April 11: Sit in a Corner, Keeping to Myself, Billy Collins, "The Names," New Cartoon

[Ives] watched the column lights passing rapidly in the tunnel, tried to read the newspaper, felt a little despair.  Earlier, getting on the train at Ninety-sixth Street, he was amazed to think that he used to ride the subways at least twice a day during the week for years, and he used to stand in the middle of the car, lost in the newspaper, his portfolio by his side, fairly oblivious of people, and now?  He kept to himself, preferring to sit in a corner like everyone else, except the wide-eyed tourists.

Ives is older, retired.  He has spent his life helping people, listening to people, trying to forgive people--even with his wounded heart.  He has reached a point in his life where his cup feels a little empty, I think.  He has become a little numb from years of grief and despair.

This morning, I went to McDonald's with my wife, sister, and son.  We do it almost every Saturday morning.  I call it McDonald's therapy.  For a couple of hours, we are disconnected from our day-to-day lives.  We relax.  Read.  Do crossword puzzles.  I draw cartoons.  It's one of my favorite times of the week.  Of course, we have to return to reality in the afternoon.  For a while, however, there's nothing to rush to, no task that needs to be done immediately.

When I'm not at work or the university, I like keeping to myself.  I socialize very little on the weekends.  Yes, I go to church, play the pipe organ and keyboard.  But I need to recharge my depleted battery on Saturday and Sunday.  I'm a little selfish with this time.  Like Ives in the above paragraph, I like to sit in the corner and not be bothered.

Of course, if there is a birthday party or graduation or other family event, I gladly attend if I can.  I'm not a misanthrope.  I'm a introvert.  I don't hate people, but I need a break from them every once in a while.  That's who I am.  Those breaks help me write poems, read good books, watch good movies.  And those solitary things allow me to do the more social things in my life.

I have learned that, at the end of really busy weekends, I dread the upcoming week.  The people,  Job.  Teaching.  I'm a little off-center, and I don't regain balance until I carve out a little quiet time for myself somehow.  A few hours  just sitting in my office at the university, staring at the walls.

Billy Collins wrote a poem for the victims and survivors of 9-11.  It's a poem that tries to find a center in an un-centered world.  Read it by yourself.  Reflect on its beauty.  Find your balance.

That's what Saint Marty did this morning.

The Names

by:  Billy Collins

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.

A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,

And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,

I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,

Then Baxter and Calabro,

Davis and Eberling, names falling into place

As droplets fell through the dark.

Names printed on the ceiling of the night.

Names slipping around a watery bend.

Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.

In the morning, I walked out barefoot

Among thousands of flowers

Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,

And each had a name --

Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal

Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.

Names written in the air

And stitched into the cloth of the day.

A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.

Monogram on a torn shirt,

I see you spelled out on storefront windows

And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.

I say the syllables as I turn a corner --

Kelly and Lee,

Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.

When I peer into the woods,

I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden

As in a puzzle concocted for children.

Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,

Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,

Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.

Names written in the pale sky.

Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.

Names silent in stone

Or cried out behind a door.

Names blown over the earth and out to sea.

In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.

A boy on a lake lifts his oars.

A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,

And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --

Vanacore and Wallace,

(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)

Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.

Names etched on the head of a pin.

One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.

A blue name needled into the skin.

Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,

The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.

Alphabet of names in a green field.

Names in the small tracks of birds.

Names lifted from a hat

Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.

Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.

So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.


Confessions of Saint Marty

April 10: Winter Storm, Billy Collins, "Neither Snow"

It snowed today.  A lot.  It took me an hour to shovel my driveway this morning.  It took me close to an hour to get to work (a usual 20-minute drive).  A bus was jackknifed on the highway.  When I got home at 5:30 this evening, it took me another hour to move the snow that the plows had thrown into my front yard.  Then, I went to a friend's house and shoveled her out.  Another 40 minutes.

