Monday, October 29, 2018

Careen Serene



Careen Serene

            it’s like riding
a bicycle with no hands
careening serene straight
into the soft manifesto of
a Ballet troupe
plie
tendu
            failli
across a gleaming floor
under entrancing chandeliers
where
an awkward
but sometimes clever
wallflower cowers in a cozy
corner
where three keening voices
compete for free admission
to a much darker disco
            it’s like wishing
the delicate intensity that
brews between dancers was
your own ritual of intimacy
instead of sitting alone with
your legs dangling into an
empty orchestra pit tempted
to pry open the privacies of
strangers as self-sacrifice &
befriend a woman named
            Lucretia
an ample under-study who
will
never
properly pirouette

***

This poem is an elephant. I had fun writing it but can’t make heads or tails of it. I think that’s why I love it so much: an out of the blue mind meld.

All in a day’s work, eh? An attempt to write something creative as a distraction.

In propinquity,
Nic
           

Wednesday, October 24, 2018

Big Sister



Big Sister

My Big Sister passed away a week ago today. She died on the first anniversary of Gord Downie’s passing at five minutes to one. It was a glowering October afternoon, with sullen clouds twisting perfect autumn colors into a seasonal knot outside of the hospital window.

It’s all a blur. The whole day, the moment life left her, the weeks she spent in hospital while we conferenced with our doctor trying to make sense of what was happening inside of her body and her brain. We didn’t expect this outcome, to lose her. We held on to the hope that we’d finally get some answers and figure out why her body was rebelling against her. Once something started to work, a medication, a treatment, whatever, something else broke down and then she did and before we even had a minute to think, she was gone.

My Big Sister was my first friend. I’m the youngest of six kids and she was next in line, ten years my senior. I learned a lot from her at an early age, first to walk and then in later years to stand on my own two feet and do what I wanted without the worry of what others might think. I wish she had followed her own sound advice. She always worried. And, because she did, she often made mistakes. She protected herself so much that sometimes she missed the good stuff. If only she’d known it was good stuff. But then, she was only human. Aren’t we all.

My Big Sister taught me how to shave my legs. I used to sit in awe of her with her basin and soaps and razors, watching the sharp edge nip the flaxen hairs from her skin, “soft like a baby’s bum” she’d say. As you can imagine, I was nowhere near as graceful as she was the first few times. I had cuts and scrapes to match the ones I’d gotten wiping out on my bicycle. It wasn’t until she taught me how to curl my hair that I’d gotten the hang of it.

My Big Sister was there for me when I was curious about the birds and the bees. She took out a book and read the whole thing to me. I winced and squirmed from looking at the diagrams but she told me with a maternal calm that there was nothing she showed me I’d ever need to be ashamed of, especially when it was time for my period. I got mine when I was in grade 5. It made me so sick I failed the easiest language arts test in the world. I was wearing my favorite pink jeans. I almost passed out. When the school bus let me off at the end of my drive-way I bolted straight into the house, whizzed right by my Mother in search of my Big Sister. She calmed me down and reminded me what I needed to do and where to find the ‘supplies’. This of course was all to Mom’s delight. She never knew quite how to broach the subject of ‘womanhood’ with me.

My Big Sister took me on my first adventure. I grew up surrounded by woods and in Cow Bay. I thought driving just up into Eastern Passage proper for a treat at the store was a big outing but once we moved out of the sticks and into the Passage she took me on the bus all the way to Halifax. It blew my mind. We had a routine: Dairy Queen on the corner of Spring Garden and South Park Street for cheeseburgers, fries and Peanut Buster Parfaits (hold the peanuts – yes, I know, weird), two bookstores, the Black Market, and then to Sam the Record Man on Barrington Street. There we discovered three incredible levels of every genre of music. We fell in love with it all, together. Her early taste leaned toward Bay City Rollers. I thought they were pretty lame compared to my love for the Jackson 5. But, then we discovered Duran Duran; New Romantics with a sound we couldn’t resist, a band with glamorous style and splashy videos and influences that opened up the world to both of us. We quite literally wallpapered our shared room with their posters and pages ripped out of every teen/music magazine you can name. We devoured every tidbit, every clip on TV, every note. We got interested in the fashion world and the art world. My Big Sister was quite enthralled with Warhol as a result of our love for Duran Duran and went on to amass a stunning collection of books and things related to him. Finding Duran Duran was our cultural education. And, it was what cemented our bond even with ten years between us. From there until our adult years, we were thick as thieves. All the trips and concerts and conversations and laughter and collecting – they all shaped me and were some of the happiest days of my young life. I’d give anything to go back and relive one with her.

