June 6-7: Miracle of New Poem, Vermeer, "That Girl with Pearl Earring, after Vermeer"

I have a poem for tonight.  It's new, something I wrote this past week, during a poetry workshop I led.

It's late now, and I have to work early tomorrow morning.  My daughter is in the shower, and my son just went to bed.  I'm waiting for my turn in the bathroom, to take care of my nightly ablutions.  It has been a good weekend, too short and too cold.

I am ready for a good night's sleep.

Saint Marty gives thanks this evening for the miracle of a new poem.

That Girl with Pearl Earring, after Vermeer

by:  Martin Achatz

That girl, with that piece of sea in her lobe, went out my front door just a few minutes ago with that boy she's been with these last three years.  And that girl was wearing that lapis lazuli headband, gave that boy that look, the one Vermeer captured in that painting.  That look, so unreadable, that could say, "Yes, I love you, and will let you touch me later," or, "You have no idea who I am, and you never will."  That boy will do anything for that look as he carries the fishing poles, tackle box out the door behind her, and that girl laughs that laugh and calls to him, says, "Don't forget that bug spray."  And that boy will look at that girl and, even though he has never heard of or seen that painting, he will understand it like no one else ever has.  He will imagine spraying her with the scent of evergreen from that can, to keep the mosquitoes from eating her alive.  To keep every last morsel of that girl's flesh for himself.

June 5: No Lower in Heaven, My Daughter, Cut from the Same Cloth

Merton stretches his wings, with the help of his godfather . . . 

What I most admired about Tom and Iris, from the start, was that they knew everything and had everything in its proper place.  From the first moment when I discovered that one was not only allowed to make fun of English middle-class notions and ideals but encouraged to do so in that little bright drawing room, where we balanced coffee-cups on our knees, I was happy.  I soon developed a habit of wholesale and glib detraction of all the people with whom I did not agree or whose tastes and ideas offended me.

They, in turn, lent me all the novels and told me about the various plays, and listened with amusement to Duke Ellington, and played their records of La Argentina.  It was from them that I was to discover all the names that people most talked about in modern writing:  Hemingway, Joyce, D. H. Lawrence, Evelyn Waugh, Celine with his Voyage au Bout de la Nuit, Gide and all the rest, except that they did not bother much with poets.  I heard about T. S. Eliot from the English Master at Oakham who had just come down from Cambridge and read me aloud "The Hollow Men."

It was Tome who, once when we were in Paris, took me to see a lot of pictures by Chagall and several others like him, although he did not like Braque and the Cubists and never developed any of my enthusiasm for Picasso.  It was he who showed me that there was some merit in Russian movies and in Rene Clair:  but he never understood the Marx Brothers.  It was from him that I discovered the difference between the Cafe Royal and the Cafe Anglais, and many other things of the same nature.  And he also could tell you what members of the English nobility were thought to take dope. 

Really, all these things implied a rather strict standard of values:  but values that were entirely worldly and cosmopolitan.  Values they were, however, and one kept them with a most remarkably nice fidelity.  I only discovered much later on that all this implied not only esthetic but a certain worldly moral standard, the moral and artistic values being fused inseparably in the single order of taste.  It was an unwritten law, and you had to be very smart and keenly attuned to their psychology to get it but there it was, a strict moral law, which never expressed any open hatred of evil, or even any direct and explicit condemnation of any other sins than bourgeois pharisaism and middle-class hypocrisy, which they attacked without truce.  Nevertheless their code disposed of other deordinations with quiet and pointed mockery.  The big difficulty with me and my failure was that I did not see, for instance, that their interest in D. H. Lawrence as art was, in some subtle way, disconnected from any endorsement of his ideas about how a man ought to live.  Or rather, the distinction was more subtle still:  and it was between their interest in and amusement at those ideas, and the fact, which they took for granted, that it was rather vulgar to practice them the way Lawrence did.  This was a distinction which I did not grasp until it was too late.

Until the time I went to Cambridge, I developed rapidly under their influence, and in many ways the development was valuable and good:  and of course, there must be no question of the kindness and sincerity of the interest which they took in me, or their generosity in devoting themselves so whole-heartedly to my care and to my training, in their informal and unofficial way.

It was Tom who definitely assured me that I should prepare for the English diplomatic or at least consular service, and did not spare any effort to see that I advanced steadily, in every possible way, towards that end.  He was able to foresee an infinity of little details that would have to be taken care of long before they arose--the value, for instance, of "reading for the bar" which simply meant eating a certain number of dinners at one of the Inns of Court, so as to fulfill the minimum residence requirements of a London Law student, and the payment of a fee for a minor distinction which would be useful in the diplomatic service.  As it happened, I never got around to eating those dinners, and I dare to hope I shall be no lower in heaven for my failure to do so.

Thomas Merton is young.  Thinks he understands the world, and views it with the jaundiced gaze of a teenager.  Teenagers are pretty astute at recognizing adult pretensions and hypocrisies.  Adult caution is seen as being old-fashioned.  Or just plain old.  Merton seems to be rejecting most of the expectations being thrust upon him by the adults in his life.  Instead, he's embracing new ideas and literature and art.  Hemingway.  Picasso.  Lawrence.  Merton is deconstructing his world, trying to make sense of its pieces.

My daughter is sort of doing the same thing right now, although she's not as stupidly foolhardy as Merton.  She's a thinker.  Before she makes a decision, she does her due diligence.  Doesn't rush in where angels fear to tread.  In that way, she's a lot like me when I was her age.  Example:  before Governor Whitmer ordered people to stay at home in Michigan, my daughter had been social distancing/avoiding contact for at least a month.  She simply stayed up in her room and came down to use the bathroom, shower, and eat.  I would have done the same thing at her age.

