An East Coaster Travels

An East Coaster Travels

while

a night’s stay

at Chateau Marmont

is a little rich for the

commoner’s blood a   

            $14 dessert

of almond & hazelnut

meringue        

            chocolate ganache

& espresso buttercream is

not

            while

savoring each sweet bite

            a browse through

the rest of their decadent

menu

            garners a delight

the

mussels served in a

coconut curry broth hail all

the way from Prince Edward

            Island

my neck of the woods           

                                    I have

to sample them of course, a

            little taste of home in

West Hollywood

***

A fun little poem/blurb today.

It’s Friday, sunny, and a whopping fourteen degrees so naturally I took to the daydreams. A true Spring day that’ll knock whatever ills left in my system from my sick day yesterday.

I’m happy to have put pen to paper. It’s getting me in the mood for tonight, the annual poetry reading at City Hall with Open Heart Forgery for Poetry Month – the Mayor will even be on hand for some of it.  I love that it falls on a Friday this year. And, while I’m there, I’m going to see if I can peek at the Legacy Room and feast my eyes on the Gord Downie statue. Fingers crossed!

I am reading a poem for my Big Sister tonight. One poem. One purpose.

Happy Friday peoples!

In propinquity,

Nic

Downtown Poet

Downtown Poet

writing from a cheap apartment

with the hefty drapes frequently

                pinched shut

to boast in obscurity

the Irish Catholic Boy

the Novel Rimbaud

                sinuous rust-red hair

                notched cheekbones

stupidly skinny

his sloppy scrawl on napkins

with a leaky ballpoint pen

                imposing digressions

                panoramic prophecy

gritty punk rock

hip-hop/no-wave

alleyway swagger

poetic propensities

reads reams of Rilke backwards               

                & bottoms out

                just to transcend

as an ephemerist

a downtown poet

in a Chelsea coffee shop

always too late for breakfast

                but always early to the

side-spoon Shangri-La

it is that complicated sort of grief

to run with a gaggle of eccentrics

the comical foil

& then die a death void of ecstasy

**

It's poetry month! I've been avidly writing it, reading it and buying it up. On Saturday I took a road trip with my best bud to the South Shore and spent a little time nosing around in Lexicon Books in Lunenburg. It had a handsome poetry section and indications of the April celebration. I purchased a copy of 'Lunch Poems' by Frank O'Hara. Ironically so because it's been sitting on my Amazon wishlist since binge-watching 'Mad Men' (for the second time). It was meant to be. 

I will be congregating at City Hall with the Open Heart Forgery crew tonight for their annual reading. I have five poems printed and tucked in my bag. I will only read two and like other years, will choose at the 11th hour (the above poem is included in my pile). I am looking forward to being in a room with like-minded folk, word smiths, creatives. I live for this stuff. Great way to start a week and end a busy Monday at the work desk.

Happy Poetry Month!

Write one! Read many! All poets! 

In propinquity, 

Nic 

Caught In The Act

I tried desperately to squeeze some joy out of my mid-week holiday this week. Canada Day came, the sun poured through the windows with the promise of hours of enjoyment ahead. I struggled, the second my feet hit the floor, to ‘get with it’ for lack of a better phrase. Not wanting to waste a perfectly gorgeous day, I forced myself outside into the throngs of people and strollers and wheelchairs up and down the Halifax waterfront. Big mistake. Doing this activity alone and aimless: no plan, no comrades, no sense of direction; bad idea. I was already in a dark frame of mind, weighed down by the pressures and anxieties currently plaguing my days. I should have stayed home. That became evident when the sun gave way to the dark menacing clouds and it started to pour. I was on Barrington Street in short sleeves, no umbrella, minimal cover and solo.

My only goal in the weeks leading up to my country’s birth was to head down to the free show at Alderney Landing to catch the Glorious Sons from Kingston, ON. I’d seen them open for Airbourne at The Marquee and I fell in love with their particular brand of rock ‘n’ roll. When I set out across to Halifax, the idea was to eventually end up back at Alderney Landing in time for their set. But I got drenched en route to Dartmouth so I just kept on going until I was home in my comfies curled up with my eyes closed, agitated beyond comprehension. The only bright spot of the whole journey was a wee visit with Hannah.

Checking the clock and in with a friend, I opted to force myself back up, change into something warmer and go do what I wanted to do for weeks: see Glorious Sons. Timing was perfect, I arrived at the grounds just as they started their set.

