My Paralell

My Parallel

“… you realize a poem is buried in there somewhere (in the unconscious) … there is a lot of unconscious truth in a poem. As you see me now, I am a lie.” – Anne Sexton

Here it is

a cold hard truth –

this poem is an ultimatum.

I refuse to mince words. This

lunge, heave, & knock under

the blackest of suns, it is not

living.

It is a definite kind of sorrow

a simmering demise, no wiles

could confuse. It is the most

lucid admission I can propose.

I am no longer meant for this

cutting animation. I could pen

poem after poem to ease you

but they would be lies after lies

after lies, as I am ideologically

unsound. This is not rhetoric

nor is it a threat but simply an

attempt to valorize the requisite

for voluntary exile. I know that

I am a conscious creation and I

have tried too hard to live by

painstakingly ruthless editing,

revising, polishing my veneer

but the language of madness

swayed me into the sinuous

sphere of Death’s clean clinch.

You can go ahead and try to

dismantle of the myth of me.

Be sure to include the fact I

was resistant to the corrosive

battle toward artistic sincerity

that I bowed out not for weak-

ness but in strength. I chose the

trees, the fish, the Moon, water

the rain, river and oceans, caves,

Angels, and a voice speaking

only to me in fairytale and fiction.

I cannot highlight the contingency

plan for you. There is none. There

is only the affirmation of absolute

divinity. Do not cry for me. I am

not praiseworthy for your tears.

You in your judgement and your

acrimony have made that quite

clear.

You are relinquished of all agency.

Leave me to soft hymns, and a true

internal measure set to sing me home.

You might hear me linger in frank

laughter some time or in a postponed

heartfelt prayer you might recite to

yourself when you’ve realized it is

too late. You might catch a glimpse

of my old body when the wind stirs

in the bleached sand beneath your

summer feet, maybe even in a star.

And, at last let me make myself

perfectly clear – I am not ashamed.

Not of disappearing into the ether

and not for following in the valiant

footsteps of those who have struggled

                        and succumbed.

I will be free.

Of ache.

Of verdict.

Of the attention afforded.

***

I probably shouldn’t be reading poems by Anne Sexton or about Sylvia Plath right now while a loved one has taken quite ill. Alas, reading and now this uber heavy writing has helped me to put some of this anxious energy and overwhelmed-ness somewhere and direct my ire away from tempting targets.

I am not myself so you’ll have to forgive me if I’m forgetful or distracted or unable to show up for something or say the right things or act how you are used to. It doesn’t mean anything other than I am tired and sad and even a little frightened. I will be blunt and admit I care little for the opinions of others, especially now. I will not accept judgments and/or vitriol in my loved one’s name, even in my own but will fight for her because she is unable. It’s what family does or what they are supposed to do. It’s simple, if you’ve got nothing nice to say …

My heart is the heaviest it has been since losing my father and I am painfully aware some don’t and won’t understand. I don’t need you do. All I ask is for kindness because at this time I’m not open for any other kind of business.

In propinquity,

Nic

Led the Away (For Gord Downie)

Led the Away

(For Gord Downie)

V1

I woke up to the inevitable

man, it’s so unbelievable

Gord, up on High

a quick flip of the moleskine

and a liter of cheap wine

gonna sit in this dark bar

and write this song for him

Chorus

with constant revisions made

to the Canadian curricula

always poised a portent

assigned our Poet Guardian

gloriously, you kissed the dream

my exquisite friend

o’ how you led the away

V2

what it means to be hip

how to follow a seamless script

every sentence so imperative

cool lessons measured by his time

mumbling and raging every rhyme

we urged them to become our heart

and that makes losing him the

            hardest part

Chorus

with constant revisions made

to the Canadian curricula

always poised a portent

assigned our Poet Guardian

gloriously, you kissed the dream

my exquisite friend

o’ how you led the way

Bridge

the inevitable

so fucking unbelievable

Gord’s graceful goodbye

the inevitable

left us inconsolable

crying under a bruised sky

whispering please stay

***

In a little less than a month, it’ll be a whole year since we lost Gord Downie. I’m no less broken now than I was when I first heard he was sick and it was terminal.

