July 7: New Nephew, Birth Announcements, New Poem

I have a new nephew.  Last night, my wife's cousin gave birth to a bouncing baby poop generator.  I haven't seen him yet.  My wife and daughter went to the hospital for a visit this morning.  My daughter, who wants a baby sister in the worst way, loves holding infants.  My son, who is two, is a little too mobile for her now.  All he wants to do, basically, is run and destroy things belonging to my daughter.  A newborn is much more her speed right now.

I know I will have to take the obligatory trip to the hospital room, coo over my nephew, tell his parents how handsome he is.  I just checked the hospital's baby page.  My nephew's picture is not posted yet.  The birth announcements in this post are generic.  The children are of no relation to me.  But they're pretty damn cute.

I generally dislike birth announcements.  I hate those cheesy messages new parents put under the pictures.  "Mommy and Daddy's Little Princess" or "Our Little Angel Has Arrived" or "Our Little Gift from God."  I understand the sentiment behind them, but they're usually a little too saccharine for my taste.

Today's poem is my version of a birth announcement.  It is a reaction against the idea of perfection.  Babies are innocent.  Babies are pure.  Baby's, however, are not born into a perfect world.  But babies are proof that a mother and/or father believe in hope.  A newborn is declaration to the world that there is light and joy and happiness available.

Okay, enough of my warm fuzziness.  I think it's time for my poem.

Uncle Saint Marty wishes you a good evening.

Birth Announcement

Seven pounds.  Ten ounces.  Twenty inches.  Born:  July 6 at 6 p.m.  A nephew named after his late great grandfather, a man whose daughter died of ovarian cancer at the age of 48.  Whose son went down the basement stairs, shot himself in the face with a shotgun.  The baby's great grandmother has Alzheimer's, spends her days telling her roommate at the nursing home about her husband, who she's sure is out at camp, drinking Jack Daniels with his brother.  "Just wait 'til he shows up," she says, her voice soft as watermelon in her toothless mouth.  Delivered by C-section, the baby hadn't flipped in utero.  Breech.  "Already telling the world to kiss my ass," his father said.  Two days before, July 4, his mother came to the parade, sat in a lawn chair, let everyone rub her belly, complained how big her breasts were.  Baby and mother are doing well.  My wife, his aunt, suffers from bipolar.  A family illness.  She visited the hospital this afternoon.  Held him.  Touched his newborn cheek, soft, smooth as a daisy petal.  Loves me.  Loves me not.  "He's perfect," my wife told me on the phone.  "Perfect."

July 6: Saint Maria Goretti, Panel Discussion, Humility

Today's feast saint is Maria Goretti.  I believe I have written about her before.  She was an Italian peasant girl who, at the age of eleven, was fatally stabbed during an attempted rape.  People reported that before she died in the hospital on July 6, 1902, she forgave her attacker and said she hoped to see him in heaven.  Maria was canonized in 1950, with her mother, brothers, and sisters in attendance.  Her murderer eventually repented and became a Capuchin laybrother.

The story, on its surface, is astounding.  Young girl dies defending her virtue, proclaiming her forgiveness for her rapist/killer with her final breaths.  However, feminist scholars and critics have a problem with what has been done with Maria's story.  Over the years, she has been used by the Church as an example to prove the importance of chastity to young girls and women.  The message, according to the critics, is, "It's better to die than lose your virginity."

Granted, the message of Maria's tale is problematic.  It's problematic because it's been over-simplified.  The Church wants to use her as an example of holy virtue.  Critics and scholars want to use her as an example of female victimization.  I think both sides skip right over the most amazing part of Maria Goretti's tragic death.  Ultimately, her story is about forgiveness.  An eleven-year-old girl, on her death bed, forgives the person who tried to rape her and fatally wounded her.  That's an astounding, humbling act.  That her forgiveness eventually bore fruit in the heart of her killer is an even greater testament to her legacy.

The incorrupt body of Maria Goretti

Maria Goretti humbles me, which continues the lesson in humility I received last night.

The panel of writers I was a part of last night at Peter White Library was sort of astounding.  One writer had won the $10,000 Plimpton Prize from The Paris Review.  Another writer had his first book named a Michigan Notable Book by the Library of Michigan.  The other poet on the panel had worked with former Poet Laureate of the United States Stanley Kunitz.  And there was the TV writer who'd been nominated for Emmy Awards three times.

Then there was me, with my handful of publications and one book of poetry, published a few years ago.  Talk about feeling humble.  Remember the Sesame Street song "One of These Things is Not Like the Other"?   I was the rhombus with all the circles.

