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

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

A Scribe's Skirmish

A Scribe’s Skirmish

writer’s conflict

the impossibility

of writing with

magnificence

contrasted with

the impossibility

of

abandoning

the challenge

writer’s conundrum

**

It's the last day of my quasi-vacation.  I had the long weekend and tacked two vacation days on the end to make a five day stretch off and boy did it fly by.  I honestly don't know where times goes.  Despite the wet weather, I had a pleasant rest and a bit of fun but it was mostly relaxing and good to replenish my spirit.  

I took in a play at Fringe, 'Go To Hell', my very talented banjo wielding relative Dawn Negus was in it.     It was an hour of constant laughter.  Smart and sharp witted writing by Michael Best and gut-busting performances by the whole cast.  Here is the Fringe program description:  Turns out, the Christians were right - all gays DO go to Hell.  Johnson, a self-absorbed gay lawyer dies rather ignominiously after a tussle with a mechanical bull goes horribly awry.  He finds himself in one circle of Hell, and immediately tries to negotiate a way out.  But when his best friend's soul is on the line, how far will he go?  A brand new twist on the classic 'make a deal with the Devil' story.  It did not disappoint.  I joined Fringe-goers in the tiny Bus Stop Theatre, beer in hand, finding it difficult to sip because I was too scared I might spit it out on the person in front of me, it was that funny.  So glad I didn't miss it.  And, being somewhat of a wimp, I almost opted to stay home because of the rain but I am glad I went.

Had I not gone, I wouldn't have ended up at The Carleton.  I considered a ton of options of where to eat on Labor Day Monday.  I was trying to be strategic so that I wouldn't be too far from the theatre, but I am a creature of habit and went where I feel at home.  I entered the bar, refuge from the wind and drizzle and walked into Dave Lowery's rehearsal for his show later that night as part of HUFF (the Halifax Urban Folk Festival).  What good fortune!  While I dined, I was lucky enough to hear a large portion of his show.  Some of you may remember him from bands like Cracker and Camper Van Beethoven.  The song 'Low' jog your memory?  Doesn't ring a bell?  You-tube it.  I am certain it'll sound familiar.  At any rate, it was all sorts of awesome.  And, it turns out, Dawn was singing back-up with him so that was double awesome.  First Charlie Sexton, then Dave Lowery, who is next!?  Hmm.

Sunday was a total veg day.  I caught up on a ton of DVR's movies.  I watched the biopic about Nelson Mandela's wife 'Winnie', Hugh Jackman sang mournfully to me in 'Les Mis', I watched HBO's 'The Girl' about the tumultuous relationship between Alfred Hitchcock and Tippi Hedren who starred in 'The Birds' and 'Marnie'.  I also took in my first Bond flick in years, 'Skyfall'.  I haven't seen Daniel Craig's 007 until now and wasn't completely sold but after 'Skyfall' I am convinced he's suitable.   I also watched my beloved Leonardo Dicaprio in 'J Edgar'.  And THEN, speaking of gorgeous Leo, I finnnnnallllly saw 'Gatsby'.  FINALLY!  Sheesh. It is FABULOUS.  I am still not one hundred percent sold on the modern music that is included but it was visually stunning and beautifully re-imagined by Baz Luhrmann.  It was perfection.  Leo as Gatsby was a masterful casting decision and Tobey Maguire was incredible and believable as Nick Carroway.  It's such an extravagant and tragic story but that green light socks my gut.  Hope.  It's powerful.  I can't wait to see it again.  So yeah, all caught up just in time for fall TV to soon begin.  

I'm currently prepping laundry and mulling over lunch options for tomorrow.  I am also going to comb through 'Large-Hearted' because I found some of my tense flops that need to be fixed.  I did manage to write a little bit on it and two writing prompts by hand since I've been off.  One is too personal to transcribe and the other one isn't worth sharing but I wrote so I'm okay with it.  And of course, the teeny poem above, written today while enjoying a sandwich and tea by my sunny window.  I also prepared Ruthie's birthday box to go in the mail tomorrow.  That was a challenge with Booger Cat lurking.  She went buck nutty when I pulled out the ribbon and kept her at bay while I snipped, wrapped and ribboned everything.  I placed everything in the box and went to my writing room to write a short note to explain my gifts only to go back and discover she'd gnawed at the ribbon a little, right on the packages!! Little bugger.  I had to doctor my ribbon as I was flush out.  So Ru, if you're reading this, I apologize!  Haha.  

Two days of work and then it's the weekend again, that'll be surreal.  I'm excited for it to get here though because Erica and I going to see Sam Roberts Saturday evening at the Rebecca Cohen.  Acoustic.  With Matt Mays (I hope, he canceled a gig in Cape Breton on Monday due to illness so I'm hoping he's feeling better to be there) and Brian Byrne.  Something to look forward to.

Editing and tea for me now.  

I hope you're smiling today.

