December 7: Exam Grading, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

It's been a busy day.  I spent the afternoon working on the Christmas album with my band, and then I graded some final exams.  Then we had another birthday party for my daughter.  Sloppy Joes and cheesecake.  The menu was chosen by my daughter and cooked by my sister.  I simply set the table and filled the water glasses.

And now, my daughter is having a breakdown because she has some newfangled gaming headphones and can't find the power cord to her laptop.  I'm talking hyperventilating, almost crying breakdown.  She keeps glaring at me because I'm sitting here, typing this blog post.  She wants my computer in the worst way.

After I'm done blogging, I will return to grading.  And grading and grading.  It's the end-of-semester crunch.  I have to have everything done by Wednesday.  So, I wrap this little post up with a Classic Saint Marty and a new Confessions of Saint Marty. 

By the way, if you didn't notice it on last night's post, I have included the link to the voting for the U.P. Poet Laureate.  Please, if you have a moment, vote for me.

December 7, 2012:  Peter Cooley, a Poem, a Wasp

This P.O.E.T.S. Day Eve, I have another Christmas poem for you. Actually, it’s more of an Advent or winter solstice kind of poem.  It’s by a poet named Peter Cooley, who was born in Detroit and teaches at Tulane University in New Orleans.  This particular poem is from Cooley’s book Nightseasons, and I simply love its darkness and light.  It reminds me of how important the small moments of life are:  a daughter’s hug, a son’s sneeze, a wife’s sleeping arm around your waist.

Those are the holiest of moments, when Saint Marty can sense the finger of God touching his every breath.

To a Wasp Caught in the Storm Sash at the Advent of the Winter Solstice

by:  Peter Cooley

Terrorless, I awake.

This is the darkest night

the year can turn to

and I, in the middle of my life,

float upon it, twilight,

from sleep deeper than drifts

canceling rockwall, fence and hill,

all neighbors beyond the window.

Soon gifts will come,

and then good wine and talk

pour through the adjoining rooms

while fires bank and fall.

But now, inside this moment,

between the cerulean panes,

your wizened, tiny, moronic

St. Vitus’ wiggle

draws the night sky down around it.

What brings your rasping to this edge

between one blue world and the next?

My face warping the glass?

My soul against your song?

A great poet

Confessions of Saint Marty

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