May 16: "Poetry Collection," Furnace and Friends, "Working on a New Poem"

Billy Collins edits . . . 

Poetry Collection

by: Billy Collins

They mutter

in the alleys of the city,

the old ones

who were not selected.

It's a difficult thing, writing is.  It keeps you awake at night, wakes you up early in the morning.  Even when you're taking a break, writing is still always present, like tinnitus, ringing in your brain.

I have been up since before 4 a.m.  The furnace in my house decided to stop working.  Instead of blowing warm air, it was blowing cold.  Constantly.  I turned the furnace off and spent twenty minutes trying to contact a local heating and cooling contractor.  Eventually, I was successful.

The service person came out this afternoon and gave my furnace a fatal diagnosis.  He mentioned fireballs and overheating, cautioned us not to turn the furnace back on.  So, everybody in my house is layered up tonight in sweatshirts and hats and gloves, and two space heaters are cranking out some heat.  (A huge shoutout to my friend, John, who loaned us his heavy duty heater that is now maintaining a steady 68 degrees in the living room and bedroom.

And tonight I hosted a monthly Zoom open mic where some of my best friends warmed me up with their stories and essays and poems.  After a very long day, where I struggled and worried and fretted and worried some more, it was good just to relax and listen to everyone.  

Humans beings are messy creatures.  We worry about things we have very little control over.  We fuck up, over and over and over and over.  That's what life is--a series of mistakes, struggles, and challenges.  And it's our friends who pick us up, dust us off, and forgive us.  

Saint Marty gives thanks tonight for good friends and space heaters.  

Working on a New Poem

by: Martin Achatz

I wake in the middle

of the night when it cries

out, stumble to its cradle,

check to see if it's hungry,

wet, or just wants to be held.

April 11: Poet of the Week, Rigoberto Gonzalez, "Music Man"

Went to a poetry reading by Rigoberto Gonzalez last Thursday night.  He sort of blew me away.  I've decided to share the experience with you by featuring him as Poet of the Week.

He spoke a lot about fathers and fatherhood during his reading, and he read an excerpt about his father from his new memoir.  After the reading, I had him sign a copy of his poetry collection Unpeopled Eden.  We talked briefly about the complex relationships between fathers and sons.

Saint Marty wants to be best friends with this man.

Music Man

by:  Rigoberto Gonzalez

Oh father, oh music man

with a whistle instead of a coin

to toss on your walks,

keep these things for us

until we're ready to come home:

our baby teeth, fragments of bone

that rattle in a domino box.

Tuck it in your pocket but please

don't gamble it away

the way you lost our

christening gowns in poker.

We had outgrown them, true,

but what other proof

did we have that all seven

of our outfits could be stacked

and shuffled like a deck

of cards. Keep the bottle cap

opener hanging by a string.

Wear it like a locket

and stay collared to our after-school

bliss when we found you

underneath a tree that scattered

glass fruit around your feet.

The boys lined them up

for death by slingshot,

and the girls giggled

when the bodies shattered.

Take good care of our drawings,

our crooked handwriting

exercises, the scribbles of our names,

and sew a suit with sailboats

on the sleeves, a coat with Qs

sliding down a wire, and pants

that celebrate our prepubescent

autographs. And in your shoe—

don't tell us which! let us guess!—

save the coin you told us

came from China. It had a hole

in the middle because the merchants

slid their change on chopsticks.

We pictured them on market

Sundays holding up their earnings

like a shish kabob. We know

you hid the coin because all seven

of us wanted it and so you

took it with you. Or so I claimed.

Can I be blamed, oh father, oh story

man, for wanting to possess

the single thing that couldn't be shared?

You saw me slide it out

the window of your wallet

while you napped and didn't

snap to attention to complain.

Of all your sons and daughters

it is I who wanted to escape the most,

to anywhere. I learned the desperate

alchemy of flowering a barren day

with song from you, oh master.

A minstrel needs his freedom.

And so you let me take it.