January 10, 2026: New Year, Renee Nicole Good, “They Shoot Poets, Don’t They?”

Greetings, disciples!

Welcome to a new year of Saint Marty.  I have not dropped off the face of the earth.  I have been recuperating from a lengthy holiday illness, and, to be honest, overwhelmed by the state of my country and the world in, general.

Now that the year of Sharon Olds is over for the blog, I will be announcing 2026’s featured poet in the next post.  She is a writer whom I’ve admired for years, and I’m sure you’ll fall in love with her, as well.

Speaking of poets, I, of course, have been so sad and angry and outraged by the murder of Renee Nicole Good in Minneapolis.  I never thought I’d live to see the day that a masked, armed federal agent would be able to shoot an innocent citizen in the face and walk away free.  A poet friend of mine sent me a text yesterday:

Jesus, Marty, Renee Good was one of us.  Poet, parent, liberal.  She could have been me or you . . . and some son of a bitch given a license to kill by [47] shot her three fucking times because she was fleeing his violent little children’s game.  I’m really pissed off.

Yes, Renee Good was a poet, mother, and wife.  She loved her family and neighbors.  And, like most poets I know, she was trying to make the world a better, safer, more loving place.  Like my friend, I am truly pissed off.  I’ve been drowning in a whirlpool of emotions these past few days.

And, like most poets I know, when I am overcome by tragedy or anger, I turn to words to try to sort out my emotions.

Her name was Renee Nicole Good, and Saint Marty honors her tonight , , , 

They Shoot Poets, Don’t They?

by: Martin Achatz

for Renee Nicole Good

Stop.  Just stop.

Stop being angry or outraged.

Stop jamming fingers or guns in faces.

Look into those faces instead, white or brown,

into those eyes, blue or brown, see

what you can’t see when whistles

scream in your ears, when tear gas

makes your eyes and noses weep.

See a mother who drives

her six-year-old son to school,

shoves his stuffed T-Rex into 

the glovebox so it’s there to greet

him at the end of the day.  See

a wife who needs to pick up

toilet paper and cheese and ketchup

from Kroger.  See a neighbor

who drops off a pan of lasagna

when the man next door loses

his 55-year-old spouse in the middle

of the night to a heart attack.  And

see a poet who sends words out 

into the universe, watches them dip, 

swirl, circle, away and away, 

pollinating, spreading, wildflowering 

until everyone is honeyed in beauty.

July 10: "Eastern Standard Time," Concert, Poetry and Art and Music

Billy Collins meditates on time . . . 

Eastern Standard Time

by: Billy Collins

Poetry speaks to all people, it is said,

but here I would like to address

only those in my own time zone,

this proper slice of longitude

that runs from pole to snowy pole

down the globe through Montreal to Bogota.

Oh, fellow inhabitants of this singular band,

sitting up in your many beds this morning--

the sun falling through the windows

and casting a shadow on the sundial--

consider those in other zones who cannot hear these words.

They are not slipping into a bathrobe as were are,

or following the smell of coffee in a timely fashion.

Rather, they are at work already,

leaning on copy machines,

hammering nails into a house frame.

They are not swallowing a vitamin like us,

rather they are smoking a cigarette under a half moon,

even jumping around on a dance floor,

or just now sliding under the covers,

pulling down the little chains on their bed lamps.

But we are not like these others,

for at this very moment on the face of the earth,

we are standing under a hot shower,

or we are eating our breakfast, 

considered by people of all zones

to be the most important meal of the day.

Later, when the time is right,

we might sit down with the boss,

wash the car, or linger at a candle-lit table,

but now is the hour for pouring the juice

and flipping the eggs with one eye on the toaster.

So let us slice a banana and uncap the jam, 

lift our brimming spoons of milk,

and leave it to the others to lower a flag

or spin absurdly in a barber's chair--

those antipodal oddballs, always early or late.

Let us praise Sir Stanford Fleming,

the Canadian genius who first scored

with these lines the length of the spinning earth.

Let us move together through the rest of this day

passing in unison from light to shadow,

coasting over the crest of noon,

into the valley of evening

and then, holding hands, slip into the deeper valley of night.

Time is precious.  That could be the title of this post.  

Here is a quick list of how I spent my time today:

1. Got an oil change for my car.
2. Wrote with a poet friend in her garden.
3. Worked on programs and publicity at the library.
4. Visited with a poet friend from Ohio.
5. Recorded a podcast episode.
6. Revised some poems.
7. Hosted a concert.

Three items from the above list filled up my soul tank (which has been running on empty for the last couple weeks).

Writing with my poet friend always restores me.  Writing with her in her flower garden, even more so.  As I sat on her swing, scribbling in my journal, white petals from her mock orange tree kept snowing down on me.  I could hear ducks quacking, dogs barking, and cars passing.  A blessing.

Visiting with my poet friend from Ohio was an unexpected treat.  I didn't realize she was in town, and we had a wonderful conversation, catching up on each others' lives.  We both have a weakness for the British TV shows Portrait Artist of the Year and Landscape Artist of the Year, and we spent quite a bit of time discussing our love of art and painting.  A surprise blessing.

