j.lewis Verse-Virtual 2018 April

April 2018

I write poems about almost anything, and poetry is included in that list. This month’s poem was a flight of thought sparked by “In the beginning was the Word.” My imagination took over from there, and the result was a much longer work than I had intended, but it was a fun story to tell. My first book of poetry and photography “a clear day in october” (http://www.egjpress.org/products/a-clear-day-in-october ) was published in 2016 by E&GJ Press and a new chapbook “every evening is december” was just published by Praxis Magazine. (http://www.praxismagonline.com/every-evening-december-j-lewis/)

words without beginning, poems without end

before anything, before everything
swirling like nebulae through the cosmos
were words without number
words without end
to be sure, there was The Word
but all others drifted aimlessly
tethered to no star, comet, or planet
homeless and meaningless

until First Poet,
whose name is as forgotten
as the name of the most recent beggar
who held up his cardboard sign to me
asking for mercy, pleading for food--
until First Poet dipped his finger
in the eastern astral current
(the original EAC)
and pulled it back with words
trailing off the tip like a trot line
phrases dangling and flailing
at the sudden disruption of their flow
and they were First Poem

so First Poet became a fisher of words
snatching them unaware from their sleep
swallowing them whole and in batches
frying them, broiling them
belching their essence back into space
for other poets yet to come
who would lick their lips in anticipation
and wipe tears from their eyes
when they knew they could not write again
First Poem

eons of stanzas later
when this earth was formed
sliding through the same
ethereal astral current
trying to cool the fires of creation
First Poet was there to watch
words penetrating to the core
melding with magma
infusing the entire globe with
unsung, unwritten poetry

pre-earth syllables coalesced
into words that grew iambic feet
and crawled into the consciousness
of Earth Poet who woke daily
mind aching with the beauty and passion
of things that wanted saying
demanding to fly in the blue above
return to swim in the blue below
melt in the murderous heat of
unshielded summer
freeze and fracture
in the bitter arctic winter
spawning fragments of images
saved for spring thaw
for rebirth and refactoring

after the baptism of earth
by water, then by fire
when everything unclean, impure, unpoetic
had been washed and burned away
First Poet laughed deeply
then gathered his countless offspring
dipped the tail of a thought
in the eternal astral current
and exploded across infinity
looking for the rare ones
looking for His unborn children
to give new voice
to still-born thoughts

Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF