Exit Poll, 2016

2016 has left me speechless. That's all I can really say today. I plan to ring in a new year with my chosen family, Chinese food, jammies, merriment, belly laughs, champagne, with the same wish in my heart as always: that goodness will prevail.

But, even when the chips are down and the cards are stacked against you, there is music. These, the three songs that got me deep in the heart muscle and shaped my insides:

The Sound by Matt Epp featuring Faouzia - Everything Matt does is a revelation, I discovered this wonderful human being in my Myspace days and it has been so much fun watching him share Amoria and incredibly moving music with the world. He is, hands down, one of my favorite people on the planet. I listen to CBC Radio 2 Morning faithfully and this song is swinging into some heavy rotation and rightfully so. Matt is an artist worth your time. And this song, so deeply resonates with every soft heart that has known love.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HYWVePW6Ovo

The Stranger by Gord Downie - The inclusion of Gord Downie goes without saying. I will keep this to a minimum to not go so deep in to poetics and emotion of all things he means to me because his Secret Path project, his passion project, changing a whole layer of the Canadian landscape. It may be his greatest legacy and I think he'd be okay with that. I still believe, after losing Leonard Cohen this year, Bowie, that Gord will live forever. 

Rehtaeh by Adam Baldwin - It has been a good year for Adam Baldwin musically, off on tour with his exceptional band in support of his new record with July Talk and open here at home for Sam Roberts Band. I stood in the Forum during his set, in awe of the crowd; eyes forward on our Dartmouth brother, singing his words back to him. That has to be a good feeling. And still, in all of the rock splendor, when he pulls out his ode to Rehtaeh Parsons, the gooseflesh pops and the tears form. It's a powerful song and it's beautifully written and executed. Should have one all the awards, and at my gala it did.

**

However you choose to bring in a new year, I wish you well. Hug your people. Be present. Be kind.

In propinquity,

Nic

He'd Be A Pretender

He’d Been A Pretender

strange months

of old town blues

the awful romance

of it all worn clean

on the curl of his lip

he’d been a pretender

pretentious

                contentious

fabricated

strange months

in the wilderness

the firm resistance

of it all worn blunt

in his empty gaze

he’d been a pretender

**

So many pretenders.

That is all.

Happy Saturday!

In propinquity,
Nic

This Pause

This Pause

this pause

is for a poem

creative

redemptive

sanctifying
a horde of

raw material

                manipulated

to purge

the ugliness

                to forge

a path to beauty

**

My thoughts are full of strife at the moment and in looking for ways to ease them, a poem. I’ve been feeling quite left of center lately, so when inspiration strikes you grab it. You get your hands on it and you hold on tight. You don’t let it go: and so, a poem.

I will be seeking refuge shortly after I leave my work desk today; a jaunt in the cold, under a grey sky where daylight will slip away quickly. Errands. Well, one, acquiring a vessel to transport precious Christmas cargo west. It is an important task and one that will lift the spirits knowing that when I get home I can place all the pretty things inside with a little of my love and gratitude.

However you spend your evening, I hope it is delightful.

In propinquity,

Nic

Apt Metaphors

Apt Metaphors

somewhere unplumbed

somewhere concealed

                hidden deep

inside the wilderness of

                the human spirit

euphoniousness

                benevolence

                                clemency

all will upend

the insipid visage

of the crestfallen

somewhere secreted

                a susurrous echoing

will call verity to the peripheral

                the potent will temper

& the Amorians will once again

                inhabit

the richness of their imminent                  

                impressive front

**

It is palpable: the odium that has risen up to the surface and has flooded our information highways, our neighborhoods, our daily lives, our worst nightmares. The US election has held the entire world in a tight fist of anxiety right up until the stunning realization that a fascist will now be in charge of the free world. A spray-tanned elitist with his spoiled family are soon to replace a formidable leader, one of which the world may not see for some years to come, if ever. I read all of these stories about racial unrest, redneck gun-toting rhetoric, sexist slurs: all of this abhorrence has boiled up and splayed an abhorrent shadow across all of the things that are good in this world. I have to believe goodness will prevail; I have to believe it out-weighs the ugliness, I have to believe that intelligence and beauty has reining power over the foul. I have to. I take comfort in the motto that love trumps hate. I have to believe it does, I just HAVE to.

