June 5: "Poems," Writing Projects, "New Poem"

Billy Collins meditates on his art . . . 

Poems

by: Billy Collins

Because words

move from left to right,

the three fish

in the print on the wall,

who are facing the other way,

appear to be swimming upstream.

I've been thinking about poetry a lot these last few days.  Out of necessity.  Currently, I'm working on the final edits of a manuscript that has been over ten years in the making.  If that weren't enough, this month I will finish a second manuscript, as well.  I sort of feel like Collins' fish swimming upstream against the current.  I will eventually get to the spawning pool, but not before I jump up a few waterfalls.

Don't get me wrong.  I enjoy the challenge of poetry.  Love revising and rewriting.  I get great joy in seeing a poem emerge from a slag heap of words on a page.  Poet Natalie Goldberg used this image for the process:

Our bodies are garbage heaps: we collect experience, and from the decomposition of the thrown-out eggshells, spinach leaves, coffee grinds, and old steak bones out of our minds come nitrogen, heat, and very fertile soil. Out of this fertile soil bloom our poems and stories. But this does not come all at once. It takes time. Continue to turn over and over the organic details of your life until some of them fall through the garbage of discursive thoughts to the solid ground of black soil.

 Yes, I'm seeking the solid ground of black soil for my two current writing projects.  I've been composting for quite some time.  There's a whole lot of eggshells and coffee grinds (not to mention Bigfoot scat) on my pile, and I've been turning it over and over for years.

Saint Marty is hoping something beautiful will bloom soon.

New Poem

by: Martin Achatz

That's what I write on the top

of the page before I start

scribbling away, hoping

those two words

sound sweet enough

to attract a waltz of bees

or rave of hummingbirds.

June 10: Bike Ride, Tony Awards, Classic Saint Marty

Welcome to Sunday afternoon. 

I have not accomplished a whole heck of a lot today.  After church, I decided to get some exercise.  So, I went for a bike ride.  It was about 75 degrees outside, and I was out and about for some 45 minutes.  My initial goal was to bike down to Negaunee, our neighbor city to the east.  It would have been about a six-mile round trip.  I quickly shelved that plan after realizing a very important fact:  there are tons of hills on the path. 

Therefore, I simply biked around my fair city.  I quickly discovered another important fact:  there are tons of hills in my home town.  I think it's the only place in the world where it's uphill both ways, wherever you go.  It was uphill on the way out, and uphill on the way home.  I was sweaty, tired, and a little sore when I finally pulled into my driveway.

Tonight, I will be watching the Tony Awards with my wife, daughter, and my daughter's boyfriend.  He's really thrilled with the prospect, I'm sure.  My daughter is kind of a theater geek.  Go figure.  A lifetime of dancing and music has sort of warped her.  In a good way.  My wife and I, of course, have been theater geeks since childhood.

Those are my big plans for this evening.  Nothing too earth-shattering.

Six years ago, after a weekend of dance recitals, my plans on this day were pretty much the same . . .

June 10, 2012:  Dance Recital Part 2, Tony Awards

I spent the afternoon in a dark theater for the matinee of my daughter's dance recital, or, as I like to to call it, Dance Recital Part 2.  It was, again, about two and a half hours long, but I love watching my daughter perform.  She's so joyful and funny.  And she didn't disappoint.  Her solo dance was exquisite.  Of course, I'm a little biased.  I mean, I've been her manager since the beginning of her career a little over eleven years ago.  I deserve to brag and be sentimental.

Now, I'm sitting in my living room, watching the 2012 Tony Awards.  It's a good way to end a long weekend of theater.  I mean, who doesn't love Neil Patrick Harris, except some small-minded, humorless homophobe?  I think even Mitt Romney loves Neil Patrick Harris, in his presumptive Republican presidential candidate way.  That is to say, by possibly getting his picture taken with Neil in a vain attempt to appear hip and open-minded.

Anyway, that's all I have to say tonight.  I'm going to watch the Tony Awards now.  They're doing a rocking number from the revival of Jesus Christ Superstar at the moment.  It's going to be a good night.

Saint Marty is ready to kick back and eat some licorice, which, as everyone knows, is the perfect Tony Awards snack.

Tony Awards.  Dance Recital weekend.  School is done.  My daughter is going fishing tomorrow with her boyfriend.  My son is staying at grandma's house tonight.  I have writing projects to complete. 

