November 2: Make America Great Again, Walt Whitman, "Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field one Night"

Walt Whitman worked as a nurse during the Civil War, caring for wounded and dying soldiers.  As I said last night, he saw the very best and very worst of humanity.  And he still believed in America, in the hope and ideals of democracy.

I'm not sure that Uncle Walt would recognize The United States right now, with its racism and homophobia and hatred.  Or maybe he would.  After all, I would bet the Civil War was full of Donald Trumps, fighting to "make America great again," whatever that means.

Saint Marty is tired of people trying to make America great again.

Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field one Night

by:  Walt Whitman

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;

When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,

One look I but gave which your dear eyes return’d with a look I shall never forget,

One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach’d up as you lay on the ground,

Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,

Till late in the night reliev’d to the place at last again I made my way,

Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,

Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,

Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,

Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade—not a tear, not a word,

Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,

Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)

Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear’d,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop’d well his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,

And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,

Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim,

Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten’d,

I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,

And buried him where he fell.

November 2: Lake Superior, Mount Superior, Something Miraculous

Monarchs are "tough and powerful, as butterflies go."  They fly over Lake Superior without resting; in fact, observers there have discovered a curious thing.  Instead of flying directly south, the monarchs crossing high over the water take an inexplicable turn towards the east.  Then when they reach an invisible point, they all veer south again.  Each successive swarm repeats this mysterious dogleg movement, year after year.  Entomologists actually think that the butterflies might be "remembering" the position of a long-gone, looming glacier.  In another book I read that geologists think that Lake Superior marks the site of the highest mountain that ever existed on this continent.  I don't know.  I'd like to see it.  Or I'd like to be it, to feel when to turn.  At night on land migrating monarchs slumber on certain trees, hung in festoons with wings folded together, thick on the trees and shaggy as bearskin.

I chose this passage because it talks about Lake Superior.  Every day, as I drive to work, Superior is in front of me.  On summer days, I can see its blue palm reaching out to the horizon.  If I stepped out of my office at the university right now, I could walk across the hall and stare out the window at Lake Superior, its vast plane of water.  On really sunny days, it's difficult to tell where the lake ends and sky begins.

Dillard collects interesting facts.  Until I read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, I never knew that Lake Superior is leftover from an immense mountain.  It's difficult for me to imagine it, actually.  I've grown up around this freshwater sea.  The ore boats, big as a couple of football fields, steaming into the harbor.  The white water of winter storms, pounding away at the sand and rocks.  Yet, some time ago (thousands of years?  hundreds of thousands?) there was a mountain instead of a lake.  An Everest kind of mountain. 

I like the idea of living near a mountain that large.  Maybe some sort of Upper Peninsula Sherpa culture would have existed.  Monks living high up on Mount Superior, ringing bells, chanting on frigid January nights.  People coming from all over the world to scale its heights, with and without oxygen.  Base camps.  Maybe a Yeti or two.

In about half an hour, I have to go teach my film class.  Most of my students were raised in the Upper Peninsula.  Lake Superior is a common sight for them, like a toothbrush on the bathroom sink.  Nothing to get excited about.  My students don't think about the fact that, at its deepest point, Lake Superior could swallow the Empire State Building.  Amazing.  Or that there is 31,700 square miles of water out there.  Astounding.

I'm just as guilty as my students, though.  I don't always take time to recognize the miraculous stuff (like Lake Superior) that I encounter on a daily basis.  Whirlpools of autumn leaves.  A church bell chiming.  A really good ice cream cone.  Vanilla.  Nope.  I take it all for granted, until somebody points it out to me.

Last week, as I was walking to my car after teaching my film class, three deer walked into the parking lot.  I could hear their hooves snapping on the pavement, like a group of women in high heels walking down a sidewalk.  I stood there, watched them.  They stood there, watched me.  Maybe we were all doing the same thing:  admiring something strange, a little miraculous.

Saint Marty is hoping to see something miraculous before he goes to bed tonight.  Maybe his daughter will wash her dinner dishes.  That would be pretty amazing.

The monarch migration

November 1: Presidential Election, Poet of the Week, Walt Whitman, "For You O Democracy"

One week until the presidential in the United States.  Seven days until, hopefully, the insanity ends and some kind of normalcy returns.  Of course, that is predicated on who actually wins next Tuesday.

In honor of this exercise in democracy, I have chosen Walt Whitman as Poet of the Week.  Whitman, poet of wordless, voice of the voiceless.  He saw the country at its worst, torn apart by slavery, war, and racism.  And he wrote about it, beautifully.

Saint Marty finds some comfort in his words right now.

For You O Democracy

by:  Walt Whitman

Come, I will make the continent indissoluble,

I will make the most splendid race the sun ever shone upon,

I will make divine magnetic lands,

                   With the love of comrades,

                      With the life-long love of comrades.

I will plant companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of America, and along the shores of the great lakes, and all over the prairies,

I will make inseparable cities with their arms about each other’s necks,

                   By the love of comrades,

                      By the manly love of comrades.

For you these from me, O Democracy, to serve you ma femme!

For you, for you I am trilling these songs.

November 1: Frost Winds, Warmth, Grading Essay Exams

I have glutted on richness and welcome hyssop.  This distant silver November sky, these sere branches of trees, shed and bearing their pure and secret colors--this is the real world, not the world gilded and pearled.  I stand under wiped skies directly, naked, without intercessors.  Frost winds have lofted my body's bones with all their restless spirits to an airborne raven's glide.  I am buoyed by a calm and effortless longing, an angled pitch of the will, like the set of the wings of the monarch which climbed a hill by falling still.

I chose this little passage because it's about November.  Sere branches and frost winds.  How the world is sort of stripped down to reality by this month.  No green or red or mustard accessories for the bushes and trees.  Everything stands naked and pure.

Last night--Halloween--was a wreck of wind and cold.  Walking around with my kids was an exercise in balance and stamina.  Today, this first day of November, is gorgeously warm.  Near 65 degrees.  No wind.  When I stepped outside this afternoon, I thought to myself, "Where was all this shit yesterday?"

I have had little time to enjoy this last gasp of autumn warmth.  I've been working and grading.  And grading.  And grading.  I have been grading all day long.  Essay exams.  Thirty-five of them.  In about half an hour, I have to teach my composition class. Three and a half hours of research and writing.  I am not excited.  I am brain dead.

Of course, I have a lesson plan.  I'm just lacking the enthusiasm at the moment to put it into practice.  Never fear.  I always work up the energy and inspiration for teaching.  At the moment, though, my reserves of energy are rather low.

By the way, I saw something on Facebook today that went something like this:  "Don't be afraid to be racist.  Get out and vote."  That little bit of wisdom did not come from a Hillary Clinton supporter.  I'm even too tired to express sufficient outrage or shock.

Don't expect any wit from this tired saint tonight.  Marty needs a nap.

Well, that's pretty scary, isn't it?