Of course I tried to compensate by being funny, and it seemed to work.  I don't think I made a complete fool of myself, and I may have even come across as charmingly self-deprecating.  I don't know.  One of my friends in the audience said I stole the show, but I think she was just being kind.  I truly did eat a lot of humble pie last night.  (Actually, I started eating humble pie yesterday afternoon when I googled the bios of all the other writers.  I almost didn't want to show up.)

Humility is not a bad thing.  Everyone should be reminded every once in a while that, no matter how smart or talented you may think you are, there will always be someone else smarter and more talented.  That was my lesson last night and today.

Saint Marty is still feeling like a rhombus.

Where are all the other rhombuses?

July 5: Back to the Grind, Another Reading, New Poem

Home town's fireworks

It rained last night at the fireworks.  For the first five or seven minutes of the show, everyone was huddled under blankets, watching the rockets go off.  After the rain stopped, the wind picked up, and then we spent the rest of the time dodging cinders falling from the sky.  I kid you not.  After it was over and we were back in the car, my daughter said it was the most exciting fireworks she's ever been at.

Today, I'm back to the grind after the three-day holiday.  It was a little rough getting back in the saddle, but I managed (with the help of a Diet Coke and a Diet Mountain Dew).  Mid-way through the day, I find myself thinking about tonight's poetry reading/panel discussion at the Peter White Library in Marquette.  I'm planning on picking out a few poems that I'm definitely going to share, but, aside from that, I have no idea how things are going to go.  That's kind of exciting, but also a little nerve-wracking.

I may have used this before, but it's still funny.

I was able to get a new poem written this morning.  It's inspired by my attendance of the fireworks last night.  I wasn't quite sure where I was headed with it when I wrote the first few lines.  Very quickly, however, it became obvious to me that I was writing a love poem.  It's a poem about the ability to sustain love and passion over the years.

After all of the struggles my wife and I have been through, many people don't understand our relationship--how we've survived the bouts of mental illness and various addictions.  I think, in a strange way, our relationship is stronger now than it has ever been, because it's based on honesty.  I don't hide my feelings over anything with my wife.  My wife, in struggling with her sexual addiction, has learned the necessity of complete honesty, as well, with me and with herself.  At this point in our marriage, we aren't blinded by fantasies of romance.  The romance comes from knowing each other deeply.

That's what today's poem is about.

Saint Marty hopes to see you at the reading tonight.

After the Fireworks

We walk to our car in the dark,

Blankets cradled in our arms,

Stars as distant as the morning

We first met, marriage and kids

Not even ingredients in the roux

Of our thoughts, just longing for

When we could come together

On a beach, wade into lake

Water, hands and lips weightless

As jellyfish on our bodies,

Stinging, pulling back, gliding

Over and in and around, skin,

A night sky on July fourth,

Full of comet, spark, tail, waterfall.

Peony.  Chrysanthemum.  Diadem.

Crossette.  Kamuro.  Bengal fire.

Afterward, as we dressed, we

Still smelled our combustion,

Tasted potassium, nitrogen, copper

On our tongues for hours.

Tonight, we load belongings

Into our Ford.  Books, sparklers,

Half-eaten bag of cotton candy,

Our daughter, still dazzled

By Summer Storm and Pyro Glyphics.

We drive home in silence

After the fireworks, think of how

We, on this Independence Day,

Depend on each other, how we

Still climb into bed each night,

Hungry to be blinded again.

July 4: Parades, Bratwurst, Fireworks

Happy Fourth of July!

For those of my readers who are not from the United States, July 4 is the day we celebrate our independence.  (No offense to any person of British persuasion.)  In Small Town, USA, we have parades of police cars and dump trucks and fire engines, throw Tootsie Rolls at the kids, and listen to marching bands.  Then we barbecue hot dogs and bratwursts, cook corn on the cob, and cut up some watermelon.  At dusk, we gather in parks or by lakes and watch fireworks displays.

Where I live, they also hold alumni softball tournaments for the local high schools.  People who've moved away come home, and you can see friends and acquaintances you haven't seen in years.  At the parade I went to this morning, I talked to a girl I hadn't seen in close to 15 years.  I used to direct her in children's plays at the local community theater.  Seeing her with her two children and husband made me feel quite old.  But it was a good.

I'm getting ready to head out to tonight's community picnic and fireworks.  I'm sure I'll see some friends I haven't seen in a long time.  I'm also sure I'll eat some Kettle Corn.  That's my little July 4 tradition.

Saint Marty gives thanks today for parades and Tootsie Rolls and bratwurst and fireworks.

July 4th parade in my home town

P. S.  If you want to meet Saint Marty in person and hear him read some poetry, come to the Peter White Library in Marquette, Michigan, tomorrow night at 7 p.m.  I'm participating in a reading and panel discussion on poetry and writing as part of the U. P. Book Tour.  Don't miss it.  I don't make too many public appearances these days.