A strange thing occurred to me as I watched them rock and then roll. I was standing in a crowd of thousands of people and had never felt lonelier. A profound sadness washed over me and it was all I could do to keep the tears in.  

But then, there was that kick drum … that fortuitous power filled up my being with authority.

Music does save. It did me in that exact moment.

I went to bed less filled with the dread of the day and more with the hope of making my tomorrow better. I can sometimes get very low but then my inner-optimist wakes up and slaps my feelings silly, reminds me I can do better, be better and kinder to myself. With struggle comes progress, right?

So, in addition to being brought back into the light but a rousing dose of rock, I also started reading a sweet little book: ‘Hector & The Search for Happiness. It is teeny tiny trade-paperback written by Francois Lelord, simply written yet insightful. It’s a wonderful little parable about modern life, about happiness and unhappiness. If you’re looking for a quick read with heart and lessons learned, pick it up. It is just what I needed. I found my copy under a pile of writing folders. I forgot all about it but it was like I was meant to forget so I could find it now when I was most in need of the directives.

Today is Friday. I missed the OHF gathering last night and I have this poem in the current issue. I really could use a gathering to get up and share some writing – better yet, I could really use a decent spurt of energy to create something worth sharing!

**

Caught In The Act

a singular vehemence instigated

a triumphant return to buoyancy

the near absence of preeminence

enacts an aesthetic  to serve admirably

the idiosyncratic ringing of the bells

bewitched an unleavened expression

to recite lengthy open-hearted verses

a rising narrative of subtle nuances

on the poetic condition

caught in the act of rhythmic climax

a surreal phrase

on a brisk winter morning

**

Happy weekend, friendly readers and loves.

Be happy.

Be free.

Be safe.

In propinquity,

Nic

All My Fears Are Trivial

I don’t believe in resolutions. Well, not anymore. Resolutions, eat better, exercise more often, be kinder, be better … blah blah blah. I believe in intentions.  And not just on January 1^st but 365 days of the year. Life shouldn’t be about the annual clean slate but rather the on-going mission for growth and goodness. But, that’s just me.

For me right now, there are a few areas that require a little extra work on my part but that has little to do with a new year dawning but from circumstance. Isn’t that usually the case? I have meditated on it over the Christmas break and realize my problem areas and am now striving to improve upon them, which includes but is not limited to strengthening the fortress around my heart to prevent impurities in and firming my small but mighty circle of friends. Time to purge the toxins, metaphor intended.

The one exception to the resolution rule this year is I started a gratitude jar. Nothing fancy but today I dropped my first slip of paper inside. I vow to add to it, even on the difficult days, one little thing that brought joy to my hours. I will do this until December 31^st and then hunker down with a celebratory beverage and read them all. 2104 was a difficult one so this is my attempt to remember the good stuff if things go south. It’s Amorian, it’s good for me. I challenge you to do the same. It’s a negativity net if you will. I’ve reached my threshold and my ability to cope with drama and folks who don’t deserve a chapter in my ongoing saga. Simplify, simplify, simplify. Just happens to coincide with a new year but if the need had come in June … same tactic would apply.

2014 had magical moments. Singing on the top of my lungs under the most incredible moon I’ve ever seen with The Killers and my people in PEI, Gord Downie squeezing my hand, watching people I love and/or admire succeed and flourish, beautiful reunions, getting my tattoo, meaningful conversations with my Dad, card tag, good deeds, daydreams, Hubbards in summer, nights at The Carleton, seeing my dearest friends smile and laugh, my Mom’s 80^th birthday, the amazing rock shows and ringing ears, all of the poems and notes and stories I wrote/tried/wanted to write.

I have struggled for a really long time, trying to tap back into my creativity. I was nowhere near as prolific in 2014 as I should have been. I’m sad that I let life and hard lessons get in the way of the words that wanted to be written. I am working my way back to that self. I know, I sound like a broken record but the long cold winter us upon us and I have to pick up my heart, dust it off and put it to good use. I have to turn off the TV and turn on the poetry. I need to make an Open Heart Forgery reading. I need to dig back in, visit the new library that opened in Halifax and have more artist dates that include writing, research and results.

So, here’s to you all making your fresh start, wiping the slate clean, I’m here with you, listing my ongoing intentions, rooting for you, hoping the best for you and smiling when you succeed.  And even if you don’t, when a door closes a window opens. It’ll be okay. Chin up, open heart, and try try again. If we are always doing our best, we can never truly fail.

