February 24: "Used Book," Perpetually Tired, Back in the Saddle

Billy Collins reading a . . .

Used Book

by:  Billy Collins

I turn a page

someone dog-eared,

like the bent ear

of a dog who's still lost.

Yes, I have been absent for quite a while.  I know that.  I'd like to say that I've been putting the finishing touches on a novel or collection of poems (I've been doing a little of the latter).  But that's not the reason.  I could claim sickness, but that's not the reason, either.  Teaching?  Nope.  Planning the Great Lakes Poetry Festival for the library where I work?  A little.  Working as an undercover poet for President Biden writing limericks about his predecessor?  Sounds like fun, but no.

The truth of the matter is that I've been tired.  Perpetually tired.  I usually write these blog posts either very early in the morning (when everyone in my house is still asleep) or very late at night (when everyone in my house has gone to bed).  However, my writing impulses have been running on low battery for the last month or so, and all I want to do is . . . sleep.  And once you fall out of a routine, it's hard to pick it up again.

People don't realize the energy it takes to write.  There are constant distractions--laundry to fold, papers to grade, a book to finish, a movie or TV show to watch.  Being able to set all that aside takes willpower and determination.  (Notice I didn't say "inspiration."  If I always waited to be inspired before I pick up a pen to write, I would never write again.)  Writing is plain hard work.

What have I been doing instead or writing?  Well, I've been rereading some of my favorite books and poetry collections.  Books that I've scribbled marginalia in, dog-eared pages of, and memorized passages from.  Old friends.  Collins compares the bent pages of well-loved books to the bent ear of a lost dog.  We're both saying the same thing--the words and pages of used books are comforting in times of chaos and upheaval and exhaustion.

I'm going to try to get back into the writing saddle.  No guarantees what I produce will be profound or funny or even interesting.  The next post I write may simply be my grocery list or a catalogue of Sharon Olds' books on my bookshelf (there are a lot).  But Rome wasn't built in a day, and runners don't start with marathons.  (Apologies for the clichés.  It's the best I can do at the moment.)

So, this lost dog is back home, and hopefully you will be reading a lot more of the Gospel of Saint Marty in the coming days.

 

May 16: Back to Work, Lost Dog, New Poem

I won't lie to you.  It was difficult getting back in the saddle this morning.  Getting up at 4:15 a.m. was tough.  But, of course, I dragged my ass out of bed, showered, and drove to work.  The first few hours were even tougher, but I worked through my exhaustion.  I think all of the stress and excitement of the trip finally caught up with me.  On top of that, usually Mondays are fairly slow.  Not this Monday.  The phone was ringing.  The FAX machine was humming.  And I was sucking down Diet Mountain Dew faster than the Titanic took on water.

However, I made it through the morning.  After lunch, I decided to go for a run, since I have meetings tonight at church.  I won't have time after work to run.  As I followed my normal running route around the college campus, I came upon a little dachshund standing in the middle of the street in front of a really big car.  The car wasn't moving.  The dog wasn't moving.  I really wanted to finish my run, but my friggin' conscience wouldn't let me.  So I went and scooped the dog up.  Then I spent ten minutes knocking on doors around the neighborhood, trying to find the dog's owner.  No luck.  I walked back to the medical office at which I work.  I got the dog some water and a blanket.  Then I called the police.  The city animal control officer came and picked the little guy up.

That has been my day, so far.  I have a new poem.  It is about the little lost dog, sort of.  I just wrote it a little while ago, so be kind.

Just call me Saint Marty of Assisi.



Unfortunately, I don't look good in brown

 Assisi

They say Francis used to preach
To olive trees filled with meadowlarks,
Sang to them so sweetly, they filled
The air around him with the flutter
Of wing and heart and breath.
They say Francis crawled into the den
Of a man-eating wolf, traced
A cross on its forehead, tamed
Its hunger with his long fingers,
His voice of sunset, night, rest.
They say, when Francis lay dying,
He praised his donkey, thanked it
For bearing him over rock, through
Storm and heat, for never tripping
Or braying complaint.  The donkey wept.

As I ran this afternoon, I saw
A dog almost get hit by a Toyota.
It was a miniature dachshund,
Gray around the muzzle.  It shivered
Before the car as I walked over.
The dog stared up at me, and I could see
Fear, wild as blueberries or lightning,
In its eyes.  For a moment, I thought
It would sink its teeth into the flesh
Of my ankle.  Then I began to speak,
The way, I imagine, Francis always
Spoke, with the sound of God's feet
Walking through Eden's grass at dusk.
I reached down, picked up the dog.
It leaned into my heartbeat
As I walked and spoke, petted
Its black head.  The birds of Assisi swooped,
Danced, blessed the afternoon sunlight.