Music also restores my faith in the world, and the concert I hosted at the library tonight was by three of the most gifted, wonderful musicians/artists I know.  Brian, one of the band members, sang a song he wrote for his grandmother who recently passed.  Most of you know that I had a sister who died of lymphoma of the brain almost nine years ago now (hard to believe it's been that long--slippery time); in exactly one week, my sister would have turned 63 years old.  So, Brian's song really hit home this evening.  Another blessing.

Poetry and art and music.  Couldn't ask for better medicine.

Saint Marty is a very lucky person.

July 3: "Monday," Mock Orange Tree, Metonymy

Billy Collins window shops . . . 

Monday

by: Billy Collins

The birds are in their trees,

the toast is in the toaster,

and the poets are at their windows.

They are at their windows

in every section of the tangerine of earth--

the Chinese poets looking up at the moon,

the American poets gazing out

at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise.

The clerks are at their desks,

the miners are down in their mines,

and the poets are looking out their windows

maybe with a cigarette, a cup of tea,

and maybe a flannel shirt or bathrobe is involved.

The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong

game of proofreading,

glancing back and forth from page to page,

the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,

and the poets are at their windows

because it is their job for which

they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.

Which window it hardly seems to matter

though many have a favorite,

for there is always something to see--

a bird grasping a thin branch,

the headlights of a taxi rounding a corner,

those two boys in wool caps angling across the street.

The fishermen bob in their boats,

the linemen climb their round poles,

the barbers wait by their mirrors and chairs,

and the poets continue to stare

at the cracked birdbath or a limb knocked down by the wind.

By now, it should go without saying

that what the oven is to the baker

and the berry-stained blouse to the dry cleaner,

so the window is to the poet.

Just think--

before the invention of the window,

the poets would have had to put on a jacket

and a winter hat to go outside

or remain indoors with only a wall to stare at.

And when I say a wall,

I do not mean a wall with striped wallpaper

and a sketch of a cow in a frame.

I mean a cold wall of fieldstones,

the wall of the medieval sonnet,

the original woman's heart of stone,

the stone caught in the throat of her poet-lover.

As a poet, I've done my fair share of window-gazing.  It goes with the territory--observing, noting, interpreting, capturing with words the ineffable world.  

Right now, I'm sitting on my living room couch, typing this post.  Behind me, a large picture window that provides a view of the bushes and tries along the side of my house.  On early mornings in summer, all manners of birds sit in the branches and beat my alarm clock in waking me up with their singing.

However, this morning, I didn't need a window.  One of my best poet friends invited me to sit in her garden and write with her.  So, a little after sunrise, there I was, scribbling away in my journal under the white petals of a mock orange tree.  It felt kind of sacred to me, surrounded by flowers, listening to the world wake up.  Dogs barking.  A jogger slapping by on the sidewalk.  Cars gliding down the street, on their way to jobs or schools or beaches.

My friend and I talked about how poets interact with the world differently than other people.  While everyone else focuses on the forest, we focus on the holes in the maple leaves.  Others concentrate on the rainstorm--we concentrate on the steak sizzle of the rain hitting the sidewalk.  It's a matter of metonymy, letting a part represent the whole.  Poets are great at it.

When my day starts with a little metonymy, I always feel more relaxed and centered.  If it occurs in a flower garden, even better.  And if it involves one of my best friends, it's nirvana.

Saint Marty is still a little blissed out.

August 18: "Morning Glories," Poet Friend, Hospice

Mary Oliver loves weeds . . . 

Morning Glories

by:  Mary Oliver

Blue and dark-blue

     rose and deepest rose

          white and pink they

are everywhere in the diligent

     cornfield rising and swaying

          in their reliable

finery in the little

     fling of their bodies their

          gear and tackle

all caught up in the cornstalks.

     The reaper's story is the story

          of endless work of

work careful and heavy but the

     reaper cannot

          separate them out there they

are in the story of his life

     bright random useless

          year after year

taken with the serious tons

     weeds without value humorous

          beautiful weeds.

Oliver sees worth in everything, including noxious weeds.  The morning glories in this poem are also called bindweed, and they are definitely not welcome additions to any farm field or garden.  Yet, they're vibrant and gorgeous.  As Oliver writes, blue and dark-blue, rose and deepest rose, pink and white, they are everywhere.  Common and beautiful.

I want to tell you about a poet friend of mine.  Her name is Rosalie.

I've known Rosalie for over 30 years.  We went to graduate school together.  At the time, I thought I was going to be the next Flannery O'Connor, studying fiction writing while Rosalie was already writing and publishing poems.  I never had a doubt that she was going to make a name for herself as a poet.  Her work was heartbreaking and beautiful even back then.

