October 13, 2025: “True Love,” Wedding Anniversary, “Mary Olivering”

It has been a quiet, calm Monday for once.  Nothing terrible happened, except for the alarm going off and waking me up this morning.  Most of my faithful disciples know that I’m not a big fan of Sundays or Mondays.  I find them depressing.  Today, I was pretty much by myself in my library office.  All . . . day . . . long.  And I’ve loved every second.

Now, I’m not a misanthrope.  Every once in a while, however, I need to retreat and recharge.  Today was a recharging day.  Tomorrow, my wife and I will celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary.  We dated for five years prior to tying the knot.  That means we have been a part of each other’s lives for 35 years  I wish I could say it has been all rainbows and unicorns, but I live in reality, not a rom-com.  True love ain’t pretty.

Sharon Olds meditates on . . . 

True Love

by: Sharon Olds

In the middle of the night, when we get up
after making love, we look at each other in
complete friendship, we know so fully
what the other has been doing. Bound to each other
like mountaineers coming down from a mountain,
bound with the tie of the delivery-room,
we wander down the hall to the bathroom, I can
hardly walk, I hobble through the granular
shadowless air, I know where you are
with my eyes closed, we are bound to each other
with huge invisible threads, our sexes
muted, exhausted, crushed, the whole
body a sex—surely this
is the most blessed time of my life,
our children asleep in their beds, each fate
like a vein of abiding mineral
not discovered yet. I sit
on the toilet in the night, you are somewhere in the room,
I open the window and snow has fallen in a
steep drift, against the pane, I
look up, into it,
a wall of cold crystals, silent
and glistening, I quietly call to you
and you come and hold my hand and I say
I cannot see beyond it. I cannot see beyond it.

It’s such an intimate, tender moment Olds describes here—one of those stolen moments most married people with kids will recognize.  Yes, Olds and her husband ended up divorcing eventually, but every love story (successful or failed) is made up of these kind of sweet, stolen times.

I’m a lucky guy.  I found the love of my life pretty early, and I got to spend my life with her.  Sure, we’ve had some touch-and-go periods because of mental illness and addictions.  We even separated for a year.  Yet, to paraphrase Elton John, we’re still standing.

And we have two beautiful, smart kids—one in medical school, one about to graduate from high school.  We are well beyond the quickies-when-the-kids-are-asleep phase.  Currently, we are in the hey-we-can-take-an-afternoon-nap phase.  (For my younger disciples, let me say that EVERYONE eventually realizes that naps are God’s greatest creation, with sex coming in a distant second.)

Falling in love is easy.  Staying in love for close to 40 years?  Now, that takes some seriously hard work.  People change over time.  It’s inevitable.  One passion gives way to another passion.  You give up computer science to study creative writing.  You take a temp job at an outpatient surgery center to pay the bills, and you end up temping there for 25 years.

Life has a way of throwing you curve balls.  It’s simply a matter of finding the right person to stand behind home plate with you.  I was lucky enough to hit a home run.

Saint Marty wrote a sort-of love poem for tonight, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

On this day in 1962, Edward Albee’s play Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? opened on Broadway.  Write a poem where you take the name of an author and have it reoccurring in your poem in surprising ways.  If you don’t know where to begin, use the image of walking into an old or used bookstore and reaching for a book.

Mary Olivering

by: Martin Achatz

I always return to you, Mary Oliver, when I hear

the oar train hurtle through 3 a.m. on its way

to Lake Superior, return to those peaceful Mary moments

of marsh and heron, snakes luxuriating in puddles

of sun, bears muzzling honey from tree trunks.  Return

to the grove of Oliver trees you planted, nursed,

pruned with so much joy and grief that I can still

smell your cigarette smoke as I wander through

the orchard, squeezing each Oliver on the branches

for ripeness.  Some yield to my pinches, almost blush,

as if I’m at a middle school dance and just pressed

my lips to my crush’s neck, incanted her name—

Mary, oh, Mary, yes, Mary!—as Simple Minds flooded

the gym and everyone’s bodies swayed, arched

in adolescent desperation.  

I bring my pail of Olivers home, whip up some  

pancake batter, stir them in delicately so they won’t

bruise or burst.  In the morning, when my wife

stumbles into the kitchen. I will hand her a plate

piled with Mary pancakes.  I’ll watch her fork

pieces between her lips.  As she chews, I’ll sit beside

her and wonder what we’re going to do with the

wild and precious day ahead.

October 12, 2025: “Am and Am Not,” Five Star Bars, “Picnic Rocks”

Yes, I am still alive and thinking. (I could have said “kicking,” but I thought the allusion to the Simple Minds was a little too 1980s.).