My Big Sister lost a big part of herself when our Dad died. Despite their often tumultuous relationship, there’s no one on this planet she loved or trusted more. She made us promise, that if something were to happen to her, we had to let her go so she could be with him. We encouraged her in every way we could think of to reconsider. She had always said even before she got sick that she would never want to live in a hospital bed, kept alive by tubes and machines and things. She was an incredibly claustrophobic person but she also said that if she couldn’t live fully and functionally, one hundred percent participating in the world, she’d rather not. It’s a tall order for a woman so young to enact a strict do not resuscitate order. When she landed in hospital back in early September, that very thing kept me awake at night but I convinced myself it’d never come to that.

I lost my Big Sister. Someone or something in the universe out-maneuvered my hope and all the fighting we did for her to try and help her get well. Someone said that God needed her now; he had other work for her to do, important work. I like to believe some version of that is true. I wish I knew. What I do know is that for all of the pain and anguish she endured this past year; especially during her long exasperating stay in a Dartmouth hospital, she slipped away surrounded by love. So much of it that when I think of those who were in the room with me, holding her hand, giving her permission to free herself, it makes me want to curl into a little ball and cry for days. And yet I remember this: it is a privilege to grieve. It is an honour to feel so much heartache, all this hurt because I loved that much. We loved that much.

My Big Sister was there for me at my beginning and I was there for her at her end. I am lucky. I’ll be lost without her, likely for the rest of my life. But there are songs and photographs and memories and people and places and things that will keep her right beside me, inside of me, until some force in the universe sees fit to task me with important work. She’ll save me a seat and show me the ropes. That’s how we roll.

I miss my Big Sister with every fiber of my being. I always will. But, that she was my Big Sister and we shared so much is a gift. It’ll never stop giving.

In propinquity,
Nic

PS – It goes without saying that in the days and weeks and months ahead I’ll be working through this loss in poetry. Once the shock wears off I know the words will come and I welcome them.





Friday, October 12, 2018

11 Pound Novel



11 Pound Novel

in exchange for a peek
at my 11 pound novel
my free-wheeling fiction
& a stack of sepia-toned
still-lifes as prospective
cover art
a rugged tattooed dingbat
sat at my kitchen table to
strum some of the sweetest
strings devoid of the usual
seedy yawps
zigzagged whops of space
prog & sudden swing jazz
he plays for the blacklisted
& alcoholics in dingy dive
bars
it was enough to
make my head spin ‘round
that I near forgot to breathe
            dingbat thumbed his
nose at my chapters as long
as one line of dialogue but
left w/ all of my hit-or-miss
metaphors
hidden inside of his guitar
case
            to use in letters to
his exes

***

And here it is, the early morning clacking for my poetry prompt on this dreadfully inclement and fraught Friday. I was grateful to wake up to a note from my bud this morning, to a little something that helps to keep my head on straight while in this personal season of grueling concern for a loved one whose struggle is becoming quite serious, enough to keep me awake most nights.

The prompt was the poem’s title. I had no idea where it would go, I just wrote. Like a morning page. I also think it’s why I enjoy waking up to prompts because it helps to wipe the noodle clean of any nighttime residual upset. I do find when I write on the way to work and fuss over the crossword puzzle in the back of the newspaper my days tend to evolve in a positive vein.

Writing and music, they both save. They save me. All the time.