In propinquity,

Nic

Let Yourself Be: Forging On

I survived a long arduous week of work.  Even though it was only a four day week since today is Good Friday, it felt more like six or maybe even eternity for it to come to a close.  I was grateful because there were rewards at the end of the stressful run of 9 to 5, there was a delicious glass of red waiting for me and my friends from the Open Heart Forgery gang.

April is national poetry month so for the launch of OHF’s April issue, we gathered at City Hall for a reading and celebration of words.  I zero time throughout the day to practice reading aloud which I often like to do so when I stand up to speak I don’t stammer or sound like an idiot.  Public speaking has never come easily for me when I am before a crowd of people about orate my art, the stuff that comes from deeply personal corners of my person.  However, the more I stand and read, the easier it gets and the more confident I become.  Listening to others and soaking up their words, the ones they take great care to string together, that helps too.  It’s a sense of unity that you can only experience by participating.  It has been an important creative building block for me and I wouldn’t have that without ever becoming part of the OHF family. 

I submitted a poem for the April issue and was pleased that it was included.  Donal Power, the brains and heart behind Open Heart Forgery has had to move on to the big city of Toronto for employment with his family to soon follow.  I missed the last Left Bank reading he attended so I wanted to say something publicly to acknowledge the impact his vision and founding of OHF has had on me.  Had it not been for seeing the little blurb in The Coast about submitting, I wouldn’t have this blog, be able to read in public nor would I have been so prolific in the volume of writing I’ve done and finished.  I owe him a debt of gratitude that I’m not entirely sure he’ll ever understand and I am certain many others feel the same way.  To thank him properly, and Rowena, because she was instrumental in helping me overcome my fears to stand in front of others to read, I wrote this poem and it was published in the April issue.

Let Yourself Be

(for Donal and Rowena)

let yourself be surprised by

whispering angels pining

under a gigantic full moon

while the Heavens shimmer

in poems and novels

in stories and essays

let yourself be amazed by

the choir of honeyed voices

peacefully lamenting affection

while every star in the sky shines

for paintings and drawings

for sculptures and architecture

let yourself be elevated by

the kindness of poet hearts

be heard by magical ears and

stand in the rays of contentment

let yourself be honoured

let yourself go and be free

just let yourself be

**

This is precisely how I feel, about Open Heart Forgery, about the those who congregate, and about the influence Donal and Rowena have had on my creative life and my person as a whole.  They are kind-hearted and passionate, they are creative and caring, and they are co-conspirators.  They have made a difference for so many voices who longed to be heard, who are talented and just as passionate about writing and poetry and words.  Together, in me, they fostered a confidence that I hadn’t otherwise figured out how to tap into.  So, if two people are deserving of a public display of poetry, it is them.

The City Hall gathering was wonderful.  In a stately room, with our Mayor, we came together for poetry and for our passion.  David Pretty, one of the several good humans I have had the fine pleasure of meeting, started the evening off with an incredibly moving diatribe about OHF and Donal and what it all means for he and the rest of us alike.  The piece of writing he shared aloud, knocked my little prepared speech out of my head because he said all the things I couldn’t have so eloquently.  When my name was called to read, I intended to be poised and own the room but instead, when I got up there and looked out to see David and then Rowena looking back at me, I choked up and succumbed to emotion.  All of the beautiful things David talked about hit home and it struck me, just how heavily Heaven was.  That I had come so far in my creative pursuits, advanced as an artist and was so lucky to look out and see that I wasn’t alone.  Choking through tears of pride and perhaps a few for sadness knowing that last night would likely be the last time to see Rowena before she is to go to Toronto to live with Donal, I prefaced the reading of the poem from the April issue by saying that in short, because of them, I learned how to trust my artist and come and stand among them, instead of straying off to the sidelines as a lonely and scared observer.  That, more than anything, is what they gave me when I walked into Open Heart Forgery.  A little kindness and faith can go a long way.  That, to me, is a powerful thing.

Open Heart Forgery at City Hall, a special night.

The best thing that ever happened to me was having my heart broken by a stupid boy.  I suppose I owe him a bit of thanks too because so much of that poetry is what propelled me to submit the first time.  And so much of that poetry has been read aloud and exorcised and was the catalyst for a great many conversations about the writing process and what drives us emotionally as writers.  His brief appearance in my story was for one reason only, for me to grow, so that I could become a better writer, a better person, a confident woman and a happier one.  My first love is and always will be writing.  Open Heart Forgery taught me that.  And, when the real fortunate son comes along and is willing to drop anchor and stay to compliment my full and crazy life and I his, I will have more words to write, to read and I’ll do so with self-reliance, gratitude and passion.