In the last month or so, I’ve found myself overwhelmed by almost everything—the current political situation, teaching, my work at the library, my daughter’s move downstate. Emotionally, I’ve been running on empty for a while, and, every time I’ve tried to sit down to type out a blog post, I’ve found myself too distracted and/or tired. Perhaps I’m soul weary.

Sharon Olds writes about the state of her soul . . .

Am and Am Not

by: Sharon Olds

When I’m tilted forward, brushing my teeth,

I glance down.  We do not know

ourselves.  My cunt, like a hand, stroked him,

such subtle, intricate movement.  Central

inside me this one I am and am not,

not only like a palm, more like a snake’s

reticulated body, rings of muscle—

like the penis outside-in, its twin.

Who is it?  I lean against the sink, mouth open

and nursing with Colgate, nixie palate

scoured with pond-mind, it is my sould

in there, elastic as an early creature

gone out on its own again, is it my

soul’s throat?  Its rings ripple

in waves, as if it swallows, but what it

swallows stays, and grows, and grows,

we become one being, whom we hardly know,

whom we know better than we know anyone

else.  And in the morning I look down.  Who?  What has—

what?!  Seeing just the skin of the belly—

she is asleep in there, the soul, vertical

undulant one, she is dancing upright in her dream.

So, let me take care of a little business here.

First, in my post from September 17, I told you about my puppy being attacked by a neighbor’s German shepherd.  My puppy is fine.  We filed and police report, and the owners of the German shepherd felt horrible and paid for our vet bill.  As of this evening, our puppy isn’t showing any lasting signs from the bite on her leg, and she’s walking just fine.  (A blessing.)

I recently celebrated another Saint Marty’s Day (last Sunday).  It was a good weekend, eating some of my favorite foods and attending an art awards ceremony where some of my friends were recognized.  My daughter sent me some of my favorite candy bars—Five Star Bars from Lake Champlain Chocolates.  (All blessings.)

Last week, I worked on an article for a local publication—an interview with one of my writer friends who’s just published two new books (a collection of poems and a collection of short stories).  I’ve known Jonathan for over 30-plus years, and he’s just the kindest, brightest soul.  It took me a few days to pull everything together, but the article turned out really well, I think.  My friend really liked it.  He said in a text that “it is dazzlingly beautiful as a piece of writing too!  You’re one hell of a stylist!”. (Blessings.)

In the midst of all these blessings, the United States federal government has been shut down by President 47 and his flunkies.  He’s also deploying the military against citizens in Democratic American cities, and he’s in a full meltdown over not winning this year’s Nobel Peace Prize.  (I didn’t win the Nobel Prize in Literature, either—it went to a Hungarian writer—but you don’t see me shutting down a country because the Swedish Academy made a mistake.)  Basically, things are rapidly decompensating into authoritarianism.  Plus, Diane Keaton died yesterday.

Am I worried that ay criticism of the current White House administration that I publish on this blog may get me a one-way ticket to an El Salvadoran concentration camp?  Not really.  (My kids seem more worried about that than I am.). And I’m still going to attend a No Kings 2 protest this coming weekend.  Now is not the time to be silent, and I’ve been pretty quiet these last 25 days or so.

Sometimes souls need to be handled with care.  That’s what I’ve been doing the last month or so.  Trying to take care of myself, physically, mentally, and spiritually.  I’ve suffered some bouts of insomnia, and, for a little while, I thought I was sliding into one of my blue funks.  (I’m not.  Don’t worry.). So, I’ve been allowing myself to watch familiar movies and TV shows, reread favorite books, and eat more than a little chocolate.  

I’m going to try to be more diligent about blogging regularly.  When I don’t write, I can slip into sadness and depression.  Don’t want that to happen, especially since the days are getting shorter and the weather is turning cold.

So, I am back.  For now.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for today, based upon the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Write a poem about going on a picnic on a rainy day, a stormy day, during a hurricane, a snowstorm, or some other weather event not conducive to sitting outside.  For a twist, have the poem include either a positive outcome or a positive moment during what might be viewed as a terrible day,

Picnic Rocks

by: Martin Achatz

On July evenings, we drove to Presque Isle,

parked at Picnic Rocks, brought out

our bags of KFC or Burger King, found

some bench or empty plot of sand,

sat and ate in the hubbub of swimmers,

waves, and gulls, to escape the heat

that sat on our shoulders like sunburn.

You collected stones, put them in 

buckets, brought them home to your

bedroom.  After you died, we found

Tupperware after Tupperware of these

momento mori, pieces of volcano

and basalt chewed smooth by

Superior and guided to that beach

where Charon might drop off or pick up

lost souls.  I remember a few weeks

after, how I could almost feel you

beside me at Picnic Rocks, searching with your

ghostly fingers for just the perfect stone

to pay your passage across those endless, blue waters.

September 17, 2025: “Full Summer,” Road Trip, “Reflections on Water, or My Brother Tried to Drown Me”

Yes, it has been quite a while since I’ve posted.  