And so, this poem.

In propinquity,

Nic

Efficient Little Stanza

Forgive me. I know it is Remembrance Day but I woke up with swollen eyes and a heavy heart, going to bed with the knowledge poetry’s Holy Grail had died. It has been a tough year, 2016, for fallen artists, important ones, but this socked me so hard I could hardly sleep. It likens to the emotions felt when I heard Gord Downie was afflicted. I knew Leonard wasn’t well but I hung on his promise that he’d live forever, the same way I always believed of my father.

I was up early. Brewed myself a cup of coffee in my ‘cup of longing’ (a souvenir I covet from his show in Halifax a few years back that changed my whole entire insides), and started writing. I apologize, as I am not as articulate today as I can and should be. I am just heartsick and saddened. All of the tributes flooding the internet helps, recalling Adam Cohen’s uplifting show at The Carleton where he performed ‘So Long, Marianne’ and I wept profusely out of my left eye the whole time refusing to breathe or else I’d blubber, shaking his hand and talking briefly about his father and his own talents: all helps.

Leonard Cohen, at 82, left the table but left behind a body of work and a resonating influence that will last even long after I’m gone. It has been such a wondrous journey, following him, learning from him, listening to him, celebrating him.

Au revoir, fallen star. I love you.   

**

Efficient Little Stanza

you left the table

I remain

under fedora brim

topping up

two fingers of rot gut

whiskey

with brackish tear-jewels

last we met

I was in a state

you reminded

me to remain

reflective

& unburdened

to make art

to take my good time

you smoked cigarettes

I glugged robust coffee

I wept  

                & you laughed

I was disheveled

& you of course

                always

dressed for ecstasy

our last meeting

                is tied up in an

efficient little stanza

                handwritten

in a moleskine journal

                for safe keeping

now

                you’ve left the table

I remain

                your old pin-striped

grey flannel jacket

                draped over my shoulders

your poetry on my tongue

               

birds on the wire

                did not warn me

you would be gone

                when I arrived

                so long, love

it’s been nice knowin’ ya

**

Remembering my literary hero today as well as all of those who have fought for our freedoms. So many emotions today. So many.

In propinquity and in Flanders Field,

Nic

Pop Art Pack Rat

Pop Art Pack Rat

Pop Art

Grand Poohbah

Tsar sat high

in an exalted

tin-foiled office

among

prefab superstars

heroin heads

wannabes

hangers-on

one of his mega

zillion white wigs

shoots up

                tickles the

lashes of fizzled out

fallen angels

while he imitates

w/ forged artistic

oomph

Campbell soup cans

paints a first lady red

multiplies Marilyn

in silk-screen surprise

                while in secret

created chaotic clutter

in his humble abode

squirreling away              

                airplane menus

                unpaid invoices

                pizza dough

                porno pulp novels

                grocery fliers     

                                & stamps

                a mummified foot

Caroline Kennedy’s birthday

                                cake

                kitschy cookie jars

                in the shapes of

                                dogs     

                                pigs &

                                pandas

                dead insects &

invitations to events he

                did not attend

a skinny four story space             

                                stuffed

                crammed

                                610 boxes

heaving with stuff

His confession:

“I can’t throw anything out.”

**

I forgot that famed pop artist Andy Warhol was an over-zealous hoarder. I was reminded of this fact the other day skimming an article online. It stuck with me and as with many other things, served as food for a poem. It’s such an interesting morsel of his fascinating and multifarious life, certain he had hoarding down to a shambolic art-form despite the desire for a clean space. His stuff got the better of him. Another eccentricity he personified.

