March 10: For All Fish, Small Things, Mind of Poetry

Santiago knows fish . . . 

"He hasn't changed at all," he said. But watching the movement of the water against his hand he noted that it was perceptibly slower.

"I'll lash the two oars together across the stern and that will slow him in the night," he said. "He's good for the night and so am I."

It would be better to gut the dolphin a little later to save the blood in the meat, he thought. I can do that a little later and lash the oars to make a drag at the same time. I had better keep the fish quiet now and not disturb him too much at sunset. The setting of the sun is a difficult time for all fish.

It seems as though Santiago has a mind of fish.  (Yes, I stole that particular phrasing from Wallace Stevens' "The Snowman."  So sue me.)  The old man understands fish on a very deep level, just as he understands the sea.  It is his life and spirit.

Another busy day for me.  However, I took some time this evening to relax.  Watched a comedy show with my wife and son.  Laughed hard.  It recharged my depleted batteries a little bit and gave me energy to work on a new poem.

This weekend, I will be traveling to the Keweenaw Peninsula to be part of a radio variety show.  We are recording two episodes of the show on Sunday night.  One of the shows is all about the Kalevala.  I am the show's resident poet, and I usually contribute poems for each episode.  So, this evening, I spent about four hours writing a bear poem for the Kalevala show.  And writing that poem recharged my battery, as well.

It's strange how small things--watching a half hour sitcom, taking a 15-minute nap, working on a new poem--can be like cold water on a sunburned back.  The things I did were tiny, and, yet, when I was done, I felt more like myself than I have all week long.  Maybe because I was concentrating on something that literally brought me personal joy and gave my mind a needed break.

Santiago has a mind of fish.  I have a mind of poetry.  Reading poems.  Writing poems.  Talking about poems.  Leading poetry workshops.  If I do any of these things, I am suddenly more human and can face life's challenges a little better.  Or a lot better

Perhaps I need to schedule meetings with myself.  Poetry breaks.  To blow the dust and cobwebs out of the corners of my soul.  Open the windows and let a little sunshine in.

Saint Marty thinks the world needs a poetry break right now.

The poem that I wrote this evening:

Mead Paw Chase

by:  Martin Achatz

Like Israelites never uttered
the name Yahweh, Finns
never put the word for bear
on their tongues, used
circumlocutions instead.
Mead paw. Browed one.
Dweller of the land. Golden
apple of the forest. In that between
time of mustard leaf and ice
one year, I heard dogs maul
the air all day, distant, hungry.
Near evening, walking a dirt path,
I watched the berm of pines
bristle, needles stand up
like hairs on my knuckles. And I
felt her before I saw her, her
black tidal rolling toward me
out of the dusking woods.
Mead paw crashed the clearing
in full gallop, eyes crazed, blizzard
white. This golden apple didn’t
stop to anoint me with her gaze
or swipe of her apocalyptic
paw. Instead, she slammed
through the trees, disappeared,
swift as the spring Chocolay.
A pack of beagles swarmed
the wake of her, all hairy thunder
and sweat. They followed
her ebon backside like bodies
drawn down to Atlantic Ocean
bed by the sinking Titanic.
I stood there, frozen supplicant,
as those barking thrones chased
the sun out of the heavens.
I listened and listened,
waited and waited,
for I don’t know what
(gunshot? Yahweh’s voice
singing cantos of the Kalevala?)
until the bare moon rose
above me, opened its muzzle,
drizzled me in honey light.

May 22: Collected Dive at Death, Something Traumatic, Cold Water

There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own. However, nothing dispirits, and nothing seems worth while disputing. He bolts down all events, all creeds, and beliefs, and persuasions, all hard things visible and invisible, never mind how knobby; as an ostrich of potent digestion gobbles down bullets and gun flints. And as for small difficulties and worryings, prospects of sudden disaster, peril of life and limb; all these, and death itself, seem to him only sly, good-natured hits, and jolly punches in the side bestowed by the unseen and unaccountable old joker. That odd sort of wayward mood I am speaking of, comes over a man only in some time of extreme tribulation; it comes in the very midst of his earnestness, so that what just before might have seemed to him a thing most momentous, now seems but a part of the general joke. There is nothing like the perils of whaling to breed this free and easy sort of genial, desperado philosophy; and with it I now regarded this whole voyage of the Pequod, and the great White Whale its object.

"Queequeg," said I, when they had dragged me, the last man, to the deck, and I was still shaking myself in my jacket to fling off the water; "Queequeg, my fine friend, does this sort of thing often happen?" Without much emotion, though soaked through just like me, he gave me to understand that such things did often happen.

"Mr. Stubb," said I, turning to that worthy, who, buttoned up in his oil-jacket, was now calmly smoking his pipe in the rain; "Mr. Stubb, I think I have heard you say that of all whalemen you ever met, our chief mate, Mr. Starbuck, is by far the most careful and prudent. I suppose then, that going plump on a flying whale with your sail set in a foggy squall is the height of a whaleman's discretion?"

"Certain. I've lowered for whales from a leaking ship in a gale off Cape Horn."

"Mr. Flask," said I, turning to little King-Post, who was standing close by; "you are experienced in these things, and I am not. Will you tell me whether it is an unalterable law in this fishery, Mr. Flask, for an oarsman to break his own back pulling himself back-foremost into death's jaws?"

