Five Sublime Poems by j. lewis

 

Ceci N’est Pas un Cadralor

 

1.

Every step along this forgotten road raises dust

that swirls and darts ahead of me, pushed

by a fitful breeze. Particles thin, separate, settle.

 

2.

Against advice, against the wind, I push my kayak

into the lake, digging in hard with the paddle. I feel

the ripples of the waves, whitecaps threatening.

 

3.

Wheat fields lie waiting for harvest, sinuous amber

yielding and pulsing in the heavy embrace

of autumn winds. Portent of spoiling rain.

 

4.

Leafless trees in bitter gales, bend, stand, bend again,

stubbornly refusing to stay bowed or to break.

Storm passes. They remain, waiting for spring leaves.

 

5.

Old habits anchor deeply, stand rock-solid, defiant

against the hurricanes of change that blast them.

Small corners will succumb, crumble, settle.

Gone Far Away

 

"...if you want to borrow Ramon

For a narrative of your own, remember that any scene

Where he appears under guard in a mountain village

Should be confined to the realm of longing"

            —Carl Dennis: "Thanksgiving Letter From Harry"

 

I. These Are Not Pine Trees

 

The jungles of southeast Asia are thick with

trees, vines, and plants Ramon doesn't know,

can't pronounce. The only thing that matters

is knowing which not to touch, not to eat.

He is suddenly hungry for piñon nuts, roasted.

 

The din of the birds and monkeys fades as

he remembers harvest time. Spreading tarps

under the trees, then climbing them to shake

hard and fast. Nuts tumbling from cones

in a shower that sounded like summer rain.

 

A sudden shower of bullets dropped his patrol

but left Ramon alive. And just like that,

captured. No one to send word back to say

"Don't stop looking. I am not dead."

 

He is strapped to a pole and carried.

Where? Doesn't know. How long? Doesn't know.

These mountains are nothing like home

These are definitely not pine trees.

Rain falls, hard. He thinks again of pine nuts

falling on waiting canvas. Passes out.

 

II. How Far Can the Wind Carry Love?

 

Ramon's mother sits at the window. No mail.

It's been six months today since the call—

MIA. A spear to her heart in three little letters.

Missing. Dead? Alive? Hurt? Lost? Hungry?

She would give anything to make him a bowl

of chicken-tortilla soup. Fat green chiles

from the Hatch valley. Fresh roasted. Hand-peeled.

 

Stories come back from others missing, then found.

Enemy camps. Mountain villages. Troops moving on

and leaving useless prisoners behind. Maybe

some other mother will see in his eyes what she would—

a good boy who needs to come home. She walks up

into the mountains. Talks to the sky, the trees.

Swears she hears "mami" in the whisper of the wind.

Answers "mijo" and prays he will hear.

 

III. Today We Read Neruda

 

Ramon closes his eyes against the summer heat.

He makes the day Tuesday. High school English.

Second period. Back row. Window seat.

 

He opens his book with his mind.

Neruda advises him, “Don’t go far off…”

 

He doesn’t know any more how far off

he is from that classroom in New Mexico

from everything he knew in 1969.

He remembers missing graduation.

 

Low lottery number for the draft and

an early birthday, he was 18 in January

drafted in February, marching through boot camp

and into a jungle a world away by May. Far away.

 

Mosquitos hum and buzz but he doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t care anymore. Let them bite.

He’s immune to everything but memory,

the only thing that can make him shake now

 

"the little drops of anguish will all run together"

He opens his eyes as beads of sweat find a path

down his face, his neck, his back. Anguish, yes.

Those early days after he was taken prisoner,

 

Anguish was all he knew, trying to will her

a message across the ocean, knowing

she would be waiting "as in an empty station."

No train to take her to him, him to her.

 

He forces himself back to Neruda,

Feels the smoke that roams, sees

the fluttering eyelids, the pleading

silent look that he took with him to Nam.

