January 26, 2025: "The Ideal Father," Perfection, "Snow"

Believe it or not, I'm not perfect.  I know it's hard to believe, but I mess up constantly.  This morning, I played keyboard for a worship service at a local Lutheran church.  I mangled one of the hymns so badly that I wanted to crawl under the organ bench and eat a cyanide capsule.

Of course, perfection is not something any human can attain.  We're all inherently flawed.

Sharon Olds writes about her "perfect" dad . . . 

The Ideal Father

by: Sharon Olds

When I dream you, Dad, you come into the dream

clean, farouche, gesundheit, feral

fresh face, physically exact--

the ideal, the schemata, the blueprint, no mark of

pain.  You're perfect as a textbook example:

your hair like a definition of hair,

the bulb with its pith which contains a little air,

the root, the spear of horny substance, the

mouth of the follicle, the filament which forms the

coat of the mammal, the way the sheath

glistens where the shaft opens its oil to the light;

and your skin, the layers of the epidermis like

clear water through which we see the

subcutaneous fat, its pearls

swimming in cross-section; and your teeth, their

pork-white ceilings, enamel crowns,

pulp hollows, necks and roots like

squids' legs, deep in the gum--not a

cavity, no whiff of rot; and your

body flawless, pink carnation

boutonniéres of the nipples, and your sex

stiffening in textbook time,

record time, everything about you 

exemplary.  Where is the one who threw up?

The one who passed out, the one who would not

speak for a week, slapped the glasses off a 

small girl's face, bloodied his head and

sank through the water?  I think he is dead.

I think the ideal father would hardly

let such a man live.  After all he has

daughters to protect, laying his perfect

body over their sleep all night long.

Olds' father was by no means ideal in any way.  She dreams up her own version of a perfect father, right down to the part in his hair.  But this poem is a tale of two fathers--one who lays his perfect body over his daughters' sleep to protect them from harm, and one who slaps a small girl's face so hard that her glasses go flying.  

Nothing about today was perfect or ideal.  I had big plans of what I wanted to accomplish, but, as often happens, I wasn't able to finish my to-do list.  I do this to myself all the time, and I end up going to bed, feeling like a failure.  

Here's my litany of deficiencies tonight:

• I'm not a perfect father.
• I'm not a perfect husband.
• I'm not a perfect friend.
• I'm not a perfect teacher.
• I'm not a perfect musician.
• I'm not a perfect poet.
• I'm not a perfect Christian.

For each of these bullet points, I could provide 100 examples of my mistakes and fuckups.  But my point is simply that I am not perfect.  In fact, I may be the least perfect person I know, and I've known quite a few assholes.  But I try hard, every day, to do what's right.  And really, that's all anybody can do.

Here is one thing I did right today:  I led an online poetry workshop, wrote shitty poems, and made some people laugh.  Times are little tough right now in the United States, so laughter is a real gift.  

Saint Marty wrote a poem today about the perfection of snow, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Write a poem that begins with a very large image, such as the universe at night, Earth, a country, an ocean, Jupiter, a continent, a cargo ship, or some other gargantuan object.  Then, throughout your poem, have each image following become smaller than the previous one.  Write until you arrive at the tiniest of images, and end your poem there.

Snow

by: Martin Achatz

This morning the world was snow,

everything white and cold and blinding,

even the air, each breath a blizzard.

A pine in my backyard, all frilled

with snowy lace, stands like a tall

girl at a high school Yule Ball,

waiting to be asked to dance, ruby

winter berries flashing in her needles.

A hare twitches at the tree's knuckled

roots, haunches wound tight in case

I get too close.  But I stay still, try

to slow my lungs and heart until

they move at the speed of a snowflake

drifting from the heavens, down, down,

a tiny cathedral of ice searching

for the perfect place to praise the ground.

November 15: "Catholicism," Exhausted, Perfection

I'm a cradle Catholic.  

