February 5, 2025: "The Connoisseuse of Slugs," Mystery, "42"

I like to think I have good taste in some things--poems, movies, books, music, friends.  Trying to define what makes a good poem or film or friend is difficult, mysterious.  It's like trying to understand the ending of 2001: A Space Odyssey.  Yet, I know good poems by the way they leave me breathless at the end.  Good films if I'm still thinking about them three days later.  Good friends by how much of my shit they will put up with.

Sharon Olds is an expert on something . . . 

The Connoissseuse of Slugs

by: Sharon Olds

When I was a connoisseuse of slugs
I would part the ivy leaves, and look for the
naked jelly of those gold bodies,
translucent strangers glistening along the
stones, slowly, their gelatinous bodies
at my mercy. Made mostly of water, they would shrivel
to nothing if they were sprinkled with salt,
but I was not interested in that. What I liked
was to draw aside the ivy, breathe the
odor of the wall, and stand there in silence
until the slug forgot I was there
and sent its antennae up out of its
head, the glimmering umber horns
rising like telescopes, until finally the
sensitive knobs would pop out the ends, 

delicate and intimate. Years later,
when I first saw a naked man,
I gasped with pleasure to see that quiet
mystery reenacted, the slow
elegant being coming out of hiding and
gleaming in the dark air, eager and so
trusting you could weep.

It's a wonderfully weird poem from Olds--one only she could and would write.  And it's all about being an expert.  The slug imagery mixes with sexual imagery, until, in the concluding lines, Olds stuns us with beauty and longing.  It takes my breath away,  Hence, it's a good poem.

I had lunch with one of my oldest (not chronologically) friends.  We both worked at a local book store back in the 1990s, and we quickly bonded.  Through the years we've seen each other through a lot:  divorce, depressions, births, deaths, graduations.  Jody was in the birthing room when my wife was having our daughter.  She filled my university office with balloons for my birthday one year.  We both cuss like sailors and enjoy dirty jokes.  Through the decades we've known each other, she's put up with a lot of my shit.

And that makes her a really good friend.

Friendship is a mystery.  You're never sure where or when it's going to strike.  Jody is about a foot shorter than me with a Southern accent.  The first time I met her, she pointed at me and shouted, "Oh my God, a 4.0 GPA!"  (She'd looked over my resumé when I came in for my interview at the book store.)  I liked her immediately, but I never dreamed that--over 30 years later--we'd still be so close.  

It has been a long week, full of all kinds of stress at work (some induced by the President Musk and the Republicans):  a huge programming series funded by the National Endowment for the Arts, if federal funding isn't "paused" again for review; my annual evaluation for the university; issues with computers; issues with students.  In short, a shit show.  And Jody went out to eat with me and let me vent, hugely.  

When I dropped her off at her apartment complex after lunch, she gave me a kiss and a hug and said, "Take care of yourself, for fuck's sake.  I love you."  (I may be paraphrasing a little.)

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight on mystery, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet;

In celebration of the first Reader's Digest publication on this date in 1922, head to the Reader's Digest home page and click on Jokes:  http://www.rd.com/jokes.  After reading several jokes, draft a poem that riffs on scenarios and punchlines that most intrigue you.  Alternatively, write a poem of three or four sections in which each section begins with a well-known riddle.  Examples:  What time is it when an elephant sits on a fence?  What's black and white and red all over?  Why did the chicken cross the road?

42

by: Martin Achatz

1.

What can you catch but not throw?

Tonight, I caught wind in a pine,

jumping branch to branch like

a hungry crow, scraping the air

with the rusty blade of its voice.

2.

What can cry without eyes and fly 

     without wings?

An angel crashed in my backyard,

its feathers gummed with sap,

eyes filled with more salt than

the Atlantic.  I kissed her cheek, tasted

my mother's last breath.

3.

What gets bigger the more you take away?

Something gibbous walked down

the street, searching for 

a puddle of eclipse

to quench its bright thirst.

4.

What can you break without touching it?

I woke when I heard frost tap

on the pane, write a love 

letter to morning on the glass.

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