DANCING THE MUSE - Danial Neil

The new year begins with an opportunity that I created out of more than 700 hours of work. It wasn't so much work as it was joy. Writing is like that for me. Most times it flows uninterrupted once I put pen to paper, or fingers to the keyboard. I trust the process that keeps stories unfolding before me in their own time, as if I wasn't totally in charge. The story writes itself you might say. Of course I research whatever is at the core of my novels; historical fiction, or a contemporary piece. What matters is to saturate myself with details of place and time, custom, the social tone of the time, and relevant history that form the foundational structure for the story. I include historical characters through reference, or perhaps appearance in the body of the work, to breathe life into the story that I wish to tell. Dominion of Mercy was such a story. I will describe my process, how the story came to be, in the coming days and weeks

  There by the window, sipping coffee, you asked me what could be? And I saw my words in your tears, my fear in your eyes Another day and the memory rushes in, and I hear the catch of sadness in your voice and my defensive reply, that part that fears my own vulnerability And yet it was that day by the window that drew me to you, your courage, your heart that grieves for the world Who would not risk it all for the love we have been looking for?

 

I am the Earth and the fall of nations, the rising and the risen and the fires that never cease I am the ruined shores and the plastic island of your making that threatens the sparkle of a thousand suns tossed across the sea I am the great auk, and the leopard dying in the snow, the macro and micro, the killer and the killed and the harpooner of old Nantucket I am the bloom of every flower, the fall of every leaf, and the child in the photograph nearly dead and the vulture you cannot see I am the pain you all feel, the power that you stole in the night and the fatal hour that you will for your sons and daughters I am the melting ice  and the long strides of the green incarnations who feed their brothers first I am the last breath of the white bear and the change that rests inside you I am the Earth

breathe in the woods and leave the world behind something stings, organic blessings of life turning inward, the slow rapture that begs you to thrust your hands deep into the belly of a thousand years know that you are nothing in such certainty but falling leaves and dreams catch yourself worrying about a future that can never arrive bury yourself in the sweet decay, roll about like a child unwed to time get up and dance with the rules and drama, spin them off into space take a bow with your dirty knees praise the scabs when you were alive breathe in the what you lost and shout at the moon that never left you

  Gord Downie  (1964-2017)   Memories lose form, dissolve like sugar and you can only cry We reach beyond our skin as if we can touch you We never shared a word but still we know you, and can feel the pain that clogs your throat Something grows inside you – that smothers what you have shown the world But you cannot be undone, obliterated, erased – your words, your vision are eternal Know that your soul is unassailable and will endure the endless seasons Stillness will be your voice as grace and love embody the driving chords The Hip – a man among them, a father, a lover How you gathered our country in your hands and held us like eager children We adore the one who falls down and loses his pride, but stands taller than the rest We never shared a word but still you speak to us, and we listen to the echoes of the Secret Path , a flame you lit for us Coke Machine Glow – there’s frag...

             I miss the comfort in being sad Kurt Cobain I            Cars go by, spray from tires coursing the grey streets Red tail-lights bleeding, yellow line, stop sign An ordered world of shopping malls and parking stalls and coffee in the afternoon I shuffle in to settle all accounts of sadness I have with me a coiled notebook and pen, and some place that is a mystery to me, the creative vaults of craft Perhaps the sun will show itself and I will sit outside and watch the blackbirds strut before their shadows             I live in the deep pools of winter, a man groping in the well of sadness where all is up and obtainable, nothing below to fall into, no more steel-jawed traps for I have sprung them all. I say live because it is the aliveness of sadness, the energy ...