Madoc Says Magic Is Afoot

Madoc Says Magic Is Afoot

Madoc says

magic is afoot

to appeal

deadened hues

away from the

oppressors tongue

to cull poems

from the Aegean Sea

to render God

alive

                above

humid nimbus clouds

enough to make a

brooding genius shudder

Madoc says

magic is afoot

because

Leonard Cohen

read aloud

                a verse

that left him

slouched into a corner

recounting a lone

bellow of wistfulness

Madoc says

magic is afoot

in a collection

                the

author’s  name

barely visible

                on the

thin spine

a book of revelations

bought and sold

for one single

line of truth

etched with

                a ballpoint pen

by a reliable witness

Madoc is always

right

**

I’ve reading ‘Startle and Illuminate – Carol Shields on Writing’ – it’s been a comfort to pursue her collected advice and to, in some small way, spend time with her again the way I did inside of all of her other books, stories, and poems. I have been keeping my eyes, ears; heart and mind open for an opportunity to begin a new short story. I can feel it bubbling somewhere under the surface. I have started and stopped SO many stories over the last year or so. I attribute it to Liz Gilbert’s assertion that if the story did not materialize, then it wasn’t my story to tell, the idea will pass on to some other waiting writer. I like that imagery. That thought. I’d hate for them to never be told so I hold on to the hope it will weed up into a comrade’s think bank and flourish. The poetry has been (as always) a saving grace but I want to sink my teeth into a story.

For now, I wait patiently. Madoc insists magic is afoot …

And obviously, this poem was Leonard Cohen inspired.

In propinquity,

Nic

Carol's Party

Carol Shields would be 80 years old today.

It’s crazy to imagine that it has been more than 10 years since she lost a brave and courageous battle with breast cancer. My bookshelves are lined with volumes of her extraordinary works about many conventional things and people: casseroles and scarves and mothers and daughters. My writer’s tool box is full of immeasurable instruments of inspiration garnered from her and from them I learned the redemptive power of writing, to have faith in the movement of my pen, to observe the intricacies of the ordinary, to advance my voice, elevate human connection, foster it and use it to be a better writer; a better person. I learned a great deal about character development from her keen skills and, much about detail, voice, texture and truth. I can only hope they translate, even just a little in the work that I dare to put into the world.

When I learned she was sick, I wrote a long gushing handwritten letter to her in the hospital. I expressed my eternal gratitude for her superlative contribution to Canadian literature, for her exceptional female presence as a writer, for the moments of transcendence while tucked eagerly into the pages of her books, for the lessons, the enlightenment, empowerment and for the words. What shocked me weeks later was receiving a reply on a non-descript plain white postcard thanking me for my kind words, for reading hers and for the well wishes. It chokes me up to think of her in her hospital room scribbling notes to those like me who refused to miss the opportunity to express how deeply she touched our lives: a remarkable woman, even on her deathbed. I will cherish that note the rest of my days.

Her words resonate, then and now. I wish she could still be with us, painting the creative landscape with her beautiful prose and poems. There were so many stories left for her to tell but as life would have it, not enough time.

The works she did leave behind are valuable and voluble. She created literary magic culled from her own life, in her own unique way. She was generous, of spirit, of talent and for that and so many other reasons, a treasure.

Happy birthday to you up in the Heavens, Carol Shields.

We love you always and are grateful for your wisdom and your beautiful words.

In propinquity,

Nic

Knots

Knots

the length of a nautical mile

is identical to a minute of latitude

in uncharted waters

loops and kinks weaken strapping cord

old worn rope damaged by sunlight

at the bottom of the mountain

sore strained grieving muscles

latent trigger points overwrought

below aching flesh

the beautiful code of a versatile metaphor

interlaced with the mysteries of love

that beat in a heart

found loneliness precipitates ever-long

bare hands reach up for a speculative lift

to scale toward the Heavens

Northeast-bound bow heaving toward an address

stern slick and graceful for long uninterrupted hours

fully rigged sailing vessel asea

arms outstretched for the concluding embrace

the absence of substance pressing into bones

for remnants of human attachment

knots

troublesome

intricate arrangement of tender places

sudden intervention of constructive trust

knots

            they bind

they blind

**

So, here's the skinny.  I came home the last two nights determined to battle the block I'm currently experiencing.  The first night I read a bit of Carol Shields and Alice Munro while listening to Matt Epp and Diana Krall.  I then scribbled.  Last night I went for a walk on Rainbow Haven beach with my friend Donna to try and clear out the cobwebs.  I got the pant legs of my yoga pants wet because I couldn't outrun a wimpy wave.  It felt good.  Scribbled a little more. Tonight, I came home through this sudden humid heat-wave the east coast of Canada is experiencing ate gross hotdogs because it was too hot too cook much else and watched 'Tragically Hip in Bobcaygeon'.  Got goosebumps and maybe cried a little.  While trying to stay hydrated I pieced together the scribbles and came up with this poem.  Good, right?!

