whoisnick.com

Hypocrite is just a word
Made by a Hypocrite, for a Hypocrite
To be said by a Hypocrite, to a Hypocrite
To hurt the Hypocrite
Then again,

hypocrite is just a word
Made by a hypocrite, for a hypocrite
To be said by a hypocrite, to a hypocrite
To hurt the hypocrite.

Asshole is just a word
Made by an Asshole, for an Asshole
To be said by an Asshole, to an Asshole
To hurt the Asshole
Then again,

asshole is just a word
Made by an asshole, for an asshole
To be said by an asshole, to an asshole
To hurt the asshole

Walking on golden high
Looking towards a silver low
To watching it glimmer and shine
With an innocence I did not know

But once or twice I’ve fallen
From my perch. With painful land
I’ve looked around to see
That what I thought is not so

I would walk through the dirt
And through the sludge I’d cut
All around was not Innocence, not poetry
But little creatures digging their rut

Making things pierce the flesh
And other things that slowly kill
No, my friend perched up there so
It’s not silver we see it’s the glitter of deaths bow.

Each stroke, ink and line
Pleasure of erotic sin
Of skin to paper

Drip of imagination
Drip of sweat and secretion

Each frame, fantasy
Soothing saturday morning
And still fridays fuck

Drip from coloured tip
Sip from hentai’s lip

I’ve been so quiet
No words or rhymes
No songs or strokes of colour

The page is blank
  yet shouldn’t be
To squint and strain for
  remnants of ink to wood
To poke and prod the brain

I knew
It was
We were

A time ago I screamed
with syllables and pentameter
With quarter notes and treble

Where is my havoc paper?
Where are the holes from
  wear and tare?
Where is the footage from my mind?

I knew
It was
We were

My previous post triggered something. I remembered of all the other poems I’ve written. Some I’ve shared in this blog and others I’ve kept quiet. But the thing it triggered the most was how much I enjoyed poetry. I would write it constantly and endlessly. Maybe it was my adolescence, like the poems of Carmina Burana. But simply, it might have actually been the fact that I’m a poet.

And so I started a sub-project called Nick is a poet. It’s a blog like this, and uses wordpress ( I got to use dreamhosts one button installer, it was pretty cool ). The idea is to get to a poem a day. But I don’t want to push it too much off the bat. If I happen to get a poem out a week, or maybe every other week that would keep me happy.

Now, in my own internal process and re-emergence to things I used to enjoy, what have you given up? How many things did we absolutely love doing as children and yet now we put them aside. Some liked gymnastics, others might have enjoyed the simple act of laying in a field and one by one pulling the grass. I say go back to that. Ask yourself what made you stop? Was it the someone put you down and said you sucked at it? Was it just other priorities? Find out why? Perhaps the thing that we were meant to be, the life or career we should be doing, was the same thing we did when we were 4.

I don’t post enough poetry. Last night we had an exercise in class called, ode to spring, and here is the poem that came from it.

A landscape of white desert
Nothing but howling of the wind
being torn by sleeping claws of trees
Each wooden stump a tombstone
engraved “2005 A devoted Mother”
But in this time of rest and death
the sun conspires with
the moon, the sky and stars
And with wiccan like chants
and native tribal dance
they splatter the ground with
a concoction of love
so powerful to wake the infinite slumber
And slowly from faded calling
she claws through the soil
With sweat and ache
her joints pop and muscles shake
Finally she peaks just one finger
above the ground
Above her white grave
And on the fingers tip a bud of pink.

Garr over at Presentation Zen has a great article on the Lessons Jazz can give everyday life. These lessons might come from the music world but can be used in any situation where 2 people are connecting.

1. “The most important thing I look for in a musician is whether he knows how to listen.” (Duke-Ellington)
2. “Writing is like jazz. It can be learned, but it can’t be taught.” (Paul-Desmond)
3. “Don’t bullshit… just play.” (Wynton-Marsalis)
4. “If they act too hip, you know they can’t play shit!” (Louis-Armstrong)
5. “Master your instrument. Master the music. And then forget all that bullshit and just play.” (Charlie-Parker)
6. “It’s taken me all my life to learn what not to play.” (Dizzy-Gillespie)
7. “You can play a shoestring if you’re sincere.” (John-Coltrane)
8. “When people believe in boundaries, they become part of them.” (Don Cherry)
9. “Anyone can make the simple complicated. Creativity is making the complicated simple.” (Charles Mingus)
10. “I can’t stand to sing the same song the same way two nights in succession. If you can, then it ain’t music…” (Billie-Holiday)
11. “A great teacher is one who realizes that he himself is also a student and whose goal is not to dictate the answers, but to stimulate his students creativity enough so that they go out and find the answers themselves.” (Herbie-Hancock)

I have the pleasure of working with an insightful and talented woman. Darylynn Rank entered my life in a weekend of coincidences where I met a man who went to the same high-school as I did, and graduated the same year I started. We never met until about a year ago. This might have been not so strange except for the fact that we were at his creative camp in Caltus Lake BC, and went to high-school in Guelph ON on the other side of the county. Darylynn was a workshop presenter for “finding your creative voice”.

Since then the course title has changed, however I have be privately working with Dari for some time. She is an exquisite navigator of the tides of experience, and is helping me find my own boat and ore to sail mine.

Now to the point….

For those of you living in BC; are willing to travel to Langara College; and have a desire to get through writers block or simply need to find the creative power to start hitting the keyboard, she is open to share her insight with you. Check out langara.bc.ca for her course Discovering The Writer Within.

Words flow like Leffe
Sweet with a cinnamon taste
Hints of Valentines
Blurred by consumption
One line dulls the heart
One more the mind
Verse after verse the
Words mix and blur
Eventually
Creating only your desires
My Key and strokes are
Not my own
Until the day after
A trail of garments
And a naked stranger
Under your arm.

I’ve been quiet, Mainly because I’ve been in TO working crazy hours in a room they call the “War Room”. With that name, you know it’s going to be crazy. However, A long flight, and I’m back home in Vancouver.

I’m sure I’ve got reams of emails and voice mails waiting, and I’ll get to them, one by one. But in the meantime I’ll share a drunk time poem.

Words flow like Leffe
Sweet with a cinnamon taste
Hints of Valentines
Blurred by consumption
One line dulls the heart
One more the mind
Verse after verse the
Words mix and blur
Eventually
Creating only your desires
My Key and strokes are
Not my own
Until the day after
A trail of garments
And a naked stranger
Under your arm.