December 12, 2024: "Irish Poetry," Christmas Trees, Concert

It was a very busy day, and that's good.  It keeps my mind occupied, unable to sit and reflect on dark things, which is my penchant at the moment.  It feels as if the soul of Flannery O'Connor has possessed in my body, mind, and spirit.  Where others see light, I see an escaped serial killer pointing a gun at my chest, saying, "You would of been a good person if it had been somebody there to shoot you every minute of your life."

Billy Collins is possessed by Seamus Heaney  . . . 

Irish Poetry

by: Billy Collins

That morning under a pale hood of sky
I heard the unambiguous scrape of spackling
against the side of our wickered, penitential house.

The day mirled and clabbered
in the thick, stony light,
and the rooks’ feathered narling
astounded the salt waves, the plush arm of coast.

I carried my bucket past the forked
coercion of a tree, up toward
the pious and nictitating preeminence of a school,
hunkered there in its gully of learning.

But only later, as I stood before a wash stand,
and gaunt, phosphorescent heifers
swam purposely beyond these windows,
did the whorled and sparky gib of the indefinite
manage to whorl me into knowledge.

Then, I heard the ghost-clink of milk bottle
on the rough threshold
and understood the meadow-bells
that trembled over a nimbus of ragwort—
the whole afternoon lambent, corrugated, puddle-mad.

This poems, for me, is a brilliant parody/homage to great Irish poets, like Heaney and William Butler Yeats and Eavan Boland.  (If you don't know Boland, look her up.  She's fantastic.)  In some ways, I think Collins wants us to laugh at his cleverness (which is abundant), but he also wants us to appreciate words and language like these great writers from the Emerald Isle.  Those words that roll around on the tongue like candy.

As I said, busyness defined my day.  I had meetings and appointments and deadlines and events.  The main event, The Winter Wonderland Walk Celebration.  At the library where I work, community members and businesses  and schools and organizations are invited to set up and decorate Christmas trees in the main art gallery.  It takes a LOT of wrangling of a LOT of people.  The results are always beautiful, but the effort, at times, can be a little soul-crushing.

Thank goodness, I received a great deal of help this year, from my officemate and friend.  She pretty much handled tree placement, communication, and troubleshooting.  In past years, most of that work has fallen on my shoulders, and my holiday spirit quickly fizzled during the weeks after Thanksgiving. 

My officemate is very aware of my blueness this year.  Because we share a work space, we know each other pretty well.  We share our triumphs and failures, our joys and our sorrows.  She's seen me at my best and worst, and she still cares about me.  That is the definition of friendship.

In addition to the forest of Christmas trees, the library also hosted a holiday concert by two of my favorite musicians in the area.  I played keyboard in a church praise band with them at one time, and they've backed me up at many poetry readings and programs over the 20-some years of our friendship.  They are two of the best people I know who have also seen me at some of the lowest moments of my life.  (They  played and sang at the funerals of both my sisters and my parents.)

There is no way I can thank all the people who've blessed my life with their love and caring over the years.  Words aren't enough--and that's coming from a person who venerates words like holy relics.  Flannery O'Connor once wrote, "The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it."  My inner tribe knows my truth, in all its shining darkness, and they still love me.  That is a miracle.

The Irish have a particular term--anam cara--which translates as "soul friend" in Gaelic.  The famous Irish philosopher John O'Donohue wrote this, "With the anam cara, you could share your innermost self, your mind and your heart. You are joined in an ancient and eternal way. This belonging awakened and fostered a deep and special companionship. You are understood as you are without mask or pretension. The superficial and functional lies and half-truths of acquaintance fall away. You can be as you really are.”

Saint Marty was surrounded by anam cara tonight.

December 11, 2024: "Heraclitus on Vacation," Pretty Humble, "Ode to a Desk Lamp"

The philosopher Heraclitus said, "No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man."

Billy Collins said . . . 

Heraclitus on Vacation

by: Billy Collins

It is possible to stick your foot
into the same swimming pool twice,

dive, or even cannonball
into the deep or shallow end

as many times as you like
depending on how much you had to drink.

