Beating the Odds by Lindsay Lewis He thought they had covered eventualities the small assurances of life years of counting carbs and slathering sunscreem petunias, seeding in spring He thought he knew the texture of his life wife at his fingertips filling cups with coffee: Black, rich, dark. He always dealt in...
Read MoreHostage taking By Lindsay Lewis Enclosed in the pale envelope of sleep the words invade, with tiny timbers in their hand, battering my brain Any poet knows, you cannot bargain with a word. They must have their say, adamant on winning. Words are worthless...
Read MoreHow does one craft a poem? Students are baffled by poetry, for it breaks all the conventions. I often refer to poems as orange concentrate. Take out all of the water, and just keep the oranges, full and bursting with flavour. Take out small words- prepositions and articles, and let the nouns and verbs sing. This is the first poem I wrote when I was seventeen, and it was published in Grain...
Read MoreI wrote this poem as a tribute to a woman I met when I worked as a nurse’s aide. She was young- in her fifties- a remarkable pianist, and stricken with dementia. She passed her time organizing our linen carts, and occasionally had lucid moments in which we could engage in brilliant conversation. Her husband was a devoted, loving man who took the ferry every day to visit her. I was deeply...
Read MoreAlmost We tossed around the word almost the last time we met our life an egg and spoon race against the clock Don’t fall for me, you said. Don’t project, I replied knowing we’d passed the expiration date. I could conjugate you all night change your endings to make them agree. At 1 a.m, I rise, boil two eggs, smile wryly yearning to spoon you and later, when I close my eyes in...
Read More