Being a graduate student is a strange experience--a mixture of attending Hogwarts and Crunchem Hall Primary School from Matilda.  There's magical moments (a class in Modern Women Poets, a poetry reading by Maya Angelou) and painful moments (postmodern literary theory, anyone?).  And you're part of a band of misfits.  Poets.  Novelists.  Short story writers.  Essayists.  If you survive, you're guaranteed to have PTDS--post-traumatic Derrida syndrome.  (That's a really funny joke if you are/were an English major.)

I found out this afternoon that Rosalie is currently in hospice care.  I'm not going to go into the details of her illness.  That's not my story to tell.  Her daughter, whom I've known since she was an infant, is caring for Rosalie at home.

So, I'm sitting here tonight, thinking of the classes I took with Rosalie.  The shared stress of teaching composition to groups of surly freshman who didn't know comma splices from comma faults.  (If you don't know, look it up.)  The laughter and tears we shared.  And, always, the writing.  Her poems.  My short stories.  

Tragedy is common as noxious weeds.  It's everywhere, sprouting and thriving.  Is there beauty in tragedy?  Perhaps.  Speaking from experience, having a loved one in hospice is like distilling life down to its most necessary and important elements.  I've had the privilege of being in the room when two of my sisters, my father, and my mother have died.  Yes, it was a privilege to be able to hold their hands, tell them how much they were loved, and witness those last breaths that seemed almost like sighs of relief after long and winding roads.  And then the peace that followed.

Of course, loss is painful, too.  Always.  Especially when it involves someone as relatively young as Rosalie.  It's not easy to find beauty when you are in the weeds of grief.  Yet, in Rosalie's final struggle, there is love.  Deep, abiding, multiplying love.

Tonight, I raise my poet friend up to all of you.  Remember her, if you have a moment.  Know that she is a beautiful soul, on the cusp of blossoming into eternity.  Say her name like a prayer.  Give it breath.  

Rosalie.

Saint Marty is going to let his friend have the last word tonight . . . 

Before Leaving

by:  Rosalie Sanara Petrouske

I climb black rocks with my daughter,

who scrambles ahead.

Close behind, I'm ready to reach out

should she stumble on the uneven surface.

At the top, we stare out at Superior,

breathing in the peace of lake and sky.

Below, a few waves crest white,

then lap

the million-year-old ledge beneath us.

On a far shore, sugar maple, hemlock, balsam fir

and white pine cover the island and grow down sides

of distant outcroppings.

Pairs of seagulls rise from the Bon Rocks.

They lift and circle,

           dip and glide.

To the West, I point out Hogsback

and Sugarloaf, remnants of ancient glaciers.

Near us, a group of college students gather.

We watch as they leap from the highest point

to plummet into icy water.

This ritual repeats year after year.

Perhaps, I think, one day my daughter will dive

from this cliff into Superior's silvery-blue.

Her breath will catch when she rises

and gulps warm air,

yet her heart will beat again

when she discovers

effortless, she can fall and still rise.

For now, we simply sit side by side.

Sun warms our shoulder blades

and dampness gathers in the hollows

of our necks

where tendrils of hair separate to expose

skin to mid-afternoon light.

I tell her this place, this moment will always be part of us--

its mantra will call to us when we close our eyes

and still hear lake sounds, as if someone placed

a seashell against our ears.

We will carry it inside.

"Inside here?" she asks.

She places a hand across her chest.

Reaching, I take her other hand.

I squeeze, but she pulls away.

            "Don't hold so tightly," she says.

July 25: "The Loon," Insomnia, "Blue Jay"

Mary Oliver has trouble sleeping . . . 

The Loon

by:  Mary Oliver

Not quite four a.m., when the rapture of being alive

strikes me from sleep, and I rise

from the comfortable bed and go

to another room, where my books are lined up

in their neat and colorful rows.  How

magical they are!  I choose one

and open it.  Soon

I have wandered in over the waves of the words

to the temple of thought.

                                        And then I hear

outside, over the actual waves, the small,

perfect voice of the loon.  He is also awake,

and with his heavy head uplifted he calls out

to the fading moon, to the pink flush

swelling in the east that, soon,

will become the long, reasonable day.

                                                  Inside the house

it is still dark, except for the pool of lamplight

in which I am sitting.

                                       I do not close the book,

Neither, for a long while, do I read on.

Like Oliver in the poem, I suffer from insomnia.  Often.  My squirrel brain won't turn off at night until late.  Then I wake long before daylight with the same thoughts running up and down the trees in my head, and I'm even more tired than when I closed my eyes.

I met a poet friend this morning to do some writing.  Over the last couple weeks, I've been so busy that I haven't had a chance to do much poeming.  I've been a little . . . overwhelmed with life.  Too much going on.  Currently, I'm being pulled in several directions at once, and I can't work up a whole lot of enthusiasm for any of those directions.

After writing this a.m. with my friend, I did feel a little more centered.  Like I could face the day without locking myself in the bathroom for a quiet panic attack.  My friend is always good for helping me find balance. 

I'm not out of the woods, and the squirrel in my skull is still chattering away.  However, my poet friend said to me as I was leaving her house, "I'm so glad you have Mary Oliver to keep you company."

Mary does have a way of putting Saint Marty's life into perspective.