Billy Collins is obviously having some fun with Heraclitus.  I appreciate his irreverence.  There's nothing wrong with thumbing your nose at people who take themselves too seriously.  I've been a part of academia for over 30 years, and I've met my share of inflated egos.

I like to believe that I have remained pretty humble throughout my life.  It's the way I was brought up.  Don't get me wrong--I love the spotlight.  Few things give me as much pleasure as reading my poems in front of an audience and feeling them respond to my words.

However, I know that I'm not that important.  I haven't solved world hunger or cured cancer.  I recycle and compost, but I'm not Greta Thunberg.  I write poetry, but I'm not Diane Seuss or Jericho Brown.  I have two great kids, but I'm not Mike Brady dispensing sage, fatherly advice.  And I have great friends who love me, but I'm not Fred Rogers singing "It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood."

I am simply trying to be the best person I can be on a daily basis.  Sometimes, I succeed.  Often, however, I fail miserably.  That keeps me from spending too much time on top of anyone's pedestal.  I make tons of mistakes, and I feel as though I disappoint a lot of people who are important in my life.

I believe the best way to remain humble and true to yourself is to own and atone for your mistakes.  So please accept my apology if I've somehow let you down in any way recently or in the past.  It's never my intention to hurt or harm the people I love.  

Clarence, the angel from It's a Wonderful Life, says this to George, "Strange, isn't it?  Each man's life touches so many other lives.  And when he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"

When Saint Marty is gone from this world, he hopes he leaves a very large hole to prove that he somehow made a difference.

Here's another poem by Collins about something that has made a difference in his life . . . 

Ode to a Desk Lamp

by: Billy Collins

Oh faithful light, under which I have written

and read for all these decades,

flying saucer with your underbelly softly aglow,

rising on a stem from a heavy metal base,

lamp I rescued from my old girlfriend's mother,

who was about to toss you

from her condo on a bluff

overlooking the ruffled Pacific.

Has anyone been with me longer?

me without siblings or children,

you with your kindly 60 watt frosted bulb,

you who have not died like others I know,

you nestled in a bath towel

on the floorboards of the car

as I backed it down the driveway of my marriage

and steered east then south down the two- then four-lane roads.

So many nights like this one,

me sleepless, you gazing down on the page

and now on a crystal rock, a tiny figure of a pig,

and an orchid dying in its blue China pot.

But that is more than enough

of the sad drapery of the past as I hold the present

between two fingers and the thumb

and a blue train whistles in the distance.

It's time to saddle up, partner,

once I unplug your tail from the socket,

time to ride out west,

far from the gaucheries of men,

the inconstancy of women,

and the rowdy mortality of them all, 

until we find a grove of trees near a river--

just you and me with our bedrolls under a scattering of stars.

December 10, 2024: "The Music of the Spheres," Busy Mind, "Orient"

I know y'all are probably getting tired of my posts about the struggle of sadness.  It's difficult to write happy or funny things when you're in the doldrums.  So, if need be, let my words become white noise--constantly present, but easily ignored.

Billy Collins on background sounds . . . 

The Music of the Spheres

by: Billy Collins

The woman on the radio
who was lodging the old complaint
that her husband never listens to her

reminded me of the music of the spheres,
that chord of seven notes,
one for each of the visible planets,

which has been sounding
since the beginning of the universe,
and which we can never hear,

according to Pythagoras
because we hear it all the time
so it sounds the same as silence.

But let’s say the needle were lifted
from the spinning grooves
of those celestial orbs--

then people would stop
on the streets and look up,
and others would stop in the fields

and hikers would stop in the woods
and look this way and that
as if they were hearing something

for the first time,
and that husband would lower
the newspaper from his face

look at his wife
who has been standing in the doorway
and ask Did you just say something, dear?

When I woke this morning, I knew today was going to be rough.  Tears were just behind my eyes like a headache, and they remained there all day.  A couple of times, I couldn't hold them back.  A friend stopped by my office to give me a card and a hug, and I cried.  A Doris Day Christmas song started playing on the radio, and I cried.  (Doris Day was my mom's favorite singer.)  I read a poem by Mary Oliver, and I cried.

When my mind is busy with work, my blueness fades a little.  I don't give myself time to feel.  That might not be the healthiest method of coping with depression, but it works for me.  However, when I experience some downtime (like right now, when everyone is in bed, the TV is dark, and silence hums in my ears like a furnace), I feel myself spiraling.

