more constant
than science
more precise
than algebra
more valuable
than cash . . .
why can’t our lives be guided by poetry?

POETRY
a more consistent thought lately.
I’m reading more, I’m writing more,
I’m believing more. Lately.
It is poetry month.
April.

Why now, I don’t know, and why just one month?
Why not every month?
It matters not; but it does.
Here, as well, people are sharing their work, their words,
and people are talking about their favorite
poetry.

I am not sure if most people talk
poetry
enough.

Doesn’t it have to rhyme?
Not all of the time . . .
 not for everyone.

If not a poem, then
a poet
is mainly misunderstood.
But how? The language is so direct,
it cuts out the crap, rarely are there ums and awes,
and
any hesitation is purposeful.
Poets do not stumble on words. Poets respect words, poets
breathe words.
Words are currency, for a poet. Why not for everybody?

POETRY
celebrates language, any language . . .
I must admit envy as, recently,
very recently,
two people, here on this screen, shared a poem
(in fact, a poem about poetry) across the ocean,
in the language in which it was intended.
la poesía
Okay, it wasn’t envy. It was jealousy: pure and simple.
For I have always enjoyed Neruda,
(I keep a small volume on my office desk to remind myself, in the middle of
the day, when I’m infected by the banal corporate culture [an oxymoron?]
I open the pages to remind myself how words are to be used, correctly).
I enjoy Neruda, in the only language I know.
I read translations.
I wonder,
what is lost in translation?

How much more wonderful are his words
in his native tongue?
Perhaps I should learn Español?
Or maybe I can be satisfied in knowing
two people
I don’t really know,
(and they really know not each other)
took a few sentences,
to share, both a language
and a poem.

LA POESÍA
Separated by an ocean, and time zones,
and communicating not with lips, but through a screen,
two people shared something in common.
A poem.
That is how powerful poetry
is
can be
and should be.
It should bring people together.
Lovers, warriors, politicians and their prey
might better understand themselves and each other
if they thought more in poetry, than in whatever else
they might be thinking.

This is not a poem.
This is simply
random scrabble,
disjointed musings,
caffeine-free morning thoughts,
nothing more really,
than a long-winded statement
of why
I like poetry
(in April, or any month)
and maybe why
you do 
too.

@2014 j.g. lewis

Originally published on Rebelle Society, September 2014    www.rebellesociety.com
Above photograph features EPITHALAMIUM by Pablo Neruda

 

Some days you just don’t feel like going.
Maybe you are still healing, or maybe you are just hurting, and you know you should go, but you just can’t. Or you don’t think you can.
Can you?
You know it will do you good; it always does, most days anyway. But not today, you say to yourself. Your self agrees, or it doesn’t put up much of an argument.
But it does make you think.
It’s only a mat; it’s only 90 minutes.
It sounds so simple, and still you ask yourself, why?
Why do I need to go to Yoga? Why do I need to get to class?
Why today, or why any day?
The answer is simple: sometimes you need to hear yourself breathe.
You need to hear yourself breathe, just to know you’re alive. Sometimes you need to hear other people breathing.
Living.
It reminds you why you are here, or why you are alive.
Why are you breathing?
Other times it serves as a reminder that you are not alone.
Other people too are breathing, living, struggling, and waiting: coping.
Trying.
The others ones, unlike you, are strong. In them you find strength. They set an example for you. They inspire you. They might not even know it. Hell, they might not even want to be here. But, like you, they came.
Like you, they didn’t want to come.
Like you, they resented the alarm, or sat up in bed and just stared at the clock. Or they listened to the weather report and questioned why and who, in their right mind, would bother?
Like you, their minds are caught up in the now or when, the here and then.
Like you, they wanted to put it off until tomorrow, but they (and you) know tomorrows never come… not in the Now.
Now, you can no longer rationalize. And for every posture there are two or three good excuses, and for every minute in the room you can think of ten more ways to spend an equal amount of time.
Yet somehow you ended up here, as did they.
You may have nothing in common with any of them — other than they are here, or they struggled to get there — but you made some sort of commitment, and they did too.
For that you are thankful.
Because today, or any day (or just that one day last week), you needed them there. You needed to hear them.
If they were breathing, so too were you. And if they were trying, why couldn’t you?
But then, or now, you didn’t need an answer; you are here anyway.
So are they.
And you didn’t want to be there, but the fact is, they are.
It reminds you.
It reminds you we all are human. We all need to try, to cope, and to push ourselves further. We all need a little inspiration and, on those days when you can’t find it in yourself, there’s probably somebody there to inspire you.
For some unknown reason, nothing else matters. You are here. So are they.
After that, everything else matters.
You are not alone.
Can’t you hear them breathing?

© j.g. lewis 2014

 

Sometimes I still struggle. 
Sometimes I need to be reminded why.

