Condensed Into 36 Lines

Condensed Into 36 Lines

In the ballroom of an exclusive hotel

my caustic synecdoches unspool promptly

set to a sea of the saddest faces ever traced.

Standing straight in relaxed square-toed shoes

at a podium where restlessness is a hallmark.

I read from creased pages in my nervy poet hands

telling of feats, wants and shrunken prospects.

Also tales of collapsed bridges and erotic subsets

to laugh out-loud moments with scattered applause

gut-wrenching stillness and a fair bit of upheaval.

I explain apologetically about my subversive side

recounting rebelliousness in seventeen syllables

and how we can never tell who is behind the mask.

Yet I will still be reviewed as charming and melancholic

even despondent for attempting to condense such

an imperative piece of work into 36 tight lines.

My brevity, it was unequivocally intentional to protect

excruciating and devoted austerity to fading music  

and the invisibility of the ink used to make the mess.

In the ballroom of an exclusive hotel on

the cusp of delivering a virtue that is simultaneously

childlike and terrifying, temperance is hard to implement.

Afterwards, I’ll improvise.

**

I spent some of my rainy day down-time this afternoon plucking away at a half written poem. I had fun playing with words in between phone calls, accounting and fearing the roof of our building might peel away like the lid of a sardine can thanks to the last remnants of Hurricane Patricia. This afternoon, I was also daydreaming about that writing retreat I often wish I could take, pondering all things that inspire me and how much stringing words together truly means to me. Adding and subtracting numbers pale in comparison to being able to connect words and watch them multiply. I am grateful I have the knack and the passion for it, even if what I create stinks. It’s the passion; the big magic (it’s what also prevents me from becoming an embittered crone).

And I can’t help but wonder, what I’ll write next. Oh, the suspense.

Creative minds are rarely tidy.

In propinquity,

Nic

Bits and Pieces

Bits and Pieces

all the bits and pieces of this and of that

vanish in the precise moment we make a

virtuous home among perfect strangers

shared simply in a long letter or a soft cry

all things dismal tend to dazzle just a little

I tell this to the moon and a spray of stars

as I know who will to greet me at the door

smiling when I have no gift for speaking

I am not terribly old but no longer young

less naïve more tough bright and skillful

all the bits and pieces of then and now

a busy intersection of strong pretty things

subtracted by privately owned pleasantries

heed to the sweetest custom of kindness  

everything murky made magic with an easy

exchange of warm hand over obliged heart

enhances the romance of my departure

a short trip outward to come back inside

to share the wealth of wisdom with eagers

all the bits and pieces of this and that

disappear in late afternoon’s unnamable light

when one has lived a long time alone

to arrive for someone never there before

for brief moments to turn into endless hours

all the bits and pieces of this and that

become anything other than what they once were

**

This one is for those of us who spend their time alone among the lovers. It's meant to be a hopeful poem, to express the yen for companionship, the longing to walk shoulder to shoulder with another human through the wilds of the world. 

You, lonely-heart. You're next. I just know so. The poets told me.

In propinquity,

Nic

To Live

A Zen feeling swept over me today. Maybe it’s the sun shining, maybe it’s a dear friend musing about a romantic encounter that left her speechless and smiling, maybe it’s the Kerouac article I read, maybe it’s just my amorian insides begging to be tended to. I have been distracted of late, lethargic, listless, and depressive even (I am starting to see a trend in my grown-up self, egads!). And then, out of nowhere, this feeling. Fundamentally, I am an optimist. The fibers of my being are woven together with love and kindness. I am prone to the sunny side of things despite the evil intentions of things like social media and negative humans who darken my way. I am, in every way, every word of this verse. I, in every way, hope these very sentiments for my people and their people and so on and so forth. Today I am feeling the full force of collected wisdom and peace. I hope, in some small way, you do too from my sappy little poem.

Mid-week sanguinity at its finest!

There are always reasons to smile in the face of any kind of adversity. In mine, I wrote this poem. And in mine, I look to the end of the week where rock ‘n’ roll will save whatever sanity I have left from this work week. July Talk for Halifax Pop Explosion with my best bud. These, the things I cling to when I’m feeling defeated!

