February 9: Clear and Blue, "Two Sparrows Sold for a Penny," Vote

It's cold out.  Snow is piled eight- or nine-feet high in places around my home.  But the sky is clear and blue. 

It reminds me of a day many years ago with my then two-year-old daughter . . .

Two Sparrows Sold for a Penny

by:  Martin Achatz

My daughter hands me
the wing of a bird,
ragged, stripped almost to the bone
of feathers.  I hold the wing,
its shoulder joint oily with blood.
My daughter smiles, claps
as if she has just given me
a piece of toast or a raisin,
her face bright as sea foam.

I picture a crippled sparrow
panting in deep grass, a cat
licking its claws clean, an owl
lining its nest with skull and spine.
I want to drop my daughter's gift,
urge her to see
the cleaving of the body,
decay, hunger, the fear
of sudden shadow.

I hold the wing, cupped
in my palm like precious water,
and, in my daughter's face,
see clouds and blue sky,
the sun gleaming on the distant
arrow of a bird
in the heavens.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula at the link below.  Last day of voting:

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February 8: Allusions to Dante, Very Dark Place, Vote

There's a lot of allusions to Dante's Inferno in the poem below.  Its title is taken from the first lines of the book, where Dante finds himself lost, alone in a dark wood, in the middle of life.

I sort of feel like that this evening.  Lost, alone in a very dark place.

Alone in a Dark Wood

by:  Martin Achatz

The night roosts like a murder
Of crows in the November jack pines.
I stare into the moonless void.
In the bracken, something watches.
I feel its eyes on my face,
Imagine it crouched in the grass,
Chuffing frost.  If I lunge, I could
Crush it against my chest.  If I stand still,
It could disappear in the midnight fog.
I hear movement, like the whisper of ant legs,
A slender, black icicle of sound.  I listen
For more, a car or the wind or the whine
Of a bear cub.  Where is Virgil to guide me
Away from the dark gaze
Of this skunk or fox or she-wolf?
Where is his dim hand to hold,
His voice, distant as the stars,
Commanding, "Follow," leading
Through this wood where Beatrice
Has abandoned me, alone and wounded?
I listen again.  An owl wails.
A rabbit darts to dirt and roots.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula at the link below:

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February 7: A Little Angry, "Agony," Vote

Hey, all.  If you have read my second post for today, you already know that I'm not in a great mood.

So, the poem I present this evening is not particularly happy.  In fact, I would characterize it as a little angry.  That's what I'm feeling right now.  I acknowledge and embrace this emotion.  This post is my attempt to work through some stuff tonight.

Saint Marty promises to be happier tomorrow.

Agony

by:  Martin Achatz

I have seen a testicle swimming
in a bottle like a forgotten olive,
round and veined and milky, waiting
to labeled, examined, and incinerated,
like foreskin trimmed from a wailing infant,
like the black stump of an umbilical
cord, that rope of nourishment
so necessary in utero,
remnant of another universe of water.

That bottled testicle,
sitting on a table draped in cloth,
makes me ponder
my knee throbbing for rain,
a silver hair from my temple,
my body's decline and disintegration,
its fragmentation and return
to clay, not incorruptible
like Saint Theresa, who still gives off
the scent of roses after a century
in the tomb, not a fleshy miracle,
like the foreskin of Christ, guarded
by monks in a medieval monastery,
healing the lame and unpossessing
the possessed--no, my body,
my taste of agony
in a garden of sleeping fools.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula at the link below:

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February 6: The Meaning of Poetry, "Fear Not," Vote

Can I be serious for a few moments in this post?

I've been asking people to vote for me for Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula over a week now.  I've made jokes, passed out "I Voted" stickers, and sent out daily reminders.  I want to put that all aside for a second.

You see, I really do believe that poetry is something necessary.  It's truth communicated with image and sound.  A good poem, for me, connects to something bigger, more important, than myself.  It says something that I already knew but never had words for.  It's like opening an oyster and finding something precious inside.

Poetry can be a vehicle for change.  It can feed you when you're hungry.  Put a blanket around your shoulders when it's cold outside.  Most of all, it reminds you what it is to be a human being.

Saint Marty thinks everyone needs poetry in their lives, every single day.

