Glitter Dust

Santa didn't forget to wax literary this holiday season!  Included in my West Coast Christmas box this year was this little gem, one of those most excellent 'paperblanks' books, the teeny one and inscribed on the first crisp page was, 'Glitter Dust' - a small notebook for small poems by Nicole D. Myers  (go to it girl!)  w/ love from Ru & Ter.  This fine offering came complete with a pretty rust coloured pen to match and delectable Purdy's chocolate for inspiration.  I count this as my most favorite gift this year.  I am grateful for their belief in my writing and their unending encouragement and support.  Along with all of their love and inspiration, I accept the challenge of turning this regal book into a volume of small poems!  

In fact, there's already and entry and you know I'm going to share it here:

Title This

under-fed writer

rationing tender 

words

to

voracious readers

title this

**

It'll be such a welcome exercise because I'm so ill-skilled at smaller verses and Haiku.  I can't wait to, at some point, thumb through these pages, full of words all because my beautiful friends dared me to.  I will carry it with me everywhere I go.  My new literary companion. 

Ru and Ter - you made my Christmas.  I love this more than I love Darth Tater (the latest addition to my potato head family) and he makes me hella happy.

We were meant to get quite a storm today but as it turns out, the rain is making more of a mess of the snow than we need.  We ladies were supposed to be brunching for my best friend's birthday but the weather  kept us inside.  We celebrated a touch early yesterday, shopping, dining and laughing.  It was a glorious day spent in the confines of friendship.  They are the best kind of days.  

In case I forgot to say it, Happy birthday, Erica.  You are a blessing personified. <3 

NYE preparations are in order today.  I have new shoes, a new handbag and some shiny accessories.  I look forward to stepping out with family for a rock show and my ride home in a champagne supernova.  2012 has been a slice, can't say I'll miss it.  I'm ready for onward and upward.  The best is yet to come.

Until next year, friendly readers.

In propinquity,

Nic

Climbing Parnassus

Climbing Parnassus

in a heralded enactment

the piquant Venus of Poetry

ascended the mountain-side

to bind a lover’s knot with a

condemned prisoner of wine

set ablaze with sweet ruin

two bodies became elegant tomes

rapacious tarns in an unmade bed

& sustained a sordid countenance

the fleeing narrator divorced ire

bursting from the lean highland

yet still secretly willing to oblige

the inner erotica of ardent canto

etching sacrifices into smooth stone

round words blossomed in bunches

curved and tufted grazing thighs

arousing lascivious intervals of rapture

measured against infinite imperial fire

the apex was a foredawn conclusion

& the eminence of mercy generous

amid strands of rhyme & drips of wine

Venus of Poetry tangled in the idle limbs

of an illicit lover remains the solitary detail

remembered by voracious readers
of shrewdly embellished mythology

climbing Parnassus
             climbing Parnassus

***

Just a little poetry as we head into the weekend and leading up to the end of another year.  Where did the time go?  It flew by these past nine months or so like a dream.  Several days have felt much like Bill Murray's 'Groundhog Day', some were full of joy and some with writing and friendship, others were less than desirable.  Looking forward, I can only hope for growth, to be better, do to better and to walk with grace, goodness, in the spirit of creative thinking and with a pure heart.  

I thought about doing a list, you know 'the best of 2012', but the best things about this year other than a few songs I fell in love with and a few movies that impressed, have all been right here, wallpapering the inside of my paper teapot, with you.  Thank you for being here and for indulging me, I am forever grateful.

I am sure I'll post again before the last day of 2012 expires but in the event that I don't, peace be with you and yours, in good health and kindness.

In propinquity,

Nic

Candles In Heaven

Another holiday season has come and gone.  I confess, Christmas wasn't full of its usual sparkle and bedazzled magic during the build-up.  I tried mightily to embrace the true meaning of Christmas which generally lends to my enjoyment of the whole crazy time while that worked, there seemed to be a quiet sadness hanging in the balance.  I didn't stress much over the shopping or any of that and enjoyed the bits I accomplished but the shine was missing for me, even in the warm glow of my tree (which I love more than any other Yuletide tradition).  Having said that, I spent some good quality time with factions of my big family and close friends.  I spent time reflecting, pondering, appreciating and shrugging off the last dustings of residual regret I was holding on to. I also watched one of my sweet friends lose her father this Christmas, his most favorite time of year, that was hard but inspiring.  It pained me know she was losing one of the people she loved most in the whole world at a time that was always full of festive family fun.  She did it all with bravery and grace, they all did and their strength is immeasurable, something easily inherited from a man build of goodness from the ground up.  Mr Churchill's heart may have failed him in the end but its essence lives on in his amazing children, those he made, flesh and bone, gifts to this world.  

Don't misunderstand, my Christmas was lovely.  Quiet and contemplative but lovely.  Some of the magic crept in a little as the faces of my loved ones entered my door. This years blessings were bountiful and tender and made me mindful once again that time is fleeting and precious and worth fighting for.

For Michelle's Dad and my friends whose loved ones passed on this year:

Candles In Heaven

they all survive here

nourished w/ fresh water

accepted assignment as angels

swathed in subtle surprise

in a heavenly home

they all survive here

a renewed intimacy w/ nature

fingers full of wild berries

face friends with the settling sun

in the habit of living freely

they all survive here

as celebrated light

candles in heaven

vast and clear

adoring His strength

psalm

hymn

prayer

they all thrive here

**

Be grateful.