So, the poem:

To Live

let us ponder the fertile wisdom

of the wild rucksack revolution

who wander to bless those in their

path with kindness and compassion

let us consider the brave notions while

we thumb the rules of spontaneous prose

studied by the platoon of bodhisattvas for

the sole purpose of learning to dream out loud

let us rejoice writing with fever and truth

to allow our deepest flaws to draw great love

commandeer the sacredness of a moment

and indulge in the existence of breathing freely

let us know sadness on the inside and out

reacquaint our true selves with the excitement

a spray of stars are noble companions in silence

building our perfect shadow on a sunrise mountain

let us desire the potent will to live as a whole poem

as a whole person poised to serve with intention

for the world, the universe, the Heavens, for ourselves

**

I meet you here, in the middle of the week, in a new Canada, with well wishes.

Broken crayons still color.

In propinquity,

Nic

La De Da

There are always those people in your life who assume you to be an accessory, the last resort ‘option’, the constant sucker to turn to when no one else will listen. It’s conversation I’ve had with a few lovely souls of late who are experiencing it first hand: feeling as though they are being taken advantage of by those posing as friends and confidants, feeling lost from the constant rejection, feeling inadequate and unsure because you love your friend but they are absent for you in all the ways you are present for them. To me, that all sounds incredibly junior high, grown men and women need not revert back to that sort of behaviour when they’ve reached adulthood. Life is hard but it’s supposed to be, how else to we learn the lessons we are meant to learn and grow from? It’s confounding to me. Perhaps it’s the Facebook age sending people back into their adolescence? Facebook and social media make narcissists of us all and for those whose penchant for passive aggressive pandering, large egos, and/or raging insecurities, the act of online social interaction only serves to enhance such a performance.

I can say with the utmost certainty that while my own actions may hurt someone’s feelings now and then, I never intentionally set out to do so. I can say the same thing for the people I’ve been conversing with.  That is not truth for some. Sadly.

Of course, their current plights with warding off that exact negativity, got me thinking about poetry. This poem, for some, may seem rich in snobbish vocabulary. It’s intentional. If you’ve ever had to put someone in their place or send them packing from your life because they were murdering your spirit, you’ll understand that such language is necessary. To make a point. I have been on the receiving end of this kind of attack, several times. I’m a soft, emotional person. Or, I was. This past year, with all I’ve gone through and continue to wade through, I’ve toughen up, I’ve had enough,  tightened up the circle and I focus on what matters most, what brings me joy while purging the rest. It isn’t that I’ve hardened really, I’ve just wised up and have realized that I don’t have to do or feel anything I don’t want to. I am my own person and frankly, I come first after coming in last my entire life. I have encouraged my friends to do the same and it seems to have started to work for them as well. With age (for most of us) comes wisdom. I’m happy to have reached a place where, for me, that is present and a reality.

So, a poem:

La De Da

if I were the nervy contrarian you

would have others believe me to be

thanks to your irrational elitism

I would have to utter something pretentious like:

“I find your banter about stolen cars betwixing.”

if I were the kind not to be reasoned with

a longstanding status you’ve attached to me

if for nothing more than plain old entertainment

I might weep and run into the wilds of wallflowers

I deliberate on our juxtaposition from your perspective:

“You are of minimal use to me, as different as North and South.

Of course, in this analogy, I am South.”

I contemplate your perception profoundly and scrupulously

if I were the apprehensive disappointment you take

delight in indicating to insignificant others that I am

I might reciprocate and relish in pointing out your flaws

your teeter-totter artifice your subterfuge your flagrant perfidy

to you I say la de da

ergo I will remain in your eyes and those of your pedigree

a kind of sad exclamation snobbishly disdained in high fiction

if you weren’t such an extraordinary novelty

struggling so desperately to renew your world

you might find a way to formulate the divine truth

accept love without believing there are consequences

la de da

**

It's a stunning fall day outside. My coffee cup is empty and I think maybe it's time to throw on a warm sweater and head out for an adventure.  

Wishing you a soulful Sunday full of good feelings and good friends.

In propinquity,

Nic