Fear Not

by:  Martin Achatz

My sister Rose spoke with the Virgin
One night when lightning laced
The sky and thunder rolled
Like a wailing ambulance.
Rose, with black hair, eyes dark
As baker's chocolate.  Rose, who listened
To the rain drill the ground, felt terror
In her chest, blooming like a mushroom.
Rose, with Down's Syndrome,
Her speech thick,
Weighing on her tongue like rust.

She knew nothing of atmospheres,
Weather fronts, lightning that traveled
From the ground to the heavens
Like a white hot soul.  She knew
Nothing of raining frogs,
Hailstones the size of peach pits.
Hers was a child's fear, as simple
As shadow in a closet.
When she knelt at the foot of her bed,
Folded small fingers,
Her prayers opened like sunflowers
In the still air.

Mother found Rose that night,
Speaking with the darkness.
She looked like moonlight, her words
Agates, smooth, round, polished.
Rose, imperfect since birth,
Slower than summer heat,
Filled the room with light.

Anne came upon her daughter
Like that, too, Mary in the dark,
Her childhood fears sitting
On the windowsill like empty bowls
Waiting for rain.

Mary spread her arms,
Wrapped them around the angel,
Pressing her mouth to his neck.
She tasted lightning and shadow
On his bright skin, swallowed them,
Felt them take root
In her belly.  She opened
Her robe, guided his lips
To her boy chest,
Motherhood swelling
In her rose nipple.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula at the link below:

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February 5: Poem for Our Baby, "The Tin Man's Heart," Vote

One night, when my daughter was a baby, my wife told me that I needed to write a poem for her.

This is what I came up with.  My wife never asked me to write a poem for our daughter again . . .

The Tin Man's Heart

by:  Martin Achatz

The Wizard gave the Tin Man
A heart with a clock
That unwound after sundown,
Hands slowing at midnight
In the dark bed of his chest,
Each second an immense field of poppies,
Fragrant as Dorothy's thick braids.

In the forest under the stars,
The Tin Man listened to his heart tick,
Like the sound of lovers kissing,
Waiting for his spring to uncoil,
Praying for that moment:
He and Dorothy in the poppies,
The sun on their gleaming bodies.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the U. P. at the link below:

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February 4: Feeling Nostalgic, "Pantoum Lullaby," Vote

I am feeling a little nostalgic tonight, watching my kids enjoy their day off from school.  They've played video games, watched A Series of Unfortunate Events, and listened to the branches crack and snap outside.

Eighteen years ago tomorrow, my daughter was two months old, and I was dreaming all kinds of things for her.  How she would be a dancer and singer and writer.  How I would read to her every night, all of my favorite kid's books--Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Charlotte's Web, and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.  How I would watch her grow into a smart, beautiful young woman.

Tonight, that beautiful young woman is upstairs in her bedroom, eating blueberry pancakes with her boyfriend, and Saint Marty is looking at her baby pictures.

Pantoum Lullaby

by:  Martin Achatz

Little one, curled tight
in my love's belly,
can you hear me
sing in the night?

In my love's belly,
can hear words I
sing in the night
as you swim and dance?

Can you hear words? I
press my hand to you
as you swim and dance
in your universe of water.

Press my hand to you,
beneath my love's heart,
in your universe of water,
dark and warm with sound.

Beneath my love's heart,
the music never ceases.
Dark and warm with sound,
you tremble and wait.

The music never ceases.
Hush little baby, I sing.
You tremble and wait
in your liquid twilight.

Hush little baby, I sing.
My voice is the moon
in your liquid twilight.
I'm calling you home.

My voice is the moon.
Can you hear me?
I'm calling you home,
Little one, curled tight.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) at the 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the U. P. at the link below:

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February 3: Ice Storm Warning, "Pange Lingua Gloriosi," Vote

My daughter is out with her boyfriend right now, driving around, shopping.  Just saw that an Ice Storm Warning has been issued by the National Weather Service.  It goes into effect at 10 p.m. tonight.  Whenever I see things like this, my first instinct it to tell my daughter to come home immediately, that it's not safe to be out.  It's a holdover from when she was a baby,  I think.  I wanted to protect her from everything.

