was not programmed to emulate the state of depression.  I can't blame a team of AI specialists for my continually dark moods.  It's just the way I am, like it or not.  I have an affinity for pessimism, I guess.  That is mostly the result of being tired a lot.

I am nearing the end of the semester.  Tons of grading to do.  I know that all of you out there are tired of hearing my complaints about the end-of-semester crush, but, unless you've experienced it as an instructor/professor, you really have no idea of the stress and exhaustion.  There's nothing like, unless you count near death experiences.

Tonight, however, I am conducting a poetry workshop at the Joy Center in my hometown.  (It's an artist retreat in the middle of the woods--there's no better place to write.)  I'm celebrating the 200th birthday of Walt Whitman this month.  (Whitman was born May 31, 1819.)  So, it's going to be Uncle Walt, me, and a bunch of poet friends, hopefully.  I've been looking forward to this event all week long.

So, trudge along with me for a few more days in this blog.  I promise it will be getting better.  Grades are due by noon next Tuesday.  So, a weekend and a day.  Then I will be in a much better state of mind.

Until then, Saint Marty has Walt Whitman.

July 2: Walt Whitman, "I Hear America Singing," When America Was Great

I Hear America Singing

by:  Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,

Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,

The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,

The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,

The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,

The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

_________________________

In honor of the America that I know and am proud of (which, it so happens, is the same America Walt
Whitman knew and was proud of), I am singing America with Uncle Walt tonight.

Saint Marty remembers when America was great, which was about a year-and-a-half ago.

November 2: Make America Great Again, Walt Whitman, "Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field one Night"

Walt Whitman worked as a nurse during the Civil War, caring for wounded and dying soldiers.  As I said last night, he saw the very best and very worst of humanity.  And he still believed in America, in the hope and ideals of democracy.

I'm not sure that Uncle Walt would recognize The United States right now, with its racism and homophobia and hatred.  Or maybe he would.  After all, I would bet the Civil War was full of Donald Trumps, fighting to "make America great again," whatever that means.

Saint Marty is tired of people trying to make America great again.

Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field one Night

by:  Walt Whitman

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;

When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,

One look I but gave which your dear eyes return’d with a look I shall never forget,

One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach’d up as you lay on the ground,

Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,

Till late in the night reliev’d to the place at last again I made my way,

Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,

Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,

Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,

Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade—not a tear, not a word,

Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,

Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)

Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear’d,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop’d well his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,

And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,

Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim,

Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten’d,

I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,

And buried him where he fell.