It's like how Collins describes the music of the spheres--so constant it becomes invisible to the naked ear.  (Yes, I'm conflating two senses in that previous statement.  So sue me.)  When the planets stop singing, that's when everyone notices the silence.

If I stay busy, I can hold the darkness at bay.  Not notice its music.  When I sit down and allow myself to "rest" (if you can call it that), the sadness roosts like a flock of crows in the trees outside my window, cawing and coughing.

So, I try to keep myself moving and thinking, all the time.  It's kind of exhausting, but it beats the alternative, which would be balling myself into a fetal position and weeping.  That's also why I write these posts so late--a busy mind is a happy mind.  Or at least a not-so-sad mind.

Saint Marty will take the music of the spheres (or ACDC or Metallica) over peace and quiet right now.

Another poem from Collins--about being self aware . . . 

Orient

by: Billy Collins

You are turning me
like someone turning a globe in her hand,
and yes, I have another side
like a China no one,
not even me, has ever seen.

So describe to me what’s there,
say what you are looking at
and I will close my eyes
so I can see it too,
the oxcarts and all the lively flags.

I love the sound of your voice
like a little saxophone
telling me what I could never know
unless I dug a hole all the way down
through the core of myself.

December 9, 2024: "Keats: or How I Got My Negative Capability Back," Mystery, Bright or Dark

The poet John Keats coined the term "Negative Capatility" to argue against reason in favor of beauty, wonder, and mystery.

Billy Collins wrestles with mystery . . . 

Keats:  or How I Got My Negative Capability Back

by: Billy Collins

I remember the first time I realized 

how lacking I was in Negative Capability, 

It was on a long slope of lawn 

next to a turreted stone building 

that housed the shenanigans 

of the department of English. 

Some brown birds were pecking in the grass, 

and yet here I was, a nineteen year old 

too concerned with my clothes 

and the nervous mystery of girls 

to identify with this group of common sparrows 

another student was pointing to, 

let alone the nightingale we had read about,

invisible in the woods of England. 

I was so short on empathy in those days 

the only Negative Capability I could have possessed 

would be negative Negative Capability, 

which I could have turned into a positive 

had Keats not so firmly determined 

that regular Negative capability was already a positive thing. 

All those birds are surely dead by now, 

no more hopping around 

in the grass of Massachusetts for them, 

but I’m still here this afternoon 

looking at a dog asleep half under the porch, 

an old brown mongrel with a hoary muzzle, 

his paws twitching so frantically 

I can even see what he is dreaming 

as the sun helps itself down the sky. 

Yes, I am watching him jump a stone wall 

in pursuit of a darting rabbit— 

I am way up on a high branch 

of a tree that is swaying in the wind of his dream.

I have always preferred wonder over logic.  I don't need to understand how Christmas tree lights work in order to appreciate their glow on a winter's night.  Nor do I have to master calculus or physics to embrace the beauty of a meteor shower or lunar eclipse.  Negative Capability is free for the taking, as long as you can resist the urge to dissect and explain.

Now, I've spent a great deal of time recently trying to figure out why I'm experiencing such deep sadness during this season of light and hope.  Perhaps it's leftover grief from the recent deaths of my mother and sister.  Or maybe it's due to the lack of sunlight in the Upper Peninsula heavens.  How about an imbalance of chemicals in my brain or a genetic predisposition?

Finding the cause of sorrow doesn't necessarily lead to happiness or joy.  And, in a weird way, sadness itself can be beautiful.  When I'm in one of my blue funks, as I am now, I've noticed that the tiniest of kindnesses (a small word of encouragement, a hug, a smile) can be profoundly moving, like seeing the thick brush strokes of a van Gogh painting up close.  Grief and love are inextricably attached.

So, unlike Billy Collins, I possess a great deal of Negative Capability in my person.  I don't need to understand WHY I'm sad.  I just AM sad.  Tomorrow morning, I may wake and feel the weight of the last few weeks lifted from my shoulders.  Or I may not.  

Whatever happens, Saint Marty embraces the mystery and wonder, whether bright or dark.