I know I can't do that anymore.  She's going to make mistakes, suffer heartbreaks and setbacks.  She's 18 years old, and the world is waiting for her.  She's smart.  I like to think we've raised her to be independent and practical.  She certainly doesn't take a whole lot of crap from anybody. 

Yet, Saint Marty still wants to tuck her in at night, sing her a lullaby, say a prayer over her after she falls asleep.  Old habits.

Pange Lingua Gloriosi

("Sing My Tongue the Savior's Glory")

by:  Martin Achatz

On Holy Saturday, I put my daughter
To sleep and think of death.
Tonight, milk is her enemy.
She stands in her crib, dark eyes watering,
Her chin slick with fear.  I lift her,
Strip off her wet pajamas, wash her fevered body
With a cold cloth.  She shivers, yet lies still,
Accepting the bath in silence.  I dress her,
Fresh and lotioned, place her back inside the crib
My wife has just cleaned, cover her with a quilt,
And watch her settle into the pillows
Like a sleeping fish.

Before Easter, these quiet moments
In the dark, there is this:
I listen to my daughter's breaths,
As Mary might have listened to her son's,
Counting them
Like stars in the night.

Vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the U. P. at the link below:

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February 1: Gifts of Poetry, "In the Beginning," Vote

Been thinking a lot about poetry and where it's taken me in the last 15 or so years.

Poetry has given me many gifts, brought many best friends into my life.  The last two years, as Poet Laureate, it has given me many opportunities to do some good, make a small difference in the lives of people less fortunate than myself.

Poetry allows me to see the world in ways that astound me daily.

And for all that, Saint Marty is truly grateful.

In the Beginning

by:  Martin Achatz

Celeste rolls on the carpet
like dice that won't pause
on green felt, won't give
me the satisfaction
of 3 or 6, 1 or 5.
There is too much in her
knee-and-wall world to touch, too
many snakes with cardboard wings,
neon troikas plastered with words--
apple, cow, star.  When I speak to her,
she studies me, tries to unravel
my dictionary of sound.
Can I teach her to love language
the way lightning loves redwoods?
What will her first word be?
Will she shock me
with hamster, fridge, triangle?  Will
she point out the window, say
wind?  Will she sing the world,
the way Christ sang when He slid
from Mary's iron-taut uterus,
tasted her blood, saw Joseph radiant
with sweat?  Will Celeste's mouth open,
flood waters pour out, 40 days
and nights, preparing the world
for the rainbow of her tongue?

Please vote for me for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula at the link below:

Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula voting

January 31: Ekphrasis, "Vase with Irises, 1890," Vote

A little poem tonight.  An exercise in ekphrasis.  It's inspired by the van Gogh painting "Vase with Irises, 1890."

I once went to a van Gogh exhibit at the Met in New York City.  I can't remember if "Vase with Irises" was one of the paintings hanging on the wall.  I like to think it was, and that's the reason I'm drawn to it.

Saint Marty is thinking of flowers and sun and spring after a week of Antarctica.

Vase with Irises, 1890

by:  Martin Achatz

The blossoms, a swarm
of wrecked hummingbirds, blue,
crumpled, try to escape
the gold fist of the vase.
The static of wings beats
the saffron sunlight to a froth.
Needle beaks stab and stab
the fronds curving away like green fire.

How long did this arrangement last?
How long did the universe spin
above this hungry star?  Imagine
van Gogh trying to contain
this unruly host, already rebelling,
questioning the power of brush and pain.
Imagine his white hot mind
holding the scene together,
flinging these blue angels, one-by-one,
into the eternity of his canvas.

Vote for Marty Achatz for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the U. P.

January 30: Wind Chills, "Evolution," Vote

So, my kids didn't have school today due to dangerous wind chills.  They don't have school again tomorrow for the same reason. 

In honor of another snow day (okay, I know it's not technically a snow day, but close enough), I'm giving you a poem tonight about school and evolution and prayer.

Evolution

by:  Martin Achatz

Miss Hale was an experiment for Assumption Grotto School.
In her not-quite-miniskirts and thigh-high boots,
She was Technicolor while the nuns were black-and-white.
Marching into my sixth grade, Miss Hale's heels
Sparked lightning from the tile.  Her hair was black
As a confessional; eyes, brown as Saint Francis.
I swallowed every word she spoke,
Felt them living inside me so that at night,
She was my prayer I lifted to God:
Hale Mary, full of grace and
Our Father, who art in heaven, Hale be thy name.

