In his first ever book of poetry, Jay Green's Gates seeks to take the reader on a journey told in pictures.
From the writer's personal accounts of growing up in Louisiana, to capturing that self-defining moment of sharing a piece of yourself on an open mic stage, Gates uses vivid imagery to illustrate a journey of growth and possibility experienced by a young writer coming into his own.
In his first ever book of poetry, Jay Green's Gates seeks to take the reader on a journey told in pictures.
From the writer's personal accounts of growing up in Louisiana, to capturing that self-defining moment of sharing a piece of yourself on an open mic stage, Gates uses vivid imagery to illustrate a journey of growth and possibility experienced by a young writer coming into his own.
If I Write a Poem
If I write a poem, it
will necessitate a bolt
and chain in arms reach.Â
Because when the last
words of its form are
written, it will beginÂ
to growl at volumes thatÂ
causes fusion at the joints,Â
bark so relentlessly that theÂ
paint on the walls stiffensÂ
until it cracks, and just as theÂ
poem is about to leap fromÂ
its birthplace to demolish
the bedroom window in theÂ
name of freedom,Â
I must snatch the chain andÂ
slam it into the poemâsÂ
neck.Â
As I grapple with such a poem,Â
I must avoid its feral bite, I mustÂ
constrain its muscles with myÂ
own, all while I curse myselfÂ
for birthing such a beast.Â
But these poems, like their more
tame siblings, always find a home
in a special cage.Â
A cage of thread and boundedÂ
paper,Â
to ensure they behave.Â
If I write a poem, I mayÂ
have to shadow doctors and
learn the process of creating
vaccinations.Â
Because the poem will haveÂ
a way shrinking itself into an
invisible speck,Â
burrowing into a reader byÂ
eye or ear.
The poem will brave Mt.Â
Brain and commandeerÂ
its epicenter,Â
the poem will split its formÂ
endless times to a create aÂ
swarm of doppelgängers,Â
and those copies may just alterÂ
the readerâs vision and perceptionsÂ
permanently.Â
If I write a poem,Â
I mustnât give it too muchÂ
praise.Â
I know Iâll be the secretÂ
admirer it expects.Â
Iâll hold prolonged staresÂ
at the gentle curves ofÂ
its body, Iâll nod toÂ
sleep to the rhythm ofÂ
its voice, Iâll have to stifleÂ
chuckles at its clever rhymes,
but Iâll boast about its personalityÂ
to all my close friends.Â
I wonât tell the poem that.Â
I donât want to make it jadedÂ
like those other poems.Â
But I know itâll be theÂ
poem that readers pause atÂ
with a tilt in their neck.Â
I know itâll be the poem thatÂ
other poems gossip about inÂ
the back alleys of literary magazines.Â
I know itâll be the poem that is
quoted in someoneâs favoriteÂ
movie,Â
the poem that arches the spineÂ
of someone in love,Â
as the words of the poem waltzÂ
out of the mouth of their partnerÂ
at their wedding,
and in that instance,Â
the new union will formally know
the poem as their own.Â
I know I must hold a baby poemÂ
in place, if only for a couple of seconds.Â
Because I know that once I let itÂ
breathe in oxygen,Â
it is something else entirely.
Something familiar,Â
yet unrecognizable.Â
Something I adore,
yet am afraid of.Â
Namesake
Know me by my namesake,Â
approach me if you dare.Â
Love me until Iâm colorless,Â
odorless, fearless about all seasons.
And if you speak my name,Â
you leave me anywhere.Â
Define her by her sexuality,Â
subject her if you dare.Â
Admire her until sheâs confident,Â
voluptuous, jaded to all advances.
And if you speak her name,Â
sheâll tell you she doesnât care.Â
Judge a culture by its lifestyle,Â
spit at its ways if you dare.
Condemn it until itâs consideredÂ
undesirable, worthless, less thanÂ
righteous, and so imperfect.Â
Because deep down you donâtÂ
understand.
Itâs not that you canât comprehend,Â
you just never embraced such a word.Â
Leave all your senses uneducatedÂ
and all your views become absurd.Â
Love me because you trust me,Â
judge me after you listen.
Admire me for my vision, for myÂ
talent, my intuition.
And if you should disagree,Â
all is still respected,Â
and all is forgiven.
Thereâs a picture to be drawn.Â
A scene to be depicted.Â
Where we redefine balance,Â
after braving any distance.
Iâll meet you just to sit and listen
as you tell me your name.
As we sit in shared company,Â
for once weâre just the same.
The Photo of NothingÂ
My generation cherishes the photo.
I would say thatâs not a bad thing.Â
I certainly love to converse with anÂ
image that speaks to me,Â
my eyes telling the photo,
you look marvelous always.
But now social media holds a reignÂ
on imagery,Â
and whatâs considered beautiful,Â
hence.Â
Users strive to create depictions ofÂ
what doesnât exist,Â
and all that is truly present,Â
is cropped from the lens.Â
We post pictures on our feedÂ
to do battle.
âMy life is great, how about yours?âÂ
Our photos yell for the sakeÂ
of attention,
and now all there is is noise.Â
Noise that makes us insecure.Â
Life is joy through the social camera. Â
Users filter truth,Â
until theyâre less than natural.Â
Reminisce on falsified memories,Â
but at least we still have perfect photos.