In propinquity,
Nic

Sleep In Heavenly Peace.

There are simply no words.

If You Run Out Of Paper

I cannot for the life of me get my current prose piece on the go.  I have been editing, adding and deleting, re-arranging but nothing else will come, except for the small piece I've written.  It pains me because I really like the two new characters but something is holding me back, preventing me from telling their story.  I thought I might get to spend some quality time with them on Sunday when I was home alone but once I tinkered with my Christmas tree and a poem, finished a pile of neglected laundry and tidied up, I ran out of steam and out of time.  I'm leaving it up to inspiration now.  I can't have writers block because I've been writing poems like a maniac.  Maybe I was just too please with myself after 'Whistle' and rushed into another idea before it fully formulated.  I rushed into a good thing head first.  No good ever comes of rushing.  I do hope something sparks soon, I really want to share my nwe characters with you.

I polished this puppy off today.  Fussed with it and it's ripe and ready to be sampled:

If You Run Out Of Paper 

if you run out of paper

in the genuine pursuit of truth to

rediscover the beauty of the past

do not despair

it is widely accepted and understood

we often overlook imagined examples

of clarity & brevity for curiosity & inspiration

& how far we can stretch our arms open

to muscle through a path of creative content

if you run out of paper

be at least curious about the moment

you will find the instant suits you

do not protest

art is happiness methodically examined

so great an invention you will never have

to worry if your prose will triumph or your

image rich song is better sung in a folksy drawl

if you run out of paper

be sure to listen for the cheerful melody

that invites you to lose touch with your reservations

write on the walls or write on your hands never be

heartbroken to report you missed a word for lack of 

parchment

if you run out of paper

orchestrate a perilous tango of madness

because obstacles are emphatically verboten

if you run out of paper

you have arrived

**

Of course the premise here is that no matter what, never stop creating.  If you run out of ink, use a crayon.  If you break a pencil, use finger paint.  Just keep going.  And really, if you run out of your creative supplies you must be producing one heck of a piece. That's never wrong.

Think it's time to bundle up and carry myself out for a walk.  Throw in my earbuds and move around a little.  I intended to make today the day I return to the gym.  With daylight savings time, when I'm reading on the commute home I often get lost in my book (in this case my Wallace Stevens poetry volume) and I drove right by.  I promised myself exercise today, I need to get back to good healthy living.  This sitting down and working all day is for the birds, it may be great for writing time which I'd never complain about but my rump is suffering.  I must move.

Happy evening, friendly readers.

In propinquity,

Nic

Cup Of Light

It's a perfect Sunday.  It started with a delicious birthday brunch with my dear friend Sherrie.  We are both December babies so we decided this year to do a brunch together to celebrate being alive and the comforts of friendship over a decadent meal.  We dined at The Vines in Dartmouth, most noted for their Italian fare but also for their Sunday brunch.  The atmosphere was cozy and food was fabulous.  We talked over coffee, laughed while enjoying the ambrosia of culinary delights and posed thankful over a sinful bit of dessert.  We exchanged gifts and gratitude.  So lovely.  My friends truly are my estate.

It is also a perfect Sunday because it is a rare day to be at home alone.  I busied myself with a few domestic tasks and now I am parked next to a sunny window, with a cool breeze sneaking in.  The air around me is full of the sweet sounds of Matt Epp's voice and the fragrance of tea, Santa's Secret from David's Tea, one of the few teas Erica gave to me for my birthday.  And of course, with all of these beautiful elements, I finished editing my latest poetry offering, 'Cup Of Light'.  I also started working on another new piece.  You can't hope for better than days like today.

Cup of Light

when a word is beautiful

written on a piece of paper

folded up inside of a book

effervescent fonts surge in

a gentle stream of grace

from the protective pages

when discovered

& is approximate to a

cup of immaculate light

scribes leave tiny traces

words laid down safely

& some expire without ever

being passionately admired

when a word is bountiful

shrouded in the pall of privacy

secretly stashed away in shelves

full of soldier straight volumes

it longs for unbridled sovereignty

to respire

to delineate

to irradiate

a cup of magnificent illumination

one perfect word

one impeccable light

**

I will spend the rest of my afternoon working in something new, working away at a mountain of laundry I've been ignoring.  And perhaps a little bit of TV for company while I put the finishing touches on the Christmas tree.  It was decorated yesterday afternoon but still needs the icicles.  I have some catching up to do on my favorite shows so it's a possible plan but not before poetry!  Writing comes first.

Wherever your weekend took you, I hope you were among friends and you were smiling.

I'll see you on the flip-side, friendly readers.

In propinquity,

Nic

Distant Love

It’s a Friday, it’s sunny out and I've been stuck in my office all day feeling a migraine headache mounting.  Even with both of my eyeballs throbbing inside if my skull and my head pounding, I still managed to jot down a little poem; something soft and sweet, something secret and something sacred.  You can take from it what you like as is the beauty of all poetry, being open to individual interpretation or simply read for the pleasure of absorbing words.  It was written for a reason, for a certain human who owns a tiny corner of my heart.  And I find that sometimes, the tiniest corners are always the most thoughtful corners, where compassionate love swells.