I was baptized by a bishop, so my mother had high hopes of me entering the priesthood.  Obviously, I was a disappointment to her in that respect.  However, I have been playing the pipe organ every weekend since I was about 18 years old.  If you do the math, that's well over two thousand Masses, and that number doesn't even include special holidays and times I played two and three times on a weekend.  Throw in Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, and Episcopalian churches, and the number of worship services I've played climbs well above five or six thousand.  

That's a lot of time on an organ bench, meditating on my life and its failings.

Billy Collins examines his conscience . . . 

Catholicism

by: Billy Collins

There’s a possum who appears here at odd times,
often walking up the path to the house
in the middle of the day like a little ghost
with a long tail and a blank expression on his face.

He likes to slip behind the woodpile,
but sometimes he gets so close to the window
where I am standing with a glass in my hand
that I start to review my sins, systematically

going from one commandment to the next.
What is it about him that causes me
to begin an examination of conscience,
calling to mind my failings in this time of reflection?

It could just be the twitching of the tail
and that white face, but his slow priestly pace
also makes a contribution, as do the tiny paws,
more like hands, really, with opposable thumbs

able to carry a nut or dig a hole in the earth
or lift a chalice above his head
or even deliver a document,
I am thinking as he nears the back door,

not merely a subpoena but an order
of excommunication with my name and a date
written in fine Italian ink
and signed with a flourish of the papal sash.

I'm pretty exhausted tonight.  I just got back home from practicing at a couple different churches for this weekend.  Most people would be surprised how similar Catholic and Lutheran worship services are.  Often, I play many of the same hymns for Mass on Saturday evenings and Lutheran worship on Sunday mornings.

What I have learned during my tenure as a church musician is that there's not much difference between various Christian denominations.  They all follow the same lectionary, sing the same songs, and read the same Bible (with a few extra books thrown in for Catholics).  

Some people have asked me which denomination I like the best.  That's a hard question for me to answer.  I like Catholics for their pageantry and rituals.  Methodists have the best music.  And Lutherans, for the most part, are the most open-minded and accepting.

This week, a good poet friend of mine (who was raised Jewish) said that I'm a mystery to her, because I'm a Catholic, but love being irreverent.  Admire saints, but would rather hang out with sinners.  They're more fun.  

We're all the same--broken and imperfect--trying to survive in a broken and imperfect world.

Bless Saint Marty, for he has and will continue to sin.  Over and over and over.  Perfection is kind of boring.

July 26: "Constellations," Paris, Perfection, "Perseids"

Billy Collins stargazes . . . 

Constellations

by: Billy Collins

Yes, that's Orion over there,

the three studs of the belt

clearly lined up just off the horizon.

And if you turn around you can see

Gemini, very visible tonight,

the twins looking off into space as usual.

That cluster a little higher in the sky

is Cassiopeia sitting in her astral chair

if I'm not mistaken.

And directly overhead,

isn't that Virginia Woolf

slipping along the River Ouse

in her inflatable canoe?

See the wide-brimmed hat and there,

the outline of the paddle, raised and dripping stars?

It is late.  I just finished watching the Opening Ceremony of the Paris Olympics and stepped outside to do a little stargazing myself.

It was really dark, and the stars weren't really visible.  I wandered around for 15 or 20 minutes, staring upward, breathing the muddy night air.  Not sure what I was looking for.  Maybe inspiration or peace of mind.  I've been struggling these last few weeks with some insomnia, so going for a walk at 1 a.m. isn't all that strange for me at the moment.

I found the Opening Ceremony in Paris quite inspiring.  Lots of weird performance art,  Great music.  The Parade of Nations happening with boats of athletes sailing down the Seine.  And, to cap it all off, Celine Dion singing "L'Hymne à l'mour" by Edith Piaf from the Eiffel Tower.  If the organizers had simply lit the Olympic cauldron and had Dion sing, it would have been enough for me.

