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 

Inevitably, I Am

Inevitably, I Am

I used to be a soft-spoken woman

seldom given to prosy, pointless ramblings

inevitably then, I stood painfully still

tightly controlled

only to go wild and ostensibly lawless

like all the things that used to percolate

underneath John Updike’s navy wool watch cap

I always wanted to lean forward and whisper into his ear

the narrow exploits of my bedlam

plunder his man-sized memories with a confessional poem

about a long column of obscure stretches spent

with illicit boys in books

but I was too cautious when I should have been vociferous

when I should have been writing fiction that was contingent

on how quickly I was able to undo him, open him wide

Even as a wallflower my background was storm-lit

able to draw down the lightening

one clamorous bolt at a time

a survivor of fairy-tale thorns

set adrift on the ruins of desire

and like Ezra Pound I paint my subjects as I conceive them

potent in whole areas of poetry

permissible as interpretative metaphors, rigorous in rapture

I always wanted to carry out a well-intentioned scheme to

take Ezra Weston Loomis Pound hostage

if only to quantify the implication of change rolling around

in his decorous treatise on the proportions of composition         

I used to be a mild-mannered woman

rarely extended more than a single lyric to a perfect song

inevitably then, I kept deafeningly quiet

skillfully restrained

only to out-strip the world and prompt pandemonium

like the undeserved and pure goodbyes

holstered on the meaty hips of rogue space-age cowboys

I always wanted to dig my fingers deep into       

the sweetness of living

rummage and pillage, race toward the avalanche

of the prohibited province of universal incandescence

to be bounteous and have the freedom to move

Inevitably, I Am

 ***

Phew. I finished it. This poem is almost a week old. Maybe a week and a few minutes. It started as noodles on a scrap of paper (as they often do) written with a second rate pen, during down-time, when half-asleep, on the go. It came in flashes and fits. I played happily with the format until the TAB button on my keyboard rejected me, I spaced it all out in frustration and in the end, I left it. I rather like the way it looks/feels this way and when I read it aloud I appreciated the pace. The shape. I almost charged myself with the 'rescue blues' but it worked out in the end.

I am happy the rain gave way to a bit of sunshine. To be sitting here now next to my window with a fresh cool breeze coming in and daylight waning, it's a peaceful moment. I relish it. There's nowhere else I'd rather be than here in my writing room with a playlist and good work to do. Coffee would complete the tableau. I am craving a smooth cup of Joe but it's too late and I'd never be able to sleep. Additionally, my taste-buds are still MIA from this cold that continues to cling. Ten days and counting. My ears feel like they are going to explode. I am on the mend, it's just much slower than I'd like. 

Amazon and I had a pow-wow today. Time to amass a summer reading stack. I ordered 'The Year of Magical Thinking' by Joan Didion and 'A Visit From The Goon Squad' by Jennifer Egan. Adding them to a small pile sitting by my bed that I need to finish yet. 

Must read. Must fill the well.

In propinquity,

Nic

Suggestible Minds

Suggestible Minds

allow me to welcome you

to stark minimalist staging

for composed ambiguity

& deceitful aural textures

whatever you do

do not look down

do not brave heavily armed

acquisitions with indifference

at least not of

your own volition

obey to expectations

willfully accept truths

allow me to address you

amply kept audience

on the acquired habits

of conscious conformity

suggestible minds

do not think for yourself

premise of absolutes

attempts to isolate

empirical measurements

are impossible to forecast

when you cannot deliberate

with your own private apathies

suggestible minds

orchestrated purposefully

suggestible minds

manipulated willfully

resonant frequency likely

**

As it always happens, the weekend flew by.  After a particularly rough Friday I arrived home to a pot of stew and Hannah overnight and a visit with Erica.  All, delights that eased my stressful noodle.  I slept like a log too because I knew I didn't have to wake up to an alarm.  Instead, I woke up organically, to the sun streaming in my window and ventured out for the day with Erica, enjoying a lunch and some retail therapy but I was mostly just happy to be in her company.  That was followed by a girls night of sorts at my eldest sister's abode.  Against my better judgement, I drank wine and I knew I shouldn't have because I was battling a headache I've had since early Thursday morning.  Because I indulged, I ruined my Sunday.  I mapped out a perfect artist date for myself.  Halifax in the sunshine with writing and browsing and peacefulness.  Instead I woke up with a migraine and wasted a whole gorgeous sunny day resting so my raging headache would subside.  Disappointed in myself for not heeding my noodle's needs prior to the wine consumption.  Lesson learned.

I'm feeling much better now but still have a dull ache hovering around the eyebrow area.  Just enough to be annoying.  I bought a new tea yesterday, Sleepytime Vanilla.  I just made myself a cup after finishing my laundry and preparing my lunch for tomorrow.  I found enough energy to tweak this poem  I started scribbling mid-week so I could at least feel like I was somewhat productive.  The tea is yummy and perfect for bedtime.  It's my new favorite thing.

Other delights of the weekend:  coming home from work on Friday to a swanky postcard from Haley and my amazon order that included the new David Sedaris book and the book about the song 'Hallelujah' I've been eyeing since Christmas.  I'm armed now with tons of reading material to get me through the next little bit.  I've read a few pages of each book already and I can't wait to get through both of them.  I plan to savor each though because David's stuff is SO good that when I'm done I'm always sad.  His stuff is incredibly smart and funny, so much so that sometimes I make a fool of myself if I'm reading it on my commute home.  I often take to laughing out-loud on the Metro.  Books, good books, rule.

As I prepare to retire for the evening I realize that while I am already missing Hannah being here, her silliness, our 5 minute dance parties and snuggles, I have so much to look forward to in the next while.  A lot of it is music, shows by Old Crow Medicine Show, The Stanfields at the Casino, Matt Mays on the waterfront which also coincides with Kiersten's visit and then Matt Epp at The Carleton come the end of June.  There's even an engagement party in there too.  I also have to get photos done for my passport application for next year's trip.  That time won't come soon enough.  I need out of dodge.

My goal for this week is to complete my current short story, eat better (because I've been bad again), exercise at least 30 minutes each day and try to get enough sleep.  Attainable goals, yes?  I think so.

My headache and I bid you a good night and successful, sunny week ahead.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream ...

In propinquity,

Nic

PS - Poem's moral?  Think for yourself and be mindful that when you use your words, choose them wisely.  Sometimes they hurt even when you don't mean for them to.