October 5: "The Golden Years," Saint Marty's Day, Tapioca Pudding

It is Saint Marty's Day.  Most feast days of Catholic saints are celebrated on the days of their deaths.  I believe the thinking is that the day a person is reunited with God is more important than the day a person is born.  Heavenly life more important than earthly life.

That may be true.  However, I doubt that the heavenly host bakes a cake, buys presents, and sings "Happy Birthday" on the day you die.  (On the other hand, I've never died, so I could be totally wrong.)  Sure, they did sing for Jesus on His birthday, but that was because they worked for His dad.  

As you get older, birthdays become less important.  I don't think I'm quite in my golden years yet, but I didn't mind that we had a belated family birthday party for my son this evening.  Of course, everyone who came to the celebration wished me a happy Saint Marty's Day, as well.  And a ton of my friends reached out to me via text, IM, and Facebook, wishing me glad tidings, too.

Billy Collins reflects on his drawn-out golden days . . . 

The Golden Years

by: Billy Collins

All I do these drawn-out days 

is sit in my kitchen at Pheasant Ridge 

where there are no pheasants to be seen 

and last time I looked, no ridge. 

I could drive over to Quail Falls 

and spend the day there playing bridge, 

but the lack of a falls and the absence of quail 

would only remind me of Pheasant Ridge. 

I know a widow at Fox Run 

and another with a condo at Smokey Ledge. 

One of them smokes, and neither can run,

so I’ll stick to the pledge I made to Midge. 

Who frightened the fox and bulldozed the ledge? 

I ask in my kitchen at Pheasant Ridge.

If you didn't realize it, the above poem is a sonnet.  Fourteen lines with a rhyme scheme (not quite Shakespearean, but close enough) and a concluding couplet.  I note this because Collins is using a very old form to write about his golden years, where nothing really lives up to its name.  Pheasant Ridge has no pheasants.  Quail Falls has no falls or quails.  There is no smoke on Smokey Ledge, and no foxes are running on Fox Run.  There ain't much gold in them golden years.  Just contradiction and disappointment.

However, I had a great Saint Marty's Day.  I took my puppy for several longs walks.  Celebrated my son's sixteenth trip around the sun.  Got some ice cream cake.  Heard from a lot of people I love.  If this is what my golden years are going to be like, I'll take it.

Now, all Saint Marty needs is some traditional, warm, fresh tapioca pudding.

May 13: James Scannell McCormick, "Prayer to St. Drogo of Sebourg"

I have a sonnet from Scannell tonight, a beautiful reflection on loss and sacrifice. 

Tomorrow is Mother's Day.  This poem does touch upon motherhood.  St. Drogo's mother died in childbirth.  She made the ultimate sacrifice for her baby.  I'm not sure if many people would consider this poem appropriate for a celebration of mothers, but I do.  It reminds me of everything noble about motherhood.

Saint Marty salutes all mothers this evening, in prelude to tomorrow.

Prayer to St. Drogo of Sebourg

by:  James Scannell McCormick

You: no sooner come to a life folden

And fine as a psalter's roundel (lovers, say,

In April -- blue cloaked, posed and poised on a lawn

Of pinks) -- unmothered. She died in birthing you.

In the west, the Channel heaved, mussel-indigo:

What is having to loss? Forgone of your

Belongings, you, sinful pilgrim, walked to

Rome in penitence. Again. Again. We are

Sinners, all. And yet who gave any thanks

Or help -- a cup of warmth, a free inglenook-

Seat? When sickness blistered your face to flanks

Of skinned hares, and no one would bear to look

At you, you sealed yourself in a hermit's cell --

So smallest comfort serves to preserve our souls.

April 25: Sonnet, Tyehimba Jess, "What Marked Tom?"

A sonnet from Tyehimba Jess.

Saint Marty needs to get Jess' book.

What Marked Tom?

by:  Tyehimba Jess

Did a slave song at a master’s bidding

mark Tom while asleep in Charity's womb?

The whole plantation would be called to sing

and dance in Master Epps’ large parlor room—

after work sprung from dawn and dragged past dusk,

after children auctioned to parts unknown,

after funerals and whippings. Thus

was the whim of the patriarch. No groans

allowed, just high steppin’ celebration,

grins all around, gritted or sincere.

Charity threw feet, hips, arms into motion

to please the tyrant piano. Was it here

Tom learned how music can prove the master?

While he spun in a womb of slavish laughter?

May 31: Poetry Challenge, Janeen Rastall, "When Asked About My Inner Goddess"

This past weekend, I was approached by an editor of a new anthology of poetry.  He asked me to contribute a couple of poems to a project that he's developing.  It's an exciting opportunity, and, of course, I accepted the offer.

The only issue is that I have to write in some kind of poetic form:  a sonnet or pantoum or tanka or sestina.  I usually write free verse, so this will be a challenge for me.  I have written only one sestina in my life.  I've diddled with sonnets (to greater and lesser degrees of success) and experimented with haiku.  I am a little nervous, but I will give it my best shot.

