May 31: "Nurse," Cellularly Tired, ""Pipe Organ"

Billy Collins talks with a nurse . . .

Nurse

by: Billy Collins

The one who spoke by a window

in a stairwell,

resting her head on her arm,

said she was so many stumbles

beyond tired,

she caught herself 

envying the dead

for looking like sleepers in their beds.

I worked in a medical office and hospital at the start of the pandemic, so I understand the exhaustion the nurse describes here.  Seen it in doctors, nurses, orderlies, cafeteria workers.  Not just bone tired.  Cellularly tired.  

Despite the shortened week, I find myself desperately tired tonight.  Perhaps it's because I tried to cram five days of work into four days in the office.

Friday nights after dinner, I usually go to church to practice for the Saturday and Sunday services I play.  If the music is familiar, it goes very quickly.  If I don't recognize the music, I've been known to sit at the keyboard for several hours.

Tonight, I knew most of the hymns, so I was home and in my pajamas by 8 p.m.  Now, I'm on my couch, fighting to stay awake and losing the battle.

Saint Marty needs to do some jumping jacks or just surrender to the pillow.

Pipe Organ

by: Martin Achatz

The gold pipes climb

upward like the ribs

of a giant ground sloth,

just waiting for me

to flip a switch, fill

its lungs with air

for the first time

in two million years.

November 2: Make America Great Again, Walt Whitman, "Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field one Night"

Walt Whitman worked as a nurse during the Civil War, caring for wounded and dying soldiers.  As I said last night, he saw the very best and very worst of humanity.  And he still believed in America, in the hope and ideals of democracy.

I'm not sure that Uncle Walt would recognize The United States right now, with its racism and homophobia and hatred.  Or maybe he would.  After all, I would bet the Civil War was full of Donald Trumps, fighting to "make America great again," whatever that means.

Saint Marty is tired of people trying to make America great again.

Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field one Night

by:  Walt Whitman

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;

When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,

One look I but gave which your dear eyes return’d with a look I shall never forget,

One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach’d up as you lay on the ground,

Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,

Till late in the night reliev’d to the place at last again I made my way,

Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,

Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,

Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,

Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade—not a tear, not a word,

Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,

Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)

Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear’d,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop’d well his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,

And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,

Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim,

Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten’d,

I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,

And buried him where he fell.