Songs for Us
People have been gathering together in groups and transcending the limits of their pathological individuality through music and ritual since the beginning of time.
Jordan Peterson
What happens to us
when our heads tilt back,Â
when we grip our hair
to a melody, when weÂ
close our eyes toÂ
shut out whatâs existingÂ
right before us,Â
yet weâre in tune with theÂ
cadence that plays aroundÂ
us.Â
What happens to us,
when we finally clasp
that runaway high,Â
that only shows itself
when all our senses align,Â
when we stand in front of
who we were,Â
and just behind whoever weÂ
could be,Â
and with every twitch of our
muscles,
we know that movementÂ
is right.Â
We are the congregationÂ
bouncing around in church,Â
flailing our hands in theÂ
grip of the Holy Ghost.Â
We are the tribal men andÂ
women galloping and
somersaulting around theÂ
night fire.Â
We are the concert goersÂ
screaming under fluorescent
lights,Â
sharing our manic kissesÂ
with strangers.Â
And what about the loners
bumping into their roomÂ
walls with the speakers blaringÂ
or the golden couples who dance
to the songs of their heyday asÂ
they fold clothes
and take each other into theirÂ
arms. Â
With closed eyes they becomeÂ
time travelers,Â
swaying through the years ofÂ
their history as one.Â
We could be those people too.
Whenever Youâre Anxious
Tight grip of the chest,
a dread of upcoming events
no matter how small.
Thereâs panic in every shallowÂ
breath,
as your heart feels the labor
of outsprinting the beast ofÂ
possibility.Â
You havenât even left bed.
Please try and take that first step.
Let your feet hit the hard floor
so you know the ground wonâtÂ
collapse.
Take another step...
then another once more.Â
Small movements towardsÂ
progress will conquer what onceÂ
felt dangerous.Â
Please know that the next timeÂ
that youâre anxious.
i call her HAPPINESSÂ
What is Happiness?Â
She is the nudge on my shoulder that pushes me out of my messy bed. She is the pharmacist prescribing dopamine to my brain as I eat my favorite foods. She gets lost in melodies with me as we dance around a room.Â
Where is Happiness?
I hardly know. She comes and goes unapologetically. I call for her after a long day and suddenly sheâs there, and other times sheâs in the distance. She lifts me to the peak of a steep mountain and leaves me there to fall again.Â
But then thereâs Sorrow.Â
She comes whenever Happiness gives me the space I never asked for. Sorrow greets me with a thunderous kiss, and I am rubble in her storm.Â
Sorrow stitches her arms to mine, and as she holds me, she compresses. Because Sorrow says she loves me. I canât reciprocate because Iâm breathless in her grasp. The grass is gray, the clouds are gray, my mood is blue, she says Iâm safe. Sorrow holds me so very close, even when Iâm striking, kicking, spitting, pushing her so far away.Â
But then Sorrow left me.Â
And when she left so did the cold, so did the worry, so did the storm. I must search for Happinessâs warmth again; she never just comes back to me.Â
Happiness, sweet Happiness.Â
I hate you... but I donât. You leave me for good reasons. Iâm selfish, yes itâs true. Your absence is my addiction, the enigma and the fool.
Greenâs collection, Gates, is refreshing, original and a book for the 21st century. Behind Greenâs words are the stories, thoughts and feelings of a human being who loves, wins and loses too.Â
Split into two parts, Gates is a collection of quiet, inimitable power. It begins with âNamesakeâ, a poem loudly proclaiming an identity which rises above prejudice and discrimination. This pride and heritage is seen again in âPenmanshipâ, âGrammarâ, âSlapboxâ and âBlues and Barbecue.â Greenâs writing about home, his family and his neighbourhood is atmospheric - he captures the simplicity and serendipity of the ordinary.
This collection also ruminates on the very nature of poetry. Again, he captures the simplicity yet beauty in writing about the everyday:
âThen I read a poem about bird watching.
Then I read a poem about morning breakfast.
Then I read a poem about a tree.
And they were better than most poems Iâve seen.â (What is A Poem)
In doing so, Green celebrates the essence of this own work; in poems like âOde to Peanut Butterâ and âAlong the Bookshelfâ. Everything seems simple but nothing is, because Green unravels the intricacies and the messages hidden within every thing and every moment we touch, hear, taste and feel.
Every piece in Gates is purposeful and moving in small, subtle ways. This is why Green as a quiet power; a power to make you smile, laugh and see beyond the superficial without forcing imagery, rhythm and twelve letter long words down your throat. Green says it as he sees it, weaves it as he imagines it and does not shy away from the straightforward; he is confident in his work and thus reminiscent of Hemingway and Ginsberg.
But, although reminiscent of 20th century writers, poems like âYoungbloodâ and âWar Poetâ prove Green is for the 21st century. He acknowledges the technological world we live in and strives to be his own poet, not a cheap imitation and I believe in Gates he achieves this; most especially in the flawless, âSongs for Usâ.
Green begins by stating his identity and by the end of this collection there is no denying the power of this poet or who he is.