I wonder if it is a creative affliction? I have, for many years, been known to store away a great many things due to their sentimental value. The older I get, the more I am inclined to part with things, especially the collection of things that I truly don't need or that no longer bring me joy. I'm not as apt to hold on to every-single-thing anymore. But, there is a decent mountain of goodies that could still go heave-ho. I'm not necessarily a hoarder but I do often lean toward collecting the tokens that color my experiences or my history. I've stopping stashing the most important items and limit myself to adding to the rock wall instead. Wait, did I just totally contradict myself?!

In propinquity,

Nic

Ghostly Tricks in Eastern Passage

I have been digging back into the archives, reading some of the stories that I wrote way back when for a local newspaper. I was tasked with writing ‘stories from the past’ for the Eastern Passage and surrounding areas. Some of the stories came to me by way of my Dad. I want to preserve some of them here and with Halloween coming, I thought this one would be appropriate to begin with.

**

Ghostly Tricks in Eastern Passage

Are you superstitious?  Panic when you see an owl in daylight?  Knock on wood?  Shrink when a black cat crosses your path, your heart skips a beat when you break mirror so you tie your handkerchief in a knot to ward off evil?  If you're one of those people who avoids walking under ladders or counts crows this story of a prank played on an old Eastern Passage resident who was superstitious will appeal to you.  Leo had an active imagination and was genuinely spooked by ghosts.

Ghost is a word derived from the Saxon word gaste, meaning spirit. In common usage, a ghost is the soul of a dead person that becomes visible to the living. Psychic researchers refer to a ghost as a recurring apparition.  A ghost does not inter react with the living but rather repeats the same action over and over, like a tape being replayed again and again.  Leo was well aware of the activity of ghosts and it sent him into a tizzy just thinking about it.

In the 1940s, the young men of Eastern Passage could often be found hanging out at the Myers Pool Hall on Quigley's Corner.  Leo was one of the usual suspects.  You could spot him easily by his wild tuft of curly hair fopping about while making his way around in his bare feet on his trusty bicycle.  Not a fan of the washtub, his idea of 'cleaning up' was applying a little powder and he was ready to go.   He was a comic sort, often a casualty of horseplay.

Al and the other guys in the pool hall were notorious storytellers.  Devising antics of tomfoolery and telling harebrained fibs while chalking up their cues.   He knew Leo was scared of the dark and particularly of ghosts.  At nightfall, Leo would always rush home, passing the graveyard at St. Andrew's Church. He would pedal fast, his heart racing until he was safely by without incident.  Al knew this and used it to his advantage.

One evening, Al was in the mood to rile up a little mischief.  Night fell to a black hush and Leo mounted his bicycle giving himself a push start off home down the dirt road.  As usual, the closer he came to the graveyard, the quicker his pulse raced.  St. Andrew's cemetery sent chills down his spine especially in the dark. Al, being good with detail knew all of this and decided he would treat Leo to the fright of his life.  Leo pedaled with a fevered pace evading all that goes bump in the night, stiff on top of his bike, focusing straight ahead.  Al was waiting for him behind one of the larger headstones in the cemetery with a ghastly white sheet draped over his head.  When Leo approached, sweaty and nervous Al, in his clever disguise jumped out at the wiry haired man aping the sounds that we imagine ghosts make.  “WOOWWWHOAAAA!”  Leo's eyes widened with sudden fear and jumped ten feet in the air nearly throwing himself off of his bicycle.  He jerked his pedals so hard he snapped the chain spinning his dirty feet creating a billowing cloud of dust behind him.  Al watched Leo, spooked to his core race off pushing his bike with his feet all the way home.  All Al could do was laugh.  He returned to the pool hall to recount his caper to the boys.

The next evening Leo told the story of how he was attacked by an aggressive spirit rising out of the cemetery.  He had every man in the pool hall in stitches, standing in the middle of the room replaying the scene, his hair still wild, and his eyes popping.  Al chuckled and confessed to Leo it was him dressed up in a sheet trying to fool him but Leo wouldn't hear any of it, he knew better than to believe anything that came out of his mouth.  He went on believing that there was in fact a ghost out for revenge and pedaled quicker every night after on his way home.

