Two Poets

Two Poets

two poets rave

in downtown Halifax

his stride matchers her pace

both knocked by hurly-burly

poems

with all their words missing

our eyes

monitor their molten movements

how he lures verses out from under

                her lovely dress

how she forgets how to swim to him

& the explosion

of stars in each willowy hand

they are all we refuse to ignore

                unrestrained inheritance

two poets rant

in a dingy basement bar

still downtown Halifax

                in their limited light

opening sentences taste the same

as the shiny elastic prayers hidden

in the luxury of our worry

he is an action not taken

& she a simple twist of fate

                perfect bodies

                purple hearts

                parallel pains

two poets

                who unbutton the night

leave everything bare

skip town before dawn

                & we all take the blame

for everything they left behind

**

Vacation has been nice. A good break from the 9 to 5. I intended to devour books, write my face off, and do a ton of creative stuff: if daydreaming counts … I did spend a good chunk of time on my own, breathing and thinking, musing and scheming but I failed to follow through on the ‘plan’ and instead went with the flow. Isn’t that more of what a vacation should be? I do regret not taking more time to write though. I have to get my head back in the game but until this week is over I won’t shove myself too hard for it.

Today’s pecking was fun. I set up a ‘best of’ Matt Mays playlist (to get my soul prepared for my Hubbards get away next weekend), poured myself a ice cold cider purchased from a road trip I took on Thursday with my best bud, and just dug in.  I mentioned twice today how I hadn’t written enough on vacation to two different people so it was time.

Drinks and laughs tonight with friends and then my last day of vacation tomorrow before returning to the work desk but burning through the days so my weekend in Hubbards with friends comes quickly.

Happy Saturday!

In propinquity,

Nic

Allen Ginsberg Textbook

Allen Ginsberg Textbook

squat and cat-eyed

after several whiskey shots

full of deep paternal loathing

cold noodles & hot broth

Burovski puts me flat out

on a bed of burnt floorboards

& reads me summons from the

                Allen Ginsberg Textbook

he will not assemble you

he reads,

he will use your broken pieces

to create a marvelous mosaic  

invite you under a withered oak

pluck a flower from King Arthur’s            

grave pressed between your thighs

to carry home to your love’s hand

these pages

even when paraphrased

fills the belly & fills the lungs w/

a jittery joy that strikes you like

a quick clean cut of perpetuity

                you imagine him

enormous empty mirrors eyes

scrabbling at paper all hours of

a gale-force darkness in a single               

solitary room of the Beat Hotel  

9 Rue Git-le-Coeur, Latin Quarter

Paris, France

rolling & rocking against mourning

gibberish gyrating

Burovski pours two shots of Jägermeister

toasts to torrential torments

exigencies

                uncensored vernacular

                                explicit candor

the ecstatic

the rhapsodic

& the sincere

slow songs & slurred speech map out

our world

                in view

as told in the blasphemous preface        

catalogued in the extensive index

of an out-of-print Poet’s Holy Writ

                when Burovski closes the book

he joins me on the emboldened floor

& we raise our voices just to evolve

**

I had Allen Ginsberg on the brain today. Not sure why but because of my thinking, a poem.

In propinquity,

Nic

Little Foul Joy

Little Foul Joy

it wasn’t yesterday

a drolly aggrieved girl

turned to a blank page

in an overfed notebook

& scribbled a sequence

of roseate words

heart of waiting

cannot be undone

                love is an ending

in her book of small sorrows      

                sweetness still flows

little foul joy

                this poem’s accomplice

**

I was feeling a little edgy this afternoon, ants in my pants kind of edgy: and so I took the thoughts that were swirling around in my day-dreams and spun them into a poem. It's just a little something to stretch the creative muscles, keep the fingers nimble, and the fires burning. I in truth, I was flipping and flopping between this wee verse and another that wont' be ready until tomorrow, won't make sense until then as well. And it never hurts when I am feeling as I am for Ryan Adams to sound on the CBC station that keeps me company at my work desk. Hearing his music always conjures up the urge to write and for that I am grateful.

Nothing else but the radio ...

In propinquity,

Nic

Proceed With Dignity

Proceed With Dignity

all afternoon I think about it

how we were never meant to survive

we could kiss on the lips in the driveway

you drawing me closer by the silk blue scarf

you gave that is draped around my craned neck

“I like this man,” I thought, “so handsome and deliberate and curious.”

all afternoon I think about it

how when someone you want no longer needs you

how you dare to stubbornly demand a series of encores

vetoed by the difficult and silent remarks of your prey

the true Hunter who once required you ruthlessly for sport

“I love this man,” I thought, “a man fond of divorcing my poems and holding the world together with beautiful lies.”

all afternoon I think about it

how to proceed with dignity

**

It's Sam Roberts day!  The sun is shining and I'm preparing for a fantastic night out with Erica that will include a good meal, some laughs and conversation, spying on cute boys and some live music.  I was woken up this morning by some dummy who thought it was courteous to mow his lawn at 8am on a Saturday.  I do miss having a small forest of trees behind my house instead of a new and very close housing development.  It's a good thing that I'm easy going.  I got over it quickly and lounged in my bed re-watching S2 of Smash and daydreaming.

Today's poem is courtesy of a writing prompt I did a little while ago.  I was supposed to write a scene in a driveway that involved a blue scarf.  Mine came in the form of a poem.  And yes, as I typed it up, I did tweak it but just to firm it up.

Happy weekend, everyone!  I hope that you are spending your time with your favorite people and your hearts are happy.

In propinquity,

Nic