May 4: Fractals, Friends, and New Poem

I love fractals.  The idea of fractals.  Fractals in nature.  For those of you who don't know what a fractal is, it is "a rough or fragmented geometric shape that can be split into parts, each of which is (at least approximately) a reduced-size copy of the whole..."  That's the definition from Wikipedia.  I find the best way to understand a fractal is to look at pictures of them.  Here you go:

The reason I'm talking about fractals is because you have to understand the concept in order to really get the poem for today.  I started writing this poem while I was waiting to meet with my friend to give her the birthday story I wrote for her.  She loved the story, since no cocker spaniels were harmed in its writing. 

Since the story I wrote was, in essence, about sorrow, this poem is about the recursive power of sorrow, its fractal-ness, if you will.  Hold onto your hats, because, in some ways, it's another language poem.  I don't know why I'm suddenly writing language poems, but it's always good to push yourself.

Now, after your lesson on fractals, I think you're ready to read the poem.  Think of it as an M. C. Escher poem.  That may help.

Saint Marty now presents a little fractal of verse.

Fractally Speaking

I give my friend a bag of sorrow

For her birthday, infinitely green

As forest moss, filled with the kind

Of chocolate truffles I gave my wife

On our last anniversary, dark, bitter

Cocoa my mother dusted on her

Brownies made from my grandmother’s recipe

The autumn after she died under

An August sun.  Blood vessel burst

In her brain as she watered

Her garden, zucchini, carrots, tomatoes

My father couldn’t get to ripen

In cold, Michigan August, bending

Instead to grass, dirt, to killing

Moisture and worm, turning soft, black

Coat I wore to a friend’s wake

Where people hung at the bar,

Drank whiskey, stout, talked about

How she could drink any of us under

The kitchen table with an empty cookie plate,

A note to Santa from my daughter

Saying, I don’t believe in you any more,

But I want a laptop and cell phone and

All these fractals of loss, of tears,

Tiny as paper cuts, large as tsunamis,

Recursive snowflake and coastline

Reflections of all the times I’ve sat,

Listened to my hollow chest

Ring like a church bell tolling Angelus,

I give it to my friend today,

Hope she knows where to plant this birthday
Gift so next spring it will sprout into

Cauliflower and crystal, lightning and broccoli.

May 2: Final Grades, Birthday Present, Short Story

My whole goal today was to submit the final semester grades for the classes I taught and to finish writing the short story for my friend's birthday present tomorrow.  Well, I completed the first part of that task at about 8 a.m.  The rest of the morning was spent completing the second part of that task.

Grades submitted.  Check.

Story done.  Check-check.

I will be giving my friend her cocker spaniel story tomorrow.  Also, tomorrow, I will post my cocker spaniel story.  I think it turned out really well.  It has made a few people cry, which either means it was really, really bad or really, really sentimental or really, really good.  Unless told otherwise, I'm going with the last option.  When I post it tomorrow, you can comment and let me know if it sucks.

I've also been invited to do a couple of poetry readings this summer in the Marquette area.  That's very exciting.  I haven't done a full-blown poetry reading in a long time.  We'll see how it goes.  It's very strange.  My Lenten poetry exercise seems to be reaping benefits in more ways than one.

Of course, last night I watched President Obama announce on TV that Osama bin Laden had been killed.  I'm not the kind of person who will join a street party celebrating the death of a mass murderer.  I do believe in justice, but the kind of jubilation being shown on the news seems more appropriate for the success of an Olympic hockey team, not the killing of a terrorist.  I think the world is going to be a safer place without bin Laden around, but I'm not going to host a Bye bye bin Laden Luau.  I do think the 9-11 families will have a little peace now.  But let's remember:  the death of one man doesn't make up for the loss of over three thousand lives.

I'm not against vengeance, as long as it involves the humiliation of writers who don't deserve to be published or win awards.  (Can you hear me, Professor Ihateyourshittywriting?)

Saint Marty just prays for peace, for the entire world.

You might not know this is funny, but it is.

May 1: Birthday Present, Cocker Spaniel, Rotten Day

The day started out sunny, a little cool.  I thought I was in for a warm running day, the kind that makes you sweat after 30 seconds.  Well, by the time I was done with worship at church, things had changed quite a bit.  It was cloudy, cold, and windy.  It's stayed cloudy, cold, and windy all day.  The wind is rattling the windows right now.

I have to write a short story for my friend's birthday by Tuesday.  Not just any short story.  It has to feature a cocker spaniel, and I can't do anything to hurt the cocker spaniel.  That means the dog must stay alive from the beginning to the end of the narrative.  So where do I get the conflict in the story then?  After all, most books featuring dogs end up with dead dogs at the end (see Old Yeller or Where the Red Fern Grows if you don't believe me).  I'm working on it right now.

Most of my day has been spent dealing with a very crabby little girl.  My daughter, who has not been sleeping well this weekend, had to practice for her piano lesson and do homework.  It didn't go well.  By the end of the afternoon, she was crying and yelling in frustration, and I was ready to drop her off at the orphanage.

In short, it's been a pretty rotten day.  Tonight, I have to get the kids in bed by myself.  My wife is working late, and I have to finish my birthday story before I go to sleep.  It's going to be a long night.  Thank God I don't have to worry about teaching for the rest of the spring and summer.  I just have to knuckle down and write, after my crabby daughter is asleep.

Wish Saint Marty luck.


No dead dogs here!