**

I miss my Dad telling me stories, especially after being afforded the opportunity to tour through the Myers homestead yesterday with family. The walls vibrate with history and stories and shenanigans. I wish I knew every single one of them so I could write them down.

I’ve got a few more ghost stories from the area I used in those news stories to share here in the coming week. It’s so much fun re-reading them now.

In propinquity,

Nic

Je Est Un Autre

Je Est Un Autre

I am another

willfully opaque

unable to choose

between

an Olivetti typewriter or

a leopard skin pillbox hat

I am another

where you are not

                between

the present moment or

a place of grave vacancy

I am another

better than words

more lovely than

                a dream of

                serene wiles

I am another

a minute vertical line

counterpoint

to the void of course

I am another

here only to

translate the surge

                of           

arbitrary signs

               

**

There are nods in this poem to men I greatly admire: a recent Nobel Prize winner, the Senior Cohen, and someone who this summer, united a Canada I believe in and love, through music and compassion. Poetry, for me, is my outlet, it’s my vehicle, it’s my happy place - where today I have encapsulated three venerable human beings in the medium we each call home.

In propinquity,

Nic

Pity The Fool

Pity The Fool

go on

pity the fool

the poet at night

writing character

sketches of battered

women

inexplicable demons

                rise

profess to be ordinary

& soil summer dresses

go on

pity the fool

the night poet

who breaks

down

when tears come

pushing poems

to their long bitter

limits

piecing the sweet

dreams of lost women

together

with paper-clips

go on

pity the fool

                who keenly

hauls the trash

                out

alerts the reader

combats violence

                fights

until anyone bothers

                to notice

**

The news of late has me fired up about important things such as the many ways women are harmed, both by men and the media. Frankly, I'm fed up. I am tired of misogyny, tired of 'locker room talk', tired of abuse, body-shaming, slut-shaming, tired of my sisters of the world not being heard when she's been hurt. Pity the fools. The abusers, the sexist dregs of society. There's a special place in hell for you. 

In propinquity,

Nic

A Long Way To Prayer

A Long Way To Prayer

it is a cool cerulean morning the

sunny slope of daylight dawning

I am wrapped in a warm shawl

w/tea at my Carleton House desk

long into the privacy of my wits  

intent to ease a critical torment

the absorbing errand of

writing something down

for the time being, I consent to

the calm will to chew my pencil

this poet, awakened to the perils

stationary in the heart of the world

the itinerary of the sun

I resolve that I am not alone inside

a sound presence tizzies, is resolute

its provident measures preserve me

safely in this scene of spreading paper

I could sit here forever, not a single

sentence strung just for the quietude

akin to the day Light was named

this joy postpones enduring travail

guised as a harbinger, a prompt that

                it is a long way to prayer

en-route I count treasurable things

handwritten letters, polaroid pictures,

a small porcelain box full of sea-glass,

a cracked vase, chipped china from a

pattern used at Christmas luncheons,

paperbacks, hair-pins, and the Muse

my ideal friend, with me while I walk

around & will be with me in the grave

it is a short Horizon

                a long Heaven

write everything down

in the affirming arrangement of prayer

I know all of this to be true in the glow

of cerulean morning, wrapped tight in

wool, the sweetness of steeped tea &

a great gift to acknowledge

& all of it abolishes an incarnate woman

                Me

**

I have been feeling like someone kicked me square in the gut lately. It’s always good to play with words when things happen to your heart, your psyche, your spirit. I’ve been trying for the last few days to peck. This poem, the result. It was a slow burn but it served its purpose: healing.

It’s interesting, when I grapple with unpleasantness; my poems tend to be laced with a spiritual tinge. I notice this about myself, perhaps it’s a subconscious defense mechanism, an ideal friend guiding me along as the poem suggests? I tend not to be creative when I’m unhappy but this one pieced together but only because I needed to write something; even if it was something small, something messy, something spare. Some days it is a long way to prayer, but today I skimmed poetry and that was good.