I'm sure there's going to be a lot of criticism tomorrow.  There's always people who want to compare and bitch.  Beijing was better.  Or Rio.  Or Seoul.  For me, that's sort of like saying, "Oh, the moon last month was so much brighter," or, "The Perseids were so much better four years ago," or, "Edith Piaf sang that song so much better."  

Humans love to criticize.  Maybe that's why van Gogh only sold a few paintings before he committed suicide.  Or why Emily Dickinson only published ten poems during her lifetime.  I, myself, haven't really pushed myself to release a lot of my poems.  I'm pretty hard on myself when it comes to my writing.  I revise and revise and revise.  Perhaps that's why I've been working on my Bigfoot manuscript, off and on, for around 20 years.  I have a hard time letting go of a poem that's not as perfect as I can make it.  

Of course, perfection is unrealistic.  I'm sure. over the next 17 or so days, there are going to be a lot of athletes who, under the pressure of Olympic competition, will crumble, for many reasons.  I've seen poets who release fantastic debut collections and then fall flat with their sophomore collections.  Great singers go sharp or forget lyrics.

It's the idea of perfection that fucks you up.  If you think you are capable of perfection, you will constantly be disappointed.  It's really about doing the absolute best you can do at a particular moment.  That's it.  

Tonight, this blog post is the best Saint Marty has to offer.

Perseids

by: Martin Achatz

A poet friend tells me they

have come early this year, streaking

between the stars in cat whisker

flashes so instant that I don't

want to blink as I gaze up

into the black bowl of night.

I wonder if those Greek gods

and heroes and monsters up there

even notice them in their annual

game of hide-and-seek, if those

ancients raise their scaled heads, aim

their arrows, grumble at the spirited

young'uns too full of energy to find

a spot to sit down, read a book, catch

their cosmic breaths, let us humans

with our feeble minds give them

a name and a story that explains

their existences.  Maybe, one day,

a group of them will band together

in the shape of me, and I will join

Hercules in that bright living room,

gazing down on the earth, wondering

where the remote is to change the channel,

find something more interesting to watch 

June 6: Yellow Brick Road, Kazim Ali, "Speech"

Really, writing these blog posts are some of my favorite moments of the day.  Usually, I am a little tired or a little rushed when I sit down to reflect on my life in the past 24 hours.  And, usually, I don't know what the hell I'm going to say when I start typing.  I just follow the Yellow Brick Road of my mind.

This blog is called Saint Marty.  Obviously, I am not a saint.  Anyone who's been reading my posts for any length of time knows this.  That striving for perfection, that's what this blog is all about.  It's also about the failure of achieving that perfection.  Failure is inevitable if perfection is the goal.

Through words, however, I can reach out and almost touch a little piece of sainthood.  It's all about the well-crafted thought, the beautiful image, the witty saying.  Words help me understand my place in the world.  That's why I write every day--to understand.  Maybe to improve, too, just a little.

Saint Marty is trying to climb his way to heaven, one sentence at a time.  Move over, Saint Peter.

Speech

by:  Kazim Ali

How struck I was by that face, years ago, in the church mural:
Eve, being led by Christ through the broken gates of Hell.
She's been nominated for the position of Featured Saint
on the Icon of Belief, up against the dark horse candidate—
me: fever-ridden and delirious, a child in Vellore, unfolding
the packet around my neck that I was ordered not to open.
Inside, a folk cure, painted delicately in saffron.
Letters that I could not read.
Why I feel qualified for the position
based on letters I could not read amounts to this:
Neither you nor I can pronounce the difference
between the broken gates and the forbidden letters.
So what reason do we need to believe in icons or saints?
How might we otherwise remember—
without an image to fasten in that lonely place—
the rock on which a Prophet flung himself into fever?
Without an icon or church, spell "gates of Hell."
Spell "those years ago unfolding."
Recite to me please all the letters you are not able to read.
Spell "fling yourself skyward."
Spell "fever."