Blue Jay

by:  Martin Achatz

                   Sleep and I have never been

best friends, more like neighbors

who greet each other at the end

of a work day, both of us

in our driveways, talking weather,

how the summer is quickly tipping

toward autumn.  In early morning dark,

I sit on my couch, stare out the living

room window at the sleeping world.

                    Night stretches 

on like some black Lake Superior,

no horizon in sight.  Then, 

as light finally begins to break

open the heavens, a blue jay flits

into a pine, sits there, gazes at me.  

I can almost see myself in the onyx 

of his eyes, as if I'm some painting 

he's come to admire.  He shifts his head, 

regards me from several angles, contemplating,

meditating, like I'm  the answer 

to his blue jay prayer. 

                    Or he's the answer to mine.  

January 27: "Benjamin, Who Came from Who Knows Where," Scar of Orange, Sunrise

Mary Oliver on the haunted life . . . 

Benjamin, Who Came from Who Knows Where

by:  Mary Oliver

What shall I do?

When I pick up the broom

     he leaves the room.

When I fuss with kindling he

     runs for the yard.

Then he's back, and we

     hug for a long time.

In his low-to-the-ground chest

     I can hear his heart slowing down.

Then I rub his shoulders and

     kiss his feet

and fondle his long hound ears.

     Benny, I say,

don't worry.  I also know the way

     the old life haunts the new.

I find this poem incredibly moving.  It's not just Oliver's love poem to an old and loyal hound.  It's a meditation on what it means to grow old.  How we all are haunted by the ghosts of who we used to be in our younger days.

This morning, as I was driving to my office at the library, I saw a scar of orange light on the horizon.  I knew immediately that the sunrise was going to be spectacular, so I texted one of my best poet friends.  "Hey!  Are you close by?"  (Poet friends are about the only people I know who will always get excited about things like sunrises.)

Pretty soon, we were standing on the roof of the library, watching the heavens transform into something that belongs in a poem.  This friend and I have been through quite a lot together in the last year, including the death of the third of our poet trio.  Every time we find ourselves together, it's as if the ghost of our missing friend is always with us.  Especially when we are doing crazy things like standing on the roof of a library building in sub-zero wind chills in order to experience an arctic dawn.

It truly was a moment when the old life haunts the new.  Even though neither of us mentioned our missing companion as we stood calf-deep in snow, bathed in morning light, I know we were both thinking the same thing:  our friend Helen would have loved this.  She would have probably been leaping around that roof like a deer.

That's what happens when you get older.  Mortality is no longer just reserved for grandmothers and grandfathers.  It's something more present--a constant reminder of how precious each and every shared moment of friendship and beauty is.  

We are haunted by the lives we used to live.  Ghosts surround us all day long.  They remind us to stop for moments of daily wonder.

Saint Marty gives thanks for his poet friend tonight, because she knows the old life and the new.

November 11-12: Quick Post, Poet Friend, "A Duck's Quack Doesn't Echo"

Just a short post to let you know I'm still alive.  

Had a long and productive day.  Work-work.  Schoolwork.  More work-work.  Parent/teacher conferences for my son.  Cleaning and sanitizing a church.

Then I met with a poet friend on Zoom for an hour-and-a-half.  We wrote and laughed and lifted each other up.

Saint Marty has a new poem to share tonight . . .

A Duck's Quack Doesn't Echo

by:  Martin Achatz

A duck's quack doesn't echo, scalpels through everything.  Cloud.  Pine.  Mountain.  Redwood.  Ocean.  A duck quacked over the Grand Canyon.  Six days later, a woman named Chunua heard that quack in the midnight sky of Wuhan.  

Named by her mother, because, on the day she was born, years before the coughing started, cherry blossoms filled the lungs of the trees with sweetness and beauty.  You are Chunua, her mother said, my spring flower.  And she flourished in the hothouse of her mother's arms.  

When Chunua heard that quack last night, she thought it was her mother's ghost in the bare cherry trees.  Still fevered.  Breath hard as an apricot pit.  Chunua stopped. Listened.  Not wanting to let go again.  Pressed a ghost hand to her face, felt her mother's love dancing like bees against the petals of her lips.

July 8: Woe for Months, Poet Friend, Sophia

Merton deals with heartbreak and despair . . .

However, I could not sleep for long.  At five o'clock I was up again, and walking restlessly around the deck.  It was hot.  A grey mist lay on the Narrows.  But when it became light, other anchored ships began to appear as shapes in the mist.  One of them was a Red Star liner on which, as I learned from the papers when I got on shore, a passenger was at that precise moment engaged in hanging himself.

At the last minute before landing I took a snapshot of her which, to my intense sorrow, came out blurred.  I was so avid for a picture of her that I got too close with the camera and it was out of focus.  It was a piece of poetic justice that filled me with woe for months.

The source of Merton's despair is, of course, a teenage first love gone bad.  All he has to show for his ten-day affair is a blurry photo and months of ennui.  Throw into that mix a distant suicide, and this little passage from The Seven-Storey Mountain has the makings of a pretty decent John Green novel. 