I'm pooped.  The snow was heavy as wet sand.  It felt like I was Sisyphus, and the friggin' boulder weighed a ton.  I was planning on cleaning my bathroom tonight.  However, I am going to postpone that little task.  When I get home, I'm going to put on my pajamas, make some hot chocolate spiked with Kahlua, and curl up on the couch, with PBS playing on the TV.

Saint Marty is going to be very sore tomorrow.

Neither Snow

by:  Billy Collins

When all of a sudden the city air filled with snow,
the distinguishable flakes
blowing sideways,
looked like krill
fleeing the maw of an advancing whale.

At least they looked that way to me
from the taxi window,
and since I happened to be sitting
that fading Sunday afternoon
in the very center of the universe,
who was in a better position
to say what looked like what,
which thing resembled some other?

Yes, it was a run of white plankton
borne down the Avenue of the Americas
in the stream of the wind,
phosphorescent against the weighty buildings.

Which made the taxi itself,
yellow and slow-moving,
a kind of undersea creature,
I thought as I wiped the fog from the glass,

and me one of its protruding eyes,
an eye on a stem
swiveling this way and that
monitoring one side of its world,
observing tons of water
tons of people
colored signs and lights
and now a wildly blowing race of snow.

Just keep shoveling...

April 10: Old Guard, 24 Years, Baaa-d Fairy Tale

Ives and Freeman were two of the more respectable higher-ups.  "Family men," whom the slightly looped secretaries tended to praise to death at these parties, for their gentlemanly natures and fidelity to their wives.  With thirty-nine years at the agency between them (seventeen for Ives and twenty-two for Freeman, who had started at the agency just after graduating from Yale in 1945), they, in their forties, represented something of the composed and more refined "old guard."

Ives is a faithful man.  Faithful to his church, family, wife, and job.  He struggles, as any person does.  His relationship with his wife is strained to the breaking point after the murder of their son.  He questions God's benevolence and becomes a little distant with his daughter, as well.  At work, Ives becomes distracted by his overwhelming grief, talking to cleaning ladies about heaven.  Yet, Ives remains a loyal and true father, husband, employee, and child of God.

Tonight, I received an e-mail from a colleague at the university.  Next Tuesday is the faculty recognition luncheon.  As part of the proceedings, and to make those attending aware of the contributions of contingent instructors, a flyer is going to be circulated at the luncheon.  The flyer will list contingents who have been teaching at the university ten or more years.  My name is at the top of that list.  Twenty-four years of service.  Close to half my life.

That makes me both proud and a little depressed.  I'm proud because I know I've done good work as a teacher.  I've helped students and made lives better.  I'm depressed because I'm a part-time instructor with no benefits or security.  A new contract every semester.  Very little has changed in those 24 years.  Yet, I'm like Ives.  Loyal to the end, regardless of trials and setbacks.  I believe in what I do.

That probably sounds pretty old-fashioned, but that's the way I was raised.  Work hard.  Love unconditionally.  Do whatever you need to do to provide for your family.  That's the way I live my life.

Once upon a time, a man named Alphonse worked as a shepherd all his life.  He loved what he did.  At the age of 117, Alphonse slipped on some sheep shit, fell down a hill, and broke his neck.

Moral of the story: shit happens.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Watch your step!

April 8: Lyricism, Billy Collins, "Litany"

I am sorry that I wasn't able to provide a poem last night.  Ran out of time.  Too busy.  Too tired.  Too overworked.

Tonight, I'm still out of time. Still busy.  Still tired.  Still overworked.  Yet, I need some poetry to keep me sane.  Billy Collins poetry.

I have a love poem this evening.  A Billy Collins love poem.  That means there's not going to be a whole lot of "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day" or "How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways."  It's a poem about real love.  Messy love.  Love that recognizes limitations, that sees reality.  It's also love that indulges in beauty and lyricism.

Saint Marty needs a little lyricism tonight.

Litany

by:  Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

I prefer white wine, myself