Third-hand Glamour

Third-hand Glamour

            all

sinking epiphanies

of a postcard sleazy

city surpass an (un)

steady stream of

gamblers

slot machines

punters

titty-twisters

plungers

roulette wheels

dead celebrities

solemnizing

fleeting love

dancers

            shaking their

pathos into blank stares

(all

dizzying overindulgences,

encouraged soul surrender)

             desert

sand pancaked faces tipped

cacophonous neon sky-high

cowboys

distort already bleary eyes

            it’s vulgar

            bombastic

proudly tacky

            third-hand glamour

 I wanna go

***

It’s a good thing that my bud came through with a post-holiday prompt this morning. The newspaper bin was still full of yesterday’s edition so there was no crossword for me to do on the way to work.

Prompt was Las Vegas. It was fun.

In propinquity,

Nic

Venus, Decorated

Venus, Decorated

            a

Goddess

is ever so slightly

spun away from observers

reclining across a sultry bed

adorned w/ a silky overspread

gingery, upward sweeping strokes

define the curvy contours of her body

bowed out at the hip, in at the stomach

& out again at her soft willowy shoulder

her

body dictates

the gilded frame

the

masterpieces’ limits

commence at her slender foot

& conclude w/ her elegant elbow

            a

Goddess

            decorated

            for your pleasure

***

This little writing exercise from my bud was to create a work of art with words. Couldn't have come at a better time.

Did I succeed?

In propinquity,

Nic

I Still Hear Your Voice

I Still Hear Your Voice

            I still hear it

your voice in the halls

vibrating up through the

floorboards

            calling my name

singing ‘High Flying Bird’

shooing the cat away from

your desk lamp or while you

sewed well-traveled patches

on your quilt

            I still hear it

your voice

your voluminous laughter

echoing in the rooms you’ve

left empty

living-rooms, dining-rooms

dance halls

            and I still hear it

the buzz

of machines in time

with your lungsful

drawing oxygen deep

exhaling in emergency

            it’s always there

the slow outbreath of your last

moment

            an Angel’s soft sigh

you bloomed in freedom

I wither in grief

I still hear it

the sounds of you

                                    especially

when I feel stranded in my joys

            and when I hear it

I look for the rendering

of your

human guise

for a soliloquy

any kind of refrain

I still hear it

            and it kills me

***

Another poem for my dearly departed sister. When I feel the hurt settle in, the reality, the only way I know how organize it is on the page.

I miss you, Big Sister.

In propinquity,

Nic

Imagine a Poem

Imagine a Poem

            imagine a poem

that begins w/ assurance

w/ an openhearted curiosity

for the unsuspected gifts on

the other side of surrender

            imagine a poem

that begins louder than the

opening notes of Beethoven’s

Fifth Symphony & lasts as

long as a trove of old letters

written from past wars

            imagine a poem

that reveals the plight of an

artist in Paris committing

bold feverish brushstrokes

to unadorned canvas to craft

windswept wheat fields &

lush orchard scenes

            imagine a poem

that ends w/ the image of a

red-haired woman walking

through a park in the fall

the breeze blowing red &

yellow & orange leaves all

around her

            imagine a poem

that instills the kind of calm

of a simple window through

which to enjoy the vivid skies

of the day’s end

***

I can tell you with great certainty that writing this poem instilled the very same kind of calm to my often anxious bones and muscles and fibers.

Written for nothing other than the beauty of it.

In propinquity,

Nic

Beautiful Minefields

Beautiful Minefields

“In another life, I would come back as a blond soprano who could sing high, clear notes without fear.”

~ Georgia O’Keeffe

            dear Joni

I am only a featherhead

for as long as your art requires

& what traps await in the time

it takes know exactly when

calculations fail while you are

so busy being free – the one

they say sings first in a patter

to a rue & all the way to rhapsody

in one fell swoop

            all those tinges of sadness

protests, rounds & felicities

surrendered on thin paper

every carefully chosen word act as

slight shunts into oblivion

            I am thinking of you today

from my hotel room trying to turn

a dirge into a love song to meet the

sharp expectations of your dignity

            o’ Joni

I confess

I do lean a little too heavily on your

good graces to emulate your clout

& w/ evident joy of course

in the hopes that one day soon we

might have a chance

conversation that flowers into a song

one that ambles & veers the depths of

my heart & your pockets full of sand

it would be a slow reveal

all those years of bottled

up melancholy

the wash transcendent & bracing for

restoration

restitution

dear Joni

            it still doesn’t rain in California

& yet the hydrangeas bloom brightest

along the sharp chances of the Canyon

while you sit vigil in British Columbia

            & I am desperate to be forgiven

for trying to steal all the light you have

                                                gathered

for thinking I could pass off the extra

syllables of your openhearted heroics

            as my own

If I know you, Joni

you’d send me back to the garden

through beautiful minefields just to

endure basic human longings 

                        just as you did for all

these seventy-five fitful years

***

Happy 75^th birthday, Joni Mitchell. Thank you for the music, the poetry, the passion, the power, the art – all while defending and maintaining a true sense of self. Fucking admirable. Thank you for paving the way.

