December 6, 2024: "Lines Written at Flying Point Beach," the Soo, Ace

A good portion of today, I was traveling for Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, to do a poetry workshop and reading at Bayliss Library.  I didn't have to drive at all.  One of my best poet friends drove the entire way there and back.  He co-led the workshop and co-read with me.

I'm not particularly fond of long car rides, especially during the winter in the Upper Peninsula.  In the past couple weeks, the "Soo," as Yoopers affectionally call Sault Ste. Marie, got over three feet of snow.  That might seem like a lot to non-Yoopers, but a lot of snow doesn't slow us down for very long.

Billy Collins writes about a favorite place . . . 

Lines Written at Flying Point Beach

by: Martin Achatz

or at least in the general vicinity
of Flying Point Beach,
certainly closer than I normally am

to that beach where the ocean
crests the dunes at high tide
spilling tons of new salt water into Mecox Bay,

and probably closer to Flying Point Beach
than you are right now
or I happen to be as you are reading this.

but how close do I really need to be
to Flying Point Beach
or to any beach in order to write these lines?

Oh, Flying Point Beach,
I love all three words in your name,
not to mention the deep, white sand

and the shorebirds on their thin legs
facing into the wind
along that low stretch between the ocean and the bay.

How satisfying it is to be
even within bicycling distance of you,
though it's dangerous to ride at the edge of these roads.

Thoreau had a cabin near his pond.
Virginia Woolf stood on the shore of the River Ouse,
and here I am writing all this down

not very far at all--maybe 20 minutes by taxi
if the driver ever manages to find this place--
from the many natural wonders of Flying Point Beach.

The Soo is a beautiful town, even when it's buried under 36+ inches of white stuff.  When I visited close to ten years ago, I remember watching ships pass through the locks on the St. Mary's River.  I can't say it's one of my favorite places, but Yoopers are a hardy lot, but, to be honest, I wasn't sure if poetry was enough to lure people to brave the elements.  My gut told me that we were going to have a very small audience.  But you know that old saying from the Bible, where two or three are gathered, there shall be poetry.  (Okay, I made that last bit up.)

For our reading, I was convinced nobody was going to show up.  (Ronnie and I led a poetry workshop earlier, and only one person attended--and he worked for the library.)  Two people came to the reading:  a young woman and her third-grade son whose name was Ace.  Neither were very interested in poetry.  They came to get a selfie with Bigfoot.

Ace was an amazing little guy.  Full of energy and kindness, he got his picture with Bigfoot, but he also sat and listened to me read poems and Ronnie sing songs.  After I read one particular poem, Ace said to me, "That was the best poem I've ever heard.  And I'm not just saying that."  You don't often encounter that kind of emotional intelligence in a young person.

Speaking with Ace's mother, I learned of his struggles in a schoolroom with inattentive teachers and bullies.  He hasn't had an easy time of things, and his story reminded me so much of my own son's issues in elementary and middle school.  At the end of the reading, I told Ace how awesome he was, and I encouraged him to continue to be kind and curious.

On the drive home from the Soo, Ronnie said to me, "Ace made this whole trip worth it."

Ace gave Saint Marty hope for the future today.

November 24: Hope for the Future, Miller Williams, "Of History and Hope"

I think a good way to end this Thanksgiving night is with the poem Miller Williams wrote for the second inauguration of President Bill Clinton.

I must admit to having not a whole lot of hope for the future of the United States in the last few weeks.  The prospect of a Trump presidency fills me with dread.  President Obama, in his Thanksgiving message, called for all citizens to find common ground.  So did Donald Trump.  I'm not quite there yet.

But Miller Williams' poem reminds me that hope is still within reach. 

For Saint Marty, hope is about four years away.

Of History and Hope

by:  Miller Williams

We have memorized America,

how it was born and who we have been and where.

In ceremonies and silence we say the words,

telling the stories, singing the old songs.

We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.

The great and all the anonymous dead are there.

We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.

The rich taste of it is on our tongues.

But where are we going to be, and why, and who?

The disenfranchised dead want to know.

We mean to be the people we meant to be,

to keep on going where we meant to go.

But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how

except in the minds of those who will call it Now?

The children. The children. And how does our garden grow?

With waving hands—oh, rarely in a row—

and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow.

Who were many people coming together

cannot become one people falling apart.

Who dreamed for every child an even chance

cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not.

Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head

cannot let chaos make its way to the heart.

Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child

cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot.

We know what we have done and what we have said,

and how we have grown, degree by slow degree,

believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become—

just and compassionate, equal, able, and free.

All this in the hands of children, eyes already set

on a land we never can visit—it isn’t there yet—

but looking through their eyes, we can see

what our long gift to them may come to be.

If we can truly remember, they will not forget.

February 8: Heroes, Kids, Mythology

Today, I tried to get my mythology students to talk a little bit about heroes.  We're wrapping up our reading of Ovid's Metamorphoses, and I wanted to get into a discussion of heroes, ancient and contemporary.

"Who are your heroes?" I said.

Blank stares.

"Who do you look up to?"  I said.

Blank stares.

"Why are you in college, studying the subject you're studying?"  I said.  "Who inspired you?"

Blank stares.

"Are you all in college just so you can get a degree and make a lot of money?"  I said.

Blank stares and some nodding.

I stood there staring at these kids. 

Finally, a guy in the back row said, "Isn't that why you're here?"

I thought for a few moments, choosing my words.  "Yes," I finally said, "that's exactly why I choose to be a part-time adjunct instructor in the English Department."  I looked around at each kid in the class.  "I'm in it for the money."  I let that sink in for a couple of seconds.  Then I said, "If the only reason you're here is to get a degree that will get you a job that will allow you to make a great deal of money, I really feel sorry for all of you."

Blank stares.

Saint Marty lost a little hope for the future this afternoon.