This Pause

This Pause

this pause

is for a poem

creative

redemptive

sanctifying
a horde of

raw material

                manipulated

to purge

the ugliness

                to forge

a path to beauty

**

My thoughts are full of strife at the moment and in looking for ways to ease them, a poem. I’ve been feeling quite left of center lately, so when inspiration strikes you grab it. You get your hands on it and you hold on tight. You don’t let it go: and so, a poem.

I will be seeking refuge shortly after I leave my work desk today; a jaunt in the cold, under a grey sky where daylight will slip away quickly. Errands. Well, one, acquiring a vessel to transport precious Christmas cargo west. It is an important task and one that will lift the spirits knowing that when I get home I can place all the pretty things inside with a little of my love and gratitude.

However you spend your evening, I hope it is delightful.

In propinquity,

Nic

Apt Metaphors

Apt Metaphors

somewhere unplumbed

somewhere concealed

                hidden deep

inside the wilderness of

                the human spirit

euphoniousness

                benevolence

                                clemency

all will upend

the insipid visage

of the crestfallen

somewhere secreted

                a susurrous echoing

will call verity to the peripheral

                the potent will temper

& the Amorians will once again

                inhabit

the richness of their imminent                  

                impressive front

**

It is palpable: the odium that has risen up to the surface and has flooded our information highways, our neighborhoods, our daily lives, our worst nightmares. The US election has held the entire world in a tight fist of anxiety right up until the stunning realization that a fascist will now be in charge of the free world. A spray-tanned elitist with his spoiled family are soon to replace a formidable leader, one of which the world may not see for some years to come, if ever. I read all of these stories about racial unrest, redneck gun-toting rhetoric, sexist slurs: all of this abhorrence has boiled up and splayed an abhorrent shadow across all of the things that are good in this world. I have to believe goodness will prevail; I have to believe it out-weighs the ugliness, I have to believe that intelligence and beauty has reining power over the foul. I have to. I take comfort in the motto that love trumps hate. I have to believe it does, I just HAVE to.

And so, this poem.

In propinquity,

Nic

Efficient Little Stanza

Forgive me. I know it is Remembrance Day but I woke up with swollen eyes and a heavy heart, going to bed with the knowledge poetry’s Holy Grail had died. It has been a tough year, 2016, for fallen artists, important ones, but this socked me so hard I could hardly sleep. It likens to the emotions felt when I heard Gord Downie was afflicted. I knew Leonard wasn’t well but I hung on his promise that he’d live forever, the same way I always believed of my father.

I was up early. Brewed myself a cup of coffee in my ‘cup of longing’ (a souvenir I covet from his show in Halifax a few years back that changed my whole entire insides), and started writing. I apologize, as I am not as articulate today as I can and should be. I am just heartsick and saddened. All of the tributes flooding the internet helps, recalling Adam Cohen’s uplifting show at The Carleton where he performed ‘So Long, Marianne’ and I wept profusely out of my left eye the whole time refusing to breathe or else I’d blubber, shaking his hand and talking briefly about his father and his own talents: all helps.

Leonard Cohen, at 82, left the table but left behind a body of work and a resonating influence that will last even long after I’m gone. It has been such a wondrous journey, following him, learning from him, listening to him, celebrating him.

Au revoir, fallen star. I love you.   

**

Efficient Little Stanza

you left the table

I remain

under fedora brim

topping up

two fingers of rot gut

whiskey

with brackish tear-jewels

last we met

I was in a state

you reminded

me to remain

reflective

& unburdened

to make art

to take my good time

you smoked cigarettes

I glugged robust coffee

I wept  

                & you laughed

I was disheveled

& you of course

                always

dressed for ecstasy

our last meeting

                is tied up in an

efficient little stanza

                handwritten

in a moleskine journal

                for safe keeping

now

                you’ve left the table

I remain

                your old pin-striped

grey flannel jacket

                draped over my shoulders

your poetry on my tongue

               

birds on the wire

                did not warn me

you would be gone

                when I arrived

                so long, love

it’s been nice knowin’ ya

**

Remembering my literary hero today as well as all of those who have fought for our freedoms. So many emotions today. So many.

In propinquity and in Flanders Field,

Nic