In propinquity,

Nic

Hot Dog with Mustard

Hot Dog with Mustard

Tara Maple has just come back from the Trash Pile Street Poetry Festival in the next town over and is craving something to eat to clear her palette of the lavish foods prepared by the loveliest lesbian chefs, all diehard Joni Mitchell fans. She could really grow accustom to mornings spooning passion fruit, mid-days choking artichoke hearts, and evenings sucking cold, plum, raw oysters from the half-shell. In some ways, Tara thought, the culinary delights were more poetic than the actual poetics being presented. One of the charming chefs said that if she had to pair Tara’s latest collection of poems with a food it’d be with her preferred and decadent appetizer: warm deviled eggs flavoured with Provolone cheese, brackish bacon, fresh herbs, and paprika, “Unimaginably luxurious and the very opposite of church picnic homey.”

            Her new book simply titled ‘Artful’ receives a standing ovation after her reading its signature poem, ‘God-Given Madness’. She stood before a horn-rimmed, like-minded audience at the microphone and recites from memory:

I cannot tell which is the most tragic

example of inventive intelligence

Vincent Van Goh hacking off his own ear

Sylvia Plath’s death by confection oven or

standing here before you with my own pre-

curated input bucketing out of my dazed mouth

hoping the high price will set a good precedent

for what will soon be known as gradient descent

Tara Maple almost ceases writing poetry after a recent personal tragedy and after such a warm reception she is grateful she keeps pen to paper. She said as much before exiting the stage and the same charming chef tapped her on the shoulder and reiterates, “You must always write, Tara Maple, we need your words.” And, that’s when Tara’s heart rose up into her throat and it has been there ever since or maybe it’s just her hankering for a little bite of something not gourmet. They call for her to knock out one last quick refrain, one more verse for the road; she is the last poet to perform but no one is ready to go home. Instead of reciting something of her own, she straps on an acoustic guitar and regales them with a nippy Bob Dylan cover. Tara Maple, darling poet, most notable for saying provocative but inaccurate things in her work, croons her best ‘Idiot Wind’ while wearing a t-shirt with ‘never trust a rich hippie’ emblazoned on its front.

            Tara Maple has just arrived home both elated and extinguished. She is not as obscure as they believe her to be. Others, based on how they behave in her presence, consider her to be a mysteriously tough nut to crack but she is not. Her dish towels are miss-matched and hang uneven on her oven door, she enjoys hanging her laundry out to dry, and she enjoys bird-watching and rock shows and reality television, some of it at least. But, because she once at a prestigious literary lunch arrived tiddly and quoted Auden amiably, she has been deemed a loose cannon but with dazzling observance, “She’s gutsy, not to be denied. She looks skeptical through her smile but she is most certainly something of an original. You just never know what she’s going to do or say!” This, a direct newspaper quote from a prissy Shakespeare groupie who happens to host the luncheon every year. Incidentally, Tara Maple was never invited back despite a Giller nod. And what did she really say that was so avant-garde anyhow? One of the laced collars clutching her new Victorian romance to her generous bosom addressed Tara Maple in front of everyone in attendance, “Frankly, I don’t understand a thing you’ve ever written.” And that is when she dispensed the Auden quip, “Real poetry originates in the guts and only flowers in the head. I’m trying to reverse the process.” Lace Collar’s face froze in a vacant stare, “I beg your pardon?” Tara Maple threw her head back in jest and laughed, “My work here is done.” It should also be noted that she wore a Pearl Jam t-shirt under a fancy blazer to the event and stuck out like a sore thumb amid the twill and tweed. Come as you are, the invitation said, so she did.

            Tara Maple has just returned home to her humble abode from a glorious weekend away. Drunk on kinship, wordplay, and accolades, she’s hungry. It is her ritual to unpack her overnight bag, start laundry, run the vacuum over her big living-room area rug, change into something clean and head out for a brisk walk and a nibble. She crosses the road to take the scenic route to the town square, left on Jaden Street and a sharp right onto Wentworth and then straight.