July 15: Fullness, Perfection, Alfred Hitchcock

Here in the May valley, fullness is at a peak.  All the plants are fully leafed, but intensive insect damage hasn't begun.  The leaves are fresh, whole, and perfect.  Light in the sky is clear, unfiltered by haze, and the sun hasn't yet withered the grass.

Dillard is describing a perfect scene.  Perfect plants.  Perfect light.  Perfect sky.  Perfect grass.  Of course, she is not a pie-in-the-sky kind of writer.  She knows that, in a little while, the insects are going to show up and eat the leaves.  The sun will transition from May to June and July, and the grass will shrivel up, turn yellow and brittle in the heat.  Perfection is a mirage.  Beautiful and fleeting.

I took my son to see The Secret Life of Pets tonight.  A cute animated feature that he's been talking about for about a month.  I got my buttered popcorn and Diet Mountain Dew, settled in, and listened to my son laugh his ass off for over an hour.  It was, dare I say it, a perfect way to end the work week.

Then I came out of the theater and discovered that a bird had shit all over my new car.  I'm not talking one little spot.  It looked like the entire avian cast of Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds had decided to use my vehicle as an outhouse.  There you have it.  Perfection giving way to reality.

Let me give you another example.  After the movie, my son went to play with a neighbor boy.  After a little while, my son came inside, near tears.  It seems his friend, who is a couple of years younger than him, was riding a four wheeler by himself.  "Not a baby one," my son said.  "It was a big one that needs gas."  And just like that, my son's perfect night of movie and play was ruined by the injustice of the situation.  A little kid could ride a four wheeler, but he couldn't.  "And he has his own phone, too," my son said.

As Dillard points out, perfection is illusory.  There are always clouds of insects waiting to swoop in and devour the trees and bushes, brutal days of sun to dry up the green of summer.

Saint Marty is going to try to have a perfect night.  Say his prayers early.  Maybe read a good book.  Of course, he'll probably end up dozing off on the couch and wake up with a severe case of gastrointestinal distress.  Reality's a bitch.

December 19: Peace Corps, My Daughter, Annie Dillard, The Three Wise Guys

For her part, in the spirit of the times and not wanting the life of her mother, Caroline thought she should see something of the world and signed up for the Peace Corps, which sent her off to Nepal.  One of Ives' happier times took place during a four-month period before she left for the Peace Corps, when she came to work at the agency, in the "international" division (one executive and a clerk).  Regarding his smart daughter with great pride every time he ran into her, which was daily, he would eavesdrop on her speaking her Italian or French or Spanish on the telephone . . . And he loved the fact that Mannis had come into his office one day to say, "Nice job you did raising your daughter, Ives."  He'd gotten so used to riding the subway with her in the mornings and seeing her on a regular basis that when she gave her notice he fell into a deep funk again.

Before his son is killed, Ives is damn near perfect.  Devoted employee.  Passionate husband.  Loving father.  He really doesn't make any wrong moves, for the most part.  His son is going into the seminary.  His daughter studies languages in college and joins the freakin' Peace Corps when she graduates.  His wife is studying for her doctorate at Columbia, I believe.  And Ives is a respected advertising artist.  Like I said, Ives is pretty close to perfection.  Until his son's murder, and then Ives' life starts to unravel.

I am not perfect.  I've screwed up a lot of things in my life.  I've made mistakes in my marriage.  I'm kind of hot-headed and stubborn.  Mistakes in my teaching.  I'm not a fast paper grader.  Every time I sit down to play the pipe organ at church, I make mistakes.  Loud, obvious mistakes.  I'm loud.  Some people would say obnoxiously loud.  And I'm extremely judgmental, of myself and others.

There is one thing that I always thought I was pretty good at--being a father.  I've always considered myself a sensitive and open parent.  I never wanted my kids to be afraid to talk to me about anything.  My father (and don't get me wrong, I love my dad) was not the most approachable guy.  In fact, for a good portion of my childhood, he frightened me a little.  When my wife got pregnant with our first child, I swore that I would be an Andy Griffith dad, not a Homer Simpson dad.