Tonight, I want to write about Lisa, a poet friend of mine, who experienced some tragedy of her own this past weekend.  Her granddaughter and her granddaughter's mother lost their home and all of their belongings in a house fire.  It happened on a night where both of them were away from the house, so no one was hurt.  Thank goodness.

My friend has set up an account to accept for donations for them.  Here is her Facebook post:

In response to those wishing to help I have opened an account at the U.P. State Credit Union . They by the way were amazing to work with! Thank you Renee & Brad! The account is for Darci Blanton & Sophia Fosmo / fire relief fund. Checks can be sent or money dropped off. Thank you all for the outpouring of prayers love and help . It is all so greatly appreciated. As you know just days ago they lost everything in a fire, we are grateful for their lives. We know things can be replaced and memories are are always with us. Thank you all so very much for your kindness!

The address to send any donations:

          U. P. State Credit Union
          2501 First Avenue North
          Escanaba, MI 49829
          906-786-1146

I've been writing a lot about miracles in these last few weeks of the pandemic.  Now is your chance to be a miracle in a little girl's life.  Please consider sending a donation to help out Sophia and her mother.  All of us have spent these past months feeling sorry for ourselves for not being able to get our hair done or gather with friends at bars and restaurants.  I know my little losses pale in comparison to what this little girl has lost.

So, let's send some miracles to Sophia.

And for all of you miracle-givers out there, Saint Marty thanks you!

November 17: A Visit, Richard Blanco, "El Florida Room'

A poet friend of mine just stopped by for a visit.  She used to be a professor at the university where I teach.  Over the years, we have worked on a lot of projects together.  When she was poetry editor of the university's literary magazine, I was her assistant editor.  She directed my MFA thesis and my Master's thesis.  When I'm with her, I feel like a real writer.

The reason for her visit--she wants me to judge a poetry contest with her.  Of course, I accepted the offer.  I haven't gotten too many opportunities to do things like that recently.  When my friend was at the university, we spent many hours combing through poems for the magazine.  It was an exciting time for me.

As she was leaving this evening, she gave me a hug and said, "This will be just like the good old days."

I hugged her back and said, "We still have a lot of good days ahead of us."

I'm still basking in our conversation, which ranged far and wide, from poetry and writers to Donald Trump and racism.  It made me a little nostalgic, I have to admit.  I miss the time when I felt a little more . . . valuable in the English Department.  When my opinion mattered for something.

In tonight's poem, Richard Blanco sort of captures the ache that I felt after my poet friend left.  For a while, it was as if I'd taken a few steps back in time.

Now, Saint Marty is in Trumpland again.

El Florida Room

by:  Richard Blanco

Not a study or a den, but El Florida

as my mother called it, a pretty name

for the room with the prettiest view

of the lipstick-red hibiscus puckered up

against the windows, the tepid breeze

laden with the brown-sugar scent

of loquats drifting in from the yard.

Not a sunroom, but where the sun

both rose and set, all day the shadows

of banana trees fan-dancing across

the floor, and if it rained, it rained

the loudest, like marbles plunking

across the roof under constant threat

of coconuts ready to fall from the sky.

Not a sitting room, but El Florida, where

I sat alone for hours with butterflies

frozen on the polyester curtains

and faces of Lladró figurines: sad angels,

clowns, and princesses with eyes glazed

blue and gray, gazing from behind

the glass doors of the wall cabinet.

Not a TV room, but where I watched

Creature Feature as a boy, clinging

to my brother, safe from vampires

in the same sofa where I fell in love

with Clint Eastwood and my Abuelo

watching westerns, or pitying women

crying in telenovelas with my Abuela.

Not a family room, but the room where

my father twirled his hair while listening

to eight-tracks of Elvis, read Nietzsche

and Kant a few months before he died,

where my mother learned to dance alone

as she swept, and I learned salsa pressed

against my Tía Julia’s enormous breasts.

At the edge of the city, in the company

of crickets, beside the empty clothesline,

telephone wires, and the moon, tonight

my life is an old friend sitting with me

not in the living room, but in the light

of El Florida, as quiet and necessary

as any star shining above it.

September 7: Last Night, Judith Minty, "The End of Summer," "Ives" Dip, Adventures of Stickman

Last night, I went to visit a poet friend.  She owns a large Victorian-style house with a large, curving front porch.  It was dusk, and a thunderstorm had just passed over.  Lightning still flashed occasionally, and a strong breeze was blowing, scattering the heat and humidity of the day.

We sat on the front porch and talked.  It was an end-of-summer moment.  My friend has just published a new collection of poems, and she's about to set off on a month-long book tour.  We talked about my sister, of whom my poet friend was very fond.  As darkness took hold, I couldn't even see her face clearly.  I could just hear her voice, the slight Southern lilt of her words.

It is the end of summer.  After today, autumn starts in earnest.  Already the maple leaves are turning orange and yellow on my street.  As I left my friend's house last night, she said, "Who knows?  By the time I get back in October, there may be snow on the ground."