One day, Miss Hale told us,
"I'm going to teach you where we all come from."
I hunkered down, expecting her to say
Words that burned my tongue.
She produced maps of Africa,
Spoke of origins and Darwin and Galapagos,
Described Louis Leakey and missing links and ancestor apes.
As her last piece of evidence, she turned her back to us,
Pressed her hand at the base of her spine, and said,
"Here's where our tails used to be."

That night, I dreamed I had a tail, thick and wild.
I cracked coconuts with my teeth, sucked the milk,
Let it spill white down my arms, chest, thighs.
Miss Hale, hair blinding black in the jungle sun,
Sat high in a tree, her tail snaking the air,
Inviting me to climb.  I climbed,
And our chimpanzee screams shook the vines like rain.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate at the link below.  You can vote every day from now until February 9:

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January 29: Old Poems, "Simeon's Promise," Vote

I have been revisiting some old poems, ones that I don't even remember that much.  It's a strange experience, reading a poem that seems like it was written by a stranger.

Saint Marty thinks this one holds up.

Simeon's Promise

by:  Martin Achatz

The Virgin saw the face of God
Daily, took it in her hands,
Saw Eden's requiem in His eyes.
For 33 years, she hoarded the mysteries
Of Him in her breast,
Like black pearls.
When He died, she rubbed her fingers
Raw on those dark stones, felt
The bite of His birth,
The salt of His scourging.
Did she pray on those dim gems
For the day when she would see
His face again, unfolding
Like a lightning storm,
A bright gout of love,
In the oyster of her heart?

Please consider voting for my for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula at the link below:

Voting for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of U. P.

January 28: Nomination, Vote, Teaching

Sorry I've been away a couple days.  There's been shows and book clubs and work that got in the way.  I'm in my university office right now, getting ready to teach.  So, I don't have much time to blog this evening, but I just wanted to share some good news.

I am a finalist for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula.  I found out this afternoon through a flurry of texts and Facebook shares.  So, I'm going to shamelessly plug myself, which is not something I'm very comfortable doing.

Please vote for Saint Marty.  He promises to build a wall around the Upper Peninsula if he wins!

 https://sooeveningnews.gatehousecontests.com/UP-Poe…/gallery.

You can vote once a day!  

For Matthew James

Born February 15, 1995

by:  Martin Achatz

He’s celebrating his zero birthday in an incubator, not moving, trying to give himself the present of a breath.  From the moment I found out he existed, I called him tadpole.   That was before I knew his sex, when all I pictured was the collision of egg and sperm, the wild instant of beginning.  For nine months, I imagined some amphibian man, a creature from the womb-lagoon, able to breathe fluid.  This morning, when the doctor split his heaven open with a scalpel and reached down to deliver him, he gulped one last liquid breath.  “It happens all the time,” the pediatrician tells his father and mother, “nothing to worry about.”  In this world of air, he is a netted fish, a mer-baby threatened by the foam in his lungs.  We stand by the nursery window, watch a nurse come in a touch him.  He quivers, his leg bent in a birth plie.  His chest rises, falls, stops.  Rises.  Stops.  Falls.  Stops.  The nurse withdraws her hands.  He begins to remember his lungs again, remembers the measured bites of air, the occupation of breathing, his life-long inheritance.

December 28: McCarthy or Walker or Dillard, Winter Storm, "Ives" Dip, Off the Top of My Head

So, I am kicking around a few ideas for the book for next year.  I have done A Christmas Carol and Catcher in the Rye and Charlotte's Web and Mr. Ives' Christmas.  I have three possibilities in mind for 2016: 

• The Road by Cormac McCarthy
• The Color Purple by Alice Walker
• Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard

I am leaning toward the Annie Dillard.  It's a book I've loved for years, and it's a little lighter than the first two choices.  But I'm going to leave it up to you, my disciples.  Send me your vote in a comment.  On December 31, I will tally the results and announce the winner on January 1st.

