May 16: "Poetry Collection," Furnace and Friends, "Working on a New Poem"

Billy Collins edits . . . 

Poetry Collection

by: Billy Collins

They mutter

in the alleys of the city,

the old ones

who were not selected.

It's a difficult thing, writing is.  It keeps you awake at night, wakes you up early in the morning.  Even when you're taking a break, writing is still always present, like tinnitus, ringing in your brain.

I have been up since before 4 a.m.  The furnace in my house decided to stop working.  Instead of blowing warm air, it was blowing cold.  Constantly.  I turned the furnace off and spent twenty minutes trying to contact a local heating and cooling contractor.  Eventually, I was successful.

The service person came out this afternoon and gave my furnace a fatal diagnosis.  He mentioned fireballs and overheating, cautioned us not to turn the furnace back on.  So, everybody in my house is layered up tonight in sweatshirts and hats and gloves, and two space heaters are cranking out some heat.  (A huge shoutout to my friend, John, who loaned us his heavy duty heater that is now maintaining a steady 68 degrees in the living room and bedroom.

And tonight I hosted a monthly Zoom open mic where some of my best friends warmed me up with their stories and essays and poems.  After a very long day, where I struggled and worried and fretted and worried some more, it was good just to relax and listen to everyone.  

Humans beings are messy creatures.  We worry about things we have very little control over.  We fuck up, over and over and over and over.  That's what life is--a series of mistakes, struggles, and challenges.  And it's our friends who pick us up, dust us off, and forgive us.  

Saint Marty gives thanks tonight for good friends and space heaters.  

Working on a New Poem

by: Martin Achatz

I wake in the middle

of the night when it cries

out, stumble to its cradle,

check to see if it's hungry,

wet, or just wants to be held.

October 27: Leader of Men, Beyond Hope, Flawed Saint

Billy Pilgrim opened his eyes in the hospital in Vermont, did not know where he was.  Watching him was his son Robert.  Robert was wearing the uniform of the famous Green Berets.  Robert's hair was short, was wheat-colored bristles.  Robert was clean and neat.  He was decorated with a Purple Heart and a Silver Star and a Bronze Star with two clusters.

This was a boy who had flunked out of high school, who had been an alcoholic at sixteen, who had run with a rotten bunch of kids, who had been arrested for tipping over hundreds of tombstones in a Catholic cemetery one time.  He was all straightened out now.  His posture was wonderful and his shoes were shined and his trousers were pressed, and he was a leader of men.

"Dad--?"

Billy Pilgrim closed his eyes again.

Nobody is beyond hope.  That's what I get out of this passage.  Robert is on the fast-track to a pretty bleak life.  Alcoholic.  Delinquent.  Criminal.  His story could have easily turned out like the end of Leaving Las Vegas, Robert portrayed drinking himself to death at the end of a terrible life.  That could have happened.

Instead, Robert has become a military hero in a very unpopular war.  He's a leader, someone to whom people look up to.  Pretty good for a guy who probably spent most of his teenage years stealing beer and booze from supermarkets.  As I said at the start--nobody is beyond hope.

I firmly believe that statement.  I try to understand people rather than judge them.  Everyone wrestles with demons in some way.  I know that I've done and said things that I'm not too proud of.  That's what being human is all about.  Making mistakes and hopefully learning from those mistakes.

I know what you're waiting for now.  You're waiting for me to go into the details of some huge mistake I've made in the past.  Something that still haunts me and embarrasses me.  I have plenty of stories like that.  But I'm not going to do that.

The things I do when I seriously fuck up are to (1) fix the fuck up, (2) learn how never to fuck up like that again, and (3) forgive myself and let it go.  Number three on that list is very important.  If you don't forgive yourself, if you dwell on past mistakes all the time, you are going to have a pretty miserable life.

So, let me just say that the flawed saint who writes this blog is a patchwork of scars and healings.  I wouldn't be a teacher or poet or laureate or husband or father if I hadn't fucked up majorly at times.  Now, I know that you're intrigued by all this talk about my past.  If you're that interested, there are close to four thousand old posts in this blog.  Go back to day one and start reading.  I'm pretty much an open book.  Or open blog.

This post isn't about mistakes.  It's about hope.  It's about how every person deserves a second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth chance.  That belief saved my marriage and life quite a few times.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for the mistakes he's made.