I have a coming-of-autumn poem for you from Judith Minty, the Poet of the Week.  Yes, Judith has been a Poet of the Week before, but I find her work incredibly comforting.  She has a clear and beautiful eye for imagery and metaphor.  Her Yellow Dog Journal is one of my absolute favorite poetry collections.  Today's poem is from Walking the Bear:

The End of Summer

by:  Judith Minty

1.
The old bitch labrador swims
in heavy circles.  Under water
her legs run free without their limp.
She stretches brown eyes toward me,
snorting, and the stick I throw
stirs gray memories of ten Octobers,
ducks that fly at the sun and fall.

2.
On the Pere Marquette River, salmon
quiver upstream from the lake, return
to alpha.  At the dam
they leap and throw themselves
through currents, stretch
and spend themselves
against the torrent from the falls.

3.
All week the sky has filled
with orange petals.  Butterflies
floating in cycles toward milkweed,
monarchs freed from the chrysalis,
waiting for the wind's current
to die.  The beach
is covered with torn wings.

4.
Fire, off the merganser's hood.
This summer he nested
in our channel, drifted
with the half-time mallards.  His sharp bill
stabs water to catch bread I throw.
But he belongs by the sea.  I want him
to fly now, before October and guns.

It's a perfect Labor Day poem.  For my international readers, in North America, the first Monday in September is designated as a national holiday, in honor of the workers and laborers.  It has a rather bloody history, connected to the 1886 Haymarket massacre in which several police officers and civilians were killed at a labor rally in Chicago.  These days, Labor Day is about parades and picnics and barbecues and bounce houses in the United States.  And it really marks the end of the summer season.

Tomorrow, the kids return to school and the Halloween and Christmas decorations start appearing in Walmart.  I must say that I haven't enjoyed the year 2015 very much.  I remember my thoughts on the first day of this year.  I sat at home, in my dark living room, looking at my Christmas tree glowing in the corner.  I looked at my wife and said, "This year has GOT to be better than last year."

I never make statements like that any more.  It's like saying, "Well, things couldn't get any worse."  Things can always get worse, and they did in 2015.  I simply want to coast toward December 31 with little fanfare or upset.  That is my goal.  Easy, quiet fall.  Warm, snowless winter.  Then New Year's Eve.

So, this Ives dip Monday, my question is this:

Will the rest of 2015 be quiet and uneventful for me?

And the answer:

These were his happiest years, Ives would think, when the kids were small.  He'd walk down Claremont with his hand on his son's shoulder, his other hand gently guiding his daughter along.  He would stop on nearly every corner and make sure that the light was green and cross himself quickly as they passed every church, trying to teach the children to do the same . . .

Well, that's a pretty happy response.  Ives' happiest years.  I could do with a few happy months.  No more death.  No more ceilings collapsing.  No more leaking roofs or exorbitant car repairs.  Happiness.  Peace.

Saint Marty hopes he can cash that check.

Adventures of STICKMAN

April 20: Poet of the Week, Garrett Hongo, "The Legend"

So, last night, a poet friend asked me to come to her house.  She has decided to rid herself of much of her "things."  Books.  Shoes.  Artificial Christmas trees (she has four).  The reason she invited me was because she wanted to give me first pick of the books she is jettisoning from her house.

For close to two hours, I scoured her shelves, finding books by Linda Hogan and Mary Oliver and Louise Gluck.  I left with two boxes and three grocery bags of poetry.  As I was looking through her collection, my poet friend said to me, "I have this feeling that I need to get ready, in case anything happens to me."  I told her that nothing was going to happen to her.  She's just ending her first year of full retirement, and I think she's taking stock of her life, her accomplishments, her regrets.

One of the books I got from her was a signed edition of Garrett Hongo's collection The River of Heaven.  Therefore, I have chosen Hongo as the Poet of the Week.

Saint Marty still needs to unpack the rest of the boxes and bags from his car.

The Legend

by:  Garrett Hongo

In Chicago, it is snowing softly
and a man has just done his wash for the week.
He steps into the twilight of early evening,
carrying a wrinkled shopping bag
full of neatly folded clothes,
and, for a moment, enjoys
the feel of warm laundry and crinkled paper,
flannellike against his gloveless hands.
There's a Rembrandt glow on his face,
a triangle of orange in the hollow of his cheek
as a last flash of sunset
blazes the storefronts and lit windows of the street.

He is Asian, Thai or Vietnamese,
and very skinny, dressed as one of the poor
in rumpled suit pants and a plaid mackinaw,
dingy and too large.
He negotiates the slick of ice
on the sidewalk by his car,
opens the Fairlane's back door,
leans to place the laundry in,
and turns, for an instant,
toward the flurry of footsteps
and cries of pedestrians
as a boy--that's all he was--
backs from the corner package store
shooting a pistol, firing it,
once, at the dumbfounded man
who falls forward,
grabbing at his chest.

