If I had known that, I would
also be alone;
alone inside my head, where thoughts
would circulate like the blood
inside my body
between my ribs. Also
between my lips.
where words would no longer flow.

There were now only my eyes
with nowhere
to look, no more beauty to absorb
because inside my head, so many things
crowd the memories
I had attempted to build.
And I think; I think that
I am still here.

Anger sits between my ribs
I am still here.
Watching my blood switching from
red to blue, as if it is a habit. Automatically
I scream from the outside.
Hopeless on the inside. Help me.
I want to get out from here
desperate on the outside.

Those who surround me, strangers,
do not see.
They turn a deaf ear, since it is
but my loneliness following me everywhere.
Maybe a year, maybe even longer.
I am still here. My anger, I keep it,
there is no exit from the outside.
Here is not near.

A smile had, once, looked at me,
believed in me.
Happiness cut through me, finally.
A hand offered support, and this option
I loved, as only I could.
Whoever can say, who was aware,
that so much could be built upon a smile
and so much could be taken away.

©2013 j.g. lewis

© 2013 j.g. lewis

April is Poetry Month

April is Poetry Month.
April is a month of celebration, as well as a month of commitment.
Each day of this month I will share my words and poetic observations here:
www.mythosandmarginalia.com

                                                                                     Come back and see me.
      04/01/2022                                                                       j.g. lewis

Overused and underappreciated, the common pencil does not get the credit it deserves.

We rave about advances in technology, the introduction of shiny new tablets and mobile devices, and we often hear about how the pen is mightier than the sword, but rarely do we hear someone speak affectionately about the pencil.

“A writer uses a pen instead of a scalpel or blowtorch.”
-Michael Ondaatje

The pen gets all the credit, but the pencil does all the work.

With a crayon, we learn to express ourselves with scribbles and bursts of colour long before we can even understand the concept of vocabulary, but once we have found our voice, the pencil is the next brave step we take in communicating.

Probably the most important writing we will ever do — the process of learning how to form each stroke, dot, and curve of those 26 letters — was done with a pencil. That’s when we begin to arrange the alphabet into something meaningful; it’s when we try, it’s when we dare, and it is when we make mistakes. We learn, then, to rely on the eraser conveniently attached to the pencil top.

I’ve always liked pencils. In fact, I prefer a pencil to the pen. Most likely, it’s because I am left-handed and abhor the stain that builds up on the flesh as you write from left to right, dragging the underside of your hand across all you have accomplished. This factor alone has precluded me from ever using a fountain pen (easily the most admirable of writing instruments) so I have, through the years, developed infinity for the common pencil. Yes, the pencil leaves a shadow, but it is easily washed away.

Above all else, it is the utilitarian nature of the pencil that keeps me connected. The pencil is always available. The pencil is uncomplicated; it does what it does, and does so without promising to do any more.

There is nothing confusing about a pencil. There are no caps to remove (or lose), no buttons to press, and there is no complex inner mechanism involving springs and tubes. A pencil has no clip and it slips easily into a pocket, or behind the ear. A pencil is economical and was designed to be used to its fullest efficiency. When the tip becomes dull, you sharpen the lead and continue to write. As the pencil, again, becomes dull, it is once again sharpened. After repeated sharpening, as the nub becomes too tiny to fit comfortably in your hand, you simply take a new pencil (indeed a moment of celebration) and begin anew.

It’s not like a pen, neither an expensive instrument that has to be refilled with ink, or a cheap one made to be used and then tossed away. The pencil leaves little waste behind, and much of it is biodegradable, while a plastic pen is destined to sit in a landfill for years and years. But let’s not bother thinking about the dead pencil after its work is done, let’s instead talk about the magic a pencil can inspire.

Quickly and easily, a pencil can make dreams come alive. Somehow the pencil makes writing a wholly tactile experience. I’m drawn to the romance of the hearty scratch as the lead meanders across the paper, the pencil sounding out progress. The trail of graphite grey left on the page, whether 2B or not 2B, tells my story. With each pencil stroke there is less of me, but more of myself. You can hear it in the writing, unlike a pen with its smooth ballpoint.

While thought, itself, begins the writing process, the pencil is the next step, transforming snippets and sentences from the idle mind into a workable form. My notebooks and journals are written primarily in pencil as I plan, plot, and structure my projects and poetry. These words, what is written right here, began with notes penciled into a scribbler, random thoughts I jotted down, latter riffing with the reason before sitting down a tapping out the details.

Nothing else feels like the true connection of the familiar hexagon as you take a pencil in hand and place your thoughts directly onto the page. Should you err, the eraser is right there. Pens do not allow the same flexibility; a mistake is a mistake, and those mistakes are often not editable, or are not corrected as efficiently. Show me an ink eraser that actually works without leaving behind a silent smudge, or removing the patina from the paper.