Saint Marty is thankful for summer days.

May 5: Nature Essay, Pablo Neruda, "Ode to the Birth of a Fawn"

I have a couple of pressing writing projects this month.  For Sunday, I have to compose a poem for Mother's Day.  It's for a worship service at church.  I have started this poem several times without much success.  Tonight, I will try, yet again, to find my way again.

The other writing project I have this month is an essay about nature for a local writing contest.  I have entered this contest before and was awarded first honorable mention.  Last year, I was one of the contest's judges.  I sifted through some 25 or so essays for a month.  This year, I'm throwing my hat in the ring once more.  First prize is $250 and publication in a local newspaper.  Nothing to sneeze at.

So, I have to think about nature.  Maybe take some walks in the woods.  Climb a mountain.  Rake my lawn.  Whatever it takes.

Pablo Neruda knows how to write about nature.  The ode below proves that.

Now, Saint Marty has to go commune with the outdoors from the safety of his kitchen window.

Ode to the Birth of a Fawn

by:  Pablo Neruda

The doe lay on her side
behind
the wire fence.
Her eyes were
two great almonds.
The great buck kept vigil
and in the sun of midday
the crown of his antlers
shone
like
an altar aflame.

Blood and water,
a distended, pulsing
sac,
and in it
a new fawn,
helpless, shapeless.

There it lay in its opaque
wrapping
upon the stained grass.
The doe licked it
with her silver tongue.
It couldn't move,
but gradually
from the undefined and
steaming mass,
fouled, wet, defenseless,
the form
emerged,
the finely pointed nose
of regal
pedigree,
oval eyes unrivaled
on the earth,
delicate
legs,
the forest's natural
arrows.
The doe licked it
tirelessly, cleaned it
of its darkness, and pure
delivered it to life.

And so it rose,
fragile but flawless,
and began to move,
to walk, to be,
to look for brooks in the forest.
It gazed upon a radiant world.

The sky above
the tiny head
was a translucent
grape as the fawn
attached itself to the doe's teat,
quivering as if shaken
by light from heaven.

I have to become one with my inner Neruda

May 29: Isaac Asimov, Expectations, Setting Myself Up

I have a lot of plans for this summer when it comes to my writing.  First, I want to get a good start on my next book of poems.  (I've already written the first poem, so at least I've begun.)  Next, I want to get a good portion of my memoir done.  You remember that memoir.  I was supposed to write it during Lent.  Finally, I want to have my Christmas essay for the radio done by September.  (I've already got an idea for this project, so that's half the battle.)

Big plans.  I do this all the time.  Mark my words, by the end of the summer, I'll be lucky if I have three more poems written.  My memoir will still be in a state of limbo.  And my Christmas essay will still be just a good idea.  Yes, I'm setting myself up for failure.

The only time I've actually followed through on a planned writing project was during Lent, two years ago, when I wrote a poem a day.  As a result of that little exercise, I have a brand new collection of poetry that I can't get anybody to look at.  Depressing.

I wish I could remain positive.  I wish I actually scheduled my life in a more productive manner.  The only things I write with any consistency are blog posts, and even those wax and wane over the weeks and months.  This morning's post was the longest I'd written in quite a while.  Perhaps I put too much emphasis on blogging.  Perhaps I put too much pressure on myself to accomplish so many writing projects at one time. 

I heard this anecdote once about the science fiction writer Isaac Asimov.  I'm not sure it's true, but I want it to be.  Asimov told someone that he had three typewriters set up in his office on three desks.  On each typewriter, he was writing a different book.  So his writing days were a relay race, in some ways.  He'd work on one manuscript until he got stuck, and then he'd swivel his chair and begin working on the next book.  Until he got stuck again.  Then, he'd turn to the third typewriter and start typing.  I've always loved that image of Asimov, bouncing like a pinball between his writing projects.  (Of course, Asimov was a full-time writer.  That's how he made his living.)

Maybe I should approach my writing projects like Isaac Asimov.  Just have three different documents saved on my laptop--Christmas essay, poems, memoir.  Then I'll just asimov my way through the summer.  (Yes, I just turned Isaac Asimov into a verb.)  My friend and teacher, the novelist John Smolens, does the same thing.  He always has two or three different books he's working on.

Saint Marty now has a plan of action.  He just has to follow through.

Asimov at one of his typewriters