Enough Said

Enough Said

maps

fingerprints

sequences

cut & clear

quills & feathers

hollow house

high-rise apartment

five & dime

the old man

the sea

genuine attentions
potential empires

**

This wee poem was inspired by the pictured 'thesaurus painting' by artist Mel Bochner. It was fun to organize and shuffle words around for this one. 

One more sleep and it's Friday, the weekend already and I for one am overjoyed. It's been a hellish week of work and sickness. On the mend and lookin' to trend! Haha. I have no idea what that means. I will blame my silliness on caffeine.

Just about time to clock out for the day and head out into the second day of mid-February sunshine!

In propinquity,

Nic 

Commute

Commute

bedraggled

in the drizzling rain

bone-chilled from an

icy wind that gave way

to an indescribable fog

she shivers

under a thin scarf

mobile in dense boots

against the brownish

gray of an idle town

                she transfers

toward a provisional

eternity

soaked in melancholy

as the bus pulls away

**

I did something. I submitted poems to an online journal today. I don’t know they’ll even consider me as they are based out of Brooklyn and I am Canadian but it was worth the risk, yes? I don’t know what prompted me to do it, I rarely submit my work these days, and yet I was compelled to compose a professionally worded cover letter, a light bio (which has little in the way of published details to speak of), four poems and blammo. Sent. Can’t take ‘em back now!

It was an impulse submission. I felt a little rush of adrenaline that I am sure will morph into a gentle sigh when they say thanks but no thanks. It’s the process though, right? Trusting it, trusting yourself and your words. If I’ve accomplished anything today, it’s those three things. They are important

Sharing a wee poem here now that seems appropriate for the duck-like weather we’re having today, well above zero temperatures in the middle of February. It’s almost like winter on the west coast! I’ll take it.

Happy Wednesday!

In propinquity,

Nic

Old Fever

Old Fever

between a cup of sweet tea

& a bowl of stemmed strawberries

with sour cream and brown sugar

I find myself seized with the longing

for an old fever

that likened me to an astronaut in orbit

we never know precisely what to want

**

With the cupid's holiday looming, one I do not believe in despite it's origins, I pose a poem. A single gal's guide to not looking back, but forward, open-hearted.  I of course am a romantic by nature and have penned my fair share of love poems but Valentine's Day should be observed daily with all relationships, romantic and otherwise. Your people should always feel loved and appreciated and shown, not just told. But that's just me.

Having said all that, I can easily get behind any excuse to exchange chocolate, stationary and other sundry goodness. Just seems so much nicer when they are just because.

I am ending my Friday with a a grande Mint Majesty from Starbucky Bucks (thanks Phil!) and a little jaunt out in the deep-freeze before heading home to hunker down. Snow is expected tomorrow but then Sunday it's Galentine's Day! THAT, is worth celebrating. A gelato date with my best bud to celebrate life, friendship and frozen treats!  It's also a long weekend, holiday Monday, so I have an extra day for reading, loafing and creative thinking. Sounds idyllic, no?

Happy Friday, folks!

I leave you with one of the most beautiful love songs ever written by my amazing friend Matt Epp:

In propinquity,

Nic

Mayor of 42nd Street

Mayor of 42^nd Street

somewhere there is a

90 minute cassette tape of

nebulous hobo poetry read

aloud from a moving 1949

Hudson Commodore Sedan

in the deepest, most tender

                & musical voice of

 a pallid & puckered hustler

                who

jumped trains across the cosmic

spread of a stained republic

thieving endless marble skies

& small towns of aching beauty

                his

was a galaxy of vilified vagrants

loose ladies & sad sailors

heroin hearts & beggars

                junk-sick surrealism

despite his disreputable pursuits

street slang and searing honesty

a boutonnière clung to his lapel

his manners

distinguished him

ecstasy was exile

illumination pithy

                drunk & happy 

the Mayor of 42^nd Street

                an exaggeration

                of beatnik blues

                midnight mouth

there are so many                      

footnotes to Howl

                songs of the damned

sound

                on 42^nd Street

this is a bad short story

about a rich bastard anti-hero

& his taxi suite counterparts

**

I came up to my writing room tonight with the best of writing intentions, I was excitedly distracted by a music conversation with my best girl. That led me to blanking on the title of a song I had a urgency to listen to. I sent a text to a friend who wasn't answering quick enough to quench that thirst so I went digging for it in a stack of old mixed CDs. I was 'supposed' to be finishing this poem but was seduced by a mountain of music I haven't heard in ages! I imported a slew into my iTunes. I soon had to discipline myself, put the books away and focus back on the page.