I am proud to be part of Open Heart Forgery and am pleased to know that there are like-minded people, goodhearted people who want to carry on Donal’s work.  I will do my part, what I can to see that it happens.  We will write on, we will succeed.

Happy long Easter weekend.

In propinquity,

Nic

True To Form

True To Form

What is most evident about her is the scent of concealment and mendacities that settle softly on her smooth rounded shoulders.  It is immediate on first meeting, she has that look in her eye, a sparkle that serves as a fair warning you are in the company of a prankster.  There is no gradual slide to her storytelling.  She relishes spinning a quick tale off the cuff just to see how long it takes to resume its proper shape.  It is contradictory to say but it is one of the qualities I love most about my oldest friend.  I am confident her rascally nature is hereditary.  One sticky summer as kids, famished from running in the country fields, full of sweat and dirt, we knelt up on the bench of a rustic picnic table.  Emilia’s mother, Mrs. Wilma Patton she liked to be called, set down juicy slabs of watermelon in front of us.  As we slurped and swallowed hungrily at our seasonal treat she pressed the meat of her knuckles deep into her plump hips, sucked her teeth and said, “And don’t go swallowing the seeds or you’ll grow watermelons in your bellies!”  One other time I recall Mrs. Wilma Patton standing over us, all six feet of her, as we sat on the front porch tying our sneakers up anxious to make the most of the cool morning on the tire swings when she advised us to take heed of an influx of dragonflies, “If you girls insist on going out to those blasted tire swings don’t come running to me when the Devil’s darning needles come after you.  Those little bastards will sew your little mouths right up!”  I suppose those maternal antics is where Emilia got the bright idea to rib her little brother whenever he had the sniffles.  Seth had a habit of wiping his nose upwards with the whole palm of his hand and Emilia would pipe up and say, “If you keep rubbing your nose up like that your nostrils are going to get stuck and next time it rains you’ll drown!”  Seth was frightened to fear of her as a kid and all but sat on his hands each time it flew out of her lying mouth.  The next thing you know the poor kid’s face would be dripping with snot, scared to death of drowning.  He believed everything she said.  I have to admit that for the longest time as a child I truly believed that there were no cartoons on television at night because whenever we asked to watch them before bed, Mrs. Wilma Patton would say, “How many times to I have to tell you, there are no cartoons on the TV at night, that’s when all of the animated characters sleep.”  She just wanted to watch her soaps and eat chips that she would never share with us.

Emilia embellishes, it’s just something she does, not to be malicious but to amuse.  I call her my fabulist friend.  She is a true shyster and I am still amazed I irresponsibly fall for her antics.  The last time I saw her we were in a convenient store, she wanted a package of gum and decided to check her lotto ticket.  I was browsing the vast selection of chocolate bars when she erupted into excitement, “I won!”  She made quite a production and whipped the customers into a fulsome frenzy.  Someone straining behind the crowd that gathered at the counter yelled out, “How much did you win!?”  True to form, Emilia said very matter of factly, “Five bucks!”

There is always that one friend …

**

Another writing exercise done on this lazy Sunday.  I also managed to finish a poem that has been sent for consideration for the next Open Heart Forgery issue. This one was to write off the cuff for a half hour.  This is as much as I got down in my time frame and then I spent five tweaking it with a lukewarm cup of tea I kept meaning to re-heat but I just kept sipping on. Stretching the muscles, it's good.  Creative thinking on the spot can be hard but it's exciting.

I'm sleepy today.  I had a great weekend with friends, out for live music and good times.  Two nights in a row.  Friday night was especially a highlight.  Adam Baldwin played a solo show, heading the bill at the Seahorse with Young River and Sam Cash & The Romantic Dogs opening.  It was excellent to see the underground bar jam packed full of people there to see Adam Baldwin play.  He started out with Gloryhound and also plays with Matt Mays.  He has a humble disposition and you can tell the music is in him.  He was blown away by the response he received, it was effecting and made for such a wonderful vibe.  He owned it, rocked it, killed it with his own excellent songs that so many people were singing their guts out along with.  He's an excellent performer, player and writer.  I wish him all the success he can stand.  If you work hard and believe ...

It's back to the grind tomorrow, St. Patty's Day but I could care less really.  I've had a few good ones in years gone by but I had enough fun over the weekend.  I'll be crunching numbers while the die-hards drink green beer.  I'll be wishing I was writing.