In propinquity,
Nic

Sad Desk Lunch

Sad Desk Lunch

lunatic poet in slick loafers

eats a sad desk lunch while all

the beautiful words are dying

hunches over in a dim cubicle

gobbles up a cold container

of leftover pappardelle pasta

tuning out dust-bowl ballads

wafting through the window

the old FM radio blaring from

cheap cars hopping potholes

on the sullen city streets below

cranky, old-fashioned compared

to the nouveau hip literary kids

would take a cup of simmering

soup to venturing out mutually

blue devils settle in bone deep

no one spends time on a clock

without all passion parts at risk

of burning out of their brilliance

lunatic poet besotted w/ industry

fails to evoke smelloftheworld

held tight in blanketed wasteland

of fat file folders microwave meals

long performance analysis reports

jangling telephone calls data entry

& not the creative linguistic variety

it thieves: frippery take-home pay

it deceives: the old nine to five

rattles rudely through artist flesh

like a purposeful pillaging plague

arresting dreams of grape arbors

fresh linens creative retreating into

thin volumes of loquacious poems

varied survival – there’s the catch.

**

It’s National Poetry day in the UK. I’ve been having a heck of a week in terms of life getting me down, work kicking my ass, gnats getting under my skin. It was time to bash something out. A ditty. A poem. I’m still scowling. Still stewing. But a little less. Because words.

Long weekend ahead. Just one more slave day. Then sleep in. Then turkey. Peace.

In propinquity,

Nic

Standard Average Canadians

Standard Average Canadians

it feels secretive

languid

listening to

Man Machine Poem

after dark in his

basement apartment

the kind-hearted drummer & I

make our anchorage

cross-legged on baggy pillows

beneath tawny rondure lights

walls festooned with sad totems

hand-made birch bark canoes &

a burning vision of Irving Layton

                framed

everything entertainingly fussy

we huddle with

aromatic smolder

cold Clementina San Pellegrino

paralleling our pocket knives

folders of hand-written poems

                construing Gord’s lyrics

“tearin’ up the pea patch, isn’t he”

                he says in halted speech

“like rushing the dark with pious light”

                I reply timorously

& just like that he cartwheels over

                the chesterfield & fails

I laugh so hard I spit out a mouthful

                of stars

we group again with snacks

warm garlic knots & dipping sauce

& he delivers a blistering lecture

of my interpretation of the record

                                as a whole

                the needle rebounds & crackles

a gentle warning

                he chides

for reading too much into the chaos

discerning a pattern that might not

                be there

I shrink to the shape of a fraud

                chip like shale

& he says

“it’s a precarious time

for the Caribou, we are the

Ancient Pines singing & praying for

the sky clap to send us downstream,

& the cancer spirits to map their way

to another world – don’t buckle under

the weight of occasion”

the kind-hearted drummer

draws a clean breath

cradles my shrugged shoulder

with a meaty palm & squeezes

                “we listen with the

Intention to live, it is the way

of the Poet …

words survive”

it feels melancholy

as we separate from     

the floor boards to

say goodnight &

gather up all the clever things

he runs a comb under a slow

running tap

                then through his hair

I zip my jacket tight under-chin

                I walk home through

inky midnight    

I ponder the evening’s

decorous language

                                acrobatic humour

calming potions

                easy listening

                gathering gratitude

I long for our

next meeting

after dark           

                in his basement apartment

eating hand-cut fries &

                juicy burgers with BBQ sauce

relish mustard & sharp cheese

a Bugs Bunny film-fest

& name brand ketchup chips

                disagreeing about

used bookstores & punk-rockers

                politics passions

& practical magic

I imagine we will revisit

                Man Machine Poem

interpret Gord’s lyrics again

 two Standard Average Canadians

                trying to decipher love

 **

Just a wee work-in-stages. It took some time to peck this one out. I was uber inspired Friday while I was up to my eye-balls in work but I scribbled in between the numbers crunch and then added/subtracted/re-arranged a bit over the weekend. I lost my steam by Saturday evening and wasn't feeling one bit creative so today while slurping soup, I pecked until I was glad. I'm glad.

