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