j.lewis aka Jim Lewis
Mama Said 8-year-old Boys Don’t Write Poetry Like That
By Jim Lewis
The first poem I remember writing was at age eight. Written about Robin Hood and Maid Marian, it took up three pages of a "Big Chief" tablet. My excitement around the poem was dampened by my mother's insistence that I must have copied it from somewhere because "8-year-old boys don't write poetry like that."
Although I had a couple of poems published in my high school newsletter, it wasn't until 2012 that I seriously considered submitting my work to a traditional journal. My poem "surgical mass" was printed in "Spark: A Creative Anthology."
In 2015, a friend who was in the Verse-Virtual community suggested that I submit something to the journal, so I did. Editor Firestone Fineberg was gracious and suggested edits to my poem, which he and I went back and forth over, but eventually it was published. Not long after that, he invited me to be a contributing editor for Verse-Virtual - total surprise to me. That put me in a position to offer, along with the other contributing editors, to continue the journal when Firestone was no longer able to at the end of 2019. When I asked questions in January of 2020, Firestone told me, "You're the editor. Do what you want." And that was the passing of the torch.
My first published poems include:
surgical mass
quiet hovers in this sacred place
the last vestiges of uncleanliness
scoured away
this morning before dawn
a priestess enters unspeaking
spreads the utensils of the first sacrament
with practiced ease
across the twice blessed stand
saving for last
three basins of consecrated water
a second priestess enters
nods
and sets about preparing the altar
draping it in layers of holy cloth
reverent attention
to every folded corner
a heavy door groans open
as cardinal and claustral converge
hands raised in traditional deference
to those who sanctified them
for this work
in a flurry of activity
they are robed head to toe
in heavenly blue
every element of the common world
covered against the chance
that some small sin
may yet cling to them
and falling unchecked
defile the offering
the sacramental emblem arrives
prepared and positioned
precisely
with an upward glance
at the clock high on the wall
the priest grips his blade
brow wrinkled in concentration
"nine o'clock" he incants
"midline incision
xyphoid to umbilicus"
avalanche
the build-up was unmonitored
in the frequency of storms
an occasional thought of caution
lost in adversarial winds
that whipped across each day
hard
cold
biting
today under an almost sunny sky
a single word
dropped like an acorn
in the days and weeks of snow
an infinity of small events
holding desperately together
lost their communal grip
roared down rocky terrain
buried everything
and everyone around
in cold fury
leaving at mountain's top
unexpected emptiness
bareness
depression
no explanation
he only wanted to understand
how his child
so brilliant
could do something
so stupid
i could only answer
"i don't know"
i remember the lightning
the fury in his eyes
his turning away
to cool the anger
behind the half-raised fist
the circle of life
has brought me back
replays the proffered ignorance
of a child at fault
urges me to prove
i too can turn away
before the fisted hand
can speak
grass was taller
sheep springs
is clearly in the
middle of nowhere
not four-corners qualified
or capitol of anything
it boasts only the trading post
a small cafe and
the chapter house mandated
by tribal headquarters
for local...
in reservation terms
that would mean something
between 50 and 100 square miles
of sand and sagebrush
interspersed with dry washes
arroyos that can fill
and kill in an instant
when rain on distant mountains
comes too much too fast and
finding it cannot seep down
into the earthy womb that opened for
the first kachinas and the
afterbirth of navajo mythology
flees the hills and rushes dirty red
down the previously mentioned
dry washes without warning
across highways
where dips instead of bridges
surprise unwary tourists
...meetings and events of grave importance
like the theft of hosteen's saddle
the one his father gave him
u.s. cavalry insignia
still deeply embossed...
hosteen recounts again
how the soldier with the sad eyes
had no other apology
after the infamous long walk
simply took the saddle from his horse
set it at father's feet
and rode away bareback
shoulders slumped with the burden
of turning warriors into shepherds
because the telling of the story
is a vital page in their book of remembering
...which the tribal police duly noted
and will watch for at
the fair at window rock
the rodeo at shiprock
though everyone knows there is little hope
the saddle will be found
while hosteen slowly shakes his head
at the loss of this piece of his past
his face shows no emotion
for that is not the navajo way
instead he talks of days
when the now dry reservation grew green
with grass that reached the stirrups of the
saddle that is gone
the drought that took it all away
days when he could leave things
atop his corral and they would stay
it is not right he says
that the honor of our people
has dried up like that grass
empty room
the hallway is quiet tonight
like last night and the one before
yet i hear his voice
from the empty room
where he daily tried to hide
from loneliness and depression
sleep and music
sleep and books
sleep and more sleep
sliding down
ever down
until i couldn't reach him
anymore
we ground against each other
sheets of coarse sandpaper
determined not to lose
destined not to win
somewhere along the way
love got lost
and liking him was buried
in the bits and pieces
we tore from each other
i could not find forgiveness
only resignation
and commitment
(his, not mine)
my conscience frets
at this sense of relief
ashamed that the silence
is pleasant
i think of him returning
as early as tomorrow
and i think five days away
was not enough
he has not healed
and has no place
no refuge
and no safety here
no one has answers
to the hard questions
where can he go
who can heal him
and how long can we wait
i walk the hallway
past his empty room
his absence shouts pain, anger
and sadness too deep to measure
tears form suddenly
as loneliness surrounds me
asks endlessly to know
when he will fill
this empty room again
salieri's lament
heaven plays its humor out in men like me
plants in us desire to sing praises
the full fruit of our talent—sweet
but common and pale
beside the flower of genius
such an ungodly prank
to fill me with yearning
then give another
the voice of my songs
music i have dreamed
and forgotten at waking
lines and phrases of eternal echoes
revealed in details i can't write
that dissolve to simple melodies
and little pleasantries
for the popular court
what loving creator
would place me here
driven to produce
reduced to grudging applause
of the upstart genius
who thanks me for a trifle
composed in his honor
then having played it once
criticizes and improves impromptu
infuriatingly right
with every remake and remark
making me less
a heavenly handiwork
more a celestial satire
who will remember i was here
when no one notices the shadows
that make a light more bright
Publishing credits
"surgical mass" - printed in Spark: A Creative Anthology, Vol 1, 2012
"avalanche" - Red Dashboard "Disorder - Anthology" 2014
"no explanation" - Rebel Poetry (Fermoy Poetry Festival) - 2014 (Ireland)
"grass was taller" - The Other Side of Sleep, Arachne Press, 2014 (England)
"empty room" - Verse-Virtual, August 2015
"salieri's lament" - first poem in my first book of poetry (a clear day in october), June 2016
Read more about Jim on his site:
https://www.jlewisweb.com/books.asp
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