The day he passed, on my commute home, I scribbled a bunch of lines on scrap paper I found in the recesses of my work bag. I stood tearful, on the side of the road, writing out my feelings. I’ve penned a good few poems in his honour but this one was singing its way through my head, as a song.

Fast-forward to Halloween weekend, 2017. I’m dressed up as a bumble bee standing outside of Freeman’s Fairview with my brother who is dolled up like a rock ‘n’ roll ghoul. He hauled me aside to tell me about a song he was writing. I listened intently and we talked about the weight and beauty of what he was working on and then as an afterthought, I told him about the lyrics I mashed into that bit of paper. He encouraged me to send them to him and he’d set it to music. Eventually, he did – and, beautifully so.

The lyrics have evolved since his first rough recording of it which left me in a tarn of tears on first listen. Not only because he did such a stunning job embedding my words into his music but because he sang the line: ‘Gord up on High …’ the exact way I heard it in my head when I wrote it down. It gave me goosebumps and it still does now whenever I am wherever he is playing it in his shows. It’s a really special thing, for someone solitary like me, to hear something jotted down in private, come alive in such a powerful way.

Soon enough, God willing, you’ll be able to listen even if you can’t make a gig. Perhaps it’ll be closer to the anniversary so we can pay tribute in an official capacity. For now though, I wanted to share the lyrics, conserve them here in poem form, here at the Teapot.

I’m really proud of how it has advanced from a tear-stained cut of paper to a gorgeous ode set to beautiful music. I appreciate, with all my tattered little heart, my big brother even wanted to tackle it. I’m excited for you all to hear it but if you’re able to check out one of his gigs when he’s playing around town, you just might hear it.

In propinquity,

Nic

Flesh and Ink

Flesh and Ink

            at dusk

I scrambled uphill

to the serrated horizon

of Argyle Street from

the ferry terminal to

land at an evening table

w/ a glass of light-bodied

chianti, subtle traces of

cherries & violets swirling

            dining alone

w/ the charge of writing a

new poem

a verse stirred by hundreds

of thousands

of Indian women who on

the ninth day of Attulukal

Pongala carefully take to the

tight streets

of Thiruvananthapuram in

preparation for spiritual

offering

a customary rice pudding

rice cooked with banana &

coconut

riced cooked in jaggery w/

generous amounts of ghee

garnished with taut raisins

& raw cashew nuts

a bounty

Thanksgiving for a rich

harvest

the moonlit roads fill

w/ divine sisters gathering

bricks, rinsing rice, grating

coconuts – assembled at

side-by-side

 make-shift stoves

fueled by small fires

started w/

dried palm leaves

            I only get so far w/ my

writing before my server asks

if I am ready to order

            he hovers over me in a

perky straw hat w/ a broad black

ribbon above the rim, he’s long

faced w/ a furrowed brow

& pays

no mind to the artistic task

at hand

            I order

Wagya steak tartare

w/ a soft cooked egg

squid ink bread & pickled

watermelon rind

            a sip of wine & I am

back on the page compiling

words to align a modest gruel

devoted to the fem Hindu Idol

Bhadrakali – alienator of evil

& bringer of prosperity to all

who choose to follow

while writing

            I am overcome

w/ emotion & feel as though

her benevolent protection has

circled my poise

            my flesh

            & my ink

I feel myself churn

            in feminine wilderness

feminine willingness

sketching these devotees whose

earthen pots boil over

            devotees who forget the

searing heat, the glare of the

burning sun

ululations & prayers

intoned

stridently in one fruitful

voice

            folded hands

            bowed hands

the imagery compels me to

abandon my expensive dish

to be arranged among them

around the circumference

of the shrine

                        alas

this chianti

this poem of my flesh & ink

will have to suffice

***

I’ve been pecking at this poem for a few days now. I’ll likely peck more after posting. I’ve had fun writing it so I may have to add and/or subtract in the near future. A work in progress? Yis!

Happy Friday!

