Thursday, February 18, 2016

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 


Wednesday, February 17, 2016

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

Friday, February 12, 2016

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

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Mayor of 42nd Street


Mayor of 42nd 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 42nd Street
                an exaggeration
                of beatnik blues
                midnight mouth
there are so many                      
footnotes to Howl
                songs of the damned
sound
                on 42nd 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

Sunday, February 7, 2016

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 

Friday, February 5, 2016

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

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

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