December 30, 2024: "The Names," George Baileys, Poinsettia

I know that my blog posts recently have been a little . . . dark.  I apologize for that.  You see, at the holiday season, most people want It's a Wonderful Life, not Terms of Endearment.  I get it.  

All of the faithful disciples of this blog know that I write my truth, whether it's joyful or sorrowful.  If I have a good day, you will read about it here.  If my day is shitty, you will also read about it here.  That's how it works.  For most of this past month, since Thanksgiving, I haven't been George Bailey singing "Auld Lang Syne" in a house crowded with family and friends.  Rather, I've been George Baily standing on a wintry bridge, gazing down at the roiling black river.

The human condition is complex, full of paradoxes.  I can be both George Baileys at the same time.  I have a feeling that, in the next four years, I'm going to be on that bridge a lot.  And I would hazard a guess that I won't be alone on that bridge.  It's going to be pretty damn crowded.

Billy Collins writes about collective grief . . . 

The Names

by: Billy Collins

     (for the victims of September 11th 

     and their survivors)

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A fine rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.

In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name —
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.

Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner —
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.

When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.

Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.

In the evening — weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds —
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.

Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in green rows in a field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

Collins wrote and read this poem for a joint session of Congress held in New York City one year after September 11, 2001.  It's a powerful testament to communal love and loss.  And it ends the year of Billy Collins on this blog.  Fitting, I think, as it is, in my opinion, one of his finest works, capturing the heartache of that time.

You see, if there's one thing I've learned from Collins over these past 365 days, it's this:  laughter and tears are not mutually exclusive.  They coexist in everyone.  Collins writes about the ridiculous and sublime.  Sometimes, his poems are ridiculously sublime, and sometimes they are sublimely ridiculous.  They are like holding an ice cube in your fist.  First, it burns.  Then, it numbs.  Finally, it becomes cool water baptizing your fingers.

I'm holding a burning ice cube in my fist at the moment.  In these last melting days of 2024, I face a new year that will see some drastic personal changes in my life.  My daughter will be moving away to attend medical school.  My son will be starting college.  Sooner than I care to admit, my wife and I will be facing an empty nest.  These are things that I both celebrate and mourn.  

On Christmas Eve at my wife's church, I took a picture of a blooming poinsettia sitting on the altar railing in front of me.  It was donated by a family in honor of a lost loved one.  Beauty and grief nestled together in those crimson petals on one of the most sacred nights for Christians.

In the the nativity story in the Gospel of Luke, there is this passage:  "And all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them.  But Mary treasured these things and pondered them in her heart."  

Saint Marty treasures all the joys and sadnesses of his life.  They are written on the walls of his heart.

January 1: "Musical Tables," Year of Billy Collins, Musical Chairs

Welcome to the first day of the new year, when people start new diets and exercise regimens.  Resolutions are still in full vigor, and the world seems fresh and new as clean socks.

Having lived in Mary Oliver's universe for the entirety of 2023, it's difficult to step away from her daily doses of grace and wisdom now.  There was something very comforting being in Mary's company for that long--it was almost like a 365-day spiritual/poetic retreat.

This year, I turn to another poet whose work is just as popular as Oliver's.  In fact, I would venture to guess that his name is possibly known even by people who really aren't into poetry.  This poet was once described as "the most popular poet in America" by Bruce Weber in The New York Times.  He served as U. S. Poet Laureate from 2001 to 2003 and was named New York State Poet Laureate from 2004 to 2006.

Now, because of this popularity, he's frequently dismissed as sentimental and easy.  I don't necessarily agree with this assessment.  Yes, his poems are incredibly accessible, and that may be the reason he isn't taken very seriously.  However, as you will discover in the coming days, his poems are many things--funny, ordinary, profound, extraordinary--but they are certainly not lightweight in any way.

The 2024 Poet of the Year for Saint Marty is . . . Billy Collins.

I'm starting this journey with the title poem of one of Collins' most recently collections, Musical Tables . . .

Musical Tables

by:  Billy Collins

No one knew what to do

when the music stopped,

plus, the big tables were always in the way.

But soon it became the new game

in spite of its pointlessness,

or was that the reason for its popular appeal?

Most of us have played Musical Chairs at some point in our lives.  That object of the game is pretty simple:  once the music stops, grab a chair.  If you don't end up sitting in one of the available chairs, you lose.  A seat is removed then, and the music begins again.  One-by-one, participants disappear until only one chair and two people are left, and then Musical Chairs becomes a blood sport.  

Billy Collins changes things up in his poem.  Instead of competing for places to sit, it's all about ending up at the last table.  A pointless exercise, according to the poet, but also an exercise that's full of laughter and enjoyment.

Maybe Collins is creating a metaphor for writing or reading verse.  In a practical world, there's really no intrinsic value in poetry, no matter how well-crafted the poem.  Yet, when the music/poetry starts, everyone dances/circles the table, now knowing where they will end up.

It is January 1st, and the music of the new year has begun.  Listen carefully and start walking.  Perhaps you will find yourself in a place magical and new--like an unopened stocking on Christmas morning.

Saint Marty welcomes you to the Year of Billy Collins.  Pull up a chair to the table and have a seat.