This morning, I found out that my daughter has been afraid to talk to me about something.  I will not go into details, but, suffice to say, she has been struggling.  And she has not wanted to talk to me about it.  (No, she is not sexually active or pregnant.)  She told my sister that I was unapproachable.

I have been a little depressed all day about this.  I've failed at one of the most important jobs in my life.  I thought I was doing really well in the father department.  My daughter takes all the dance classes she wants.  She goes on class trips to see Broadway musicals.  She has an i-Phone and braces.  I ask her about school.  Take an interest in her English papers and science projects.  I let her friend who's a boy spend weekends at my house, sleeping on the living room floor.

Yet, I have done something wrong, obviously.  My daughter feels like she can't talk to me.  Perhaps I've pushed her too hard, expected too much.  Maybe she's mistaken my interest and support for ego-driven pride.  Or maybe I just haven't really listened to her.  This wise man has been following the wrong star.

Saint Marty has screwed up yet again, and now he feels a little eclipsed in this season of light. 

 from Teaching a Stone to Talk

 by:  Annie Dillard

 The world which lay under darkness and stillness following the closing of the lid was not the world we know.  The event was over.  Its devastation lay round about us.  The clamoring mind and heart stilled, almost indifferent, certainly disembodied, frail, and exhausted.  The hills were hushed, obliterated.  Up in the sky, like a crater from some distant cataclysm, was a hollow ring.

The Three Wise Guys...

May 24: A Blanket, Unknown Needs, Ellen Steinbaum, "Letter Home," New Cartoon

"That's just what we need," said Avery.  "A blanket."

"Of course it is," replied Lurvy.  And he spread the blanket across the sideboards of the truck so that it was like a little tent.  The children sat in the shade, under the blanket, and felt better.

After lunch, they stretched out and fell asleep.

Avery doesn't know what he needs.  He's hot and tired.  When Lurvy shows up with the Indian blanket he won, Avery doesn't realize it's just what he needs.  A blanket.  Tent.  Shade.  Nap.

Most of us don't realize what we actually need.  We walk around, vaguely unfulfilled, not knowing what will make us truly happy.  A new job.  New love.  Happy family.  All of the above.  None of the above.  Most of the time, we yearn for things we don't have.  And if we get those things, we find out they don't make us happy at all.

For years, I've dreamed of a full-time teaching gig at the university.  I've convinced myself that, if I had that, life would be perfect.  Of course, I know that's a load of crap.  Perfection is a fallacy.  A dream.  Unattainable.  Something that simply makes me strive for something better all the time.

Needs, once met, become experience.  Experience becomes memory.  Memory becomes story.  I guess what I'm saying is that we're all trying to write our story, and we all want a happily ever after.  That's not a bad thing.  For the moment, I'm happy.  I have a home, wife, children, family.  I can almost pay my bills on time.  And, through the fall and winter months, I get to do what I love--teach and talk about literature.  I'm lucky.

Saint Marty has a poem for you tonight that seems appropriate for Memorial Day weekend.

Letter Home

by:  Ellen Steinbaum

I love you forever 
my father's letter tells her
for forty-nine pages,
from the troopship crossing the Atlantic
before they'd ever heard of Anzio.

He misses her, the letter says,
counting out days of boredom, seasickness,
and changing weather,
poker games played for matches
when cash and cigarettes ran out,
a Red Cross package--soap,
cards, a mystery book he traded away
for The Rubaiyyat a bunkmate didn't want.
He stood night watch and thought
of her.  Don't forget the payment
for insurance, he says.

My mother waits at home with me, 
waits for the letter he writes day by day
moving farther across the ravenous ocean.
She will get it in three months and
her fingers will smooth the Army stationery
to suede.

He will come home, stand
beside her in the photograph, leaning
on crutches, holding
me against the rough wool
of his jacket.  He will sit
alone and listen to Aida

and they will pick up their
interrupted lives.  Years later,
she will show her grandchildren
a yellow envelope with
forty-nine wilted pages telling her

of shimmering sequins on the water,
the moonlight catching sudden phosphorescence,
the churned wake that stretched a silver trail.

