Mythos & Marginalia

life notes; flaws and all

j.g. lewis

original content and images ©j.g. lewis

a daily breath...

A thought du jour, my daily breath includes collected and conceived observations, questions of life, fortune cookie philosophies, reminders, messages of peace and simplicity, unsolicited advice, inspirations, quotes and words that got me thinking. They may get you thinking too . . .

Mondays are just young Fridays

I called up a friend on Saturday. 

   I had a question that couldn’t readily be answered by Google, and with my limited knowledge or recollection of the subject matter, I could not satisfy my curiosity.

   It was while I was wondering or trying to figure this all out, that I suddenly had the idea that this certain friend may have an answer, opinion, or perspective I was looking for.

   Now, I hadn’t spoken with this friend for quite some time. She lives in a different city, and while we do keep connected with occasional cards or letters and random comments on Facebook, it has been more than five years since we’ve actually met up in person.

   Still, I felt comfortable enough picking up the phone and making contact.

   I know I surprised her with the call, and her voice was as emphatically cheery as I remembered it to be. I asked the question; we conversed over the intended topic, and I valued her opinion and her recommendations. I expressed my appreciation for her thoughts, and then we went about randomly explaining certain aspects of our lives.

   We spoke of each other’s families, upcoming holiday plans, interests and experiences, relationships, and all the stuff that friends talk about. It was the kind of conversation that seemed to pick up where it left off. We shared, in bits and pieces, what our lives were about in the moment. It is what friends do.

   How one defines a friend — especially in these days where social media uses the term so broadly — is so very subjective. In my phone call Saturday, I realized that his friendship was far more than many others. I am blessed.

   Saturday’s delightful conversation went a lot longer than I imagined it would. It also strengthened a connection that is now more than a decade old. Given that I will soon be moving, and we will soon be in the same city, I am looking forward to experiencing this friendship on a more regular basis.

   A true friend is one you can call up at random, ask questions and have answers provided with clarity and consideration. Friendship recognizes where you are but eliminates the distance.

   Friendship is the type of thing you want more of.

   A friend is more than a name and number in your address book. Friendship allows you to use that number whenever it is needed.

11/25/2024                                                                                                                                            j.g.l.

 

this journey

How do we choose to travel?
What is reliable in the rain?
What is our ultimate destination,
for this time, this journey, or
this day?
We move at the speed of life.
Depending on traffic, others
may chose to follow your path,
but not your direction.

© 2021 j.g. lewis

this season

A little cold, little wet,

a little tired and yet

I am here. Still,

full of wonder.

The morning chill leaves

little to the imagination

and much less

to hope for.

Expected, perhaps, as it

always is, this time, this

season is only what

we ask of it.

11/21/2024                                                                                                                    j.g.l.

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.

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Words Are Waiting

Posted on March 21, 2018 by j.g.lewis Leave a comment

It’s not what you read, but what you see, that goes to the core of what you will believe.

I once read a quote where an eight-year-old described poetry as something “where they don’t use all the page” Over the past couple of days I’ve read quote upon quote, a few poetic philosophies, and an inane pseudo-essay including obviously misunderstood academic terms, explaining what poetry really means.

Nothing I have read is as accurate as the child’s description.

Poetry does, undeniably, require space to breathe on the page. Sometimes, when properly done, only a few words are required to present the poet’s wit, wisdom, or worth. Although it is not simple, poetry is involved and too many people are determined to make it complicated.

Truly, poetry is more than words on a page. The craft, art, and undertaking of poetry goes beyond language, and it does so with more accuracy than any other written form.

If words were simply words; love songs would sound like streetcar alerts, love letters would be as romantic as minutes from a board meeting, and a poem would read like ingredients on a cereal box.

Words, indeed, have a meaning (some words have more than one) but even the description of a word does not define the meaning of a poem. Each word has an essence, and a backbone, with sentiment, soul, emotion, and memory stuffed inside. A poem takes these words and gives them space to resonate.

Poetry can heal or poetry can hurt. We read the words and we respond.

Yet, there are people who look distractingly deeper at poetry and, most times, complicate the process. They study the metrics of the meter, confuse the cadence, look for implied imagery, and search for the metaphor instead of the meaning.

This practice shows little regard for the poet who has already taken sufficient time to work through the mechanics of language and the moral or message, taking into account catastrophe, context, and heartbreak, stanza size and line break, and the politics of the atmosphere.

By the time a poem is presented, the poet has already struggled with the format, whether it is an orderly sonnet or set out in a measured stanza. Even free-form involves an acceptable purpose.

Over and above the poet’s intentions, a poem speaks for itself. It just happens.

Poetry does not take words at face value, yet it does not beg for description, interpretation, or even attention. All it asks for is endeavored understanding.

Your understanding may not, or will not, be the same as the writer, or that of the person sitting beside you on the bus, or another soul halfway around the world.

That’s good. It’s more than good, it is right. Everything else on the planet is so set in its way (even as we evolve or disintegrate), that so much seems too consistent. Except poetry.

Poetry needs to be consistently unpredictable so that we can receive it in the mood or the moment. It should be comforting to know there are words waiting that will accept the way you see them, or feel them, or believe them.

As soon as you have to study a poem it becomes a chore instead of a charm. There is no is no risk/benefit analysis required of poetry, don’t go looking for it.

I read a lot of poetry; far more than I write. Each year I take a volume of a celebrated, “classic” dead poet and, for the entire year, devour the work one poem per day (and some days even more). Last year it was Wordsworth, this year Emily Dickinson.

I’ll absorb, I will react, I will reread and recite, but I dare not call it study. If I call it anything, it is appreciation; and it may not even be that. And my reading is not limited to only those volumes, nor is it limited to treasured bards of years gone by. I’m still cherishing the recent work of a woman who is very much alive, and there is always a book of a recent, or lesser known, poet in my day bag. It might even sound corny, but I breathe poetry. Inhale and exhale. It’s just what I do.

I’d encourage you to do the same. Armed with a poem, you’ll be better equipped to take on the world. By avoiding the news (fake or foolhardy) for 10 minutes a day, or stealing a few moments away from text books, bible study, or gossip pages on your mobile device, you will better understand the human condition.

Try it. A poem a day, every day. There’s even an app for that and it’s free, functional, and quite enjoyable.

Just read it. Leave the analysis to sales reports, tax returns, and political maneuvering, and instead be moved by the writing. Words are important.

Poetry matters; let it speak to you, and for you.

Today is World Poetry Day
Take a poem to lunch.

©2018 j.g. lewis

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