Something wee tiny today:

Distant Love

distant love

your heart

a mockingbird

you will never

know just how

very close

your smile

is to God

**

I am looking forward to the weekend ahead.  I get to decorate my Christmas tree tomorrow with family, spend the evening with friends, birthday brunch on Sunday (yes the birthday continues!) and maybe a visit to my brother’s house a few hours away.  It’s been good to keep busy and in turn has helped me with the desire to keep writing.  Idle equals disaster for me, as long as I'm moving, the well is constantly full.

Short and sweet today, just like me.

Happy Friday, friendly readers.

You can go your own way.

In propinquity,

Nic

Gracias!

(Me, 24 hours old, 1973)

For the first time in a very long time, my birthday felt like an actual celebration.  In years past, I have had lovely birthdays but for some reason this year felt festive, with renewing qualities.  I felt a surge of pure love and I accepted every once with an open heart and a smile on my face.  This getting older thing isn’t so bad when you have a clear perspective on what matters in life and leaving the refuse in the wasteland where it belongs.  Being free of burden and letting go of things that inflict nothing but pain makes one feel alive.  Feels so nice to be alive and for one day, appreciated just for being here.  I believe everyone deserves a moment to shine and while I have always had an issue in the past with the attention, this year I basked in it, allowed it to wash over me and it restored my faith, especially in myself.

I owe many thanks to my dear friends and my crazy family for a fantastic day.  I woke up to lots of love that led me to a leisurely lunch with my best friend Erica and then some Christmas shopping.  Next, I enjoyed cake with the littles that turned into a bona-fide dance party in the kitchen.  Imagine a handful of elementary age kids breaking it down to LMFAO’s ‘Sexy and I Know It’ and PSY’s ‘Gangnam Style’ (both songs my request I might add) and you have a barrel of monkeys.  My face is STILL sore from laughing at their antics.  To top off my day, spent with so many people I love, I ventured to my brother’s house to help decorate their Christmas tree.  My sister baked shortbreads while my niece Chelsey and I busied ourselves with the task at hand.  Their tree is so beautiful, white twinkly lights with several of their ornaments red and white or clear.  We laughed our asses off, drank hot chocolate and when everything was done, we all sat back and reminisced which always leads to shenanigans and is cause for my heart to swell with affection.  I can’t declare our family is perfect, nor am I but there is nothing more precious than family, the one we are raised in and the family we make for ourselves with who we choose or perhaps who choose us.  Friends and family are the deepest riches we accumulate.  Nothing compares.

I don’t have any poetry today, just a mere thank you to those who touch my life – those who are blessings and those who were lessons.  It’s all the same thing to me. I am grateful. To those who know me well, you know who you are and to those who lift me up when I need it.  

I’m also a touch sentimental today too because in addition to it being my name day (St Nick’s day – victory for the people!) it’s the 95^th anniversary of the Halifax Explosion where two ships collided in the Halifax harbor and leveled a large portion of the city.  My heart goes out to those who perished, those injured and those who are/were left behind.  As I mentioned earlier today in a Facebook status, this anniversary is a stark reminder of how precious and unpredictable life is so we should appreciate each moment we are allowed.

Be kind to each other.  Be fair and be loving.  Always.

In propinquity,

Nic

Hallelujah

This morning was one of those days where reading the newspaper was more a delight than a stress.  Of course, the first story I saw was unavoidable, Kate Middleton is expecting!  It was only a matter of time.  Before I could read any bad news, and Canadian news outlets seem to be rife with it, innocent children being killed, and political unrest … you get the idea.  But, I didn’t make it to any of those headlines because I came across an article that appealed to my inner geek.  To be truthful, I actually tend to get my good news first because I read the Arts section first.  This morning there was a wonderful article in The Chronicle Herald, ‘Malleable Hallelujah interpreted by many’ a piece that can only refer to one artist and one song, ‘Hallelujah’ by none other than Leonard Cohen.

Author Alan Light wrote a book, The Holy or The Broken: Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley and the Unlikely Assent of Hallelujah.  A song so profound, with such a long illustrious history of performances and renditions required an entire book on the subject.  I must have this.  It will be mine.  It details and deconstructs its genesis, its turbulent beginnings in 1984 when the poignant song was rejected all the way to its world-wide celebration.  Sounds like something I can get behind.  Have you ever heard the version recorded by the late Jeff Buckley?  It’s absolutely stunning, masterful and in his stylistic choir boy melodiousness, conjures emotion right up from the pit of my stomach and tears from my eyes simultaneously.  Of course it could also just be the brilliance of the song.  It matters little who is performing it, it always incites a similar reaction except that when Jeff Buckley’s voice sounds it’s more akin to a spiritual event.

‘Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord

That David played, and it pleased the Lord

But you don’t really care for music, do you?’

Timeless.  Extraordinary.  Poignant.  And can you even comprehend now that this song is so revered, that it was rejected right out of the gate?  Astounding.

Which brings me to this new poem that developed from thinking about Leonard Cohen:

Dirge

Dance me to the end of this poem my love

hold my gaze with your time-worn notions

rent out my battered core for benevolence

I no longer know how to read your thoughts.

We should rejoice at a hand’s light stoke

against a blazing cheek when the urge strikes

but you don’t really care for me, do you?

Writing this is nothing more than my subtle nature

rising to greet your lips when the song goes silent

but madness settled in to postpone the inevitable.

I still hear your voice sometimes when I dream

in full conscience and joy I retrieve you

beyond the periphery of mournful verse.

**

Today is Tuesday and is apparently the day of Nicole’s International Forgetfulness.  I left my house for work this morning without everything essential for me to make it through my allotted hours behind my desk.  In addition, I left my cell on the kitchen table as well as the stack of holiday greetings that needed to be mailed.  I ran back, two separate trips, to collect everything I needed and still managed to make it to where I needed to be on time and deposited the mail safely in the box.  Sheesh.  When your day starts out in a rush it seems to set the tone for the rest of it.  I feel like I have evened myself out a little bit.  If only the program I used for work would cooperate now.  It makes for very frustrating transactions when the tools needed to do your job aren’t sharp, you know?

I look forward to the end of my day, a Zumba class with friends and a good night’s sleep before my vacation day tomorrow.  No one should have to work on their birthday.

So long, Marianne.

In propinquity,

Nic

Turn The Lights On

It was a last minute decision to take in Big Sugar’s Halifax show Friday, a whim that turned out to be one hell of a night.  Returning to the Olympic Hall, the same space where I saw the Sheepdogs felt like déjà vu.  Only two of us this time, we entered the venue, got our Sonic Concert bracelet, grabbed a beer and advanced to the front of the room.  We arrived a bit later than last time so we were just parking ourselves front row center for the opening act, The Balconies.  I think they are an Ontario band but don’t quote me, fronted by a sister/brother duo and backed by a friend.  They delivered a vigorous and earsplitting set of songs to a somewhat older crowd than I remember from the previous show.  Perhaps it has more to do with Big Sugar’s appeal and their longevity?  One can only surmise.

Suffice it to say, due to the ferocious delivery of their set, I had a difficult time deciphering one song from the other not that I’m versed at all when it comes to their discography.  As it was intended, they were loud and brash and unapologetic.  I confess I spent very little time watching the brother and friend contingent of the band because Jacquie Neville was riveting.  Mix the rock ‘n’ roll attitude of Juliette Lewis when she’s on stage with The Kicks, the sex of Peaches and a dash of Katy Perry pretty and you have a potent front woman.  Her antics scream metal, her attire of black shiny tights, a cut off tiger tee and white 80s ankle boots with blood red lips accenting her wide blue eye and jet black hair that she swung expertly as she crunched her guitar bellows girl power and later her cutesy  back-up singing swing softened her demeanor some.

I found the mix of their sound incredibly painful.  It was all high end no vocal.  The sheer volume and the close proximity to the stage may have contributed.  While I was rapt visually, sonically I was not.  It seemed more like indecipherable noise which can be good when you know what you’re listening to but musically it the set didn’t hold a lot of weight for me.  I was secretly pleased when they were finished.

During the quick stage reset I could feel the room fill up behind me without having to look.  The heat was mounting quickly.  I was grateful that I opted to wear a t-shirt despite the freezing temperature and bone numbing wind chill outside.

Tom Bedell took the stage and amped up the ripe crowd to introduce Big Sugar on the second last stop of their ‘Eliminate YA’ tour.  One by one, the band took the stage, the roar of hands pounding together and hoots and whistles brought smiles to their laid back faces.  According to Tom Bedell, Gordie Johnson visited the Q104 Hunger Strike earlier that day in Mic Mac Mall (a fundraiser for the pending holidays) and he saved his voice for the show because he was really sick and was determined to give his all.  He was indeed visibly mill but it didn’t stop him from blowing all of us away with what he does best.

I’m a really big fan of Big Sugar’s unique blend of rock, blues and reggae.   Despite the earthy sounds of dingy blues bars and Jah love, to me, they sound distinctly Canadian.   Let it be noted that Big Sugar are also the loudest band I’ve ever witnessed live.  Not uncomfortable loud like their openers, but rather a massive wall of delicious sound with deep penetrating layers of funky wallpaper.

The two hour show was deluged with popular Big Sugar standards, often bookended by blues breaks, raps and funk.  During the course of the show Gordie was able to show off a parade of loud guitars, the stuff of fan boy’s wet dreams.  They were beautiful and generated sounds that could only be conjured from his adept fingers.

 (Big Sugar rockin' it in Halifax)

I got lost in the show.  Being front row center watching Gordie’s hands play like he does, feeling the kick drum in my teeth, so close to the monitors striped with red, green and yellow duct tape that many of the details absorbed into my skin instead of into my memory.  I loved it so much I literally forgot where I was and felt like the music was an extension of me.  I know it sounds corny but that’s how I felt.

I can share with you, two highlights. 

‘All Hell For a Basement’ is my all-time favorite Big Sugar song.  I’ve heard it covered in bars all over this great city but nothing truly compared to hearing it from its source.  To add more magic to the song, it was one of the ones where the crowd out-sung the band.  Gordie raised his microphone stand and held it over the sea of singing faces, closed his eyes and smiled so contented and mouthed, ‘I love that sound.’  I was overwhelmed by emotion in that moment and felt tears spring to my eyes.  I managed to swallow them down to avoid looking like a nerd but I was awash with emotion.  To me, those are the most profound moments of a live show, when everyone is so connected by music, in unison, such a beautiful thing.

Gordie then shredded his way through a gripping rendition of ‘O Canada’ on 12 string, it doesn’t get any more patriotic than that.  In the last strains of the guitar laden execution, he raised his axe to rest behind his head revealing a proud Canadian flag on the underneath.  The crowd, primarily made up of the band’s male counterparts, thundered with approval.  It’s such an honour to be from such a grand country full of talented kinfolk.

(The Moncton show but you get the idea)

In short, in case you didn’t catch it, Big Sugar were dynamite.  They promoted love, rock ‘n’ roll and the power of positive ahem … smoking.  This all confirmed by the sheer number of weed that showered the stage from fists flinging it forward.  With the smell of incense and marijuana wafting through the air, it was one hell of a high.

The end of the show was something I hadn’t encountered before.  Gordie came down from the stage and graciously accepted accolades from everyone in the front row.  I was content with my fist bump while my concert buddy rallied for the set-list that was being peeled from the stage floor.  I am used to seeing the ladies surging forward grasping for the opportunity to get backstage but this night I was literally crushed against the barricade by a sausage fest trying desperately to catch Gordie’s attention, to be heard, to have a photo taken, to have their moment.  This was unfortunate for me because I’m only small and these guys were full of muscles, testosterone and intention.  I came away with a slight ache and a light bruise across my rib cage.  Oy vey.  Boys.

And again, up until this point, Big Sugar have been the loudest band I’ve seen live.  My ears clogged over to protect themselves and I could still feel the reverb fluttering around in my chest en route home.  Fun level and blissed out range = eleven on a scale of one to ten.

I never wanted them to turn the lights on.  I could have grooved all night.  So glad we went. 

Gordie Johnson is a Canadian treasure.  Big Sugar is da bomb.

It's Monday.  It's also a new month!  I can't believe it's December already.  Whoa.

Go easy.

In propinquity,

Nic

Beautifully Scripted

Last night’s Left Bank reading for the December launch of Open Heart Forgery was fantastical.  There was nowhere else in the world I would have wanted to be on a cold November night.  I was quite content, with a cup of hot green tea, with friends and the words of so many talented writers to warm my bones. 

It was a lovely crowd, some constants and a few new faces which for me is always exciting because it means I’m inching closer to being a constant instead of a newbie and it also means that Donal’s brilliant idea in creating OHF is reaching people, especially writers who are ready to share their work.  It’s a beautiful thing.

I always come away from those readings so richly fulfilled, as a person and a creative.  There is something so liberating and satisfying about word-play and hearing them come out of your own mouth after having them shoot out from your fingertips onto the page.  It was also nice to have my friend Colleen and her sister Laura come by.  The moral support is always welcome as when my best friend Erica attended in the past.  There is always an added element of ease when you look up from the podium and you can feel the back of your neck burning from being in the spotlight and someone you love and who loves you is there for you.  Means a lot to me, makes the writing life seem less solitary.

I am constantly grateful to Donal for this whole experience.

Tonight marks a last minute return to The Dirty O for Big Sugar’s show with my new concert buddy.  I’m pushing through this day after a long but lovely week only to end up on the receiving end of Gordie Johnson’s wall of sound.  Bring it ON.  I won’t be able to hear a thing tomorrow I’m sure but their live shows are outstanding.  Beats sitting home watching TV.

Speaking of Gords I love, I wrote the following poem for one of my favorite Canadians, Gord Downie (of Tragically Hip fame who I am SO pumped to see in February) after reading his profound volume of poetry, Coke Machine Glow.  It seems to be the appropriate verse to share with a rock show pending tonight.

Beautifully Scripted

(for Gord Downie)

When you sing I take notes.

I am awake in your movie

the subject of protest & censure

charting the erratic behavior of blackflies

against a stretched stain of summer.

I am on display

left alone before a crowd of

possessive Phantoms to explain

the rape of envy

all while maintaining a smile

through stern reprimands.

I am reading poetry aloud

in an empty bar-room

crude with artistic quality

this is bottom, friend.

Poet,

you are beautifully y scripted

I want to break in two

& become you.

You are exquisite.

**

(Sidenote:  If you aren’t aware of Big Sugar or Tragically Hip for their musical awesome-ness, please do yourself a giant favor and investigate.)

Happy Friday, friendly readers!   Don’t forget to be good to yourself and kind to others.

In propinquity,

Nic

Teahouse Tenure

This morning I spent some time browsing through my entries here at The Paper Teapot, trying to decide which two pieces to print and share tonight at the Open Heart Forgery launch and reading.  I read and re-read everything and even considered choosing something that’s a work in progress but in the end, I decided on a small handful but won’t be completely sure which ones I’ll read until I’m actually in the room.  It’ll depend on my mood too.  A day can really do a number on the kind of words you want spilling off of the page, out of your mouth.  Maybe I’ll be feeling sentimental and/or romantic; perhaps I’ll be agitated with the direction of the day and go a little more angsty.  I have something to fit every emotion.   My dear friend Colleen (and maybe her sweet sister) will be in attendance too.  Pleased about that.

In the interim, since I’ll be meeting with other writers in a café, I wrote a tiny poem to celebrate the atmosphere.  You can never write too many poems about tea, the elixir of life.