            Tara Maple loves coming back. She loves making this walk. The town square, surrounded by a shimming blue ocean where the sunlight dances its diamonds clean, the local shops and grocers laid out like fluorescent dominos, the plush playground where neighboring children frolic and giggle, and then there’s Stanley’s.  She approaches the food cart with its bright red and white umbrella inhaling the familiar aroma. Old Man Cartwright is leaning heavy on his whittled cane giving Stanley a hard time, “I’m telling you this right now Stan, if brains was gasoline you wouldn’t have yourself enough to run a mosquito’s motorcycle half way ‘round that there dime!” Stanley is a gentleman; he puts Old Man Cartwright’s food in his hand, nods and forgoes payment. As per usual, Old Man Cartwright gives a growl of a thank you and carries on with his head down. Stanley greets his next customer with a beaming teeth smile, “Tara Maple Tree, what can I get for you, a hot dog with mustard?” Tara Maple smirks and motions toward the simmering meat in the briny water, “Yes please, Pops.” Stanley blows is daughter a kiss, “Poem for a frank?” Tara Maple nods and breaks into verse. A crowd collects. Tara Maples is happy. Tara Maple is home. Understood.

***

Writing just to write, that’s all this is, really, writing just to write. Nothing more, nothing less.

In propinquity,

Nic

           

Summer Vacation, 1985

Summer Vacation, 1985

Remember that summer vacation

we took with Dad to Oak Island Inn?

It was summer, 1985. We giddily packed

our bags with or Duran Duran tees, shorts,

pajamas, pink toothbrushes and waited

anxiously for the car to roll up and wind

down the South Shore. Remember we

stopped at Lawtons on the way to check

and see if there were any new magazines

out and we hit the mother-load? A new

Star Hits and 16 Magazine full of centerfolds

and glimpses of Simon LeBon and John Taylor,

our favorite guys. Oh, and Michael Hutchinson.

We couldn’t wait to arrive at our destination

to pour over every detail and then all over again.

Remember the weather was hot and sunny? We

checked into our room that was next door to

Dad’s, our patios connected with a dull view

of the resort’s dining-room. Remember we

unpacked our treasures, plugged in our silver

ghetto blaster, popped in our new Kool and the

Gang cassette and dismantled our magazines

to decorate the desk with their glossy pages?

Remember we went swimming and exploring?

We met that creepy guy on the boardwalk. We

were positive he had a hook for a hand. When

he dared share his Oak Island theory he kept

the hand in question tucked up deep inside his

heavy sleeve. Remember we were sweating

in the summer heat and thought it strange he

was wearing a sweater? I’ll never forget the

sinister gleam in his eye each time he swept

his greasy bang away from his brow. I can’t

remember exactly what story he told to us.

Whatever it was had us running clean for the

hills and caused you to have daunting dreams

about floating heads and other body parts.

Remember the next day after hours of more

swimming and malingering Dad called you from

his patio? He was sitting in the sun reading

the newspaper. You went toward his voice

to ask what he wanted and remember you

thought the screen was open but it wasn’t

and your head bounced hard into the net and

knocked the whole panel clean from its tracks

and it toppled over the side of the balcony?

Remember how hard we laughed? Remember

how red in the face Dad was when he realized

everyone enjoying lunch in the dining-room

witnessed your clumsy gaffe? He was a little

beside himself enough to let us go to dinner

alone and order whatever we wanted. “Just

charge it to your room, have whatever you want,”

he said. And boy did we. Remember we ordered

strip loin steaks with baked potatoes, mushrooms,

and garlic bread? It was perfect meal for us two.

I felt so grown up dining alone without Dad nearby.

It felt exciting, extraordinary. I was a happy kid,

proud to sit so fancily with a crisp cloth napkin in

my plump lap across from you, my Big Sister.

Remember when we checked out and Dad saw

our dinner tab? He cursed under his breath at

the front desk but paid the kind folk without

complaint. Remember we bought captain hats

and posed for pictures together? Remember

when we got back to Halifax? Dad took us for

a walk along the waterfront. I bopped along side

you both in my humble attire without a care in the

world because I felt like the luckiest girl on the

planet. And, remember for years later we’d look

at ourselves in those pictures and reminisce? How

we’d laugh at the way Dad near dropped his paper

when you busted through the patio door and how

the only reason we even bothered to buy a

captain’s hat at all is because Simon LeBon owned  

a boat called ‘Drum’ to sail in the Whitbread race

and they capsized. Remember how scary those

news headlines were? We were so worried for him.

I remember it was one of the best summer vacation

trips I ever had. One for this history books for sure.

Remember all those Sunday dinner’s at Dad’s in

Portland Estates when we’d recall that time away

together while Dad dished up shrimp in garlic

butter just for he and I because you hated seafood?

Remember? I remember everything as if it happened

yesterday. Memory, it becomes a vivid thing when

it is all you have left.

***

One of my favorite summer memories in poem form. Keeping them all alive, forever and ever by remembering.

In propinquity,

Nic