A few sounds escape from his mouth,
a babbling no one understands
as people surround him
bewildered at his speech.
The noises he makes are nothing to them.
The boy has gone, lost
in the light array of foot traffic
dappling the snow with fresh prints.

Tonight, I read about Descartes'
grand courage to doubt everything
except his own miraculous existence
and I feel so distinct
from the wounded man lying on the concrete
I am ashamed.

Let the night sky cover him as he dies.
Let the weaver girl cross the bridge of heaven
and take up his cold hands.

                                                     IN MEMORY OF JAY KASHIWAMURA

Taking stock of life with Garrett Hongo

July 6: Birthday Party, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

Welcome to my Sunday afternoon.  In a little while, I will be going to my nephew's birthday party.  He's three years old, and the party is being held at the local children's museum.  Two floors of interactive displays, turtle and snake tanks, and noise.  Lots of noise.

It will be fun for my son and daughter.  They love the place.  And it will be good to see all the family.  The only occasions for which we really get together are birthdays, Thanksgivings, and Christmases.  Easter is hit or miss.  Halloween, we stop by some family houses for candy and pictures.  So, we will get caught up on all the gossip and news today.

Today's Classic Saint Marty comes from two years ago.  There's a little trick to reading it.  Start with the final sentence of the post and work backward.  It will make sense then.  I promise.

July 6, 2012:  Backward Reading, Catching Up, Beginning

Finger lickin' good

He wants to eat it.  Saint Marty doesn't want to meditate on Kentucky Fried Chicken.

I'm still hungry.  I think it's a crock of shit.  By going through this meditation, the craving is supposed to dissipate.  Afterward, think about being finished eating the food.  Every little bite.  Then, go through the whole process, in your mind, of eating the food.  The article said to think about the food, all the details of taste and smell and texture.  I'm a little hungry right now, but I read an article recently about how to deal with cravings.

I just really want to be able to take a big, deep breath before the craziness of tomorrow.  It's an indoor pool, so I don't have to worry about the weather.  It would be nice to kick back and relax, though.  That's only if I can get the housekeeping done first.  I'm hoping to be able to go swimming with my daughter and son, as well.  I'm doing my normal Friday tasks--grocery shopping and cleaning the house.

My day has gotten a little less stressful, even if my poet friend is as directionally-challenged as I am.  (That was a joke.)  At least, if I run out of gas in the middle of the wilderness, I'll have a food source.  Well, I got in touch with my poet friend, and she's going to be driving with me tomorrow to the poetry panels.

It doesn't have to make sense.  If it doesn't hold together, think of this little exercise as language poetry.  I'm not sure if what I write is going to make a lot of sense.  Therefore, with this blog post, I'm going to start at the ending and work my way backwards to the beginning.  It always seems like I'm trying to play catch up, all day long.

Confessions of Saint Marty

August 16: The Dough, Gesture of Love, Mini Fairy Tale

"Here," old Phoebe said.  She was trying to give me the dough, but she couldn't find my hand.

Phoebe's trying to give Holden her Christmas money.  Even in her elementary school mind, she knows her brother is in trouble, and she's trying to help him out.  It's a gesture of love.

I've spent the last two evenings helping a poet friend edit the manuscript for her new book.  It's work I love to do.  For a little while, it makes me feel like a real writer, a real artist.  At the end of the night, my poet friend tried to hand me some money.

I shook my head.  "I wasn't expecting to be paid," I said.  "It was a favor."

She smiled.  "Take your wife out to dinner," she said.

I was humbled and flabbergasted by her gesture.   A gesture of love from a dear friend.

How 'bout a mini fairy tale tonight?

Once upon a time, there lived a humble court jester named Orson.  Orson wasn't a very good jester, so he was always broke.

One day, he found a skunk with a broken leg on the doorstep of his cottage.  The skunk looked so pitiful, Orson decided to care for it.  He bent over and picked the creature up.

As Orson carried it into his home, the skunk lifted its tail and blasted Orson with skunk stink.  Orson dropped the animal and staggered backward.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Orson yelled.

The skunk shrugged.  "I don't have any money," it said.

"So," Orson said, "I wasn't asking for anything!"

"That's good," the skunk said, "because I only have one scent to my name."

Moral of the story:  Don't trust anyone who wears black and white.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Thar she blows...

April 3: Poets and Beer

So, after I'm done teaching this evening, before I humiliate myself at choir practice, I'm meeting a poet friend for a drink.  He's a colleague from the university, and we haven't gotten together since early January.  Actually, I haven't seen him since early January, either.

I don't know what it is about poets, but, when they get together, there always seems to be beer involved, among other mind-altering substances.  It may be traced back to alcoholic poets like Dylan Thomas.  (I'm sure Frost and Wordsworth and Blake were closet drinkers, as well.)  I'm looking forward to seeing my friend.  He's one of my favorite people in the world, but our schedules rarely allow for us gathering at the pub and lifting a pint.  Actually, I hate beer, so I may be simply drinking Diet Coke.  It's a little too early for anything stronger.

Anyway, Saint Marty's evening has just gotten a little happier.