The poem:

Teahouse Tenure

fresh-drawn

cold water

rolling boil

warm porcelain

fragrant steam

cup and saucer

mystic meaning

purified peace

&

patterned patience

the perfect

cup of tea

sipping solace

**

I am praying the hours fly by today to arrive to a place where creativity and kindness rules.  If you’re in the downtown Halifax area around 6:30pm and are looking for something to do, we’ll be gathered at Just Us! Café on Spring Garden Road. I look so forward to seeing my writer friends, to sip tea and take in their verses.  It's a beautiful thing.

As my talented script supervisor/fellow writer friend Elspeth Grafton posted a few days ago on her Facebook status, ‘Creativity begets creativity.’  Do something that brings color to the world, for yourself and those around you.  Anything.  A poem, a sketch, knit a mitten.  Whatever moves you, do it. The world will be better because you did.

Happy Thursday!

In propinquity,

Nic

From You I Return New

I found a poem I started working on a few years ago, stuck inside of the pages of a book I was reading but obviously didn't finish.  I was in a happy place and it escapes me now why I never finished the piece.  Perhaps I was too busy living and tripping on a hole in a paper heart to concentrate?  At any rate, stumbling across the first few lines scribbled in my hurried scrawl, I rewound time and completed it.  It's more a work of fiction now, except for the first two lines.  They harken back.  Feels like a whole other lifetime, looking back at someone who is nothing but a stranger to me now.  Amazing isn't it, that the people who sit so close can often become the scariest ghosts of our past.  In the interest of writing, I never mind exorcising them here.  

The poem:

From You I Return New

to understand how we were brought here by love

to be such a woman to find you in the melody of hymns

to count the scattered stars strewn across your sea

to gather the precious stones flecked along your shoreline

to decipher the guarded grammar of your body language

to travel the safe passages traced along your warm flesh

to enunciate accurately that I am bare to your essence

to articulate the profound poetry forming on my tongue

from you I return new

to the world

to the heavens

to the ground

to know why we will surpass the glow of northern lights

to be the kind of miracle you discover at the end of desire

to love

to aspire

to nurture

from you I return new

from you I rise

**

PS:  I hope that each and every one of you find someone to compliment your life and you allow you to rise and feel whole.

In propinquity,

Nic

Sad End For A Writer

Sad End For A Writer

I believed you

emphatically

my synonym for beauty

in the present moment

when you openly professed

the intrinsic phases of poetry

evident through a summary

of sated spiritual upsurge

a veritable deluge of exactitude

so peculiar and incongruous

for your character to concede to

such an inspiring blithe explanation

that in response

I ceased a shrugging dismissal to

your dubious aggrandized anecdotes

I trusted you

haphazardly

my synonym for contentment

in the instantaneous past tense

I tended your

fragile heart

w/ quiet care

revolved around

your hours

w/ compassion

when you shed

your armor

leveled my field

& we settled into

that palpable

space in between

truth & lies

black & white

feast & famine

& then pretense

invaded the calm

I annulled our amalgamation

my antonym for abundance

disengaged our composition

my antonym for affection

all of your contradictions

have been redeemed

all of the words in your

failed language expired

a sad end

for a writer

in love

**

This week and crawling by after a great few days away from the norm.  I have Thursday's reading with the Open Heart Forgery gang to look forward to though.  The new issue is being released and I am happy to report that 'Aubade' will be included.  It's getting colder here now, with Winter looming.  I'm not a fan of snow and I hear the white stuff will fly sometime between tomorrow and Sunday.  Barf.  I was born in the wrong climate.

A little poetry for a sleepy Tuesday, hope you enjoyed.

In propinquity,

Nic

Sunday Morning With Wallace Stevens

Sunday Morning With Wallace Stevens

there will always be time for paradise

between the pages of a posthumous opus

on a Sunday morning with Wallace Stevens

& a stack of single-spaced American sonnets

to camouflage my infinite longing for poise

quietly we discuss the depths of imagination

while I rifle through my worn-in handbag

& he re-organizes the formula for poetry

there will always be cause for confusion

between my reflection and his encumbrance

with experience’s heart pulsing in my palm

& an entire winter of muted illustrations

to occupy his reclusive contemporary aplomb

nothing prepared us for what we would discover

from our time spent together chewing oranges

& sipping home-made wine from chipped goblets

the residue of our combined private predilections

sound after sound make a perfect song of loss

championing the seventy-five verses composed

on those calm Sunday mornings between breaths

intellect made of us a series

intention made of us a celebration

there will always be time for heaven

between me and Wallace Stevens

grazing the circumference of revolving angelic choirs

syllables in intervals illuminate the darkness of things

me and Wallace Stevens

***

Gearing up to hit the road for a weekend away but not before arriving home to pack to find two fantastic postcards waiting for me in my mailbox.  More for the collection!

Be nice to each other.

