June 25: Wandered About Moodily, Sidewalk Chalk Poetry, My Son

Arhtur Dent is wandering about moodily . . .

On the surface of Magrathea Arthur wandered about moodily.

See, what'd I tell you?

It has been a long day that ended really well.   

This afternoon, when I was done with work, I volunteered to judge a local sidewalk chalk poetry contest at the local library.  It was part of the city's annual Art Week.  I was in charge of the Grades 6 to 8 division.  So I stood outside, on the first really beautiful summer day we've had, and watched a whole lot of people scribbling and drawing on the pavement.

I love events like this.  They fill my heart and soul with gratitude that so many people want to create something beautiful in the world, adults to preschoolers.  Funny thing, the preschoolers are usually the ones that always write things that amaze me.

This year, my son decided to enter the contest.

Let me tell you about my son.  He's smart, funny, and physical.  He loves playing on the computer and playing outside.  And he loves being around people.  But I think he's starting to suffer from low self esteem.  You see, since he was young, he's struggled with ADHD.  He loses his attention and patience very easily.  His classmates have quickly realized this character trait, and they love exploiting it.  They push his buttons until he reacts and gets in trouble.  He often calls himself "stupid" because he can't control himself or concentrate.

My son also loves his pizza.  His four major food groups are:  pizza, pasta, Ramen, and ice cream bars.  He often tries healthier options, but he hasn't found too many fruits or vegetables that are better the Little Caesar's.  Now, he's noticed that he has put on some weight (this may also be due to the medications he takes for his ADHD), and so he's started calling himself "fat."

For Father's Day this year, my son wrote me a poem.  It was clever and funny and really well-written.  I told my son what a good writer he is, but he didn't believe me.  Shrugged it off.  This past weekend, I told him about the sidewalk chalk poetry contest.  I told him, "It's theme is 'the forest.'  Do you think you can write about that?"  That night, he sat down and wrote a poem.

At the contest tonight, he calculated the possibility of him winning the contest.  There were two other kids in his age division, so my son walked around saying, "I stand a 33-and-a-third chance of winning.  If another kid shows up, it's 25%."

Well, I stepped aside as the judge for the Grades 6 to 8 division so that Gideon could enter.  Therefore, I had nothing to do with the results of that portion on the competition.  I ended up judging Grades 3 to 5.  Everything was on the up-and-up.  

My son won his division.  I think he'd already convinced himself that he wasn't going to win.  He said to me before the announcement, "I didn't win.  The other ones were better."

My wife said that when he got home after winning, he immediately called his sister and spent a good deal of time telling her about the contest.  He probably even read his poem to her.

I am so proud of my son.  He didn't ask my advice on his poem.  He didn't even want me to read it before the contest.  It was his own, from start to finish.

Maybe, now, instead of thinking of himself as "stupid" or "fat," Saint Marty's son will claim different titles.  Talented.  Creative.  Poetic.

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.

January 30: "Life After Life," Book Club, To the Fair

A great book

I just finished up with my book club meeting tonight.  My guests have left.  The leftovers are in the fridge.  The dishes are done.  The house is back in order.  And now, I have two blog posts to type.  I'm pretty tired, so don't expect anything too deep or funny.

The novel we read this month was Kate Atkinson's Life After Life.  I didn't suggest the book.  However, it turned out to be one of my favorite reads of the last twelve months.  It's an enthralling story of birth, life, death, and then birth again.  Over and over, Ursula Todd lives her life, and, over and over, her life changes in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.  It's an amazing work of imagination and heart.

Most of the usual suspects showed up for tonight's book club, despite today's really crappy weather.  We ate, laughed, talked about the book, and ate some more.  We had a lively discussion about the choices we make, and how seemingly insignificant decisions can lead to life-altering events.  The main conceit of the book is summed up with this quote:

"What if we had a chance to do it again and again, until we finally get it right?  Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

I'm not sure I'd want to relive my life.  There are a few years that really sucked.  Of course, nobody's taking me out to the smokehouse to turn me into Christmas ham and bacon.  Wilbur only has one shot at surviving past Thanksgiving:

"Everybody in!" called Mr. Arable.  He started the motor.  The ladies climbed in beside him.  Mr. Zuckerman and Lurvy and Fern and Avery rode in the back, hanging onto the sideboards.  The truck began to move ahead.  The geese cheered.  The children answered their cheer, and away went everybody to the Fair.