In propinquity,

Nic

Silver Nosed Poets

Silver Nosed Poets     

the

dregs of dinner

glisten w/ gore

mottled flasks

sapped

banter

modest

but charged

full

bellies

empty heads

            yoke

tossed apart

by a

cagey

tangle

of

abstruse

            ( pome art )

***

Nothing but a poem from me today. I wrote this sitting in an ambulance yesterday while accompanying a loved one to and from a medical appointment. Sometimes the darkest hours still offer a little bit of light.

In propinquity,

Nic

b/c it matters

b/c it matters

b/c it matters

piercing syllables feature

prominently in the inglorious

tirade I penned about trying to

redact the pink hue of Heaven

blanket hearts, they burn alone

thrashing in a cold bold breeze

awaiting certain calm after a

frenzied wrangle

            b/c it matters

my composition of contention

bears heavy on already partisan

shoulders slanting further into

deep depths of dogged gloom

the dangerous junctions where

imagination is required to care

            aggrieved, ill-wishing

stumbling, stuttering, shattered

presumptions precede all punitive

calumnies of peace’s rosy patina

joyful ambiance loses its balance

the prized parts crumble to dust

            Heaven bleeds a heavy &

impervious murk while the eyes

of a hope-kissed drawstring smile

morphs into the sourest expression

            it matters b/c

discontent muffles the triumphant

sound of sweetness

entrenching benefactors in the arms

of apathy

            it matters b/c

belief blazes

breaking brittle

pillars of those

Lighted

into rusted iron

                        fists

***

More than ever, leaving the drama on the page, tangled up tight in a poem.

In propinquity,

Nic

Arkadash

Arkadash

we often sit in cafés and talk

read new poems to one another

dip dainty spoons in porcelain

sugar bowls & muse on how

dehydrated flower petals curl

around the lip of their vase

courageous memoirist to my

plainspoken poet – me with my

memento mori, (reminders of

death) & you with your vaunted

ironies & ability to hold a pencil

between your toes & write your

name just as good as if you did

it with your left hand – we fit

I can’t shed the Devil & you are

convinced the Dark Stranger is

soon to make an appearance &

butter your hazel eyes blurry

our kinship cobbled together by

an otherworldly luminescence

we banter in the Skunk Hour

derange & re-arrange scribbles

on napkins until the breakfast bell

I call you arkadash & you call me

orospu for swiping the last blob

of clear delicate dandelion jam from

the cracked glass dish for my scone

***

While holed up in my writing room yesterday admiring my new antique brass ink well, listening to music, looking for inspiration among my bookshelves and floor stacks, I came across a the Turkish word for 'friend'. Unable to edit but restless enough to move a pen, I wrote a poem using the phrase as the title. It was fun. It helped me sleep, the writing. If you're reading, I won't reveal what the second Turkish phrase means. I'll leave that up to you although I'm sure most of you who frequent the Teapot and employ common sense will get the gist.

Tragically Hip tribute show with my buds tonight at The Seahorse. I look forward to stepping out of daily life for a few hours and into music that I love. My ears are hungry and my heart needs a little healing, music saves.

Happy Friday!

In propinquity,
Nic

( amour fou )

( amour fou )

we leave

the house to ramble

when twilight stretches

we amble to the art gallery

where he insists on lingering

in front of extraordinarily tragic

post-war paintings on the second floor

we pass through halls lined with useless geezers

note their somnolent eyes, pouched cheeks, sadness

& corridors of the historical male gaze on the female body

he is always in a fevered search of earth-toned abstractions

while I loiter in the sublime aspect of following him around

***

My pal is back with poem prompts! I traded the crossword puzzle on my morning commute for a bit of pecking. The prompt: crazy love. I opted for translating it into French for the title and went to town and then paired it with a post-war Pollock.

Being able to write this poem opened up my chest. I’ve had my big fat head buried in the sand of late. I can’t get out of my own way. Writing always helps. I still feel grizzled and unsettled, unsure of myself, of everything. Writing helped me today. Grateful for that. It’s hard to need to open up only to be flouted. So silence, walls. Big thick walls. There’s nowhere for the drama to go but the page, right? At least this way someone is listening to something other than inside out anguish. Soul is tired. And still, I persevere.

Poetry!

In propinquity,

Nic