Confessions of Saint Marty

December 19: Sobbing, Church Musicians, Stress

He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call.  He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears.

Scrooge is still a mess on Christmas morning, after his night with the Spirits of Christmas.  He doesn’t know what to do, where to begin.  He’s laughing, crying, dancing, sobbing.  He knows he’s still a broken person, but he has the chance to redeem himself now.  He will make mistakes on this road to redemption, but he will always have a Christmas carol in his heart.

This time of year for church musicians is stressful.  I have been an organist/accompanist for nearly 27 years now.  That’s 27 Christmases, with an average of two to three worship services each year; two children’s programs a season; and at least two or three extra rehearsals per week, from November through December 25.  That’s a lot of hours.  By the time I sit down with my ham sandwich on Christmas morning, after I have played my last carol and sung my last chorus of “Joy to the World,” I’m sometimes drained of cheer.  I get through the rest of the day on eggnog and the TNT marathon of A Christmas Story.

My biggest worry this week is the upcoming Christmas Eve/Christmas Day church services.  There’s this whole pressure for music to be extra good, extra special on those days.  I have a children’s program at 8 p.m. on December 24, plus two solos that were just handed to me in the last week.  No matter how much I practice the music, I never feel quite good enough for the occasion.  After close to 30 years of being a part of this yuletide insanity, I still suffer from low self-esteem when it comes to my musical abilities (or is that low elf-esteem at Christmas?).

On the flipside, I know that, come noon on Christmas, nobody is going to remember a single bloody mistake I make at the organ or piano.  Unless I become catatonic at the keyboard or decide to do a bad Jerry Lee Lewis impersonation, I should be fine.

I think we put way too much pressure on ourselves at Christmas.  We strive for perfection.  Perfect music.  Perfect gift.  Perfect card.  Perfect mashed potatoes.  It’s an impossible goal.  I willscrew up on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  I will probably duplicate a gift with someone.  I will burn the sugar cookies.  I will forget to send a card to Uncle Ned in Arizona because I thought he was dead.

Christmas is not really about perfection.  Christmas is messy.  Mary was an unwed, pregnant teen.  Jesus was born in a barn, with dirty animals and manure.  The shepherds probably drank out in the fields; they certainly didn’t shower.  Herod sent out soldiers to kill babies in Bethlehem.  The nativity narrative is full of unpleasant smells, unpleasant sights, unpleasant people, and unpleasant events.

The true miracle of the holiday is that, out of this whole broken mess, came the Son of God.  So I’m not worried too much.

Saint Marty will take care of the mistakes this Christmas.  God will take care of the perfection.

Time to get dirty

May 14: No Blessing, New Poem, "Garden of Eve"

Well, my Carol dip lied to me this morning.  I received no blessing.  I was looking for a free repair of my daughter's broken iPod.  Didn't happen.  After about half an hour on the phone with Apple, I realized it was going to cost me close to $200 yet again.  I'm not a happy blogger at the moment.  My wife just dropped the iPod off at the UPS store to be shipped to California.  I'm sure in a couple of days, my daughter will be the owner, yet again, of a new 4G iPod Touch.

It's going to be a long night of chauffeuring my kids around.  Religion class.  Dance class.  Many miles on my car.  My wife is going out with friends, so I am a solo act this evening.  Mother and father.  Snack-maker and SpongeBob-chooser.  Bath-giver and lullaby-singer.

Well, I promised a poem this afternoon, and I always deliver on my promises.  Well, I deliver on my promises most of the time...OK, I try to deliver on my promises 50% of the time...OK, I deliver on my promises when I already have the poem written and all I have to do is cut and paste.  This is the poem I wrote for the mother/daughter dinner at the Lutheran church last week.

Remember, Saint Marty isn't about perfection.  He's about progress...OK, he's about trying to moving forward a little...OK, he'd like everything to stay exactly the same, all the time.

