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