In propinquity,

Nic

Jackson Pollock's Floor

Jackson Pollock’s Floor

Frank built the Guggenheim

a grand mastered structure

on an uncertain foundation

a convulsive innovation spelled

in an inverted ziggurat scheme

all this

so that Jackson Pollock might

concentrate a lavender mist for

a taut composition on the floor

to mount on a clean (W)right wall

full impasto/abstract expression

chance effect/unique freedom

drip drip drip

syntheticresinpaintalkydeenamel

greensilverblueblackyellowmarine

so that Jackson Pollock might

heavily influence a discerning eye

stir a little bit of pride in your protest

art built for a vast emotional aftermath

large-scale retrospective/comprehensive exhibit

it is romantic to recoil from the images

have stark dreams in the open rotunda

name them/number them/sell/parade

manipulation of art/careful compliment

those with heightened superior gifts

settle into your quaint country-sides

jangle the gables of your suburbs

force a tight perimeter around your cities

so that you might

walk the length of Pollock’s spotted floor

in your bare feet with your soul showing

**

Headstrong hump day!  My marbles are all falling out and I’m desperate for a little bit of outside sunshine (yes, it’s sunny, or partly here) and quiet.  I’ve got an hour left of my work day and then I think it might be beneficial to park myself somewhere with some tea, a nibble and read my book.  I started reading ‘Dear Girls Above Me’ by Charlie McDowell last night and got through half.  I forced myself to stop reading and turn my light out.  It’s funny and fresh and I am enjoying the male narrative in a modern setting that utilizes the aspect of social media and worldly romance.  I also bought ‘The Birth House’ by Ami McKay.  I loved her second novel, ‘The Virgin Cure’.  I am reading her work backwards but hers is worth reading.  Her writing is stunning. 

I also discovered I had more vacation days left at work than I thought I did.  Woo hoo!  I’ve submitted a request to make the Labor Day weekend an extended one and then for my December birthday day off.  I enjoyed having it off last year so why break tradition.  I’m a Wednesday child and this year, my 40^th, falls on a Wednesday.  Woe seems appropriate, no?

I polished this arty poem while I ate a bite of lunch today between phone calls and emails.  Hugh Jackman tweeted a photo of Jackson Pollock’s floor the other day and it just stuck with me, I couldn’t stop thinking about it so I wrote this poem.  I am fascinated by his artwork and always find it sad that someone with his natural artistic aptitude and his penchant for changing the rules, he died so young.

Pasta for dinner tonight?  Why not.

Stay smart.

In propinquity,

Nic

Hello, stars.

Hello, stars.

If you wish it so

I will shape every

lovely word

quietly congregating

in your warm heart

set them into the stars

so that the keenness

of their true meaning

might whisper
                in your ear

whenever darkness falls.

Only if you wish it so.

**

A little poem off the cuff.  Slightly romantic but nothing special.  Just a few thoughts, a few words on something that resembles love and loyalty.  Two things I believe to be precious commodities, two things that are far too rare.

So, it's John Taylor's 53rd birthday today.  Yes, that John Taylor, from Duran Duran.   I have a lot of love and deep respect for him.  In addition to being the wallpaper on my adolescent bedroom walls, he has served (both in Duran Duran and his solo efforts) as a huge portion of the soundtrack of my life.  Not only with his music but the music I was turned onto because he liked it.  Same can be said about art, books and films.  I love how inspiration is, a long succession of moving sentiments passed down from one blown mind to another.  I admire his creative spirit, his fortitude, is attitude and his art.  I am grateful mostly though because through him, his decisions and and music, I met some of the most incredible people who live in all corners of the world, who have become my extended family, my heroes.  These women and few men remind me that this big crazy world is still beautiful and that there are always things to be grateful for even when the chips are down.  I have watched these people get married, have babies, be present to celebrate their accomplishments, support them with hardships; and for the few we've lost, Bec and Lisa, we remember.  The friendships I have formed have elevated my life, made me better and they continue to inspire me to be better still.  John Taylor made all this possible.  That, is a beautiful thing.  He is the man.  And for that and because he's just a good egg, I wish him a very happy birthday today.

It's the eve of my four day weekend.  I took vacation days tomorrow and Monday.  I have some errands to run, one of which is to apply for a passport.  After I hit publish on this little ditty I have to do my check-list:  birth certificate, passport photos, form fully filled out and most importantly my money.  The goal is to take a week-long trip south with friends as a late birthday present for myself and my friend Colleen.  My birthday is in December, hers is January, exactly one month apart.  For this milestone, we're planning a girls getaway in the Spring of 2014.  Sad to say that it'll be my first official grown-up vacation.  A real vacation.  Exciting stuff.  That's the current plan.  Who knows what next year will bring.  If all else fails, I'll hop on a plane west and go visit Ruthie, one of my most important comrades gained from the Taylor times.  Anything is possible.

On the writing front, I got another little chunk written this week.  Slow going but I'm enjoying the process.  I'm hoping these four days off will be productive.  And of course, this is Matt Epp weekend!  Sunday night at The Carleton!  Yayayayayay!  I'll be on inspiration overload Monday, just you wait and seeeeee.

Still feels like a work night because I'm pooped.  Brewing a small cup of vanilla tea and crawling into bed.  I won't turn the TV on tonight, instead I'll use the time to reflect, count blessings and send my prayers up.

Hug your people.  They need you.

In propinquity,

Nic