This is not a review of DC: The New Frontier, not really; it’s a Thank You letter to Darwyn Cooke. Since I want to expand on this and say just how much Cooke’s New Frontier has meant to me, itself a perfect love letter to the medium of comics, I need to go back to the beginning.
When I was growing up my mother kept an evolving journal about my school days, updating it every year with highlights or accomplishments from each new grade. Stuff like “Started Playing Hockey” in Kindergarten, or “Went on First Skiing Trip” in Grade 6 would pop up alongside more menial notes like my new height or weight.
Spoiler alert! Batman needs a chiropractor.
When I was in Grade 1, aged six, one of the new entries read: “Started Collecting Marvel Comics”. My heroes were Peter Parker, the Amazing Spider-Man and Charles Xavier’s Uncanny X-Men. Continue reading
The greatest day in May.
Free Comic Book Day (FCBD) is the first Saturday in May and it’s a glorious Saturday indeed. Nerds, fans, readers, watchers, cosplayers and the curious and well-versed alike head to participating comic shops in North America and around the globe to get free comics.
Comic publishers specially produce comics just for FCBD and retailers then give these titles away, free of charge, in an effort to promote comics culture. It’s not just about getting free stuff (though that’s always a good thing), it’s about heading out and supporting local shops, helping promote literature (more on that below) and enjoying the nature of creativity, daydreaming and overall nostalgia found in the adventure of comics. FCBD is a big deal to nerds, collectors and fans, but I want to explain why it should matter to you. Continue reading
Mango and burnt orange swathe
a ruddy glow amongst the clouds
with hands folded, hammocking his head,
he lays in the goldenrod and breathes
the pollen of peasant bees, their nine-to-five.
A smile inches across his face–
the watch he removed ticks on and on in his pocket,
the minute hand on it’s fourth lap;
he can’t feel it passing.
The knoll’s grass is lengthy and swaying in
the gust of evening.
He sits up, his clothes a squalor
and peers deep at the retreating sun.
Poplar trees stand sentry, lacklustre, soldiers
throughout the field, there is only eleven–
all but one are losing their hair.
He rises and wanders, his mind producing dreams of
his younger years–when his shoes were
too small for his feet
and his ambition too grand for his street; with
his bicycle a carrier of innocence and future.
He longs for those days
when a girl’s smile meant less than heartache
and he could
feel the rain without getting wet.
But like the dimming golden clouds
dispersing above him,
so too does this reverie subside.
Spring does not wish to come.
The snow won’t melt into puddled
islands of joy
and raincoats may not be needed.
The children act as warm as flame, but
cry as hard as diamond.
On the borders of the snow mounds
lie the auburn blight of old gardens;
it is a dry moat to the Continue reading