In propinquity,

Nic

Steinbeck Redux

Just an extension of the fantastic Steinbeck quote I posted earlier.  This, a wee post as I am heading out of a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend full of friends, family, blessings and two turkey comas.  I'm back in full swing at my work desk and back to writing.  I meant to write this past weekend but I was busy socializing, eating and reading and resting.  I did scribble but I've gotten a page more into 'Burden' today so that's all that matters.  I'm attending a writer's 'meeting of the minds' tonight with my Open Heart Forgery friends and look forward to that. I'll be sure to get somewhere early enough to have a bite to eat and read more pages of Stephanie Domet's excellent new novel. I started reading it yesterday and I'm half way through.  I should slow down as to savor it but I need to be done for next week when I attend the book launch at The Carleton.

Today, new records by East Coast favorites The Stanfields AND Adam Baldwin are released.  It's a good day for music!

Things to look forward to this week:  Matthew Good Friday evening at the Rebecca Cohn and a pumpkin adventure on Saturday.

Back at 'er!

In propinquity,

Nic

Articulate

I accomplished a small personal feat last night.  I attended the launch of Open Heart Farming, an annual poetry journal that features fabulous poets from across Nova Scotia celebrating farming and food.  It is a spin-off of Open Heart Forgery and has proven to be quite successful.  The launch was at the Spring Garden Library and it coincided with the launch of the July issue of Open Heart Forgery (my poem ‘Hello, stars.’ is included).    

I made my way from my workplace to downtown Halifax in the almost unbearable heat.  I crossed from Dartmouth to Halifax on the ferry in search of a cool breeze but all I got was a sunburned nose.  I ducked into The Foggy Goggle for a bite of dinner and enjoyed their air-conditioning before trekking up to grab some Second Cup coffee that might maybe add a bit of pep to my step.  It partially worked but when I found myself in the program room at the library with a room full of poets and poetry lovers, that’s really what lightened my gait.  I love being among these people; creative, tender souls who possess an amazing command of words and their own hearts. 

The majority of the evening was devoted to the farming journal with a small chuck of time set aside at the end of the evening for those of us Open Heart Forgers who wanted to celebrate the release of the July issue.  I looked around the room, fifty-six people all tolled and thought to myself, ‘There are too many people here!  I’ll never be able to stand in front of them and read.  Maybe there won’t be time for me.’  However, after listening to all of those people read their poems and share their stories, I agreed quietly with host Mary Ellen Sullivan when she said that those who get up to read are brave.  I reminded myself that the whole point of getting up to read WAS bravery, it took courage and it was something I need to continue to be, brave, courageous and buoyant about my work.  So, when my name was called I marched right up to the front of the room, up onto the little stage, stood in front of the podium and spoke into the microphone (A MICROPHONE! Jeeeeebles!), made a warm joke and read two poems – ‘The Company We Keep’ and ‘Unfinished Woman’.  Didn’t even break a sweat, stumble or falter.  I handled it like a pro and when I sat back down and the full gravity of what I had just accomplished made me feel ten feel tall and worth ten million dollars.  Public speaking is still an ongoing battle for me because of my stage fright.  I am in no way a spotlight kind of person but it feels natural and beautiful to stand up in front of others and share a poem, something you have thrown your whole gut into and have them respond.  As we were all saying our goodbyes and slowly filtering out of the program room, fully enriched with creative energy, I received some wonderful feedback and kind words.  A complete stranger told me I was one of the loveliest humanists she’s ever met.  Perhaps one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.  She said for her, my poems have a deep human thread in them as well as a profound feminine power.  I can’t think of a better compliment.  It is a rare occasion where I can discuss the genesis of a poem or about writing in general aloud and have someone listen so intently.  That may be the best of all.

So yes, yours truly accomplished a small personal feat last night.  I stood up in front of the largest group I’ve read in front of to date, fortuitous, confident and passionate.  I presented myself to an attentive audience; I made eye contact (which means I looked at something other than my paper which is huge for me) I was relaxed, content and enjoying my own words.  I was nervous that with the aid of a microphone I might be too loud or talk too low but once I got in the groove I felt I was speaking at a decent volume and because I hadn’t read either poem aloud before I was mindful of intonation and pronunciation.  Those are always the areas I’m most afraid of but I done good!  Small step for me, one giant leap for mankind, yeah?  What a great night.  So pleased I forced myself to go when it was hotter than Hades here.  A creative growth spurt?  I think so.  Yay me!  Small miracles exist.