"Can't you twist that smaller?" said Flask. "Yes, that's the law. I should like to see a boat's crew backing water up to a whale face foremost. Ha, ha! the whale would give them squint for squint, mind that!"

Here then, from three impartial witnesses, I had a deliberate statement of the entire case. Considering, therefore, that squalls and capsizings in the water and consequent bivouacks on the deep, were matters of common occurrence in this kind of life; considering that at the superlatively critical instant of going on to the whale I must resign my life into the hands of him who steered the boat- oftentimes a fellow who at that very moment is in his impetuousness upon the point of scuttling the craft with his own frantic stampings; considering that the particular disaster to our own particular boat was chiefly to be imputed to Starbuck's driving on to his whale almost in the teeth of a squall, and considering that Starbuck, notwithstanding, was famous for his great heedfulness in the fishery; considering that I belonged to this uncommonly prudent Starbuck's boat; and finally considering in what a devil's chase I was implicated, touching the White Whale: taking all things together, I say, I thought I might as well go below and make a rough draft of my will. "Queequeg," said I, "come along, you shall be my lawyer, executor, and legatee."

It may seem strange that of all men sailors should be tinkering at their last wills and testaments, but there are no people in the world more fond of that diversion. This was the fourth time in my nautical life that I had done the same thing. After the ceremony was concluded upon the present occasion, I felt all the easier; a stone was rolled away from my heart. Besides, all the days I should now live would be as good as the days that Lazarus lived after his resurrection; a supplementary clean gain of so many months or weeks as the case may be. I survived myself; my death and burial were locked up in my chest. I looked round me tranquilly and contentedly, like a quiet ghost with a clean conscience sitting inside the bars of a snug family vault.

Now then, thought I, unconsciously rolling up the sleeves of my frock, here goes for a cool, collected dive at death and destruction, and the devil fetch the hindmost.

Whenever something traumatic happens, I always spend time reflecting and evaluating my life.  That's what Ishmael is doing here.  His boat was capsized by a whale, and he almost drowned.  It's something that happens frequently on whaling ships, his companions assure him.  However, Ishmael needs to take stock of his life and loved ones.  Afterwards, he feels calmer.  At peace.

In the last few years, I've encountered some difficult circumstances.  Nothing life-threatening, but things that have made me reevaluate some aspects of my life.  When my father passed away this February, I spent a good deal of time thinking about my relationship with him.  I haven't elevated him to the status of saint, as some of my siblings have.  He was a flawed man.  However, I have taken time to appreciate what he did for me and our family.

For example, until he couldn't drive anymore, he cut the grass at my house all summer.  He would bring his riding lawnmower over and spend an hour in the afternoon sun manicuring my yard.  I never asked him to do it.  He just made it part of his routine.  I think it was my father's way of demonstrating his love for me. He wasn't a very outwardly affectionate man.  But, he took care of his kids almost to the very end.

When my wife and I were separated for a year, I spent many nights evaluating my life choices.  It was one of the most difficult times I've ever experienced, but I learned a lot about myself.  I had a daughter in kindergarten, two full-time jobs, and a household to run.  I became really good at volunteering in my daughter's classroom in the morning, working in the afternoon, and grocery shopping in the evening.  Certainly, I experienced many dark, lonely nights.  But I found out that I was a pretty good father.  I also learned a great deal about forgiveness.

Losing my brother suddenly taught me how quickly things can change.  Losing my sister taught me about living a good life and the dignity of dying.  I could go on, but I think you get the idea.  Tragedy and near tragedy has a way of making things real.  Stripping away all the stupid day-to-day worries.  That's what Ishmael learns in that cold water, too.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for all the crap that he's gone through.

June 30: Dinner, Judith Minty, "Section 16 from Fall"

I'm really hungry.  Since I got home from work this afternoon, I've been grading assignments for my students.  Now, I've written two blog posts.  Pretty soon, I will sit down and eat dinner.  I don't know what it's going to be.  Something warm and filling hopefully, washed down with a bottle of cold water.

That sounds like a paradise to me at the moment.  Tonight, the beginning of a holiday weekend, I will stay up late and write some more or read a good book or watch a favorite movie.  A reward for the work I have completed today.

Saint Marty is ready for some food.

Section 16 from "Fall" in Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

This good French bread
from the Negaunee bakery
has lasted almost a week.
I tear off a piece, then lather it
with butter.  I remember
she apologized it wasn't a long loaf.
No doubt, hearing my downstate accent,
she thought I meant to cut it with a knife.
How could she know my tongue
ached to thank her in the northland gutteral,
that I would kiss the bread before I ate.

July 8: A Quick Shower Before Bed

Now that I've done a quick Rye dip in my previous post, I have to take a quick shower before I go to bed.  I'm so tired that I actually thought about skipping my shower, but I went for a run this afternoon, followed by swimming with my kids.  I can still smell the chlorine on my skin.

Plus, immediately following work tomorrow afternoon, I have to go play keyboard for a praise concert in a neighboring town.  If I smell ripe tonight, I will smell like a rotten watermelon tomorrow night.  Not pleasant.  Hence, I will go take a cold shower now.  Not because I'm feeling "sexy," as Holden says, but because the rest of my family members have already used up all the hot water with their baths/showers.

Saint Marty hates cold water.

As my gym teacher used to say:  "Hit the showers!"