Some people might view my daughter as an alarmist, too old for her years.  I was speaking with her the other night, before she disappeared back up into her room, and she said, "I'm not worried about me getting corona.  I'm worried about bringing it home to you and what would happen."  I have been an insulin-dependent diabetic since the time I was 13-years-old.  My daughter knows this and has been concerned for me since the pandemic began.  Since before I was worried about myself.

At an age when most young people are going to parties and on road trips with friends, she is being forced to adult.  She was a one-year-old when the 9-11 attacks happened.  She has never known a world that wasn't ruled by the fear of some kind of daily threat--terrorist or virus or Trump.  I'm not saying that she's a skittish rabbit everywhere she goes.  She isn't.  As a young person person, she dealt with crippling social anxiety, but she overcame it.  Forced herself into situations that made her uncomfortable and worked her way to comfort.  That's how she operates.  She doesn't hide from challenges.  She confronts them head on.

I'm saying all this because she came to me for advice about a decision she's mulling over.  It involves friends and travel.  As I said, she and I are sort of cut from the same cloth.  We examine and analyze and reflect.  There's a reason I'm a poet and she's studying to become a doctor.  Both professions require precision and thoughtfulness.  An ability to see the bigger picture and put things into perspective.  I have every confidence my daughter will make a choice that is smart, healthy, and responsible.

So, tonight my miracle is my daughter, who is not too old to come to her old man for advice.  She is a remarkable young woman.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

June 4: Poetry Workshop, Zoom, "Spring Choirs"

So, I'm a little late publishing this post.

I led my monthly poetry workshop on Zoom this evening with a group of talented, wonderful writers.  The theme this month was "Ecstatic Ekphrasis."  We spent the night responding to various works of art, visual, poetic, and musical.  I'm always astounded by the depth of thought and reflection that emerges from participants of such diverse backgrounds (retired English professors, yoga instructors, piano teachers, physical therapists, visual artists, life coaches).  It humbles and inspires me.

That is my miracle for tonight--writing with people who bring out the best in me every time.

For that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

And, to prove that I actually did some writing at the workshop myself this evening, a little sample:

Spring Choirs

by:  Martin Achatz

The spring crickets and peepers were loud as interstate traffic tonight, calling and singing to each other under gauzed light.  I had just turned off the living room lights, shut the windows, put my lunch in the fridge for tomorrow's work.  And then, I went out my front door, stood barefoot in the grass, and listened to the choirs of insect and amphibian, with an occasional dog adding tenor or baritone.  The universe at that moment, that instant, seemed all right, as if nothing could be wrong anywhere in its vast concert hall.  No discord of plague or war.  No disharmonies of famine or hatred.  Just wet grass and mud under my toes, dark fingers of lilac branches reaching up to the starry, starry keyboard of night.  And the crickets and peepers serenading moon and comets and cosmic dust.

Try it now.  Slow everything down to the life span of a cricket.  Until one breath is a minute, hour, day, month, year, decade, century, generation, era, epoch.  Until that breath spills out like a woodwind in an orchestra, playing one, true, clear note into the ear of the universe.

June 3: Cole, A Miracle, "Dedicated"

Tonight, I'm writing about a young man whose whole life has been a miracle.

"Cole" is the nephew of one of my best friends.  He has had health struggles his entire life.  Born with a severe form of cerebral palsy, he has grown and thrived because of love.  In his young life, he has undergone over two dozen surgeries.  Without words, he communicates.  Without the ability to walk, he never slows down.  He is the anchor of his family, holding them steady with the light of his smiles.

Today, Cole was brought to the emergency room of our local hospital because he told his mother that his lungs were burning, and he was struggling for breath.  After many tests, the doctors sent him home, because his family already has a ventilator to place him on.  He's in his own bed now, surrounded by everyone who has nurtured and cared for him.  They are awaiting the results of a Covid-19 test.

I don't have to ask for a miracle for Cole.  Cole is a miracle.  What I'm asking for tonight are prayers and love for Cole.  Lift him up to whatever higher power you believe in.  Yahweh.  Jesus.  Buddha.  Mohammed.  God.  Science.  Ask for healing.  Ask for strength.  Ask for the universe to smile down on him, the way he's smiled up at the universe his whole life.  I want everyone who reads this post to be a miracle for Cole.

When my nephew, Caden, was dedicated at church as an infant, I wrote a poem for him and his parents.  I'm including that poem tonight, this time for my best friend's nephew, whose whole life has been dedicated to love.

And for that Saint Marty gives thanks.

Dedicated

by:  Martin Achatz

My daughter draws roses

Crowned with valentines,

Stems long, leafy, without thorns.

She hands me a sheet of them,

A garden bright as Christmas lights,

Cardinal red, finch gold, jay blue.

I put the picture in a book, know

Tomorrow, when I open it to read,

My daughter’s flock of blossoms

Will take flight, fill the air

With the slap of crayon hearts.

Christ, as a child, scooped clay

From the ground, molded it

Into a bird, a wren

The size of a date.  He brought

His creation to Mary and Joseph,

Caged in His ant fingers,

Released it before them.

They watched it rise into saffron

Sky, disappear like the frost of breath.

Perhaps that’s when they truly knew

He didn’t belong to them.

I want to keep my daughter’s roses

Locked deep in the bed of my chest

Where they’ll flutter like trapped sparrows.

But I have to let them go.

They don’t belong to me.

They belong to the grass, the clouds,

The pigeon-white moon,

The bright palm of the sun.