October 11: Adjuncts, Anna M. Evans, "The Adjunct's Villanelle"

I know some of my disciples have been missing the poems I usually post.  This time, I decided against choosing a Poet of the Week.  Instead, I've been reading the fall issue of the poetry journal Rattle, which featured poems by and about adjuncts.  You know, those underpaid "part-time" instructors on college campuses across the country.

I am a contingent professor.  Have been for twenty-some years.  The poems in this issue of Rattle really spoke to me on a very deep level.  They made me sad.  Made me angry.  Made me laugh.  Therefore, I have decided to share a few of my favorites from the issue.

I type this post right now in my university office.  In less than a half hour, I will walk down the hall, into a classroom, and spend the next three-and-a-half hours trying to get a group of young people excited about writing and research.  First year composition.  It's not an easy gig, and there are some tenured faculty who get paid a great deal more money than me to teach the same class.  That's what being a contingent is all about.

In two days' time, when my name is announced in Stockholm by the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, I'm hoping to become the first contingent professor to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Certainly, that would qualify Saint Marty to teach at least a class in mythology.

The Adjunct's Villanelle

by:  Anna M. Evans

You just come in and teach, then you can go,
she says, distracted by her tenure file.
I wish someone would tell my students so.

From there I leave to meet with one who's slow
to understand the work.  It takes a while
to teach him what he needs.  Then, I can go.

Another text:  the fetus didn't grow.
She's on bed rest for weeks.  Can I compile
the work she'll miss?  I can, and tell her so.

Two student emails wait:  one's in a show
and really wants me there.  Good kid.  I smile
and write back saying I'll be thrilled to go.

The second wants a reference.  Just say no,
I'm told.  I could, but cannot reconcile
this with the student I remember.  So,

The one whose mom died doesn't need to know
my story, how I have to swallow bile
when I hear how I come, and teach, and go.
I don't.  I wish someone would tell them so.

October 11: Shreds of Creation, Ophthalmologist, Meaning

What I am to do is not so much learn the names of the shreds of creation that flourish in this valley, but to keep myself open to their meanings, which is to try to impress myself at all times with the fullest possible force of their very reality . . .

What Dillard is talking about here is what all writers do.  Yes, we like being concrete, specific.  Instead of saying "flower," we prefer "amaryllis."  Names are important.  But, more than names, we search out meaning.  Yes, the amaryllis is beautiful.  But so what?  We may write about the pink star of its petals, or we may write about our classmate named Amaryllis in second grade, how she wore the same torn pair of jeans every day for a full year.  There's name, and then there's meaning.

I just found out that a friend of mine died today.  He'd been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer over a year ago.  Never smoked a day in his life.  Was trim and athletic, a former Navy man.  Funny and accomplished.  He was an ophthalmologist, spent his days trying to make people's lives easier, better.  Went to church.  Loved his family.  Gone.

I guess that I'm looking for meaning in loss.  That's something I've been struggling with for quite some time.  In books, loss generally isn't a random thing.  The man dying of lung cancer smoked three packs of cigarettes a day and beat his wife.  There's a sense of justice in books.  Usually.  In real life, loss is random.  The illness doesn't always match up with the person, if you get my meaning.  In fact, most of the time it doesn't match up.

So, the word for tonight is "loss."

Can anybody explain to Saint Marty the meaning behind it?

Gone too soon . . .

October 10: Hot Spell, Ingmar Bergman, Ernest Hemingway

The creek's water was still warm from the hot spell . . .

It's September at Tinker Creek, and summer is still holding on.  Warming the creek water and driving nature crazy.  Ants swarm.  Dillard notes that the woods are "restless as birds."  Like all early autumn warm snaps, it will soon pass.  Ants will go underground.  Birds will wing south.  Killing frost will appear.

It was close to 70 degrees in my neck of the woods today.  I drove around all day with my windows down and sunroof open.  Even now, 9:30 at night, it hasn't cooled down all that much.  I'm sitting in my living room, watching Psycho with my daughter.  Another entry in our private film appreciation class.

The Swedish Academy announced this morning that the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature will be announced early Thursday.  I'm not sure what the weather's like in Sweden these days.  Maybe it's just as warm.  Swans gliding down a river.  People sitting in outside cafes, sipping strong coffee and eating meatballs with tiny forks.  Maybe talking about Ingmar Bergman movies.  Or Hitchcock.

At least, that's what I imagine.  Stockholm just a Scandinavian version of my home town, with some snooty academics thrown in to keep things interesting.  I watched a video biography about Ernest Hemingway this morning.  Hemingway's publisher said in an interview that the Nobel Prize is the closest a writer can come to canonization.  When Hemingway won it, he climbed into bed with his wife and said, "I won it.  The Swedish thing."

Canonization.  Saint Marty knows a few things about that.  And he loves Swedish meatballs, too.  It's fate.

Ernie becoming a saint

October 9: Halloween Poetry Reading, Bigfoot Poems, Classic Saint Marty

Greetings, loyal disciples, on this Sabbath day.

As with most Sabbaths, I have been working on various projects most of the day.  Church this morning, playing in the band.  This afternoon, I spent a few hours planning a Halloween poetry reading that I'm doing in a week at our local library.  I've been working on a sequence of Bigfoot poems.  My bandmates are going to be doing music (think "Creep" by Radiohead).  And I will be unveiling some works in progress.

This afternoon, it's school stuff.  Midterm to create.  Essay rubric to put together.  Quizzes to grade.  Plus, my family is having a belated Saint Marty's Day celebration.  Tapioca and presents.  The whole shebang.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired two years ago.  More about the Swedish Academy and its short-sightedness.

October 9, 2014:  A Special Award, 2014 Nobel Prize in Literature, Peter Modiano

"Attention, please!" it said.  "Will Mr. Homer Zuckerman bring his famous pig to the judges' booth in front of the grandstand.  A special award will be made there in twenty minutes.  Everyone is invited to attend.  Crate your pig, please, Mr. Zuckerman, and report to the judges' booth promptly!"

Yes, Wilbur gets a prize at the end of the book.  Zuckerman gets twenty-five dollars.  Fern gets Henry Fussy (or vice versa).  And, above all, Charlotte reaps the rewards of all the writing she's been doing in her webs.

This morning, Peter Englund, Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, announced the winner of the 2014 Nobel Prize in Literature in Stockholm.  And the winner was...not me.  It was some French novelist named Peter Modiano.  I was going to say "obscure novelist," but then I risk sounding like some Anglo-centric, ignorant American.  From what I've read, Modiano is one of the greatest French writers alive.  He's published over thirty-plus novels.  His subjects are memory, identity, and time.  Blah, blah, blah.

I know all my disciples are crying foul tonight.  Once again, I have been robbed of an award I so richly deserve.  Instead, the Swedes have chosen to bestow their prize on yet another writer who will, no doubt, fade from memory faster than you can say "Pepé Le Pew."  So what if the French people love him?  The French awarded Jerry Lewis the Legion of Honor.

I am not bitter or jealous, however.

Peter Modiano won the Nobel Prize in Literature.  Saint Marty's going to the Wisconsin Dells this weekend.  Who's laughing now?

The winner of this year's Nobel 
Prize in Literature