 

It leaves him full of longing, empty of hope,

Ragged and cold, hot with rage

at the here and now he wakes to daily.

He takes a deep breath in. And out.

 

small lanterns

 

hung in random places

some by folks i knew

have brought me safely

this far on my way

 

i remember the light

of a small lantern hung

by a grandfather who taught me

if you can't work and talk

stop talking, because farming

is an unforgiving thing

 

i remember the light

of a small lantern hung

by my own father

up before the sun because

the day's demands could not

be put off, even if it meant

leaving and coming home in the dark

 

i remember the light

of a small lantern hung

by a teacher, like one you might know

who smiled and said,

with the greatest kindness

"you can do better,

you can be better"

putting me back on course

 

i remember the light

of a small lantern hung

by a stranger, who saw my need

and quietly filled it, anonymously

i could not say thank you,

but i learned to do the same

 

i remember the light

of small lanterns hung

by countless others who knew

that leaving the smallest spark

can rescue someone struggling in darkness

teaching me that my inner glow

must not be kept hidden

 

regret is on the dessert menu

 

the descriptions are hyped, as always—

nothing actually tastes like heaven

or hell or sex on the beach

(and who's ever done that anyway?)

but someone got paid to write this

to make you want it, need it, badly

 

select carefully from the following regrets

you'll have a lifetime to live with your choice

 

"sweet regret"

simmered for decades in memory's tears

until every hint of sorrow

is reduced to caramel and cream.

you will forget you ever wanted

things to have been different

 

"regret flambé"

served as cold as revenge, surrounded

by a moat of bitter kirsch

ready to burn when you are

 

"regret serpentine"

your reptilian memories of 'could have been'

coiled around a mound of recollections

beautifully smooth, with an after-bite

to die for

 

"regret suprême"

all your heaviest secrets

bathed for years 'sous vide'

opened tonight at your request

drizzled with the distilled pain

you've kept so carefully inside

waiting for this moment to reveal

 

hovering between

 

philosophers, poets, preachers, practitioners

can all tell you that love is real, but none

can tell you why or when, really, one

person would say to another "i love you"

and have any idea of what they mean. not one.

 

did you know there are eight kinds of love?

 

myself, i've known philia, friends without benefits,

eros, romance constantly sought, seldom captured

ludus, my newly-wed playmate until

mania replaced her - possessive, obsessive

which makes four, and four was enough

 

in the end, all love was wild game

to be hunted, bagged, devoured,

and once devoured, gone.

 

until you. you were the wild onions

i gathered for soup on the hearth,

carefully selecting the ones that shone

at the bulb, that called "i am ready for you.

here. now. come..."  savory days,

but gone with the first hard frost

 

hunt, gather, gather, hunt, both drive me

until i don't know which is worse—

being alone or being lonely again,

inhaling solitude, undisturbed, at peace

or exhaling the void that screams "fill me"

 

what drives me is an innate need

to be seen, to be heard, to be held

in the soft silence of all loves

to know that i belong, not to,

but with someone. mutual choice,

mutual desire.

 

what drives me, drives me mad, because

there are no simple answers. i long

for what i imagine, and i imagine loves

who could be, but never are, who come

wrapped in pretty lies, perverse notions

of what i must do to prove, repeatedly,

that love means giving in, not giving to,

finally giving up

 

and in that moment of realization,

angry and bitter and resigned and relieved,

i find myself trapped in love's contradictions—

the promise of peace, the sorrow of longing

hovering endlessly between

solitude         and         loneliness

 

Jim Lewis (Pen name: j.lewis) is an internationally published poet, musician, nurse practitioner, and Editor of Verse-Virtual, an online journal and community. When he is not otherwise occupied, he is often on a kayak, exploring and photographing the waterways near his home in California. He has two full length collections and several chapbooks to his credit.  www.jlewisweb.com/books.asp

“a clear day in october” (poems and photos) is available directly from me.

“do you hear it?” (second collection of poetry) is available on Amazon.