In propinquity,

Nic

Dear Enemy

Dear Enemy

in my winter of discontent

I wrote you a bantam poem

so that you may dance

but

it was stolen from my desk

lifted from a thinking woman’s

pile of un-sated beliefs

I imagine the guileful culprit

will recite the pejorative nouns

with profound fatigue and regret

whatever the ceremony

my faithful mandate of polarized

ideologies always handled with aplomb

reactionary attempts to deconstruct

spoken in some pinched narrow voice

enacted with priggish mannerisms

your poem

on loving a man with a particular quality

tolerating his unrefined imperfections

and turning to him for unbridled advice

is really about how we compromise

and continually manipulate each other

a typewritten archive carefully measured

in a fatalistic rhythm aptly proportioned

reverence

the unfortunate verity of its disappearance

means your poem remains anonymous

in the sustaining circumstance of privacy

intimacy shared

intimacy denied

imbued with a sense of irrational longing

my trusted voice denied its target audience

stolen by the enemy

stolen for spite

by someone who does not think you

                warrant the attention

**

It's Open Heart Forgery open mic night!  It's hot as Hades around these parts so hanging out at the Spring Garden Library might be a little bit sweaty but I'm looking forward to mingling with writers and maybe read a  poem or two if I'm for it.  I'll have a bit of time to kill between the end of the work day and the event so I'll likely drown myself in ice water and try and scarf down a bit of dinner.  I am still feeling a bit of left over elation from Matt's show on Sunday.  I love it when the good feelings linger.

Not much else to report except I just ate a really sweet apple and it seemed to have quenched my thirst for the time being and I'm 3/4 done my crossword.  Not to bad for my Monday (your Tuesday) eh?

Stay cool, kids.

In propinquity,

Nic

Anti-Censure

Wow, it’s February already!  Where is the time going?  Kids, it has been one long hellish week.  I am at my wit’s end with all of the irritants and dramas of real/work life.  I’m ready to shrug it all off and face forward to a weekend I’ve been anticipating since before the Christmas holidays.  That’s right folks; it’ll be Springtime In Vienna here tomorrow.  The Tragically Hip will be here to entertain.  This concert will suspend me into my happy place.  Their music and in particular the lyrics, have always left me in awe.  Gord Downie is an incredible rock poet, he inspires me and his words challenge me and make me think.  They are visual, emotional and worshipful.  He can coin a phrase, sing a line, ad-lib until the cows came home and I’d be enthralled, hanging off of every notion.  There is nothing more magical than the marriage of lyrics and music and nothing as profound of those two things united presented live.  One more sleep!  One more sleep!

I am sad to say that after I shared my two short stories and started the third, I lost a bit of prose-writing steam.  That happens I suppose, right?  I’m not worried because the idea/character/intention is still present and I am still churning out poetry.  It’ll come.  I won’t be too hard on myself for stalling because never have I ever completed three short stories and shared them almost back to back in my life.  I’m confident more will come and eventually I’d like to write something longer.  Baby steps, yes?  I worked hard at setting attainable writing goals while heeding to inspiration.  I think I did reasonably well. 

In thinking of my goals on writing stories this poem arrived.  Books are always showered with descriptive and interesting accolades as promo and tools for getting people excited about what’s between the pages.  Just something fun for a Friday.

Anti-Censure

written

an erotically charged

blistering social satire

from an articulate

observant writer

deeply entertaining

fantastically indiscreet

this compulsively

readable account

chronicles

objectionable behavior

with rollicking reverence

fast-paced

eye-opening

deeply entertaining

experience the full

novelistic breadth

of mesmerizing prose

vivid cadence of events

wide in scope

epic in depth

deliciously meticulous

from an emerging voice

in contemporary fiction

a searing debut

on sale now

**

As I was typing I think I stumbled on something, a small glimpse for the new piece.  A character and an interesting turn of events perhaps.  I don’t know what I’ll do with the flash because the new story itself started out to be so specific.  Hmmm …

As you were.

Happy Friday!  Happy February!  Be kinder than necessary.

In propinquity,

Nic

PS - The new issue of Open Heart Forgery is out and up online!  I made the cut this month.  See for yourself:

http://ohforgery.com/

Beautifully Scripted

Last night’s Left Bank reading for the December launch of Open Heart Forgery was fantastical.  There was nowhere else in the world I would have wanted to be on a cold November night.  I was quite content, with a cup of hot green tea, with friends and the words of so many talented writers to warm my bones. 

It was a lovely crowd, some constants and a few new faces which for me is always exciting because it means I’m inching closer to being a constant instead of a newbie and it also means that Donal’s brilliant idea in creating OHF is reaching people, especially writers who are ready to share their work.  It’s a beautiful thing.

