February 9: Snow Tubing, William Stafford, "Objector"

I went snow tubing with my son this evening.  It was an event sponsored by his school.  The hill is immense and steep, sloping down onto a frozen lake. The moon was big, almost full.  The air, frigid.  And there were lots of kids.  Everywhere.

While my son tubed, my wife and I trudged down to the lodge at the base of the hill to have hot chocolate and eat homemade cookies.  It was a good night, where all kinds of people came together for the sake of the kids.  There was no arguing.  I didn't hear the word "Trump" once, thank God.  The biggest drama of the night was when my son fell off his tube on one of his descents.

Tonight emphasized one thing to me:  we are more similar than different.  We all want happy kids.  We all want hot chocolate and cookies.  And we all want to get to the bottom of the hill safely.

Saint Marty doesn't think anyone will object to that.

Objector

by:  William Stafford

In line at lunch I cross my fork and spoon
to ward off complicity--the ordered life
our leaders have offered us. Thin as a knife,
our chance to live depends on such a sign
while others talk and The Pentagon from the moon
is bouncing exact commands: "Forget your faith;
be ready for whatever it takes to win: we face
annihilation unless all citizens get in line."

I bow and cross my fork and spoon: somewhere
other citizens more fearfully bow
in a place terrorized by their kind of oppressive state.
Our signs both mean, "You hostages over there
will never be slaughtered by my act." Our vows
cross: never to kill and call it fate.

November 24: Poems of Thanksgiving, Mark Doty, "Brian Age Seven"

I have decided to focus on poems of thanks this week, in honor of the American holiday of Thanksgiving being celebrated this Thursday.

I don't think I say "thanks" enough in my life.  There's so much for which I am grateful.  For example, I am grateful for the Christmas essay I finished this weekend.  I know that I had a little divine help with that one.  I am grateful for my job.  I am surrounded by good people who like me.  I am grateful that I have two, healthy, happy kids.  I am grateful for my wife, who supports me in all of my crazy jobs and obsessions.  I am grateful for my life.  I have a home that's warm, cars that run (for the moment), and almost enough money to pay my bills.

So, the first poem this week is by Mark Doty.

And Saint Marty gives thanks for it.

Brian Age Seven

by:  Mark Doty

Grateful for their tour

of the pharmacy,

the first-grade class

has drawn these pictures,

each self-portrait taped

to the window-glass,

faces wide to the street,

round and available,

with parallel lines for hair.

I like this one best: Brian,

whose attenuated name

fills a quarter of the frame,

stretched beside impossible

legs descending from the ball

of his torso, two long arms

springing from that same

central sphere. He breathes here,

on his page. It isn’t craft

that makes this figure come alive;

Brian draws just balls and lines,

in wobbly crayon strokes.

Why do some marks

seem to thrill with life,

possess a portion

of the nervous energy

in their maker’s hand?

That big curve of a smile

reaches nearly to the rim

of his face; he holds

a towering ice cream,

brown spheres teetering

on their cone,

a soda fountain gift

half the length of him

—as if it were the flag

of his own country held high

by the unadorned black line

of his arm. Such naked support

for so much delight! Artless boy,

he’s found a system of beauty:

he shows us pleasure

and what pleasure resists.

The ice cream is delicious.

He’s frail beside his relentless standard.

Thanks for ice cream