If Wilbur had a choice, maybe he wouldn't go to the Fair.  He'd stay at home with his beloved manure pile,  eat his slops, and watch the seasons change.  I understand the little pig.  Change is not something Wilbur values.  He prefers all his days to be the same, sunrise to sunset.  So do I.

However, I know I have to step outside my comfort zone, accept new challenges.  This morning I submitted some poems to a contest.  That's really outside my comfort zone.  In fact, I almost talked myself out of it a few times.  But, I finally gave in.

I'm 99% sure I don't stand a chance of winning the poetry contest.  Maybe in one of the threads of my life out there, I do win first prize.  That would be $100 and the right to brag a little bit.  I think I could handle that.

And that's a piece of Saint Marty's mind, at least in this alternate universe.

January 29: Poetry Contest

I'm horrible about sending my poems out for publication.  I need to do it more.  I got an e-mail this morning about a poetry contest.  Three poems.  One chance to win $100.  Deadline:  February 1.  I'm not going to fool myself.  There are probably a thousand other poets who are going to enter this competition.  Better poets.  But, as my wife told me this evening, "If you don't enter, you'll never know."

Before I go to bed tonight, I will pick the three poems I think are the best of what I have to offer.  I've got plenty from which to choose.

Saint Marty needs to take a leap of faith.  And pay twelve dollars.

Take a breath, take a step, and jump

August 10: Losing Again

I'm beginning to think nobody reads these evening posts.  For the last four or five days, I've had no views of my night-time blogs.  That's fine.  I'm used to writing stuff in a vacuum, without having any kind of response.  Perhaps the night-time posts have been a little boring.  Maybe whiny.  Lacking in some way.

Tonight will be no different.  I checked my university e-mail a few hours ago, not even thinking about the poetry contest I entered a few months ago.  Really, the thing I was thinking about was an order from Amazon I needed to make.  Well, there was a message from the book press that sponsors the contest.  The message said it all in the memo line: Esteemed poet Xavier NoTalent names Jamie Mediocre's "Sucking Ass" Winner of the Pretentious Poetry Prize.  Yes, names and titles have been changed to protect the innocent.

I am not angry or jealous.  I'd pretty much given up hope of winning this contest.  However, that little e-mail sort of took the wind out of my sails.  I don't feel like doing a whole lot of anything now.  I'm going to wallow for a few hours.  In fact, I'm going to take the gold medal in wallowing tonight.  Even the Chinese aren't going to beat me.

I know there are a lot of really good poets out there.  I know that a lot of really good poets entered this competition.  I know that some really good poets never win contests or awards.  I know all that.  It still doesn't take the sting out of that e-mail.  Some days, being a poet sucks.

Saint Marty needs to go turn off the lights and sit in a dark room for a while.

Nothing to write home about

March 17: St. Patrick's Day, Carol Dip, New Cartoon

Happy St. Patrick's Day to everyone.  No, I'm not going to go out carousing.  I'm not going to paint the town green and drink a keg of green beer.  I'm too old and have to get up too early for church tomorrow morning.  I will celebrate more traditionally.  I will watch The Lawrence Welk Show and go to bed.  Maybe I'll eat a corned beef and cabbage pizza.

I don't have a lot of time today to write a reflective post.  Therefore, I'm going to do a Carol dip.  For those of my disciples unfamiliar with this practice, I shall explain it to you.  I think of a question.  I open my copy of A Christmas Carol, flip through it, and randomly put my finger on a page.  Where my finger lands is the answer to my question.  It's like using the book as a Magic 8 Ball.

So, here goes...

My question is this:  Will I win the poetry contest I entered this week?

And the answer is...

"No, no!  There's father coming," cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once.  "Hide, Martha, hide!"

Well, that's shitty.  I don't have to look to deeply into that statement to interpret the answer.  All I have to do is read the first two words.  That isn't quite the answer for which I was hoping.  However, it's the answer I got, and I have to live with it.

Saint Marty's gotta run.  His daughter's waiting at the dance studio.

Confessions of Saint Marty

August 30: No New Poem, A Challenge, Dick Cheney

My good friend, Wonder Twin, the only entrant in my last contest, is convinced she is going to be the only entrant in my current contest.  I need somebody to prove her wrong.  Think of this:  if I could get two more people to enter "Name the Poem," that will mean I have increased my response rate by 100%.  That's all I need.  Two more stinking entries.  I'm trying not to whine.  Don't make me whine.  It won't be pretty.