I’d like to say that I’ve been busy or sick or traveling or protesting.  Of course, I’ve been swamped with teaching and library events.  I’m just trying to settle into my fall schedule.  No colds or flus, and no roadtrips.  And every day of my life is an act of protest—because I try to be kind and understanding and compassionate to everyone.  (I know that’s a revolutionary in this country at this time.)  My excuse (whether legitimate or not):  I’ve been exhausted every night I’ve gotten home.

Summer is definitely coming to an end.  The maple trees on my property have already begin changing color.  We’ve already had a few nights when the furnace kicked in.  But no frost warnings, yet.  Schools are back in session, and the sun is setting before 8:30 p.m. these days.  Yet, I’m not ready to surrender to autumn and winter just yet.  I am a summer holdout.

Sharon Olds writes about the good ol’ summertime . . . 

Full Summer

by: Sharon Olds

I paused, and paused, over your body,

to feel the current of desire pull

and pull through me.  Our hair was still wet,

mine like a knotted wrack, it fell

across you as I paused, a soaked coil

around your glans.  When one of your hairs

dried, it lifted a bare nerve.

On the beach, above us, a cloud had appeared in

the clear air, a clockwise loop coming

in out of nothing, now the skin of your scrotum

moved like a live being, an animal,

I began to lick you, the foreskin lightly

stuck in one spot, like a petal, I love

to free it—just so—in joy,

and to sip from the little crying lips

at the tip.  Then there was no more pausing,

nor was this the taker,

some new one came

and sucked, and up from where I had been hiding I was

drawn in a heavy spiral out of matter

over into another world

I had thought I would have to die to reach.

This is prime Sharon Olds material:  sex, summer, sun.  It’s like an Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon beach blanket blowjob movie.  There’s something sexily nostalgic in her poem.  Even though she’s an adult, married woman in the poem, her words bring me back to my teenage summers.  That coming-of-age time.

 Well, it has been really warm these last five days, and today was no different.  It has been hitting the 80s since about last Saturday.  Tomorrow, my son and I care going on a road trip.  It was supposed to be my whole family going, but my wife tested positive for COVID on Monday, and then she had a little fender-bender with a UPS truck (no damage that I’m willing to claim with insurance).  Today, when my wife was taking our puppy for a walk around the block, a neighbor’s German shepherd attacked her.  The good news is that, thanks to my wife’s quick actions, the neighbor’s dog wasn’t able to do as much damage as the last time our puppy was attacked.  We did file a police report and took our dog to the vet.  The vet examined her and found a deep puncture on her right back leg.  

The itinerary for this weekend’s trip has changed drastically.  My wife and puppy are staying home.  My son and I are driving downstate.  We are staying in Mount Pleasant where my daughter is attending medical school, but we aren’t going to meet up with her because she’s got a final exam next Monday and doesn’t want to take the chance of catching COVID.

So, basically, my son and I are going to stay at an Airbnb by ourselves and try to find a way to amuse ourselves.  I actually planned an extra day in Mount Pleasant to have more time with my daughter, but fate had other plans.  It’s feels like a summer vacation gone terribly wrong—I’m Clark Griswold from the U.P. of Michigan.

A couple days ago, Saint Marty wrote a poem in a writing workshop led by a good friend of his.  (His friend called it a flash lyric essay.). Whether essay or poem, it has nothing to do with COVID or dog attacks.  Or summer, for that matter.

Reflections on Water, or My Brother Tried to Drown Me

by: Martin Achatz

I should have enjoyed the mist making my child face drip like an apple in the IGA produce section.

Fish.  I smelled fish, tasted fish in my mouth.  Waves applauded with foam hands, the thug-thug-thug of the ferry’s engine slapping the day awake.

I never liked fish sticks as a kid, begged my mom for grilled cheese when she brought a pan of Mrs. Paul’s to the dinner table.

Maybe I choked on amniotic fluid as I emerged from my mother or swallowed soapy liquid while being bathed as a baby or found a drowned mouse in a toilet bowl.

Yes, I’ve always associated water with death, so I avoid wading or floating or swimming, hold myself to the riverbank or shoreline, afraid I’ll untether and just drift away.

When rain baptizes the world, I think I hear the pine trees sob.

September 4, 2025: “This Hour,” Longest Weeks, “”Mars, or How to Save a Dying Planet”

Even though Monday was Labor Day and it’s a four-day workweek and nothing catastrophic happened (unless you count President 47 still being alive), this has been one of the longest weeks in recent memory.  The only thing that has saved me from going completely Howard Hughes (locking myself away in a room, not showering or cutting my hair and nails, and pissing in empty Coke bottles) are walks with my wife, car rides with my son (to and from school), and text messages from my daughter (she took her first midterm exam in medical school and killed it).