I always come away from those readings so richly fulfilled, as a person and a creative.  There is something so liberating and satisfying about word-play and hearing them come out of your own mouth after having them shoot out from your fingertips onto the page.  It was also nice to have my friend Colleen and her sister Laura come by.  The moral support is always welcome as when my best friend Erica attended in the past.  There is always an added element of ease when you look up from the podium and you can feel the back of your neck burning from being in the spotlight and someone you love and who loves you is there for you.  Means a lot to me, makes the writing life seem less solitary.

I am constantly grateful to Donal for this whole experience.

Tonight marks a last minute return to The Dirty O for Big Sugar’s show with my new concert buddy.  I’m pushing through this day after a long but lovely week only to end up on the receiving end of Gordie Johnson’s wall of sound.  Bring it ON.  I won’t be able to hear a thing tomorrow I’m sure but their live shows are outstanding.  Beats sitting home watching TV.

Speaking of Gords I love, I wrote the following poem for one of my favorite Canadians, Gord Downie (of Tragically Hip fame who I am SO pumped to see in February) after reading his profound volume of poetry, Coke Machine Glow.  It seems to be the appropriate verse to share with a rock show pending tonight.

Beautifully Scripted

(for Gord Downie)

When you sing I take notes.

I am awake in your movie

the subject of protest & censure

charting the erratic behavior of blackflies

against a stretched stain of summer.

I am on display

left alone before a crowd of

possessive Phantoms to explain

the rape of envy

all while maintaining a smile

through stern reprimands.

I am reading poetry aloud

in an empty bar-room

crude with artistic quality

this is bottom, friend.

Poet,

you are beautifully y scripted

I want to break in two

& become you.

You are exquisite.

**

(Sidenote:  If you aren’t aware of Big Sugar or Tragically Hip for their musical awesome-ness, please do yourself a giant favor and investigate.)

Happy Friday, friendly readers!   Don’t forget to be good to yourself and kind to others.

In propinquity,

Nic

Sad End For A Writer

Sad End For A Writer

I believed you

emphatically

my synonym for beauty

in the present moment

when you openly professed

the intrinsic phases of poetry

evident through a summary

of sated spiritual upsurge

a veritable deluge of exactitude

so peculiar and incongruous

for your character to concede to

such an inspiring blithe explanation

that in response

I ceased a shrugging dismissal to

your dubious aggrandized anecdotes

I trusted you

haphazardly

my synonym for contentment

in the instantaneous past tense

I tended your

fragile heart

w/ quiet care

revolved around

your hours

w/ compassion

when you shed

your armor

leveled my field

& we settled into

that palpable

space in between

truth & lies

black & white

feast & famine

& then pretense

invaded the calm

I annulled our amalgamation

my antonym for abundance

disengaged our composition

my antonym for affection

all of your contradictions

have been redeemed

all of the words in your

failed language expired

a sad end

for a writer

in love

**

This week and crawling by after a great few days away from the norm.  I have Thursday's reading with the Open Heart Forgery gang to look forward to though.  The new issue is being released and I am happy to report that 'Aubade' will be included.  It's getting colder here now, with Winter looming.  I'm not a fan of snow and I hear the white stuff will fly sometime between tomorrow and Sunday.  Barf.  I was born in the wrong climate.

A little poetry for a sleepy Tuesday, hope you enjoyed.

In propinquity,

Nic

Indemnify

I had a dream last night that distressed me.  It involved two people I care about deeply and in this dream their intention was to deliberately deceive me, right in front of my eyes.  Because of the sensitive nature of the dream, names and specifics are being withheld but suffice it to say when I woke up I was incredibly angry.  It took a minute to realize it was only a dream, a terrible dream and a massive figment of my over-active imagination at work.  To exorcise it, I wrote a poem.  It’s harsh and blunt but in truth, deceit does indeed delineate us.  I’ve known enough of it to know and have reached my tolerance level, perhaps which is why the dream bothered me so much prompting me to put the drama down on the page.  I confess the faux deception stuck with me for a little bit, took some time to shrug off but after a quick conversation with a close friend, opting to write it out seemed to be the best course of action. 

Indemnify

Consequently

the death of love

is inevitable

the careful detail

of your embellished

monologues

serve as

ample evidence.

Our supreme fusion

was my estate

my indemnity

your penchant for

roving & weakness

for effluence

obliges our

obvious deconstruction.

