February 4: Twitter Poetry, Micropoetry, Elizabeth Alexander

One of the recent developments in poetry is what has been termed micropoetry.  Poets use the constraints of Twitter to write short, concise, beautiful poems.  Almost haiku.  In 140 characters.  It's a difficult challenge.  But some of the best poets working do it.  Billy Collins.  Sherman Alexie.

And Elizabeth Alexander. Alexander was the poet for President Obama's first inauguration.  Widely unknown before January 20, 2009, she became a poet of note.  A poet to listen to.  A poet whose words matter.

She is also a poet who tweets poems, and she does it beautifully.

Saint Marty would kill to write a poem so concise and gorgeous.

Tweet

by:  Elizabeth Alexander

Inside the darkened bathroom/ we looked into the black mirror/ cracked the wintergreen candy/ watched sparks fly from our teeth.

How shall I tweet thee...

February 4: Saintly Fellow, Mask, Unsmiling

Catching his own reflection in a window, Ives, nondescript in an overcoat, hat, and scarf, judged himself a most pleasant looking, perhaps saintly, fellow...

Most people who know Ives see him in this light:  normal to the point of boring, pleasant, spiritual.  He's known as a good man in his neighborhood.  He volunteers at community centers.  Goes to church every Sunday (sometimes more).  Helps his friends in need:  gives them money, takes in their children, finds jobs for their relatives.  Ives is all of these things.  Yet, he's also incredibly sad for most of his life.  Suffers mental and physical afflictions.  He is a complex man, but he wears a mask.  He is Saint Ives to those who meet him at church, on the street, in the hallways at work.

It's pretty tiring wearing a mask every day, only taking it off at home, when the front door is locked.  I know.  I do it all week long.  At work, I'm happy, positive.  I tell jokes, draw cartoons, make everybody laugh.  I don't mind being that person.  I like making people smile.  But if I'm quiet at work, if I don't feel like talking, inevitably someone will ask me, "What's wrong?"

It's exhausting being a good guy all the time.  At night, when I get home and lock the front door, I say very little.  Sometimes, I just sit on the couch and try not to snap or be angry.  It's like I use up all of my goodwill during daylight hours.  It's not fair to my family.  I know that.  Usually, after a little while, I can carry on a conversation without swearing, being critical, or making my daughter cry.  It takes a little while.

I'm an introvert.  While I hide it pretty well, I know that I need solitude to recharge my well of kindness.  I find it at night, right before I fall asleep.  In the morning, before everyone else wakes up.  In my car, as I drive to and from work.  I simply need to be alone.  To not wear a mask.  To be myself, bad disposition and all.

So, if you see me walking across campus at the university or sitting by myself in his car, looking as if I'm trying to solve a some math problem or solve world hunger, don't worry.

That's just Saint Marty being himself for a few, quiet moments.

Take off your mask.  See who you really are.

February 3: Painterly Ambitions, Poetic Ambitions, My Sister

Although it depressed him that he had not made more out of his painterly ambitions, his talents had still led him to a secure and comfortable life.  Mr. Mannis [Ive's employer] himself was quite fond of Ives and paid him a good salary:  if he'd wanted to move up to an area like Westchester, he probably could have afforded to.

Ives had a lot of ambitions in his younger years.  He wanted to be a famous oil painter.  You know, live in a loft in New York in abject poverty, painting masterpieces that nobody understands.  He wanted to be a famous cartoonist.  Have a daily strip in all the newspapers.  He wanted to be a famous animator.  Own his own studio and make dwarves and princesses dance and sing.  Like all young people, he was going to conquer the world.

When I was younger, I had very similar ambitions.  I was going to be a famous author.  Spend my days sitting at my desk, writing novels and short stories and poetry collections.  Win my first Pulitzer by the time I was 24.  The Nobel by the time I was 40.  Retire by 50 to a beach house in Hawaii.  Yes, that was supposed to be my life.  My poetic ambitions.

Now, if I had a more realistic understanding of being a full-time poet, my ambitions may have been a little more modest.  A published chapbook and poetry collection by the time I'm 50.  A teaching job at some small university (tenure-track, if possible).  And a slightly popular blog with a small, but loyal, following.

My reality:  one poetry collection and a slightly popular blog with a small, sometimes loyal following.   Two beautiful kids.  A loving wife.  Small house.  Part-time teaching gig at the university.  And a constantly tired disposition.

Tonight, I'm pretty exhausted.  I got a call at 3:00 a.m.  My sister had fallen on the front steps of her house and, literally, couldn't get up.  After pulling, straining, and pushing my sister, we called the ambulance for the second time that night.  She is now an inpatient, and she's either going to be admitted to the physical rehab unit at the hospital, or to a local nursing home.

I'm asking any person who reads this post to pray for my sister.  Again.  She's not in good shape, physically or mentally.  She needs a miracle.  Not the burning-bush kind of miracle.  More like the I-got-an-extra-scoop-of-raisins-in-my-Raisin-Bran kind of miracle.  Something small like my sister walking down a hallway by herself.  That's the kind of answered prayer she needs tonight.

And, if you have a little extra time, Saint Marty is still looking for a tenure-track job at the university.  Say a prayer for him, too.

The burning question:  did anybody bring some marshmallows? 

February 2: From Hectic to Worse, Lost Phone, "Ives" Dip

Sorry, I didn't post this cartoon yesterday:

Confessions of Saint Marty

Today was one of those off days.  You know what I'm talking about.  It was a day that started strangely (with an early morning meeting) and never seemed to fall into place for me.  Most of the morning, I was trying to complete the steps for my annual evaluation at the university.  Then, when I finally got that in hand, the fire alarm went off in the medical center, and we had to evacuate.  (Nothing too serious.  A kid decided to pull the pretty red handle on the wall to see what happened.)

Then, when I left the medical office, I had to shuttle my daughter back and forth to her dance studio, conduct a meeting with student poetry editors of the university's literary magazine, and give my son a bath.  And then, just when I think things couldn't get any more hectic or stressful, I have lost my cell phone (for the second time in a week).  Now, before you think to yourself, "Why doesn't the dumbass just call it?"--I did.  The phone went directly to voice mail, which probably means that it's sitting in a snowbank somewhere, slowly turning into a hunk of frozen metal.

And, to top it all off, my sister (the one who just spent a couple of weeks in the hospital) fell at home about an hour ago.  I got a phone call from another sister, asking me to come help.  When I got there, my sister was on the floor, shivering, nauseated.  She had a fever of 102 and didn't have the strength to move.  I didn't want to risk moving her, so I said to call an ambulance.  Everyone agreed.

So, here I sit, at the end of a day that went from hectic to worse.  My question for Ives tonight is this:

When does life get easier?

And the answer:

She wasn't young.  Once she had started to hit her fifties, not only had her resolve weakened but so had her body:  limbs heavier, years of smoking catching up, and a kind of weariness aging her, Annie MacGuire slowly came to regret certain of her choices in life.  On many a day, she would leave the apartment and go about her business, wishing she were a different kind of person...

Nice.  So, when Saint Marty's old with heavy limbs, he's going to start regretting his life choices.  Paging Dr. Kevorkian.

Speaking of regretting life choices...