May 13: "Empty House," Mondays, "Funeral Lunch"

Billy Collins enjoys the view . . . 

Empty House

by: Billy Collins

After the old man died

but before the house was torn down,

the windows continued to enjoy

a view of the meadow and the woods beyond.

Monday is never anyone's favorite day of the week.  Often, when I get to my office on Monday morning, I spend several minutes staring out the window at the church across the street, as the sunlight transforms it from orange to gold to brindled sand.  Like the old man in Collins' poem, I never get tired of the view.

It was a really good Monday for me.  I don't say that very often.  About midmorning, I received news that a grant on which I worked for the library in January received funding.  (Unfortunately, I can't go into more detail until the official announcement at the beginning of June, but I worked my ass off on it.)  I never thought my application stood a chance.

So, I've been sort of basking in quiet celebration for most of the day.  Enjoying the view from my window, so to speak.

Saint Marty is done patting himself on the back now. 

Funeral Lunch

by: Martin Achatz

We sit around tables, eat

lasagna, chicken wings,

Aunt Polly's pink lady salad,

drink strong, black coffee,

and start forgetting

the dirty joke about a turkey

and a donkey the dearly departed

told last Thanksgiving.

January 22: "Creative Writing," Grant, John Green

Billy Collins teaches . . . 

Creative Writing

by:  Billy Collins

When I told a student

not to use single quotation marks

around lines of dialogue,

he told me that all our words

are already inside the quotation marks

that God placed around Creation.

I don't often get to teach creative writing at the university.  The administration saves "fun" classes like that for tenured faculty and grad students.  (Yes, you read that right:  grad students.)  So, I don't get to have interesting conversations like this one.  (By the way, the student in the poem is sort of correct, because, in Genesis, God speaks everything into being:  "Let there be . . . "  So, if you're a literalist, we're all just living words straight out of God's mouth.)

Today, for me, God said, "Let there be an NEA grant."  And, because I always follow God's commandments, that's what I did--worked on a grant.  All . . . day . . . long . . .

My mind and body are a little exhausted tonight.  I made a lot of headway on the grant, though, but it's not done yet.  As I worked on it, I kept thinking to myself, This is a waste of time.  You're not going to get this grant.  

When I first started working for the library, I naively agreed to write a $20,000 NEA Big Read grant.  It was so much work, and, when I finally submitted it, I thought that I had wasted 60 days of my life.  Four months later, I received an email from Arts Midwest with the following word in its memo line:  "Congratulations."  

A year later, I submitted another NEA Big Read grant.  This time, however, I actually believed I was a shoe-in for a two-peat.  Four months later, I received an email with the words "Case Number:  00031617" in its memo line.  Translation:  "Sorry, Charlie."

So, I'm batting 500 when it comes to grant writing, and the whole process has become an exercise in self torture.  By around 4 p.m. today, I was feeling more than a little defeated.  So, I went for a walk around the library to clear my head.  And that's when it happened.

As I was standing in the Circulation Department, my friend, Melissa, introduced me to a friend of hers, and I lost my mind.  It was John Green.  THE John Green.  John Green of Turtles All the Way Down and Paper Towns and Looking for Alaska and An Abundance of Katherines.  Oh, also the John Green of The Fault In Our Stars.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I went a little fanboy all over him.  It was a pretty amazing moment.  For people who think that working in a library is not exciting, let me list a few other people whom I've met as part of my job:  Les Standiford, Natasha Trethewey, Joy Harjo, Diane Seuss, and Alex Gino.  That's two U. S. Poets Laureate, the author of The Man Who Invented Christmas, a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, and a bestselling YA writer.  

And now John Green.

I've been riding that wave since this afternoon, and I'll probably be riding it for the rest of the week.  Long enough to get me through the submission of the NEA grant.

Saint Marty has had a pretty good day after a pretty crappy weekend.

September 12: New Week, Fresh Start, Philip Levine

This morning, I actually feel energy for the things I have to do today.  I've already finished writing a grant that I have to submit today for next year's U. P. Book Tour 2012.  Looking over the details for the tour, I just found out the organizer is trying to book U. S. Poet Laureate Philip Levine for a reading.  I am so excited about that prospect.  Phil Levine has been one of my favorite poets since I started writing.  He's originally from Detroit, worked in the factories down there as a young man, and made a better life for himself through poetry.  He's one of my heroes.

I love the feeling of a fresh start, and that's what today feels like to me.  As I sit here, eating my cheese and wholegrain bread for breakfast, I'm ready to throw myself into today's tasks.  That grant for the book tour has been looming over my head for a week, so getting it done lifts a weight from my shoulders.  Everything else I have to accomplish today seems miniscule in comparison.  Plus, I might get to meet Phil Levine next summer.  How freakin' cool is that?

Saint Marty is going to leave you with a poem from Phil Levine this morning (since he's not sure if he's going to get a poem written himself today).

What Work Is

by:  Philip Levine

We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is--if you're
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it's someone else's brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, "No,
we're not hiring today," for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who's not beside you or behind or
ahead because he's home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You've never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you're too young or too dumb,
not because you're jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don't know what work is.

Coming next summer, hopefully