The Garden of Eve

I have found stones, blood
In this soil. I have dug deep,
Until my fingers struck dirt
As black as Eden’s mud.
I pressed seeds into this mud,
Covered them with more mud.
Waited. Dreamed of the nights
In Eden, when the Lord walked
Through the trees, his footsteps
Filled with mango and banana,
The sigh of plum and peach. I didn’t
Have words for pear or persimmon
Then, knew them only by tongue,
Their sweet meat and water.
Name was not important.
I was curve of rib, sickle
Of bone. I was deep sleep.
Companion. Eater of wisdom.
I try to grow Eden’s gifts now.
I listen at night for the Lord
To pass over, listen for pineapple spine,
The hairy cheek of kiwi.
My womb has blossomed many times.
Like a seed, I have split open,
Born bitter blood orange,
Rubies of pomegranate.
I nursed them to green summer,
To bud and flower.
Now, I watch you, as you stretch,
Reach toward rain, sun. You.
Rib from rib. Bone from bone.
I accept my garden labor.
Drought. Flood. Grub. Sand.
I work with my hands
Until they turn hard as adobe.
All for you. First daughter.
Garden and gardener. Eve’s song.

July 7: New Nephew, Birth Announcements, New Poem

I have a new nephew.  Last night, my wife's cousin gave birth to a bouncing baby poop generator.  I haven't seen him yet.  My wife and daughter went to the hospital for a visit this morning.  My daughter, who wants a baby sister in the worst way, loves holding infants.  My son, who is two, is a little too mobile for her now.  All he wants to do, basically, is run and destroy things belonging to my daughter.  A newborn is much more her speed right now.

I know I will have to take the obligatory trip to the hospital room, coo over my nephew, tell his parents how handsome he is.  I just checked the hospital's baby page.  My nephew's picture is not posted yet.  The birth announcements in this post are generic.  The children are of no relation to me.  But they're pretty damn cute.

I generally dislike birth announcements.  I hate those cheesy messages new parents put under the pictures.  "Mommy and Daddy's Little Princess" or "Our Little Angel Has Arrived" or "Our Little Gift from God."  I understand the sentiment behind them, but they're usually a little too saccharine for my taste.

Today's poem is my version of a birth announcement.  It is a reaction against the idea of perfection.  Babies are innocent.  Babies are pure.  Baby's, however, are not born into a perfect world.  But babies are proof that a mother and/or father believe in hope.  A newborn is declaration to the world that there is light and joy and happiness available.

Okay, enough of my warm fuzziness.  I think it's time for my poem.

Uncle Saint Marty wishes you a good evening.

Birth Announcement

Seven pounds.  Ten ounces.  Twenty inches.  Born:  July 6 at 6 p.m.  A nephew named after his late great grandfather, a man whose daughter died of ovarian cancer at the age of 48.  Whose son went down the basement stairs, shot himself in the face with a shotgun.  The baby's great grandmother has Alzheimer's, spends her days telling her roommate at the nursing home about her husband, who she's sure is out at camp, drinking Jack Daniels with his brother.  "Just wait 'til he shows up," she says, her voice soft as watermelon in her toothless mouth.  Delivered by C-section, the baby hadn't flipped in utero.  Breech.  "Already telling the world to kiss my ass," his father said.  Two days before, July 4, his mother came to the parade, sat in a lawn chair, let everyone rub her belly, complained how big her breasts were.  Baby and mother are doing well.  My wife, his aunt, suffers from bipolar.  A family illness.  She visited the hospital this afternoon.  Held him.  Touched his newborn cheek, soft, smooth as a daisy petal.  Loves me.  Loves me not.  "He's perfect," my wife told me on the phone.  "Perfect."

