May 16, 2025: "Alcatraz," Trapped in the Past, "To That Girl in High School"

It's easy to get trapped in the past, especially if that past contains any kind of trauma or difficulty. I've worked for years with therapists to overcome some of my life experiences. Talking and writing about these experiences throws open the closet door and lets the skeletons hidden inside start dancing.

Sharon Olds deals with some childhood trauma . . . 

Alcatraz

by: Sharon Olds

When I was a girl, I knew I was a man
because they might send me to Alcatraz
and only men went to Alcatraz.
Every time we drove to the city 

I'd see it there, white as a white
shark in the shark-rich Bay, the bars like
milk-white ribs. I knew I had pushed my
parents too far, my inner badness had
spread like ink and taken me over, I could
not control my terrible thoughts,
terrible looks, and they had often said
that they would send me there--maybe the very next
time I spilled my milk.  Ala
Cazam, the aluminum doors would slam, I'd be
there where I belonged, a girl-faced man in the
prison no one had escaped from. I did not
fear the other prisoners,
I knew who they were, men like me who had
spilled their milk one time too many,
not been able to curb their thoughts—
what I feared was the horror of the circles: circle of
sky around the earth, circle of
land around the Bay, circle of
water around the island, circle of
sharks around the shore, circle of
outer walls, inner walls,
steel girders, chrome bars,
circle of my cell around me, and there at the
center, the glass of milk AND the guard's
eyes upon me as I reached out for it.

Now, going to prison for spilling a glass of milk seems a little drastic.  However, that was Sharon Olds' fear as a young girl, and this poem is all about little childhood wounds.  I know I can trace quite a few of my own adult phobias back to things that happened to me as a kid.  (Everybody goes through heartbreaks in high schooler--I think it's part of every curriculum.)

I'm not going to belabor any point tonight.  I'm too tired.  It's been a long week.  Yes, I could write about some of my past traumas, but it's Friday night.  I want to relax and sleep well.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about a high school heartbreak, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Think about all the people in your life that you liked, but never really got a chance to know.  This could be because they died or perhaps you just had a brief friendship before you had to move away.  Maybe you switched jobs or your relationship was cut short for another reason.  Write a poem where you address this person.  Share with her/him images of your favorite things and things s/he never knew that were important to you.  Be specific.  If you love flatbread from Spain or love dinner-plate dahlias, mention it.  Tell them what you remember of them.  You can write this poem in the form of a letter, postcard, or just address the poem to them:  "Dear __________, You never saw my garden . . ."

To That Girl in High School

by: Martin Achatz

Every night I went to bed

jealous of the moonlight

for turning your body into

a bright, perfect pearl.

November 14: Blowing Out the Light, Go To Your Room, Correcting Papers

His story being ended with his pipe's last dying puff, Queequeg embraced me, pressed his forehead against mine, and blowing out the light, we rolled over from each other, this way and that, and very soon were sleeping.

I want to tell you a bedtime story tonight.  Well, it's a story that happened around bedtime.

I'm a very stubborn person sometimes.  (I know.  It's hard to believe.)  For a teacher and husband, that's not the greatest of character traits.  For a father, it can cause real trauma in a child's life.

One night, when my daughter was around seven years old, she told me that she wasn't tired and didn't want to go to bed.  It was around 8:30 p.m., and I had a stack of papers to grade.  I wasn't in the mood for a three-hour bedtime struggle.

"Get up now," I told her, "and go to your room."

She stared at me with her wide brown eyes and didn't move.

"I'm not kidding," I said.  "Get up NOW."

She still didn't move.  Just sat staring at me.

I lost it.  Threw down my book, stormed over to her, snatched her up.  I stomped into her room and threw her down on her bed.

"Go to sleep," I yelled.  "NOW."

She sat there, her chest heaving with sobs. 

"Go to sleep," I repeated.

She nodded, barely able to catch her breath.  Then, she said, "I . . . I'm . . . s-s-sorry . . . I . . .in-in-interrupted . . . your . . . w-w-work . . ."

I felt something inside my chest seize.  I stood there, staring down at her.  My daughter, in her seven-year-old way, was telling me she wanted to spend time with me, and I hadn't listened.

I sat down next to her, reached out.  She fell into my arms.  That night, I read her three books, sang to her, prayed with her, held her until she fell asleep.

Saint Marty didn't grade a single paper that night.