In propinquity,
Nic

Wednesday, October 10, 2018

Dinkytown



Dinkytown

            when all seems lost
I recall another time when I
dressed in vintage t-shirts &
courderoy flares
wore my hair long & straight
& the scent of sandalwood
curled through the air
                        accidental days gone
by
when I wore floral blouses to greasy
spoons for strong coffee w/ a sugar-
coated bare chested bearded man &
a time when I
brazenly turned to the Dylans both
Bob & Thomas
            for mild mischief
when all seems lost
                        time travel is possible
do not go gentle into that Dinkytown …

***

My bud came along with a prompt this morning, Bob Dylan. Ironically, ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ shuffled on while I was deep in thought.  I considered writing a poem about throwing heavily markered cue cards in an alley but that seemed lazy, no? Where this little ditty came from, I’ve no idea except to note the correlation between the two Dylans and a specific time and place I wish I had witnessed.

In propinquity,
Nic




Thursday, October 4, 2018

Lone Figure Wandering




Lone Figure Wandering

so this
breezy character
a lone figure wandering
is indeed condescending
trampled over my T-Rex
records & my brittle bones
w/ demands to be indulged
& adored in a tenor that
verges on preachy
            imagine
harrowing chic flashing
a half smile in oppressive
light prowling backstage
through a cluttered green
room in pursuit of a tawdry
interlude
            if I were
to paint it the scene would
be a collection of agitated
brushstrokes or big blots of
ominous tints to aptly depict
            antagonistic intent
simmering tensions rise &
my gaze becomes unmoving
& hard
watching
wrong-headed
sharp cheeks &
teased out tresses blow brass
horns & pluck delicate harps
believing it will elicit a steady
magic but I’ve already heard
the plum notes
played by someone
mesmeric one jet black night
not so long ago
                        it is impossible
to strive for constant
perfection &
not be muzzled by indifference
            if I were
to sit down & write about this in
detail
I’d squeeze out a parable
that’d require your full attention
& alongside
my countless estimations
I          
wouldn’t shy away from saying
those tassels were too distracting
for an equivocal vagrant to be
twirling in everyone’s face but
never mention my own stockings
& pointed shoes

***

Moral?

Here’s a hint, it’s got a little something to do with judgement. 

Take from it what you will, artistic heart.

In propinquity,
Nic




Wednesday, October 3, 2018

Canters, Fairfax



Canters, Fairfax

            while on a
standing-room-only
city bus stogged with
indolent soaked-coated
sleepwalkers I wobble &
hold on to the unctuous
steel bar, white-knuckled
my shell whacks abruptly
against bulging back-packs
& my knees knock against
some poor schmuck’s knees
preventing him from being
able to do his crossword
in peace    to escape I day-
dream of a late-night hang
at Canters, Fairfax
Los Angeles
from just the week before
waiting on a friend to wind
her way slowly down from
the perfumed and precipitous
Laurel Canyon
I sat alone in a moon-shaped
mid-century booth under the
hue of sputnik lights sipping
pink lemonade deciding what
to order
            I considered thick-cut
steak fries but you can literally
have french-fries anywhere so
I sprung for an order of stuffed
kishka with gravy & a bowl
of mish mosh soup – the giant
matzo ball was impressive but
the serving was a little chintzy
on kreplach
            my ornery orange-haired
waitron mused drolly they have
served over 10 million matzo balls
LA’s best since 1931          
she quipped
I made sure to tip her well when
my comrade finally arrived with
a few other Hollywood dolls in toe
all glittery eyed & sunset stripped
to whisk me off to a rock show that
kept us wild & free until the wee
hours of the morning only to land
back at Canters in the same moon-
shaped booth eating
Huevos Rancheros
while on a
standing-room-only
city bus replete with their drooped
shoulders & dripping hoods
            I dolefully hanker for
my feet to trace the Venice Beach
canals, squiggle on the back of
postcards addressed to the envious
banter with the Rainbow-ed elite
& fall asleep listening to the Pacific
splashing & the seagulls sing
            instead
the hiss of wet brakes & a collective
sigh

***

I’ve been working on this poem for several days. It’s dedicated to those dear few who frequent and belong in the air of Los Angeles. I hope to one day inhale it with them. For now, a poem.

In propinquity,
Nic