Sharon Olds shares a moment of love . . . 

This Hour

by: Sharon Olds

We could never really say what it is like,
this hour of drinking wine together
on a hot summer night, in the living room
with the windows open, in our underwear,

my pants with pale-gold gibbon monkeys on them

gleaming in the heat.  We talk about our son disap-

pearling between the pine boughs, 

we could not tell what was chrysalis or 

bough and what was him.  The wine 

is powerful, each mouthful holds

for a moment its amber agate shape, 

I think of the sweat I sipped from my father’s 

forehead the hour before his death.  We talk about 

those last days—that I was waiting for him to die.
You are lying on the couch, your underpants 

a luminous white, your hand resting
relaxed, along the side of your penis, 

we talk about your father’s illness, 

your nipple like a pure circle of 

something risen to the surface of your chest.

Even if we wanted to
we could not describe it,
the end of the second glass when I sometimes
weep and you start to get sleepy—I love 

to drink and cry with you, and end up
sobbing to a sleeping man, your
long body filling the couch and
draped slightly over the ends, the
untrained soft singing of your snore, it cannot be given.
Yes we know we will make love, but we’re
not getting ready to make love,
nor are we getting over making love, 

love is simply our element, 

it is the summer night, we are in it.

I really love the penultimate line in this poem:  “love is simply our element.”  Olds gets it right.  She and her partner know each other so intimately that simply being in each other’s presence is enough to assuage  her grieving heart.

There is a great deal of comfort in a long-term, loving relationship.  My wife and I will be celebrating our 30th wedding anniversary this year.  We were together for about five years before we got married.  Doing the math, that’s 35+ years of love and support.  We’ve had some hiccups, bumps, and derailments in that time, but, as Olds says, love is simply our element.

Tonight, we had grilled cheese sandwiches and soup for dinner.  As we ate, we watched a couple episode of Schitt’s Creek.  Then we took our puppy for a trot around the block.  The weather has taken a turn, so my wife wore her winter coat on our little hike.  (I refuse to put on my winter gear until after Thanksgiving, so I just wore three layers of shirts and sweatshirts and hoodies.). It is definitely not summer anymore.

I’m avoiding getting all sentimental here.  The last couple months have been pretty stressful, with our daughter moving downstate, our son starting his senior year in high school, and my wife losing her job.  I don’t think I’ve fully recovered from all the upheaval.  All of my faithful disciples know how well I deal with change of any kind, and the changes have been coming at light speed recently.

Thank goodness my life is filled with people (friends and family) I love and who love me.  I don’t think I would have survived the last 40 or so days without having shoulders to cry on and ears to vent to.  Recently, I have found myself crying at night after the rest of household has gone to bed.  Not every night, but at least once or twice a week.  

I don’t think I’m sliding into one of my blue periods.  (My faithful disciples may recall I had quite a bad time starting November, and it lasted several months.). I’ve been monitoring the frequency and duration of these current “down” times; I really don’t want to end up in the same space again, especially with the weather turning and daylight shrinking.  

Again, what saved me last November was the love of my family and friends, especially my wife and kids.  Our element.  I truly believe that love is the most powerful force for change in the universe.  It has sustained me through many a low point in my life.  If everyone had minds of love, acted out of love, responded with love, the world wouldn’t be in its current fractured state.

I’m not going to belabor this point.  Either you agree with me or you don’t.  If you believe that the world can be saved by war and division and hatred, I’m not going to change your mind.  Ditto if you think that homeless people should be rounded up and shipped off to internment camps.  And if you are adamant in your support of tax cuts for billionaires and the elimination of pediatric cancer research, well then, I don’t know if I even want you reading this blog anymore.  Might I recommend some light reading for you, like Mein Kampf.

On the other hand, if your happy place involves family and friends, and if you want to save the world before all the polar bears are drowned and we’re living in fallout shelters, then you already know that love is the only thing that will save our asses.

Yesterday, Saint Marty wrote about poem about Mars and saving the planet, based on the following prompt from September 3 of The Daily Poet:

On this date in 1976, the Viking 2 unmanned spacecraft took the first close-up pictures of the surface of Mars.  Write a poem about the frantic search to find water (and perhaps living creatures) on Mars.  As there is plenty of life already here on Earth that needs attending to, your poem may or may not take on a cynical tone.

Mars, or How to Save a Dying Planet

by: Martin Achatz

There’s so much red there, even 

the air bleeds, as if the entire

world is an open wound, a bullet

hole in the belly of the universe.

We send probes, motorized gadgets

to crawl, fly in search of canals

gone dry or some indigenous red carrot.

Why do we search for something

life-giving in a place that’s just

a red stain, a murder scene?

Instead, we should go for a walk

at midnight along the shores of

of Lake Superior, let the water

numb our ankles, ache our bones, wash

over us, until we all shine like beach glass.