When faced with a new writing challenge, I turn to poetry for inspiration.  Tonight, that would be Janeen Rastall.

Saint Marty needs to get in touch with his inner poetic goddess tonight.

When Asked About My Inner Goddess

by:  Janeen Rastall

I said I am the goddess of dirt.
I am the loam where seeds burst.
Roots, like old mens’ toes, curl into my side.
I am the keeper of secrets:
lost keys, skeletons and phones.
I dance like a devil with the wind.
I am the place where leaves shred underfoot,
where fallen birds die.
I hold the ice close.

January 19: Favorite Poem, Sherman Alexie, "Sonnet, with Pride"

I know I haven't been doing a second post for the last week or so.  I'm sorry about that.  I've been busy, tired, [insert other lame excuse here].  Long story short, it's been a nutty seven to ten days.

This week, I've decided to share some of my favorite poems from The Best American Poetry 2014.  I have a great poem for you guys tonight.  It's one of my favorites in the collection.  A prose poem.  A political poem.  A small, lyric essay, in a way.

This one takes Saint Marty's breath away.

Sonnet, with Pride

by:  Sherman Alexie

Inspired by Pride of Baghdad
by Brian K. Vaughan & Niko Henrichon

1.  In 2003, during the Iraq War, a pride of lions escaped from the Baghdad Zoo during an American bombing raid.  2.  Confused, injured, unexpectedly free, the lions roamed the streets searching for food and safety.  3.  For just a moment, imagine yourself as an Iraqi living in Baghdad.  You are running for cover as the U. S. bombers, like metal pterodactyls, roar overhead.  You are running for cover as some of your fellow citizens, armed and angry, fire rifles, rocket launchers, and mortars into the sky.  You are running for cover as people are dying all around you.  It's war, war, war.  And then you turn a corner and see a pride of freaking lions advancing on you.  4.  Now, imagine yourself as a lion that has never been on a hunt.  That has never walked outside of a cage.  That has been coddled and fed all of its life.  And now your world is exploding all around you.  It's war, war, war.  And then you turn a corner and see a pride of freaking tanks advancing on you.  5.  It's okay to laugh.  It's always okay to laugh at tragedy.  If lions are capable of laughter, then I'm positive those Baghdad lions were laughing at their predicament.  As they watched the city burn and collapse, I'm sure a lioness turned to a lion and said, "So do you still think you're the King of the Jungle?"  6.  I don't know if the lions killed anybody as they roamed through the streets.  7.  But I'd guess they were too afraid.  I'm sure they could only see humans as zookeepers, not food.  8.  In any case, the starving lions were eventually shot and killed by U. S. soldiers on patrol.  9.  It's a sad and terrible story, yes, but that is war.  And war is everywhere.  And everywhere, there are prides of starving lions wandering the streets.  There are prides of starving lions wandering inside your hearts.  10.  You might also think that I'm using starving lions as a metaphor for homeless folks, but I'm not.  Homeless folks have been used far too often as targets for metaphors.  I'm using those starving lions as a simple metaphor for hunger.  All of our hunger.  11.  Food-hunger.  Love-hunger.  Faith-hunger.  Soul-hunger.  12.  Who among us has not been hungry?  Who among us has not been vulnerable?  Who among us has not been a starving lion?  Who among us has not been a prey animal?  Who among us has not been a predator?  13.  They say God created humans in God's image.  But what if God also created lions in God's image?  What if God created hunger in God's image?  What if God is hunger?  Tell me, how do you pray to hunger?  How do you ask for hunger's blessing?  How will hunger teach you to forgive?  How will hunger teach you how to love?  14.  Look out the window.  It's all hunger and war.  Hunger and war.  Hunger and war.  And the endless pride of lions.

Hunger, war, and lions

 

May 17: Longfellow, "The Cross of Snow," New Book

So, I've began working on a new book of poems.  I will give you a first sample from it tomorrow afternoon.  Today, I want to talk about a poem I love.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote the sonnet "The Cross of Snow" eighteen years after the death of his second wife.  His second wife died as the result of severe burns.  In some accounts, she was sealing some envelopes with wax.  The envelopes contained clippings of hair from the Longfellow children.  A spark landed on her dress, and, when Longfellow came to her rescue, she was completely engulfed in flames.  Longfellow threw a rug over her to put out the fire, in the process severely injuring his hands and face.  (That's why Longfellow always had a long, white beard and moustache--to hide his scars.)  Longfellow's wife died within a day or so after the fire.

Eighteen years later, Longfellow wrote the poem below.  It's beautiful and heartbreaking.

Saint Marty hopes you love it as much as he loves it.

The Cross of Snow

In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face--the face of one long dead--
Looks at me from the wall, where 'round its head
The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.

Here in this room she died, and soul more white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.

There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.

Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she died.

H. W. Longfellow