Writing Blind

Writing Blind

I always hope it will be scrupulous and lively

the tender trap of an ordinary Heaven, writing

piecing together old wounds in my thinking suit

an old mushroom-hued nubby cardigan sweater

I strive for it to be devotedly comprehensive and strident

every single page cluttered with ample prose and poems

created inside the confines of my own private organized chaos

my stomach tied in the most intricate of stubborn knots

and the silence so deafening that to breath is impossible

writing blind toward an ending is an indescribable ecstasy

it is an enforced soberness to arrive at the conclusion

to have left so much of your private self behind in plain sight

the goal: to be a fine practitioner of word-molding magic

the hope: to morph from clumsy tenderfoot to the premiere suite

the way: coached in language by the Supreme who have come before me

the struggle: to isolate the ownership of memory and make-believe

the reward: sensitive curation of intimate markings touching others

I always trust it will be honourable and animated

the hapless adventures of my pen moving across a fated page

a demand for love to disarm the weight of the world and suspend

into the fabricated fortunes, fortitudes, follies and fouls of fiction

I endeavor for it to be forged with unceremonious courage

all tenacity, all mettle, all nerve and valor, audacious and dogged

immune to the clamor and distraction of both praise and criticism

to be able to bookmark my beginnings and focus on the process

I arrive, as imagined, empty-handed to every occasion ready to toil

I tell myself: ‘You are a woman of infinite talents. Get to work.’

and, I write.

**

Writing a poem about writing while aching to write anything other than a poem.

It’s all work. It’s all creative.

Don’t sweat the small stuff, yeah?

Got it.

In propinquity,

Nic

Caught In The Act

I tried desperately to squeeze some joy out of my mid-week holiday this week. Canada Day came, the sun poured through the windows with the promise of hours of enjoyment ahead. I struggled, the second my feet hit the floor, to ‘get with it’ for lack of a better phrase. Not wanting to waste a perfectly gorgeous day, I forced myself outside into the throngs of people and strollers and wheelchairs up and down the Halifax waterfront. Big mistake. Doing this activity alone and aimless: no plan, no comrades, no sense of direction; bad idea. I was already in a dark frame of mind, weighed down by the pressures and anxieties currently plaguing my days. I should have stayed home. That became evident when the sun gave way to the dark menacing clouds and it started to pour. I was on Barrington Street in short sleeves, no umbrella, minimal cover and solo.

My only goal in the weeks leading up to my country’s birth was to head down to the free show at Alderney Landing to catch the Glorious Sons from Kingston, ON. I’d seen them open for Airbourne at The Marquee and I fell in love with their particular brand of rock ‘n’ roll. When I set out across to Halifax, the idea was to eventually end up back at Alderney Landing in time for their set. But I got drenched en route to Dartmouth so I just kept on going until I was home in my comfies curled up with my eyes closed, agitated beyond comprehension. The only bright spot of the whole journey was a wee visit with Hannah.

Checking the clock and in with a friend, I opted to force myself back up, change into something warmer and go do what I wanted to do for weeks: see Glorious Sons. Timing was perfect, I arrived at the grounds just as they started their set.

A strange thing occurred to me as I watched them rock and then roll. I was standing in a crowd of thousands of people and had never felt lonelier. A profound sadness washed over me and it was all I could do to keep the tears in.  

But then, there was that kick drum … that fortuitous power filled up my being with authority.

Music does save. It did me in that exact moment.

I went to bed less filled with the dread of the day and more with the hope of making my tomorrow better. I can sometimes get very low but then my inner-optimist wakes up and slaps my feelings silly, reminds me I can do better, be better and kinder to myself. With struggle comes progress, right?

So, in addition to being brought back into the light but a rousing dose of rock, I also started reading a sweet little book: ‘Hector & The Search for Happiness. It is teeny tiny trade-paperback written by Francois Lelord, simply written yet insightful. It’s a wonderful little parable about modern life, about happiness and unhappiness. If you’re looking for a quick read with heart and lessons learned, pick it up. It is just what I needed. I found my copy under a pile of writing folders. I forgot all about it but it was like I was meant to forget so I could find it now when I was most in need of the directives.

Today is Friday. I missed the OHF gathering last night and I have this poem in the current issue. I really could use a gathering to get up and share some writing – better yet, I could really use a decent spurt of energy to create something worth sharing!

**

Caught In The Act

a singular vehemence instigated

a triumphant return to buoyancy

the near absence of preeminence

enacts an aesthetic  to serve admirably

the idiosyncratic ringing of the bells

bewitched an unleavened expression

to recite lengthy open-hearted verses

a rising narrative of subtle nuances

on the poetic condition

caught in the act of rhythmic climax

a surreal phrase

on a brisk winter morning

**

Happy weekend, friendly readers and loves.

Be happy.

Be free.

Be safe.

In propinquity,

Nic