There mere fact that permanence of pen and ink allows less room for revision may be the cause of silent insecurity when using a pen. We are more cautious when writing with a pen. As human beings we all fear mistakes, even more so the inability to make corrections. With the pen allowing less latitude, I’m more inclined towards the pencil.

Pencils take the likelihood of mistakes into account.

Responding to mood and emotion, the same pencil can just as easily leave a crisp line as it can a powerfully thick mark. Each stroke leaves a track on the paper, and you can be as bold as you wish, knowing you can change up your phrasing and rearrange the words with confidence.

Not only does a pencil have a purpose, its purpose is true. A pencil will work anywhere, in rain, in heat, even in the soul-crushing frigidity of a -40 degree Manitoba winter. And it will work until it no longer can, and then make room for another pencil.

In these days of debate as to whether cursive writing should be continued in the school system, we might even want to take a step back and look at writing instruments, and the use of the pencil itself.

Laptops and tablets are used in the classroom at earlier levels, denying the student the pure pleasure of using a pencil and letting their thoughts wander across the blank page. We are blessed with fingers and thumbs (the digit which separates us from the animals) to hold a pencil, and the manual dexterity to communicate with our hands, and to leave our mark. I’m not sure the thumb tapping and swiping allows the same development of fine motor skills (or the thought process for that matter). Handwriting: if we don’t use it, do we then lose it?

Now, I’m not particularly fussy about my pencils. I do, indeed, have favorites brands, but mostly I write with what is available. And (in full disclosure of one of my few nerdy traits) I always carry a few spare pencils, with a sharpener, in my pencil case.

Like a kid, I am attracted to the pencil colours and designs often available seasonally, but these less-than-serious offerings are just momentary infatuations. Though I have a couple of skull and crossbones pencils I save for particularly dangerous writing, I’m pretty much content with the standard yellow pencil.

Much like people, it is not what’s on the outside, but the inner core that truly matters.

© 2015 j.g. lewis

“No one has yet tested the pencil to see how many words it can write.”
– Xi Chuan

March 30 is National Pencil Day.

A pencil speaks everyone’s language.

You’ve been dreaming as long as you’ve been living. Restful or restless, the visions, images, thoughts and ideas that come to you at night play a major role in how we function during our waking hours.

   Dreams are a part of living and, for many of us, a reason to live.

   We all know what it is like to dream — a natural function, all done during the tranquil hours where the body is immobile — but few take the time to capitalize on the train of thought that flows through the mind while the rest of you is motionless.

   Your mind is a flurry while sleeping, recounting people; places, scenes and faces; deep thought and deeper fears are all a part of your dreaming state. Whether frustration-fuelled or alcohol-kissed, thoughts travel far and wide throughout the mist. Never is the mind still. Research indicates the mind may be more active, and more powerful, during sleep than it is while you are awake.

   We are always thinking while we dream, but how often do we take the time to consider how we dream, or why? Although it is an activity we partake in for more than a third of our lives, do we ever give sleep (or the act or art of sleeping) our undivided attention?

© 2017 j.g. lewis

On Monday, the Ontario government removed the COVID-19 restrictions that made masks mandatory in public spaces.

Yesterday I donned a mask, as I have for the past two years. Having some sort of personal facial covering has simply become a habit. This is a habit I intend on keeping for a while.

Masks have been a controversial topic in this country for months, the biggest example being the trucker’s convoy and occupation of downtown Ottawa. Protestors found masks, among many others things, an affront to personal freedoms.

Now, I didn’t like the fact I had to wear a mask, but I do like the fact that a mask — along with three shots of vaccine, a copious amount of hand sanitizer, a lot of hand washing and physical distancing — has been good for me.

During this pandemic, I did not end up in a hospital on a ventilator. I’m still alive. I attribute this to a diligent focus on personal protection. The mask was, and will remain, a part of my protection plan.

I’m protecting myself, and everybody else.

I believe the mask restrictions were removed too early. This government should have, at least, waited until the end of the month after enough time had elapsed after all school breaks. There was a lot of travel by Ontario residents over the past weeks. How has this virus continued to spread?

I remain concerned about the ebb and flow of COVID-18 numbers, the advance of another potential strain of the virus, and the fluctuation of rates from day to day.

I am concerned bout public health. I’m not so sure the powers that be are thinking along the same lines. I believe the changes in the restrictions and the “loosening up” was driven by politics and not science. We have a provincial election in June and the present government is doing its best to present itself in favourable light.

We can only hope — more for public safety sake than for political posture — that the move to remove restrictions doesn’t backfire and we end up with an onslaught of cases and hospitalizations.

I’ll keep my mask on for a while and wait to see what happens.