Happy Monday.

In propinquity,

Nic

The Esoterics

The Esoterics

regard them

brusk quittance

biting bark

stark gaze

harsh play

blood flesh

the

esoterics

blanketed laps

vast breathing

rousing a low grade

                controversy

raising Poets from the

                dead

pressing you to choke

inside a mottled gulch   

                of despair’s

tragic pitch

under rucked

night-glint

their eyes narrow in

suspicion

while we wade

through

budding fog       

                at the void’s edge

a banquet of grate

and sand

to guzzle

                all contingent on

 which of the poets choose

                to lie still

**

This poem materialized from the ether today, out of the wide blue. I was busily champing figures, evaluating, altering; all things to do with numbers, when the Esoterics prodded me. Who am I to deny them their poetic fifteen?

 I am moody, grey and restless today, all in the sunshine. I admit, pecking helped but then it always does.

In propinquity,

Nic

Two Poets

Two Poets

two poets rave

in downtown Halifax

his stride matchers her pace

both knocked by hurly-burly

poems

with all their words missing

our eyes

monitor their molten movements

how he lures verses out from under

                her lovely dress

how she forgets how to swim to him

& the explosion

of stars in each willowy hand

they are all we refuse to ignore

                unrestrained inheritance

two poets rant

in a dingy basement bar

still downtown Halifax

                in their limited light

opening sentences taste the same

as the shiny elastic prayers hidden

in the luxury of our worry

he is an action not taken

& she a simple twist of fate

                perfect bodies

                purple hearts

                parallel pains

two poets

                who unbutton the night

leave everything bare

skip town before dawn

                & we all take the blame

for everything they left behind

**

Vacation has been nice. A good break from the 9 to 5. I intended to devour books, write my face off, and do a ton of creative stuff: if daydreaming counts … I did spend a good chunk of time on my own, breathing and thinking, musing and scheming but I failed to follow through on the ‘plan’ and instead went with the flow. Isn’t that more of what a vacation should be? I do regret not taking more time to write though. I have to get my head back in the game but until this week is over I won’t shove myself too hard for it.

Today’s pecking was fun. I set up a ‘best of’ Matt Mays playlist (to get my soul prepared for my Hubbards get away next weekend), poured myself a ice cold cider purchased from a road trip I took on Thursday with my best bud, and just dug in.  I mentioned twice today how I hadn’t written enough on vacation to two different people so it was time.

Drinks and laughs tonight with friends and then my last day of vacation tomorrow before returning to the work desk but burning through the days so my weekend in Hubbards with friends comes quickly.

Happy Saturday!

In propinquity,

Nic

Anniversary

Anniversary

you

crossed my mind this morning

the time you grazed my shoulder

in the garden

with your dazzling wings

they shimmered in the sunbeams

yellow & burnt orange framed in

                black

graceful transmitters of messages

                of courage

                of conviction

                of patience

you confided the simplest truths

                the

universe surely is made of music

& that God’s capacity is so much

greater than man’s understanding

these moments

these small ceremonies

granted visions from the beyond

quantify the joys you left behind

& like

the wind in the weeping willows

my heart dangles in the open air

                I remember

our meeting as sweetly as our

                parting

**

A year ago today an extraordinary woman was taken far too soon. I remember her today, with love, sitting next to a sunny open window, the birds chirping and the breeze warm. This poem is my pause, to evoke her, her life, her heart and those she left behind to carry on her memory.

Miss you, Mama June Jackson.

In propinquity,

Nic

Keeping House

Keeping House

I often find my truest self

in invitations to over-haul

re-arrange the chesterfield

the ottoman the wingbacks

dust the bookshelves the

family photos the nooks

and crannies neglected

polish the floor wash the

dishes piled on the counter

the richness of tan pennies

chiming in my apron pocket

call me to private reveries

of Cattulla’s silk bedspread

keeping house reciting taut

penetrating poetry into the

urgency of the spin cycle

swirling gyrating orbiting

working into a frenzy then

interrupted abruptly by the

clunk & chime of the cuckoo

clock kids will be home soon

dinner isn’t going to cook

itself – better snap out of it

I often find my truest self

outside of my inauthentic

self recounting the words of

a Latin poet I hate & I love

what ever

would my husband say?