The revelation

of your leaden character

exhorts my command

to seek compensation

with laborious precision

for incurred hurt

of which you will

extraordinarily deny.

The aforementioned

damages are substantial

souvenirs of your pretense

only noteworthy

to shape your paltry

place in the grand scheme

of things that will no

longer concern you.

Deception defines us all.

**

Anyway, enough of that.  It’s written out.  Done.  Finis!

In other literary news, I started toying with a new short story.  It is tentatively titled, ‘Seated Women’.  As far as I can tell, it’s about friendship, courage and human connection.  It’s been a bit of a rough start but I really like the characters and wish I’d had more time to spend with them over the weekend.  They’re talking up a storm in my head but it isn’t hitting the page nearly as fast.  Unlike ‘Whistle’ which sort of just fell out of me, ‘Seated Women’ will be a long laborious challenge.  I look forward to it though, very much.  I had thought to set myself a deadline but I’m just going to let their story percolate and stream as it comes.  You can’t rush beauty.

I submitted something too for the last issue of Open Heart Forgery for the year.  I can’t wait until the next reading.  I have some poems to articulate.

Happy Spring-day-in-November, a whopping 17 degrees out in the Halifax area today.  No complaints here.

Stay beautiful.

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

Curriculum Vitae, Ars Poetica

I was playing around with words today, stealing seconds and minutes throughout between busy spurts at my work desk.  I had difficulty focusing on any one thing for too long; my head has been pounding like a bass drum for forty-eight hours now but somehow I still managed to pull up my proverbial socks and stay lucid and poetic-y.  This verse was a mere shell, scratches on scrap paper and then I started working it around until it was singing up at me.  It’s a little on the esoteric side I know but I’m going to save this one for the next Open Heart Forgery reading.  I can’t wait to unleash it and read it aloud.

It’s really just about writers and what they do, how they do it, why and for whom.  I admit, I often would only write for myself but now that I have this little home on the interweb I’m content to share my words instead of hoarding them in writing books tucked away for safe keeping.  I’m all about letting words breathe now, less tense about releasing what I write and so pleased to have friendly readers (even if you don’t always enjoy or ‘get’ what you’re reading, I still appreciate you being here).

Curriculum Vitae, Ars Poetica  

Discreetly, in my own words

& in my own passionate assignation

I have anthologized my last soliloquy

& all that has escaped me.

With the aid of notable presence,

active exercises

& conceptualized patterns

supreme fiction and paradoxes

inhabit the middle.

What is written first

& the last voluble lexes

disclose the shapes of the world

mirrored against my internal theatre.

With ambition, I seek

stronger sympathies for artistic labor

by my oblique ability to infiltrate

rococo ingenuity & lure capricious counterparts.

I, without hesitation, by my own assertion

endorse charmingly ribald admissions

that the veneration of my elevated artist

is

imaginative realism

dominated by the constant desire

to upend conventional expectations.

Abstain your banishing of poetic currency

from the support of penciled illustrations

look forward to the precipice of peace

& permit me to push the margins of excess.

This bookish ideal has persisted for centuries

& whether it was meant to confirm or deceive

a litany of language remains a constant curiosity.

Cease to falter on a fulcrum of reservation

or consent your acute perspective to hinge

on egregious grammar & snarled semantics

it is certain the result is commonly chimeric.

Subtly, in my own pristine voice

& in my own arcane acknowledgment

I am the architect of a true sequential story

& all that I have been hard done by.

Don’t leave me to weep

don’t repudiate my place

or

deny me the challenge to

cultivate an audience for poetry.

It’s a writer’s life,

& an extraordinary duty.

Visit me, my entangled alliances

& my fine assortment of verses.

I am a good hostess,

let me read to you.

 **

And as a sidenote: once I’m finished reading John Taylor’s highly anticipated memoir Into The Pleasure Groove, I’m going to dig in and explore some of Wallace Stevens work.  How did I not know how wonderful he was before this!? I can’t wait to read every poem he’s written.

Second sidenote: thanks so much to everyone who stopped by to read ‘Whistle’.  I received so many lovely notes of praise and even some constructive criticism, all of which were so appreciated.  It was also quite a coo to have my Dad who has so often in the past toted my lust for writing as a passing fancy lament how much he liked it and proceeded to ask open-ended questions about the characters and then where I planned to submit it?  Alternate universe? Perhaps but still a welcome surprise.  So thank you again for taking time out of your busy lives to read and share your thoughts.  It means oodles.

In propinquity,

Nic