In propinquity,

Nic

She Appeals The Epilogue

She Appeals The Epilogue

she appeals the epilogue

by reshuffling the canons  of

squared indecipherable dreams

armed force with

skin-deep textures

outlines sketched with

equably anticipated oblivion

the seize of blind battled-field speeches

toil timidly through preventable asylum

trudging in harried footsteps toward

recumbent balance with vertical lines

of boundless textual assertions

trials of poorly inscribed margins

let loose a vague skein of clemency

the gesture of intrinsic opposition

abolishes traversed fractures of time

twisting in open-aired arguments

rippling rapidly with inaudible intonations

everything differed

everything dismissed

when she petitions the coda

her horizon looms

across the lowlands

raised voices

claim occupancy

&

the conflict expires

& ratifies her bones

**

Nothing pressing today, just a poem.  Gearing up for a quiet weekend out of town.  I look forward to a change of scenery, a little shopping, exploring, writing and relaxing.  

Also, a happy thanksgiving weekend to my American friends.  Be grateful.

In propinquity,

Nic

Sheepdogs Cometh

It amazes me that as I sit here every day plugging away at a mundane day job that some folks actually make a living playing music.  They are fortunate to be able to make money pursuing their passion.  Isn’t that a novel idea?  I think so.  Lucky are those who don’t have to subsidize their passion with menial work to pay the bills to be able to afford the time to do the REAL work.

Last night, a Tuesday and a proverbial school night, I ventured into the bustling metropolis of Halifax with my friend Colleen and her son Dustin to see the Sheepdogs with Yukon Blonde opening at the Dirty O. I confess I bought the Sheepdogs second self-titled release but didn’t listen to it much.  I purchased it mostly because I was obsessed with their single ‘The Way It Is’ but nothing else really grabbed me.  My second confession is that because nothing inspired repeat listens I forgot I even had it until Colleen asked me to go to the show and even then I didn’t listen to it much, mostly because I was busy or distracted or an even combination of both. 

The idea of seeing them live appealed mostly because I’ve proven to myself time and again that often when an artist’s work isn’t holding my attention from my stereo, when presented live, I tend to come away with a completely different perspective.  I proved my own theory once again.

En route home from work I got really pumped thinking about attending a live, sweaty, smoke-laden show at the Dirty O.  It was something to look forward to after waking up only to realize my alarm hadn’t sounded and I literally had one minute to get dressed, brush my teeth and get out the door to work.  I was in a panic but managed to get where I needed to be on time without forgetting my lunch.  Arriving home, I enjoyed a much needed shower and polish and plunked myself down for a date with iTunes before hitting the road.  I listened to the whole Sheepdogs record and turned to youtube to have one last listen to Yukon Blonde’s ‘Stairway’ (because I’m obsessed with that song too!) before taking it in up close and personal.

Once at the Dirty O, early enough to beat the crowd that would swell behind us, we checked our tickets, got our trusty wrist band, paid a visit to the bar for warm beer and then the merch table so I could grab the new Yukon Blonde CD (purchased right out of the hand of the guitar player) and we took our place for the show and somehow ended up in the front row right against the barricade.  Awesome, right!?  Works for me since I’m such a short arse so no one was in front of be to obstruct my view of the rock ‘n’ roll goings on.

Yukon Blonde catapulted into their set with a wave of boundless energy.  From Kelowna, BC they delivered their unique brand of indie rock to an appreciative crowd, approval resounding brassier and bigger with each song played.  I was shaking what my mama gave me and maybe a little bit more for ‘Stairway’.  I was really impressed with their cohesive sound and their obvious appetite for playing music.  A touring band is a good band.  They are just another example of that.  I don’t know the title of the song they ended their set with but it started off moody and melodic, lowly lit with blue hues.  Instrumental homage if you will, its crescendo climbed so slowly and languidly that it teased the senses.  You could feel it, the calm before the storm and the giant wall of sound that would result.  It came, washing over the crowd and ending in thunderous applause.  I hope they visit us more often.

(Sidenote:  I am obviously an observer and I find the whole music scene on stageand backstage fascinating, mechanics, set-up  et al.  What I really loved about last night is seeing various members of the Sheepdogs camped stage-side watching their Yukon Blonde brothers play like their lives depended on it.  It’s camaraderie, it is respect.  I really dig/dug that.)

Next, a brief intermezzo to break down Yukon Blonde’s gear, as meager as it was (I mused while looking around the stage before they came on and had no idea they had their own drums because it was so small and hidden behind the Sheepdogs kit).  The road crew busied themselves with the business of sound, smoke machinery and superlative musical instrument precision and perfection.  Checking guitars and carefully lining up cold cans of Heineken.   Rock ‘n’ roll is a thirsty business after all.  During this time, I enjoyed banter with my concert cohorts, fought with the tracking ball in my Black Berry (upgrade coming soon) and jammed a little to the overhead music.  I’m pretty sure the last song we heard was something Creedence as I recall John Fogerty’s voice but it was soon squashed by a raucous roar of welcome when the Sheepdog guys took the stage, picked up their guitars, sticks and tambourines and tore into their set. 

You know what I love about the Sheepdogs?  I’ll tell you – while the music business becomes bogged down with music made by computers and strung together dance-beats (which of course have their place) the Sheepdogs harken back to a time when music was simple and honest and earthy.  Their groovy, laid back brand of boogie-woogie southern rock made me feel like I was standing in a frame of Cameron Crowe’s film (incidentally my all-time favorite flick) ‘Almost Famous’, like an acid flashback to the 1970s.  The Sheepdogs could easily have been on the bill with Stillwater.  I got caught up in the feel-goodery  conjured up by Leot Hanson’s blistering guitar solos, Sam Corbett’s punchy drum assaults, Ryan Gullen’s impressive bass lines, smooth organ sounds and even a little brass by way of trombone.  While I may have found Leot to be mesmerizing to watch, Ewan Currie was the capital.  He commanded the audience with ease, his smoky pipes and deft skills ruled.  I was also (unfortunately) the recipient of a generous spray of Leot’s saliva that flew from his mouth, one of the non-perks of front row.  I hope I’m not pregnant.

