Broken Hero With a Poet's Name

Sunday. November 2^nd, 2014.  The first day of the time change.  Gaining an hour of sleep they say.  For me, it’s one less hour of sunlight that I require.  I am now facing those several months where I will be getting up in the dark and going home in it too.  While I do enjoy the nighttime, sunlight as I get older tends to hold more promise and it alleviates the seasonal blues.  Must buy some vitamin D.  It doesn’t help that it’s cold as a witch’s teet today and has been pouring rain all weekend.  Such is Fall, just like cool cousin Spring.  I have had enough of sitting around, I am going to get out today and stretch my legs and browse around, hopefully get a visit in with my Dad if he’s up for it and then prepare my noodle for the return to the 9 to 5.  I daydream about a retreat every Sunday, a quiet place to think and write and wonder.  I think I’m just longing for a vacation.  A real one.  Not one where I just don’t go to work, but one where I am away from my daily life, somewhere other than here.  I’m still hoping for a trip down South in the Spring before my bud moves to Newfoundland.  We planned for it last April for our 40^th birthdays but circumstances prevented me from being able to have the time off.  It HAS to happen this April.  I long for a real grown up vacation.  I work my tail off.  I deserve it.  Most importantly, I need it.

I did get up this morning when it was still dark.  I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t get my noodle to settle long enough to rest.  I read Ru’s blog last night and a line in the preface to the new piece she posted stuck with me, ‘a broken hero with a poet’s name’.  I haven’t written a thing in weeks.  And since this line stuck with me, I thought I’d try to use it as a beginning of a poem, inspired by her creative wisdom.  I hope she doesn’t mind.

This is what I wrote.  Unedited and raw, in Sylvia Plath’s ‘blue hour’ and in the pouring rain:

Broken Hero With a Poet’s Name

I encountered a broken hero with a poet’s name

the weight of his dark eyes evoked an eccentric peace

I put him in a clamorous setting on a critical piece of paper

the noises, crashing cymbals, tambourines, vociferous voices

I wish it had been more of an airy dream under weeping trees

our happenstance was a mere trace of the truest North

a romantic’s naiveté where the moon is always just the moon

the broken hero with the poet’s name propositioned my fate

gone longer than he was present but not without a quiet farewell

I encountered him in the place where I was supposed to be

the stark adequacy of his small oblivion touched me for hours

the broken hero with the poet’s name

entered my emptiest spaces without a word

and re-wrote the laws of chaos into exquisite verses

I sing them now against the wind and into the sun

**

A little writing exercise to flex my muscles just a little bit.  I abandoned all of my stories and characters that were present and I feel really bad about that.  I do try to work but lately I haven’t had the heart for it but I feel like I should be a responsible writer and force myself to do it.  How can I even call myself a writer if I don’t do it each day?  I am desperate to be back in that place where I was prolific and productive, churning out stories faster than I could ever believe.  That was an amazing feeling, a happy time in my creativity.  I hope to have that back.  No, not hope, I WILL.  Right?

Oh, and Halloween was a gas.  We went as happy Mexicans.  I was stunned at how unlike myself I looked.  I was stunned by how much I looked like my oldest brother.  The comments and laughs our costumes got were fun and eased my worried self for a few hours.  Grateful for that and for my friends.

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