April 4: Sad news, Saint Isidore of Seville, Psalm 27

I actually dreamed about today's poem last night.  I woke with the idea of it floating in the darkness like Virgil from The Inferno.  It didn't take me long to write it this morning, but I have been working on revision all day long.  I thought it was done, read it to a poet friend, went back, and rewrote.  I think this may be the most polished of the psalms.  I'm not sure how I feel about it yet.  There is a little irony here.  The dream was about the perfect poem, and I've agonized over these lines.  It's as done as it's going to be today.

I did receive some sad news this afternoon.  Quite a few posts ago, I wrote about my friend, John, whose wife had terminal brain cancer.  She died on Saturday night.  A very pure soul.  John will be struggling with her loss for a while.  Keep him in your thoughts.  Add a couple of prayers, if you're the praying sort.

Today's patron saint is Isidore of Seville.  He was a sixth-century Spanish bishop and scholar.  His accomplishments include writing what is considered "the first chapter of Spanish literature."  He wrote, among other things, dictionaries, grammars, treatises on medicine and libraries, and theological texts.  Isidore was chose as patron of the Internet because he "gave his work a structure akin to that of the database."  Isidore appears in my poem today.  I couldn't resist using him.

Saint Marty needs to release his imperfect perfect poem now.  Be kind.  And keep his friend, John, in your thoughts.  Heaven has a new choir member today.

Psalm 27:  The Perfect Poem

I dream I write the perfect poem,

See it before me, read the words

In a coffee house, before a crowd

Of movie stars, writers, saints.

John Wayne, front and center,

Looks confused but moved,

The way he appeared when he won

His Oscar, at a loss for how

To respond to raw emotion,

Stammering like a schoolboy

Asking for a slow dance.

I read.  They listen.

Dante sits next to Duke, clothes

Still suffused with faint sulfur,

Souvenir of his recent travels.

The great poet glows as I speak,

As if he has finally found

Beatrice, touched the face of love.

I read.  They listen.

In his mitre, Saint Isidore,

Patron of the Internet, floats

Between open bar and snack table,

iPhone in hand, blogs, tweets

About my poem to his heavenly

Followers:  seraphs, cherubs, martyrs,

Some rebel demons, the Big Three.

Father.  Son.  Holy Ghost. 

Princess Di shares couch, champagne

With Anne Boleyn.  Wordsworth sniffs

A vase of daffodils.  They all listen

To my perfect poem.  Three pages long.

Lines fall like maple leaves

In October, grace, color, drift, plunge.

Image as pure as penguin down,

Full of snow, sun, glacier, ocean.

When I finish, the room rises

In ovation, air a riot of rose petals.

I keep my eyes on the pages,

Commit syllables to memory.

When I wake, I grab pen, journal,

Scribble ten minutes, transcribe perfection.

This morning, I read what I have written:

Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.

Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.

For pages and pages and pages.

Reading the perfect poem

March 9: Psalm 1 and Perfection

It is Ash Wednesday, and I'm here to make good on my promise to embrace the positive.  Here is my first Lenten psalm, written just an hour or so ago.  My disclaimer is that it hasn't been revised.  Much.  I'm not going to have time to polish and perfect these poems.  Then again, that's what Lent is all about:  trying to become a better follower of Christ.  It's not about being perfect.  It's about being better, day by day.

God knows, Saint Marty has a lot of room for improvement.

Psalm 1:  My Daughter's Tooth

I give thanks for my daughter's tooth,

Small as a kernel of unpoppped corn,

How it catches the window light, glows

As it did in school pictures, kindergarten,

First, second, third, fourth grades.

I give thanks for this fragment,

This reminder of when she would press

Her head against my chest, fall asleep,

My heart and her heart slowing,

Dark bringing us together, her need

To feel safe, my need to keep safe

Each breath she breathed, each hair

Twisted in her tight braids, each tooth

Pushing through her pink ridges of gum.

I give thanks for this relic, keep it holy,

Safe in a pill bottle.  Take it out.  Worry it

Against my palm, between my fingers.

Say a prayer for the ashes of the baby

She once was.  Sing a song for the smile

Of the woman she's becoming.

My daughter's tooth