I did not get a new poem written today.  I found myself consumed with other work.  I will start writing a new poem for tomorrow when I get home tonight.  I'm not going to fall into the trap of letting myself turn into a full-time employee/sometime poet.  I will continue to make poetry a priority in my life.  Somebody in this world has to do it.

I saw Dick Cheney on the Today show this morning.  He was hawking his new book, talking with Matt Lauer.  Usually, I try to stay politically neutral on my blog.  (I try.  I don't always succeed.)  However, I thought, when Cheney was wheeled onto his plane and left Washington D. C. three years ago, I wouldn't have to listen to him blather on about how he's saved the entire free world from terrorism single-handedly.  When he was President, excuse me, Vice President, he had power and was dangerous.  Now, when he has a terminal heart condition and is one battery away from death, he's just a egotistical bigmouth who can't stand being out of the spotlight.  (This is beginning to sound like a Dennis Miller rant.)  Dick Cheney just needs to hop on Trigger and ride into the sunset.  Go hunting and shoot some more of his friends.  Do anything but be on TV and irritate me.

Saint Marty is done now.  He just needed to get that off his chest.

Somebody pull the plug!

July 19: The Trend Continues

Well, yesterday started with my close encounter with a skunk.  This morning, my stinky week continues.

I just checked the Website for the poetry contest I've been waiting to hear about.  They've finally announced the winner and finalists, and...(insert drum roll here)...I'm not one of them.  Yes, I'm disappointed.  Yes, I'm a little pissed.  Yes, I still can smell skunk in my house.  And, yes, I don't feel like typing anymore at the moment.

I'll collect my thoughts and post something more substantial later.

Saint Marty, over and out.

Got this one down pat!

July 16: No News, New Cartoon, Hot Day

It is over 90 degrees outside.  I went running early this morning, came home, collapsed on the floor, and proceeded to melt like the Wicked Witch of the West in a rainstorm.  Didn't do a whole lot of anything else today.

If you're wondering, I haven't heard anything about the poetry contest yet.  I keep checking the Website, and the same old message is posted:  "The winner will be announced by July 15."  Last time I checked my calendar, that was yesterday.  I suppose I I should think that no news is good news.  It's sort of like someone telling you on your birthday that your present is on the way.  I can still have hope right now.  I still have a present to open.  When my present actually arrives, it might be a tin of stale sardines, but, for now, I can still believe it's going to be a Pulitzer Prize.

New cartoon tonight.  Hope you enjoy it.

Saint Marty is keepin' the faith.

July 15: Poetry Contest, Waiting, On Edge

OK, I've set myself up for a really disappointing day.  Let me explain.

Several months ago, I submitted a chapbook of poetry for a contest.  The winner gets $1,000, publication this Fall, and 100 copies of his/her book.  Until a couple weeks ago, I'd completely forgotten about the competition.  Unfortunately, I did eventually remember.  I went to the contest's Website, and I found out that they're announcing the winner sometime TODAY.

Poetry is causing me stress today

Of course, I've tried to squelch my expectations.  Tell myself how many times I've entered contests like this one before and never made it past my entrance fee check being cashed.  However, I've been pretty unsuccessful trying to remain bitter, sarcastic, and pessimistic.  I've been thinking about that thousand bucks.  As you know, I've had quite a few expensive car repairs this summer.  Without having the income from teaching May through August, those repairs have drained our back account substantially.  The contest money would really come in handy.

Not to mention the fact that I'd like to publish another book to add to my list of writing accomplishments.  I'd love to go back to the university in a couple months and bask in 15 minutes of fame.  I've seen some pretty mediocre writers getting published in the last few years.  Maybe it's my turn.  (Not that I'm a mediocre writer.  I just mean it's time for a good writer to get published.  Me, to be exact.  You know what I mean.  Oh, never mind.)

As you can probably tell, I'm setting myself up for a really big let-down sometime in the next 24 or so hours.  I've tried to reason with myself.  I even looked up the work of the judge of the contest to see what kind of poetry he writes/likes.  His "stuff" is very different from the kind of poetry I write.  I know I'm not going to win, or I stand a very slim chance of winning.  I'm not trying to humble.  I'm trying to be realistic.

That's where I am this morning.  On edge.  Anxious.  Waiting.  Checking my e-mail every five minutes.  Obsessing.  Pretty much the way I am every day, multiplied by about a thousand.

Saint Marty needs to prepare himself for the bad news.  Wish him luck.

Waiting to open my empty present