Jack Daniels and Poetry

July 6: Backward Reading, Catching Up, Beginning

Finger lickin' good

He wants to eat it.  Saint Marty doesn't want to meditate on Kentucky Fried Chicken.

I'm still hungry.  I think it's a crock of shit.  By going through this meditation, the craving is supposed to dissipate.  Afterward, think about being finished eating the food.  Every little bite.  Then, go through the whole process, in your mind, of eating the food.  The article said to think about the food, all the details of taste and smell and texture.  I'm a little hungry right now, but I read an article recently about how to deal with cravings.

I just really want to be able to take a big, deep breath before the craziness of tomorrow.  It's an indoor pool, so I don't have to worry about the weather.  It would be nice to kick back and relax, though.  That's only if I can get the housekeeping done first.  I'm hoping to be able to go swimming with my daughter and son, as well.  I'm doing my normal Friday tasks--grocery shopping and cleaning the house.

My day has gotten a little less stressful, even if my poet friend is as directionally-challenged as I am.  (That was a joke.)  At least, if I run out of gas in the middle of the wilderness, I'll have a food source.  Well, I got in touch with my poet friend, and she's going to be driving with me tomorrow to the poetry panels.

It doesn't have to make sense.  If it doesn't hold together, think of this little exercise as language poetry.  I'm not sure if what I write is going to make a lot of sense.  Therefore, with this blog post, I'm going to start at the ending and work my way backwards to the beginning.  It always seems like I'm trying to play catch up, all day long.

July 6: Natural in His Lifetime, Alone by Himself, Car Trip

"If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, wicked old screw," pursued the woman, "why wasn't he natural in his lifetime?  If he had been he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with Death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself."

The charwoman passes pretty strong judgement here on Scrooge.  Of course, she has every right.  If Scrooge has treated her even half as poorly as he treats Bob Cratchit, the charwoman should be pissing on Scrooge's headstone.  This passage highlights the value of human connection.  Scrooge, who has spent his life pushing every person away from himself, dies alone, "gasping out his last."

It's a common fear for most people, I think.  No person wants to be isolated and abandoned.  I cultivate companions.  I'm one of those people who needs to be liked.  When I go through my course evaluations at the end of a semester, instead of focusing on the 29 great reviews, I focus on the one student who accuses me of being the Antichrist.  I made the mistake of checking myself out on ratemyprofessors.com yesterday.  I got a 4.5 rating out of 5.  That's really good.  However, I went through each review and found the two or three people who hated me.  Literally hated me.  It took me a half hour to recover.

I know I can't make everyone like me.  I know there are people in the world who probably think I'm a bigger asshole than Ebenezer Scrooge.  But I also know that I have friends, good friends, who care and worry about me.  I know I will not die alone. 

Tomorrow, I have to make a couple appearances on the U. P. Book Tour.  My wife can't accompany me, and I've been trying to get in touch with a poet friend to see if she wants to drive with me.  You see, aside from not wanting to die alone, I also am not very fond of travelling by myself.  This fear comes from my inability to read a map or follow directions.  If I have to go by myself tomorrow, I will get lost and end up somewhere in Saskatchewan, reading poems to a herd of elk.

Thus, I will be trying frantically to get in touch with my poet friend today.  She's appearing with me at the events, so I know she needs a ride.  I'm counting on that.  My poems are packed, and my gas tank is full.  If I'm travelling alone tomorrow, I will put in a supply of beef jerky, candles, matches, bottled water, and Hershey bars.

Saint Marty isn't going to be found on the side of the road, gasping out his last, being devoured by turkey vultures.

I do not want to end up like this...

February 1: End of Day, Donald Hall, Feeling Important

It is the end of a very long work day.  My mind feels weary.  I'm looking forward to getting home, putting on my pajamas, and doing nothing for the rest of the night.  Of course, I will probably end up doing something, but I'm not planning anything in particular.I hope you got all that.  Nothing.  Something.  Anything.  That's a lot of "things" in one paragraph.

This morning, my good poet friend, who is the editor of the literary magazine at the university, forwarded me an e-mail she received from the poet Donald Hall.  Attached to the e-mail were two of Hall's unpublished poems.  Now, being the associate poetry editor of the magazine, I shouldn't act like some kind of teenage girl at a Justin Bieber concert when I read a submission by a famous poet.  But it was Donald freakin' Hall.  Come on.  The poems were short and funny.  For me, reading a personal communication from Donald Hall was like finding a copy of the Bible with Mother Teresa's hand-written notes in it.  It made my morning.

Aside from making me feel like the ultimate geek poetry fanboy, it also made me feel a little important.  I was considering publishing two poems by Donald Hall.  Actually, there was very little consideration involved.  The poems were going to get accepted, whether I liked them or not.  I didn't even really get to express my opinion before I got a second e-mail from my poet friend saying that she'd accepted the poems.  However, just the fact that I was being asked my opinion about work by Donald Hall was a pretty big ego boost.

Anyway, Donald Hall made Saint Marty's day today.

Donald Hall and some other guy