I haven't been sleeping well this week so I thought perhaps I'd move away from the TV and see if creativity could tire me. How silly! I'm wildly overtired and thirsty. I'm a weirdo.

One more song, maybe two. Then bed.

In propinquity,

Nic

Speak Low

Speak Low

at eventide

inside the café

I remove my

frayed pashmina

& shake out my

dark hewed hair

my reflection exploits

the impaired window

slender & pastel

safely fortified in a

heavy black turtleneck

& an old rosary rubbed

smooth & worn thin

a secret deep in pocket

I am served hot cocoa

& freshly baked brioche

I have a headache

& am heartsick

He is gone again

dancing is mourning

I take long languid

poems as companions

& speak low when asked

if I am incomplete

**

While everyone else in the free world was amping up for the Super Bowl today, I stayed confined to my cozy blankets and consumed a whole book. I couldn't put it down and today I didn't have to. I spent the better part of my Sunday lounging next to a sunny open window with my kitty, lost in the story of Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe. 

I sobbed through the last pages and peeled myself out of my slumber and got to doing the usual Sunday chores: laundry, cook and then write. I made a mess of Chinese food and ate with my Mom before slipping to something more comfortable, my headphones and into my head, ready to write. While everyone else is anticipating touch-downs and re-filling their beer nut during the half-time show, I worked on this poem. I did it with the help of a decent dose of Doors, Dylan and Stones music. Seemed fitting considering the reading I spent my day doing.

Word on the street has it we're in for some rather nasty weather tomorrow and into Tuesday. Hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. Seems surreal that it's the first week of February and we have been reaching above zero temperatures to know we'll be deep freezing with -17 windchills in mere hours. Dang winter.

Five more work days and it'll be a three day weekend. Maybe I'll read another whole book then too. I am determined to read Ulysses. It's en route from Amazon as we speak, Praying the storm doesn't hinder its arrival.

In propinquity,

Nic 

Nonfiction Poem

Non-Fiction Poem

innocence

utopian ideals

beauty

revolt

do not blink

no not falter

chance encounter

quirky

spellbinding

incandescent phrases

lay bare

chaos

creativity

poetically remembered

vividly written

identity

devotion

discovery

love

intimacy

grace

elegant eulogy

the end

**

My only love and thoughts today are for Lucy Decoutere today.

You go girl.

Oh and thank *insert expletive here* it's Friday!

In propinquity,
Nic

I Looked For A Light

I Looked For A Light

I sought out a light however pale

to shine through the breadth of

separation – a fragile subjectivity

it is an arbitrary vignette

a fusty bankrupt morning

cool-eyed & cold-blooded

a well-thumbed copy of Didion’s

Slouching Towards Bethlehem

burnt brown toast & stale coffee

deskbound at the kitchen table

lone & impervious

accents & idioms of an external exhale

pleading & preaching graceful pensées

a lax wager of uncompromised insight

I looked for a light

in order to see - to unpeel the mundane

& reveal the momentous

I looked for a light

                in an e.e. cummings poem

                in a suspenseful detective story               

                in a Jackson Pollack drip painting

                in a Vivian Maier snap-shot

I sought out a light

I pursued the gleam

to outrun the gloaming

**

Joan Didion is a brilliant observer, a powerful thinker, an exceptional writer and an iconic woman. I read ‘The Year of Magical Thinking’ back in 2015 and just finished ‘Blue Nights’ – both books, honest and intensely personal, rich in texture, stark in description, potent in the punch they intended to throw.

I admire her, Joan Didion. Her work is brave. It is timeless. Emboldened. In these two skillfully articulated memoirs, with honesty and ache, she presents clear-eyed memories of her past, a portrait of a marriage and then the worrisome wonders of parenthood and growing old.

Joan Didion, in a very short period of time, lost her husband and partner, John Gregory Dunne, while Quintana, her only daughter lay unconscious in a nearby hospital suffering from pneumonia and septic shock. She too soon died.

She formed her thoughts and experiences into a profound meditation on mortality, twice. I cannot imagine what it must be to see your husband die at your kitchen table while worrying for your only child suffering mere blocks away in a hospital bed. And then, inevitably, all alone.

This woman has paid her dues. The title of one of her older books ‘We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live’ – aptly applies to her fate so many years later.

Joan Didion and I share the same birthday but her sentences are better.

In propinquity,

Nic