**

Catullus is a poet that is new to me. He was startling for his time, often explicit in his writings, and while nothing is shocking these days, it’s always a marvel to stumble upon one of the rebels, who refused to censor his work or his passions. To speak so overtly is the true rebellion, to not be afraid, as Chuck Palahniuk once told me, to look like an asshole. (To this day, that is the best advice I’ve ever been given.)

I look forward to … ahem … exploring more from this poet.

Too hot to really think today but I pecked and that’s good.

In propinquity,

Nic

Uneasy Verse

Uneasy Verse

spouts of uneasy verse

burden my inward youth

the pong of damp books

locked deep in Granny’s

dank dirt floor basement

tomes filled with wicked              

words that seep into your

skin ripple there slowly &

rarely do they desert you

even when you grow taller

than the tales themselves

a whiff of a used bookstore

smells like the sense of

being caught filching a few

of Granny’s books barely

escaping her gangly grip

out-running her sour balm

& screech - it’s every bit a

twisted tenderness trap

– current fragrances

conjuring childhood heed

now my stanzas are written

wisely,  scent free

**

Maybe it’s from watching the runaway Netflix hit ‘Stranger Things’, the creepy vibe of this out-of-the-blue poem. Perhaps it is from the memory of my Nanny MacPherson maiming with a pumice stone, a hunk of porous volcanic abrasive rock used to remove or calloused skin: too bad she couldn’t understand I had psoriasis on my elbows. I also started to re-watch ‘American Horror Story: Asylum’. Any number of things could have leaked from my jam-packed subconscious to pull this little piece together. I had this imagine in my head, an old basement under a creaky house, full of musty books and the gate-keeper came in the form of an old crotchety woman. This in no way is a reflection of my Nan! She certainly wasn’t perfect but she was demure, even when cranky. I just remember her being stern and strict when she came to visit. Everything had to be just so; her way or the highway. She died when I was in junior high and softened a great deal. When she lived with us in the end, I remember she laughed a lot but bossed my Mama around like a drill sergeant. That had never changed. Bless her heart.  

An eerie little poem for a rainy old day.

In propinquity,
Nic

Madoc Says Magic Is Afoot

Madoc Says Magic Is Afoot

Madoc says

magic is afoot

to appeal

deadened hues

away from the

oppressors tongue

to cull poems

from the Aegean Sea

to render God

alive

                above

humid nimbus clouds

enough to make a

brooding genius shudder

Madoc says

magic is afoot

because

Leonard Cohen

read aloud

                a verse

that left him

slouched into a corner

recounting a lone

bellow of wistfulness

Madoc says

magic is afoot

in a collection

                the

author’s  name

barely visible

                on the

thin spine

a book of revelations

bought and sold

for one single

line of truth

etched with

                a ballpoint pen

by a reliable witness

Madoc is always

right

**

I’ve reading ‘Startle and Illuminate – Carol Shields on Writing’ – it’s been a comfort to pursue her collected advice and to, in some small way, spend time with her again the way I did inside of all of her other books, stories, and poems. I have been keeping my eyes, ears; heart and mind open for an opportunity to begin a new short story. I can feel it bubbling somewhere under the surface. I have started and stopped SO many stories over the last year or so. I attribute it to Liz Gilbert’s assertion that if the story did not materialize, then it wasn’t my story to tell, the idea will pass on to some other waiting writer. I like that imagery. That thought. I’d hate for them to never be told so I hold on to the hope it will weed up into a comrade’s think bank and flourish. The poetry has been (as always) a saving grace but I want to sink my teeth into a story.

For now, I wait patiently. Madoc insists magic is afoot …

And obviously, this poem was Leonard Cohen inspired.

In propinquity,

Nic