December 19: Slept Better, Charles Dickens, Christmas Cards

I turned in, and never slept better in my life . . .

Ishmael is sleeping well.  I. on the other hand, have not been.

Welcome to the other side of end-of-semester grading.  I survived.  Barely.  In the past 48 hours, I have slept a total of seven hours.  Eight, if you count the hour-long nap I took this afternoon.  And now, it's time to settle into the preparations for Christmas.  Shopping.  Writing Christmas cards.  Rehearsing music.  Baking cookies, if I'm lucky.  Watching It's A Wonderful Life.  Trying not to feel like George Bailey on the bridge, staring down at the roiling black water.

To say that I feel unprepared for the coming holiday would be an understatement.  My Christmas essay is written.  My Christmas poem is not.  I have bought a total of three or four presents and can't really afford to buy any more at the moment.  Right now, as I'm typing this post, I'm watching The Man Who Invented Christmas, a film about Charles Dickens composing A Christmas Carol.  And worrying over his constant money troubles.

For those of my disciples who've been reading this blog for any length of time, you already know my affinity for Dickens.  My habit of reading a 1200-page Dickens biography every year or so.  If I believed in reincarnation, I would say that I am Charles Dickens.  His energy speaks to me.  The 20-mile midnight walks.  Constant state of creative frenzy.  Gregariousness.  He's a guy after my own heart.

Of course, Dickens worked himself to death at a very young age.  A stroke at his writing desk when he was 58 years old.  That's only a few years away for me.  It does seem that I'm always working, always worried about money and bills.  I certainly have that in common with Boz, as well.  And those worries are what have been causing me some sleepless nights these last few weeks.

Tonight, my task is Christmas cards.  Have to get them addressed and mailed.  About 75 of them.  Yes, 75.  The list keeps getting longer every year.  I do love the process.  Thinking about friends and family that I haven't seen in a long while.  Imagining them opening the envelope, reading the letter inside, staring at the enclosed photo.

I have no time to spare.  Tomorrow, I head to Calumet for two days of rehearsal.  A show on Friday night.  No rest for this Dickens.

Saint Marty is trying to be thankful this evening for Christmas and cards and presents and carols.  Trying really hard.

December 19: Mark Strand, "Lines for Winter," Ghosts of Christmas

Lines for Winter

by:  Mark Strand

for Ros Krauss

Tell yourself

as it gets cold and gray falls from the air

that you will go on

walking, hearing

the same tune no matter where

you find yourself—

inside the dome of dark

or under the cracking white

of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.

Tonight as it gets cold

tell yourself

what you know which is nothing

but the tune your bones play

as you keep going. And you will be able

for once to lie down under the small fire

of winter stars.

And if it happens that you cannot

go on or turn back

and you find yourself

where you will be at the end,

tell yourself

in that final flowing of cold through your limbs

that you love what you are.

________________________________

A poem to inspire some ghosts of Christmas--past, present, future. 

After I'm done with this post, it's Christmas card time, with the company of Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed and Frank Capra.  I am surrounded by lights and mangers.  Now, I need to open my heart and let them in.

Saint Marty is tired of feeling Scroogey.

December 17: Drew Nigh, Low in the Sky, Final Grading

It was nearly six o'clock, but only grey imperfect misty dawn, when we drew nigh the wharf . . .

It is nigh 4:30 in the afternoon, and the sun is already low in the sky as I draw close to being done with grading for the semester.  Two stacks of papers left.  They're sitting at my feet right now, waiting the attention of my red pen.  Once I am done with them, all I have left to do is the math.  Lots of totaling.

So, you will forgive me if this is yet again an abbreviated post without much introspection.  I don't have time for introspection right now.  My goal is to have the first stack of papers done by the time I have to leave for my daughter's Christmas choral concert tonight.  That will leave the second stack for when I return home.

I think this is the latest that I have ever graded at the end of a semester in a very long while.  Usually, I'm pretty much done several days in advance of when final grades are due.  I'm reaching the exhaustion stage of this whole process.

Now, I must return to the red pen . . .

Saint Marty will see you on the other side.  Hopefully.

December 15: Call Me Ishmael, Insane Day, "In the Bleak Midwinter"

Call me Ishmael . . .

Call me too busy to come up with anything better.

Welcome to the morning of an insane day.  Well, for 20 more minutes it's morning.  I've been in a flurry of preparation.  Creating programs.  Arranging poems.  Swearing at printers.  Sending text messages.  And now, at around noon, I have to go home, get changed, and head to the library for my first poetry reading of the day.

I have not much to give you guys this day.  I'm too busy to be thoughtful.

Saint Marty does have a poem to share:

In the Bleak Midwinter

by:  Martin Achatz

In the Ishpeming cemetery, a statue

of the Virgin Mary stands over

the grave of a nine-year-old boy.

My mother once told me myrrh

was a spice used in death,

that Mary knew her baby would die.

In the dark, the statue glows

like carved moonlight.

The first time I saw the Virgin at night,

I looked up, into her face, her forehead

smooth as ice, her eyes white and liquid,

her cheeks, stained

as if she had been crying blood.

This holiday season, I work my fingers

raw making wreaths.  Winding and pulling,

I feel the string digging into the creases

of my knuckles.  Sap stains my skin black,

and for days, I cannot make a fist

without my hands splitting open,

my blood smelling like cedar.

Tonight, snow is falling

on the ground like notes from a flute,

wavering and delicate.  The Virgin

shines, catches flakes in the palms

of her outstretched hands.

A Christmas wreath rests on the grave

before her—its ribbon bears two words

in gold:  “Beloved Son.”

I imagine the boy’s mother kneeling

at Mary’s feet, placing the wreath

the way the Magi placed the myrrh,

her heart swelling with sorrow.