May 4: "Face Up," Relativity, "Trampoline"

Billy Collins plays cards . . . 

Face Up

by:  Billy Collins

The jack of diamonds

lying supine

on the table,

a prince sleeping

in a pasture--

fifty-one cows.

I haven't had a whole lot of time for cards or poetry or anything else today.  It's the end of the semester, so my focus was grading papers and exams.  About the only other things I did was play the pipe organ for Mass this afternoon and take my puppy for a long walk.

I remember how weekends seemed to last forever when I was a kid--from Saturday mornings watching Bugs Bunny through Sunday evenings and the The Wonderful World of Disney.  These days, if I blink on Friday, it's already Sunday with the work week looming over me.

It's all about Einstein and relativity.  The older you get, the less time you seem to have.  More grading tomorrow.  Poetry workshop in the evening.

Saint Marty sure misses having a whole lot of time and a whole lot of nothing to do.

Trampoline

by:  Martin Achatz

The trampoline has stood

for two years in my backyard,

abandoned by my kids

who used it to touch

the sun until they came

down with a case 

of gravity.

May 3: "Divorce," Marriage, "Bliss"

Billy Collins on unwedded bliss . . . 

Divorce

by:  Billy Collins

No more heavy ball,

just the sound

of the dragged chain

with every other step.

This poem is a little cynical.  I suppose anyone who has experienced marital problems understands Collins' point, though.  Even after a marriage ends, the two people involved will still be linked in some way forever--in memory or children or therapy or photos or music or poetry.

Next year, my wife and I will celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary.  There are some people who would have bet large sums of money that we would never reach that milestone, myself included at times.  It has been a rollercoaster of three decades.  Because of mental illness and addiction, our marriage has teetered on the brink of collapse a few times.  But here we are.  Still together.  In love.  

The term "wedded bliss" paints a landscape of idyllic days and nights suffused with impressionistic light.  But I know that marriage is not a Monet painting of water lilies.  Marriage is hard, hard work.

I say all this with zero cynicism.  It's the absolute truth in my experience.  But that hard work is worth it in my experience, as well.

Saint Marty is blissed out on gratitude tonight.

Bliss

by:  Martin Achatz

Sometimes it's wedded.

Sometimes you follow it.

It's sometimes ignorance.

But tonight it's a woodwind

section of peepers

tuning their voices

to spring.

May 2: "Breakfast," Appetites, "Midnight Snack"

Billy Collins feeds some fish . . . 

Breakfast

by:  Billy Collins

In the hotel restaurant,

orange koi in a pond.

I toss in some corn flakes.

Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day.  It always has been.  I know this doesn't make for exciting blog post reading, but I just had to say it.  

As a kid, one of my favorite dinners my mother used to serve up every once in a while was a huge pot of oatmeal and an even huger plate of toast.  Keep in mind that she was feeding nine kids, my dad, and my grandmother.  She had to get creative with meals.

As a diabetic, I am constantly aware of food.  Sometimes, I have to eat when I'm not even hungry.  It's kind of a pain in the ass, to be honest.  Yet, I'm a slave to my blood sugar levels.  I've woken up way too many times to paramedics in my bedroom giving me glucose through an IV.  So, eating is a huge part of my daily routine.

Everyone is a slave to their appetites, in a way.  Musicians crave music.  Athletes crave physical exertion.  Poets crave poetry.  Donald Trump craves porn stars and Russian money.  Human beings are hardwired to seek out what gives us pleasure.

I'm kind of a night owl, if you haven't figured that out.  I'm often still awake at one or two in the morning, watching movies or reading books or trying to solve Wordle.  I've been like this since I was very young.  And, besides breakfast, my other favorite meal of the day is a midnight snack.  Cold pizza.  Leftover lasagna.  A bowl of Cocoa Krispies.

My current late-night obsessions:  a British show called Landscape Artist of the Year and Cosmic Brownies.  I know, I know.  Not very healthy, but highly pleasurable.

Throw in some great poems, and that's Saint Marty's version of paradise.

Midnight Snack

by:  Martin Achatz

Window a black mirror

behind me, I'm not sure

what to eat:  the leftover

chicken in the fridge

or the David Ignatow poems

and Hershey kiss I found

under the couch cushions.

May 1: "Children," Endless Summer Vacation, "School Playground"

Billy Collins and a movie trailer . . .

Children

by:  Billy Collins

There's a new movie out

titled Children.

I don't know

what it's about

but I like the voice

on the radio

when it says:

"Children:  now playing everywhere."

There is something truly joyful about seeing children play.  Kids don't have the self-awareness to worry over what other people think about them.  It's what's in front of their faces that counts, not what's behind or ahead.  They are creatures of the present.

I think the world would be a much better place if everyone adopted this way of existing.  Me?  I'm constantly worried about what's coming around the corner.  Maybe that's simply a byproduct of getting older.  Instead of endless summer vacation, there's work and health problems and bills.  College loans.  Mortgages.  Car payments.  I'm not saying that planning for the future is a bad thing.  In fact, it's necessary.  But, when all you're doing is saving your money for the future, you're just going to end up a rich corpse.  

Poetry depends upon living in the present.  Paying attention.  That's why kids are such natural poets.  Each moment of the day is an adventure, and, for young people, those moments stretch out like Lake Superior.  No shore or beach in sight.  Just endless blue.  I have difficulty cultivating that youthful, live-in-the-present perspective.  When I'm in the fever of writing, I can tap into it.  

Most of the time, however, Saint Marty just catches glimpses from a distance, like when he watched his son and daughter from the playground's chain link fence. 

School Playground

by:  Martin Achatz

Those days on

swings, slides, monkey bars

with other kids,

they taught me a lot

about poetry--

like how to get 

sweaty, wild words

to stand in a single-file line

without pushing or kicking.

My two best poems