Get this.  While I still haven't managed to seep back into 'Large-Hearted' mode, I actually walked into TWO more story ideas.  What the french toast!?  One of the ideas scares me a little bit so I'm not sure how that one is going to go.  It stems from a dream I had not long ago.  The majority of my dreams of late have been twisted like pretzels.  I haven't been sleeping very well and so when I am sleeping I'm conjuring up all this insane garbage including revisiting an ex to discover he murdered someone and made art out of his victim's bones and this insane doctor injecting my niece with poison.  I'd be afraid to have them analyzed.  I mean geez.  The other one, which shocked me out of my sleep is going to be hard to write.  I don't know when I'll get to it but it'll come.  And, the other idea is light and fuzzy so fear not.

I'm melting so I must go re-fill my icewater and sit in front of a fan to stay cool until I go to bed to toss and turn.  Silver lining?  Tomorrow is Friday!  Yay!

In propinquity,

Nic

The Better Love

Could someone please explain …. where the blazes is the time going this year?  It seems to be flying by so fast.  Tomorrow is November already, done with the Halloween shenanigans and preparing for yuletide elf duties.  This year, with all of its blessings and a few imprudent decisions still has a little bit of life to be lived yet and obviously, more words to be written.  I can honestly say that since I’ve started this blog, I have been focused on and always mindful of literary pursuits so reading and writing has really started to fulfill me in a way it never has before.  That is a good feeling.  Fostering my artist and feeding the Muse, nothing like it.  It helps to move through things that offer emotional strain, it helps to then find solace in the comfort of comrades and it is helpful to know joy in acknowledging gratitude when the chips are down.  I tend to break out in a ruby red rash of sentimentality when I feel a year closing in.  Come November, inching toward the Christmas season my mushy heart tends to be verbose with love and thankfulness for just about everything and everyone I love. 

One of the things I really love is being part of the Open Heart Forgery gang.  I submitted a poem for the latest edition that is available for public consumption throughout the Halifax area.  I am working on a little something now to submit for the very last edition of 2012 but in the meantime, here is the poem that can be seen compiled with other talented local writers  in the latest issue:

The Better Love

the better love

was left behind

its weight

pressed into

tight stanzas

undefined

undetermined

denied

the better love

was disadvantaged

deprived of ripeness

the better love

was the best love

now unrequited

the saddest love

of all

Universal theme, no?  Something I believe each and every one of us can relate to or has related to.  Unrequited love, never felt so good as it does in a poem. 

I finally finished reading John Taylor’s memoir, In The Pleasure Groove.  I savoured every page to make it last as long as I could.  His story is one not so uncommon for those whose rise to fame was fast and furious but in saying that, none too revealing.  He came across as apologetic which I expected knowing the tender soul he is and very protective of those he holds closest.  His loyalty is endearing and I did learn a few new things about the guy whose face was plastered all over my bedroom wall for much of my teen years.  And while I know it was a brave undertaking to share his story, I feel as if he held a lot back and skimmed the surface instead of really digging deep.  I understand the reservations of sharing so it is not a true criticism but more of an observation and that I understand what it is to bear your soul in words.  It’s not an easy task. I just know that it was lovely to spend time reading about someone I have admired for my whole life and whose career has broadened my knowledge and tastes for other kinds of music, art and authors and by virtue of a loving fan-based, introduced me to some of the most amazing people I am happy to call friend.  I’ve always been in the pleasure groove because I am a fan of his and continue to revel in the music he creates with my favorite band.  It’s one of those things that has defined who I am and led me to so many fascinating discoveries.  The beat goes on.

Now that I’m done Mr. Taylor’s book I have decided I am going to make the commitment to re-read all of Carol Shields’ books.  I am still missing her volume about Jane Austen but it shall be mine.  I plucked Unless down from my shelf this morning to carry along to work with me.  I decided to start with Reta’s tale because it delves into my most prized virtue, gratitude.  Carol Shields was a stunning scribe.  She made ordinary things extraordinary, built memorable characters and imagined stories that leave you full of humanity and wonderment.  She is also a hero of mine painted by a completely different brush.  I’m pleased with myself for coming up with the bright idea to enjoy her books again as I have many times over.  My insides will be rich and my breathing will come easy as it always does with time spent in her stories.

Happy last day of October, Halloween.  It’s raining and windy here today, residual effects of Hurricane Sandy who has devastated much of the East Coast of the US.  This weather could pose a real problem tonight for the littles out and about trick or treating.  I had my Halloween fun on Saturday evening with my best friend, hamming it up as a trailer trashy gal, complete with a wig that had beer cans for curlers.  It was a fun time, being silly and being in the company of folks who enjoy laughing, spooky treats and good music.  I suppose though if there are no little ghouls to claim tonight’s treats, I’ll have to eat them all. Aww shucks.

Remember kids, witches don’t like to fly their brooms when they are angry for fear they will fly off the handle.

In propinquity,

Nic