I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
Month: May 2018
Full moon of the other night;
last night or
the one before,
almost full tonight.
Little differences day by day,
incremental changes
shift our way.
When suddenly the perfect sphere
suffers a dent, or a bite.
Another phase for which
they do not name,
a Crescent Moon will often change
until nothing is there, save
a New Moon, which you don’t see
anyway,
but you will see it soon.
We mark our days
by the light of the moon,
which, realistically, generates none,
relying instead on far-reaching Sun.
Another topic any way,
one to be explored
by the light of day.
05/31/2018 j.g.l.
Posted on May 30, 2018 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Poem Kubili has its limitations. A game at heart, really, a challenge to include two words – not of your choice – in a poem you should be proud to call your own.
The two words are not, however, a muse; a muse is so much more, and need not be expanded upon for art is found in expression, and not in explanation. Two words are only pawns, only, in this game (to award them any higher status would make a mockery of the process).
Perhaps as one who partakes in the game (but also in the craft of poetry) I may therefore also be a pawn, but for the sake of the game I accept these boundaries (which also include the inability to lay down your words in the format they were intended; the Facebook format deters line length and layout, and line break).
Nonetheless, I play the game.
I play the game once a week. To play the game any more often is to infringe on what you want to do, because there are things you have to do (don’t we all, already, do this enough in every day life?).
Shouldn’t poetry be more than a game in the short time we are allowed on this earth? Can poetry not be a challenge in itself? It is a challenge that should be enjoyed, I think, but I play the game, still
preferring to be a poet and not a player.
I still play the game, and I am saddened, especially today, because what I want to say will not fit between the lines.
The poem I wrote this week will not fit into the space (no matter how hard I try) without cutting and changing, rejecting or rearranging ideas and phrases. This week I find there is not enough room to allow each word to wander, and not enough space to direct the thoughts without compromise.
Words have a way, and words can get away on you, not matter how you edit and format; if you cut too much, the essence of all you have written is whittled away, and isn’t that the ultimate compromise?
A poem means what you want it to mean, but if you strip away the meaning, is it even a poem?
This week my poem, my words (including the required two) can be found on my home page at:
Thank you for reading.
-j-
Frequently designated a dreamer, in perpetuum,
among many other things, he does, he admits,
allow little space to plan.
Rightly or wrongly,
this is the path
he has ended up on. Difficult, perhaps,
at times when cracks in the concrete led him astray.
Only recently discovered, by accident more than fault, is balance
maintained in a world cluttered with discrepancies and dogma
forced upon him by conspiracy theorists, self-serving henchmen,
Jesus freaks and hangers on, black hole believers
and Masters of the Universe
who continue, ad nauseam, to propagate fear.
Erstwhile encounters not forgotten, not
soon enough, minutes bypass memory, he has clung to details
accounted for nostalgically and passionately,
each plank of a moral platform galvanized and scandalized.
He continues, white-knuckle grip, adhering
to a belief system founded over time; tested, altered,
as deemed fit or favourable.
Fully aware and seemingly appreciative, he has crossed the line
from seeing himself merely as a character in this long drawn-out drama
to bearing witness
to what happens, as it happens.
He, alone, will not wait to understand, but,
carpe diem, record the state of a disingenuous planet.
Each event, as it unfolds, to be accepted as what will.
No longer a second-hand story in third-person narrative,
this first-person view could offer confusion at worst,
discomfort at least, though instant, authentic, and liberating in ways
only he will determine. Tenet nosce.
Each element of freedom comes at a cost.
He will taste the summer ahead, open mouthed, open-minded,
without concern of those in the past, but
with a belief not to get too far ahead of himself
in the dreams he conjures.
Self and the spirit pacified today with the joy offered,
instead of looking for what
is no longer there. It is easier that way.
© 2018 j.g. lewis
Poem Kubili
International Poetry Collective
poemkubili.com