There is a winter storm bearing down on the Upper Peninsula tonight.  By tomorrow morning, my house will be buried under ten inches of new, wet, heavy snow.  I will be rising at 4 a.m. to clear my driveway.  I am not looking forward to it.  I'm guessing it's going to take a couple of hours, and then I have go to work.

Tonight is the last Ives Dip Monday, and my question is simple:

Will we get a lot of snow tonight?

And the final answer this year from Ives is:

He said that with great self-assurance, a tone of wisdom, and with certainty, as if, Ives would later think, he had already known.

Self-assurance and wisdom and certainty.  There is going to be a lot of snow tomorrow morning.  Son of a bitch.

Saint Marty was hoping for a quiet end of the year.

Off the Top of My Head

September 16: Tipping of the World, the Future, Magic 8-Ball

It's a tipping-of-the-world day.  One of those days when my comfortable life may change permanently.  The air is cool; the sun, bright.  It's like the afternoon is a pane of glass that could shatter into pieces.  That fragile.  One tossed stone and everything is gone.

There is a meeting tonight at church, and, at that meeting, a group of people will decide whether to keep paying my salary or eliminate it from the 2014 church budget.  If the vote goes my way, I keep my job and can pay my mortgage/bills.  If the vote doesn't go my way, I'm out of a job I've had for close to 15 years and five pastors.  I will have to start looking for weekend employment, and eventually, quit doing a lot of things that give me a great deal of satisfaction.

That's what I mean by a tipping-of-the world day.  The axis of my planet is about to shift, and all I can do is sit back and watch the storm clouds roll in.  The future is uncertain.

I hesitate to ask my Magic 8-Ball question because I think the answer I'm going to receive will simply confirm the way I think the vote is going to go tonight.  However, I have nothing to lose, metaphorically:

Will the church board vote to maintain my salary tonight?

And Holden's answer is:

I left the Lavender Room pretty soon after they did.  They were closing it up anyway, and the band had quit a long time ago...

I should have known.  Leaving.  Closing.  Quitting.  Catcher in the Rye isn't exactly the happiest book ever written.

Saint Marty should have picked a more uplifting book for 2013.  Like Conrad's Heart of Darkness.

 

Maybe next year

November 6: Many Thousands, Saint Martin of Tours, Saint of the Week

"At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge," said the gentleman, taking up a pen, "it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time.  Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, Sir."

The gentleman speaking to Scrooge here is attempting to obtain a charitable contribution from him.  Of course, at this point in the novel, Scrooge rejects him flatly, even mocks him.  At the end of his sojourn in the spirit world, Scrooge is singing a different carol, though.  He meets this gentleman in the street on Christmas morning and makes a monetary pledge that leaves the gentleman speechless.  That is the greatest miracle of this book:  a man's stingy heart is opened, and he sees Christ in the poor and destitute of the world.

That is the story of my saint of the week, as well.  This week, my saint happens to be another Saint Marty--Saint Martin of Tours.  Martin of Tours is the saint I was named for.  His feast day is November 11, and he is the patron saint of beggars and soldiers.  The story behind this patronage is remarkable.

When Martin was a young Roman soldier in France, he met a beggar at the gates to the city of Amiens.  The beggar was naked and freezing.  Without thinking, Martin cut his military cloak in half and shared it with the beggar.  That night, as he slept, Martin had a vision of Christ wearing the half-cloak he had given away.  Jesus was telling the heavenly host of angels, "Here is Martin, the Roman soldier who is not baptized; he has clad me."  When Martin woke up, his cloak was whole again.  (The details of this story come from Wikipedia.)

That is why I love Martin of Tours.  He is a saint who feeds and clothes the poor.  He is a saint who recognizes Christ in everyone.  Martin could be one of Dickens' Ghosts of Christmas.  The message of Martin's story pretty much coincides with the message of any one of those yuletide Spirits--Past, Present, or Future.  Take care of all the Tiny Tims of the world, and you will be blessed.  Ebenezer Scrooge learned that lesson.  Martin of Tours learned that lesson.

As I head out to vote today, I am going to keep that lesson in mind, as well.  Who is going to hoard his wealth, make the rich even richer and the poor even poorer?  And who is going to share his cloak, take care of all of the Christs, no matter how sick or dirty or impoverished?

Saint Marty thinks he knows the answer to that question.

I'm voting for Saint Martin of Tours