July 7: "In the Moment," Here and Now, Tiny Life Moment

Billy Collins lives . . .

In the Moment

by: Billy Collins

It was a day in June, all lawn and sky,

the kind that gives you no choice

but to unbutton your shirt

and sit outside in a rough wooden chair.

An if a glass of ice tea and a volume

of seventeenth-century poetry

with a dark blue cover are available,

then the picture can hardly be improved.

I remember a fly kept landing on my wrist,

and two black butterflies 

with white and red wing dots

bobbed around my head in the bright air.

I could feel the day offering itself to me,

and I wanted nothing more

than to be in the moment--but which moment?

Not that one, or that one, or that one,

or any of those that were scuttling by

seemed perfectly right for me.

Plus, I was too knotted with with questions

about the past and his tall, evasive sister, the future.

What churchyard held the bones of George Herbert?

Why did John Donne's wife die so young?

And more pressingly,

what could we serve the vegetarian twins

who were coming to dinner that evening?

Who knew that they would bring their own grapes?

And why was the driver of that pickup

flying down the road toward the lone railroad track?

And so the priceless moments of the day

were squandered one by one--

or more likely a thousand at a time--

with quandary and pointless interrogation.

All I wanted was to be a pea of being

inside the green pod of time,

but that was not going to happen today,

I had to admit to myself

as I closed the book on the face

of Thomas Traherne and returned to the house

where I lit a flame under a pot

full of floating brown eggs,

and, while they cooked in their bubbles,

I stared into a small oval mirror near the sink

to see if that crazy glass

had anything special to tell me today.

Living in the here and now is a good way of being.  If you get stuck in the past, you will spend your life grieving for what or whom you've lost.  If you live in the future, your existence is defined by fear, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The present it a different thing.  By relishing each moment as it comes your way, all those pesky regrets (from the past) and worries (about the future) melt away like an ice cream cake on a July afternoon.  What is left is gratitude for what is in front your face.  People you love.  Music you dig.  Food you crave.  And laughter and laughter and laughter.

My here and now today consisted of a birthday party for my nephew who just turned 13 years old.  It was a wonderful time of games and food and (as I said above) laughter and laughter and laughter.  Then, this evening, I led an online poetry workshop.  Two of my closest poet friends Zoomed in.  We wrote Pablo Neruda odes to the things in our lives and homes.  So, in a way, we celebrated the present with words and language.

Poetry is a very immediate kind of art form.  Each poem preserves a tiny life moment--its emotions and physicality.  Perhaps that's why I fell into this poetic life I lead--because I want to deeply observe each of my experiences.  To find meaning and, when available, revelation.

Saint Marty's biggest revelation today:  never let a stranger pick out his corn on the cob.

May 30: DiMaggio Is Himself, Memorial Day, True Meaning

Santiago talks about baseball . . . 

"Your stew is excellent," the old man said.

"Tell me about the baseball," the boy asked him.

"In the American League it is the Yankees as I said," the old man said happily.

"They lost today," the boy told him.

"That means nothing. The great DiMaggio is himself again."

"They have other men on the team."

"Naturally. But he makes the difference. In the other league, between Brooklyn and Philadelphia I must take Brooklyn. But then I think of Dick Sisler and those great drives in the old park."

"There was nothing ever like them. He hits the longest ball I have ever seen."

"Do you remember when he used to come to the Terrace? I wanted to take him fishing but I was too timid to ask him. Then I asked you to ask him and you were too timid."

"I know. It was a great mistake. He might have gone with us. Then we would have that for all of our lives."

"I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing," the old man said. "They say his father was a fisherman. Maybe he was as poor as we are and would understand."

Nothing more American than baseball.  Even though Santiago and the boy are Cuban, they follow the Yankees and idolize Joe DiMaggio.  If they were wearing red, white, and blue tee shirts and MAGA hats, they'd fit into almost any small town in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

On this day, the citizens of my country celebrate Memorial Day.  It's a time meant to honor men and women in the United States' armed forces who lost their lives in conflict.  Parades are held.  Solemn ceremonies conducted at cemeteries.  And then, everyone goes off to camp or the beach, barbecues hotdogs and hamburgers, cooks corn on the cob, and slices up some watermelon.   

That's pretty much what we did today.  A parade that lasted all of three minutes in the morning.  Followed by cemetery service.  A tour of relatives' graves.  A nap.  Watching Saving Private Ryan.  Family barbecue.  Then an episode of the new season of Stranger Things.  

I have tried most of my adult life to honor the true meaning of this day and teach my children to do the same.  I'm not particularly jingoistic in my patriotism, but I do recognize and honor the sacrifices people have made for the freedoms I enjoy every day of my life.  Heroes who gave their lives so I can write my blog posts and poems.  So my kids can love whomever they want (for now).  And so that everyone I care about can live their lives the way they want without fear or discrimination.

That's what Saint Marty celebrates tonight.

July 14: Father's Birthday and Fireworks, New Cartoon

Yes, I know today is supposed to be Classic Saint Marty Sunday.  I don't have the energy to look back and find an old post I want to rerun.  Maybe I'll do it tomorrow afternoon.  It's summer time.  Even the TV networks shake things up during the warm months.

Today also happens to be my father's birthday.  We had a nice dinner, and my wife and I gave my dad a nice framed picture of my son and dad cutting our lawn together.  We had the photos, and I meant to give them to my dad on Father's Day.  I forgot.  So, this was my second chance.

Last night, my family went to the beach and watched fireworks.  It was the climax of a celebration called Pioneer Week in a neighboring city.  It's usually the best fireworks show of the summer.  There were bratwursts and corn on the cob and kettle popcorn.  It's a great home town celebration.

Unfortunately, it's all downhill now when it comes to summer.  There's really nothing else that happens in July or August.  I have a few poetry readings to attend.  I also have a nice vacation planned with my kids.

Saint Marty needs another weekend to recover from his weekend.

Confessions of Saint Marty

May 27: Memorial Day, Parade, Service, Rest

We went to the Memorial Day parade this morning in Negaunee, Michigan.  From what I understand, the parade used to be huge, rivaling the Fourth of July, in years past.  Now, it lasts all of five minutes.  There's a police car, a fire engine, two marching bands, and a contingent from the VFW.  Not many people show up on Iron Street to watch it any more.

I try to impress upon my kids the real meaning behind this day.  I try to make them realize that it's more than just a vacation from school and a time to eat corn on the cob and barbecued hot dogs.  After the parade, we went to the memorial service at the cemetery.  It's difficult making a twelve-year-old and a four-year-old understand the sacrifices of war veterans.  For most of my daughter's life, the United States has been engaged in foreign military actions.  She doesn't know any different.  Almost every week, she's heard news reports of suicide bombings and soldiers killed in action.  My son doesn't know any different, either.

Maybe, some day, my children will know only peace in the world.

This is Saint Marty's solemn prayer.