 

unforeseen shard of fuchsia,
fibril against the monotony
of the day.
fleeting
before the ashen dome
shuts
for the night.
just enough to satisfy, a
need for brighter landscapes.
traces of optimism,
or hope,
just enough.

interior lights pressed into action,
exhaust spews into the damp chill
of the city.
swiftly
as night falls, so too the
mercury.
last gasp of winter.
seasons end, another begins, a
need for warmth.
we seek optimism.
or just
enough hope.

cold dark thoughts relegated to
the intricate concealed wrinkles
of the mind.
painfully
we accept the totality of our loses
hopefully
forging new perceptions.
new thoughts, and language, a
stronger need.
brittle optimism
may be
enough now.

time changes, we too, in increments.
the night inevitably lost to dreams
of serious moonlight.
quietly.
did we not notice, do we not
care?
one less hour. one step
closer, the prelude, a
knowing unknown.
perhaps warmth,
optimism, or
just enough hope.

I struggled with it. Yesterday, when the flow was right and each letter appeared to be falling into the correct order, and as each word seemed to propel me along, I stopped.

A dead stop, an unmitigated stop. An unintended stop; it was more than a pause, more than a period.

A stop, a full stop; a debilitating stop.

One word
.
One word was all that was stopping me from continuing with a deeply personal poem I’d been working on. It was a one-syllable word at that.

I didn’t want to use it.

I searched for alternatives, but nothing else worked. Not one other word, or a series thereof, could substitute for the word I had used. No other word could convey the rage, or the frustration, in the exact way this word did.

Fuck.

The F word: it’s one of those words. It’s one of those words that traditionally raise eyebrows. It’s one of those words you are told, as a kid, you shouldn’t say. It was a bad word. I remember my brother said, “fuck”, one time, in the company of my parents. It was the only time. I recall Mom’s eyes bugging out, and Dad always had that look when he turned angry. I learned then I wasn’t going to make the same mistake, ever. Fuck, no way.

Yes, its one of those words, one of those fucking words there are really no replacements for, certainly in certain circumstances and depending, of course, on its usage. Check your thesaurus; in many or most (probably all) there are no offerings. I’ve got Roget’s Super Thesaurus 4th Edition on my desk, and it’s not in there. It’s not even offered as a synonym under ‘intercourse’ (which casts doubt upon the book jacket’s “Amazingly Comprehensive” claim).

I don’t use it often, not as often as I should or feel like (more in dialogue than description), and it really has lost its shock appeal; you hear it often in movies and music.

It’s one of those words.

It’s one of those words that has been censored, avoided, painted over, hushed, and stifled for generations. It still appears on public broadcaster’s list of words you cannot say on the airwaves. It’s one of those words that will get bleeped out. It’s one of those words that would get your mouth washed out with soap, or get you sent to the principal’s office. It’s a bad word.

It’s one of those words there are no real replacements for, like ‘peace’ (and I realize the folks at Roget have listed a handful of options for this word but, when you think about it. there are no synonyms, not in the true sense of the word).

Now fuck is in the dictionary, noun and verb (Oxford here). ‘Sexual intercourse’, ‘mess about’, ‘fool around’, and, ah, there it is: ‘expressing anger’ (I knew it fit into what I was writing). It’s no longer listed as slang, as it once was, but it is listed as “A highly taboo word.”

Come on, fuck off: “highly taboo”?

It might have been taboo, at one time, like even before my Grandparents were procreating. Yes, there are times when the word just doesn’t seem appropriate (but they did, by my calculation at least four times), but these days most everybody uses the word, from politicians to sweet little Grade 3 students, and their mothers.

You hear it all the time; sometimes it is not well used, and other times it is placed properly. A lot of times it’s as common as ‘um’ or ‘uh’ or ‘like’, like, you know, like, like that (and I’m sure you do).

It is a word that means so much, and can say so much. It is a word like love (and if you love, you are probably going to fuck, but you don’t have to love to fuck then it’s just sex and if it’s just sex then you are going to fuck a lot . . . but I digress).

I’ve heard fuck described as the Swiss Army Knife of words: a word for all purposes (perhaps not all occasions). It’s so utilitarian, with many functions. It describes rage (fuck you) and joy or happiness (fuck yeah), sheer disappointment (oh fuck), sexuality and sensuality (depending on the accent), be it a mistake or a misfit (fuck up), and for a one-syllable word there are so many inflections which make it sound bigger.

It is a useful word, in the right circumstances, and it is a wholeheartedly purposeful word.

Fuck is a great curse word. It could, or can I suppose, be a hurtful word. But there are many and more hateful words in the vernacular that are publicly acceptable and are used far too often. I can think of words associated with any of the isms (racism, sexism, fascism, capitalism) that I find more offensive, and you can say those words on television and get away with it (it still doesn’t make it right).

It should probably be used more than it is, but it may never be. There are far too many stigmas, stereotypes and old wives tales that will continue to silence the word. Sadly. This world has made progress in so many ways. Times have changed: women can vote (at least on my continent), my gay friends can marry, and even prime time television images can graphically illustrate the actions involved when fucking (they just can’t show certain parts).

Still you can’t say fuck, not everywhere, not when you want to or need to. Not always. 
It’s a bad word. Fuck.

But yesterday, despite my best efforts to find another, it was a good word.

It was the right word.

Fuck yeah.