Rollercoasters, Ice Cream: Carter Vance

March 22, 2017

 

 

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.

 

 

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