I am simply a pawn with a pen ...

Over the span of my lifetime I will make mere pennies writing poetry.  Poems won’t pay the bills, build my dream house or win me any awards other than the personal reward of the sheer joy just writing them.  Kurt Vonnegut was truthful in his words displayed above; writing simply makes life more bearable, expands your soul and magnifies your insides for the whole world to see when your work is unleashed upon them (provided of course that you have a willing audience to read them or listen to them shared aloud).

In some way, every poem I have ever written poses personal.  Some have meanings buried deep inside of esoteric language; some have dubious double meanings, and some house blatant heartfelt homage rife with a wide array of human emotion and life experience.  Mirroring  Kurt’s sentiments, I have written so many poems to/for friends, family, lovers and enemies, lousy poems written with the best of intentions and by my superlative (or maybe not) skills spinning words.   While I have been told I lack in departments, like character, worth and wealth, I have always been complimented on my word-smithing.  So when I am reminded I am less worthy (to which I laugh inside and know better because I am fucking awesome) it is always coupled with, ‘But you’re a tremendous writer, do that.’  Thanks, jerks.  Those are the vermin who will find themselves underscored in poetries rampant in requited language.  Writing lousy poems for those who pad their footprints through my mindful muck and either leave a trail of timelessness or treachery is something I revel in.  I delight in paying praise forward, even though the wind can shift and turn the tide in a completely different direction.

The following poems are examples of poems directly asserted to specific persons; one complimentary, the other not so much.  Both written by my hand bearing the truth of each instance, moments long since gone, their remnants just poems now, scribbled in the pages of my writing book.  It is worth nothing that when they were written, they were both sincerely spurred on, one by pure gratitude and love, the other by whatever the opposite of pure gratitude and love is. 

At one of the many Open Heart Forgery readings I have attended, I read ‘No Ordinary Magic’ aloud and received such wonderful applause and feedback from those who shared the room and the podium with me.  It was the first poem that I read aloud with clear confidence, where my palms didn’t sweat nor did the room feel like it was spinning.  Stage fright is something I have been slowly trying to conquer and the readings I attend are a big help in that department.  I even attempted karaoke, potentially fuelled by a few too many cheerful libations, and was explicitly informed I should never quit my day job to embark on a singing career but the fact that I took the mic and sang at all is a miracle.  I’m not a born performer and choose to leave that to my more talented kinfolk and friends.  My stage fright originated in childhood.  Being the littlest Myers, anticipating a visit from my ‘rock star’ brother, I was in the comfort of my own bedroom belting out a Marie Osmond standard.  I was oblivious to the fact that my crappy sister was recording me crooning and I lost my lunch when I discovered she’d done so and demanded she never play it for anyone, EVER.  Later that day, during my brother’s visit, she ignored my earlier plea and played it for my brother, who at the time, seemed larger than life to me.  Forget Santa Claus, I had TJ.  I was horrified and I cried and hid.  I was so embarrassed and ever since, I’ve been plagued with awful stage fright.  I tried public speaking in junior high school.  I wrote fabulous speeches but my delivery was less than pensive and terribly shaky.  I used practice in the mirror at home and it’d be perfect but the second I stood up at the podium, I would freeze.   The Open Heart Forgery readings have really helped me to come out of my shell and conquer my fears.  I have since read aloud a thoughtful wedding toast and have read a healthy handful of poems in coffee houses and the like.  I’m proud of myself for advancing in my confidence and in truth, it feels really good to emote and be heard.  Took me a long time to realize and revel in it though.  Damn sister.  I guess, in part, this is why the following poem means a lot to me.  The first example of two to come from burgeoning emotion, this one, written in a propinquitious haze of adoration:

No Ordinary Magic

(for J.W.)

Thou art the surpassing pilot star …

W.B. Yeats

I exist when I write poems about catching myself in your augmented light

or when I travel the terrain of your body like a meticulous map of the world;

both, infallible tests to confirm that you have turned my heart into shapes of the sea.

Where do you come from?  Man from such small ceremony with dancing eyes, upending

all focus from ordinary to reverence, unbuttoning the night, turning everything to gold.

How did you personify the sovereignty I have only ever found when binding words? 

In depth, breath and in silliness, you make every page ever written seem perfect.

I am the poet thing but in your ever bountiful, unexpected and elegantly consistent pose I assemble a collage from all of the colours, words and pictures I’ve collected in your grace to define, illustrate, and narrate how you are able to strike fire without ever speaking a word.

In what magical word-pool do you wade?  One deep enough to gather mystery, washing me fixed in the shallows, unearthed by your potent tide that surges under a full moon.

All of the places you’ve ever been, slept, walked, tasted and touched inspire verses and I am simply a pawn with a pen ardently ambushed by your detail. I pay attention and write.

I write down every detail, never to forget.

*

I have no idea how this poem was truly received by its subject but it was revered by the room it was read aloud to; a shining moment for me, a personal success that I am proud of.

This second poem is contradictory to the feelings expressed in the first poem, denoting emphatic certainty that my naiveté was apparent and my trust was apportioned to another who was exceptionally undeserving:

Parable

this is a splintered parable

about Reverence and Virtue

revealing precarious prayers

a verbal allowance

of restricted truths

& harrowing sorrow

malignant material

tawdry testaments

contentious content

this is an augmented ode

to the fractured non-fiction

of broken-hearted introverts

shuffled by hues of homesickness

put on a brave face, darling

drink for free

cry at a price

story  skewed

story  shared

lesson learned

this is a parable

of Respect and Dignity

teach it

&

pay it forward

*

Apples and oranges but both are one hundred percent authentic me and where I was in life each time.

It’s almost the weekend and I’ve gone most of the week without reading material to ease the commute home from work.  Today,  because I couldn’t settle on a book to pluck from my bookshelves and can’t stand the thought of nowhere to escape to on my way home, I brought Steve Pressfield’s Do The Work with me.  I may be writing this blog but feel unable to write.  Suffering I suppose from a little bit of writer’s block stemming from a steady stream of elements plaguing my daily life.  Resistance has bitten me so when that happens, I spend time with Steven Pressfield because he always helps.  I also sometimes thumb through The War of Art when I’m struggling to write too.  The writer of The Legend of Bagger Vance, Steven has guided me through some serious blocks with his gentle brand of tough love and advice about conquering Resistance.  He’ll be a welcome companion for my afternoon recess and my travel buddy home.

Thanks for visiting and for reading.  I appreciate you.

In propinquity,

Nic