Rollercoasters, Ice Cream: Carter Vance
Carter Vance is a student and poet originally from Cobourg, Ontario, Canada, currently studying at Carleton University in Ottawa. His work has appeared in such publications as The Vehicle, (parenthetical) and F(r)iction, amongst others. He received an Honorable Mention from Contemporary Verse 2's Young Buck Poetry Awards in 2015. His work also appears on his personal blog Comment is Welcome.
"The satisfaction one gets from writing is directly proportionate to the time committed to the task. I've always found it good practice to dedicate a set section of time to writing each week; not long, just an hour or so, but the concentration it provides can help immensely. Moreover, get into the habit of recording the snatches of ideas, or particularly adroit turns of phrase that might come to you in the course of the day. Some of the best and most creative ideas come to us as a result of our daily collisions with the realities of life, and it's a shame that so many of them remain ephemeral. The traditional way of accomplishing this would be via keeping a note pad, but typing out a quick jot on one's phone works just as well and seems a bit more apropos to our modern age."
Rollercoasters, Ice Cream
There once was some fairytale caution in speech given to the cathedral park waterway, the slanted hill of unknowing tilt-a-bob I slid down in time, with kids of ham-hock neighbourhood plans, split-sprouting bones of Old Europe last names, being so blankly read in cross-stitch stares, trundling up with empty fridge poisons, penny-candy notions roller disco days, where we get lost in car radio static, sounds of ’92 Sunfire tape decks backfiring.
And how the rollercoasters that came in late June towered above beach stand snack tables, how they cast long dripping figures on 12th grade shadows earning at once their first and last gulps of free air above pier line jumping rough water, how policemen waved us on in cheer.
But there is time for ice cream cones, time for bitter drink, time for huff-puff of drawing close across shimm-shammy board walks to make bleary town cryer’s tune, time to take rid above dampened wood of marina boards.