(Photo taken by the folks at Q104.  My head is directly under the bass player's knee.)

I don’t have any complaints about the show except for they gave up ‘The Way It Is’ really early in their show considering it’s such a smash hit right now.  It’s a short ditty on the record and felt like it flew by even faster live, likely because I love it so much.  I wish they had extended it, added a solo or a booga-loo to make it last longer.  When I first heard the song on the radio I was thinking, “Gee, that sounds Black Keys-ish.”  Turns out my ear is still keen, Patrick Carney, the Black Keys drummer assisted them in the studio.  Coolness.

It is safe to say that the coolest part of the show was the encore.  When the Dogs returned to the stage, they invited Jeff Innes from Yukon Blonde out and then surprised the blissed out crowd by welcoming our one and only, Matt Mays to the stage too for a rousing sing-a-long of The Band’s ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down’. 

‘The night they drove old Dixie down

and the people were singing …’

Oh, and they were singing.

It was further accelerated when Yukon Blonde guitarist Brandon Scott (the dude I bought my CD from) climbed up on the barricade looking to crowd surf.  With a little help from a few of my friends we gave him a giant boost and watched him coast over a sea of eager hands until he disappeared.  Hope he made it out.

I left the venue feeling revitalized and sanctified by the powers of rock ‘n’ roll, happy to have shared a killer show with my good friend and her uber-cool spawn.  For a band I knew so little about, they really impressed me. 

No poetry today.  It’s all about the rock show.  I feel like I have smoker’s lung today.  The fog machine was in full steam and I still have a bit of a cold lingering so sometimes my voice gets squeaky.

In rock, we sacrifice.

All for now, keep on rockin’ in the free world.

In propinquity,

Nic

On The Incline

Everyone wants to elevate, yes?  Improve and grow, ascend to higher levels of humanity?  I’d like to think so.  I’d like to believe that even amidst all of the anguish and despair and outright stupidity in the world there are still those of us who want to burn brighter, to put colour in the world with goodness and fortitude.  Optimism in the face of on-going global strife, political emergency and spiritual discord – that’s what I believe in.  It’s frightening to look to news outlets for the world’s summary.  To have to turn to those who spin a story on its anguished axis to sell papers and magazines and improve ratings.  I feel like public figures have become not so much celebrities but cartoon characters and we are constantly missing the punch-line or are the butt of their asinine jokes.  And what of those people who call themselves writers?  The ones who bring us the news?  For the many that gravitate toward TMZing us for quick thrills and fast-paced tabloid faux-accolades, they are burying those few decent journalists that work tirelessly and strive to bring you the ‘real’ news.  We are so stupefied by bullshit reporting these days that true, intelligent newsworthy pieces are lost on us.  As are the lessons.

I suppose this comes from still being in a US Election hangover and discovering that the Globe & Mail has gone assaholic and will only allow me to read 10 stories before I am supposed to ‘subscribe’ and pay to read my news online.  Guess what, negative.  Literally.  I am making a promise to myself to ease off of the news for a little bit.  To not allow myself become so engrossed in it and to frequent sites and watch broadcasts that care more about their people and communities and the world instead of salacious splashy details and rely on fabrications *coughcoughfoxnewscoughcough*.  I could say that’d be CBC but they sort of have a hate on for our Canadian Forces which doesn’t really sit well with me so I guess I’ll have to resort to CTV news here at home, which means more of Cindy Day’s loopy hair and wardrobe fiascos and the Live At 5 crew who take us into our own backyards with stories that for the most part, appear relevant. 

This rant also comes on the heels of my inquiring about volunteer opportunities.  I really want to do something with a positive edge, to give to others, help others, to give back to the world somehow.  I have a few feelers out right now and am hoping to get started sometime soon.  More on that as it develops.  It’s time for me to re-focus and be mindful that reading articles about CIA numbskulls bonking babes and overdosing on news articles that in no way shape my person are better left for those with a lot of time on their hands, like those who leave long negative diatribes under news articles online.  Opinions are like assholes …

All that being said, it’s another day of trying to find the blessings, the better stuff, to be grateful and to seek justice when only it’s needed, to listen without judgment, learn and keep hope and goodness at the forefront of all of my intentions.  While I am doing good, I will maintain hope for greatness for the world and for others.  I know that those who do succeed but I like to think that those with hope will act and move toward positive change.   I think hope has a real place in our lives; it upholds our faith and inspires us to advance.  I like to live my life always on an incline.  It gives me something to strive for.  I trust it does for you as well.

Poetry:

On The Incline

amid

sand

& sky

speech

& space

words

& wonder

are

the full

focus

of

surveying

hope

&

endorsing

infinite

wisdom

on the

incline

**

Happy Monday, friendly readers and fellow optimists.

In propinquity,

Nic