Saturday, May 14, 2022

The Little God


The Little God
into the soft-gelled 
distance of a gentled day
after dreams of storm and blood
where war gods walk the night
opening every door
eating whom they will.
But it was you, belly-up
who turned the knives
to scraping in my brain,
your suffering
that is an offering;
a worship
I can't watch
to a little god
who cuts up hearts
to sew his cap 
and boots
and the black mask
that shades
his razor smile,
your ever-burning

May 2022

posted for earthweal's
also using words from qbit's list
derived form the poetry of Anna Ahkmatova
Personal note: I've been having a dead spot, but I miss reading everyone's writing and will be around soon to catch up. Thanks to all of you whose support keeps me putting pen to paper.
Images: Gentled Day, ©joyannjones, 2016
The Return of the Flame, © Rene Magritte, 1943     Fair Use


  1. "to a little god // who cuts up hearts / to sew his cap / and boot" - I'm stunned. I couldn't continue for quite some time.

    1. Thanks, qbit--I really appreciate you continuing the word list, and your own poem was stunning.

  2. I continue to wonder to whom "the Nag" and this are addressed. The section about the cap and boots and razor smile is your trademark fresh image that no one else would come close to conceiving of, let alone writing so neatly. The opening section puts me in mind of how the quiet morning follows a night of restlessness or nightmares. of course, your closing line is sharp as a shiv.

  3. I agree with Shay about the lines she references. Wow! "Your suffering that is an offering" really speaks to me. Not many people get that, about suffering's ability to be something more.

  4. The odd thing about that little god is the prick never absolutely kills his prey. He bleeds their suffering over time thinking it is his strength, not his own death witnessing to him..

    1. Too true, Mark. All too true. Thanks for reading.

  5. Pick your old god, their visage is various but the laughing is the same ... Vibe I got is that whatever comes amplified in night and dream is accomplished with almost no thought in the awful spreading light of the next day. It's been a silent time for me, too -- stunned by something, not enough mandrake in the brew, edges worn to dull lisps by the whatever.

    1. Thanks, B. From what I have just read, your edges seem to be pretty lisp-free, but I know and carry that heavy feeling, and dream speaks but never explains, which is often quite irritatng.

  6. I suppose the ash that approaches, that is here, coats us all. little things die - the loves we once shared with those who no longer grace us, the sense of wonder at a shoot piercing the surface to hope that then withers with it beneath a relentless sun. that Magritte image - the dandy sophisticate hiding his face ere he thieves your very fire.

    I know that thief of light, so I do thank you for coming by my place. there have been times - months even, where reading let alone writing has been abandoned. thankfully, I can come and visit words, still. ~

    1. Thanks for this comment, M. I was really made happy by your writing for April, even if I was slow to read it, both for the work itself, and because I know how dark and lifeless everything starts to feel when those sparks we transfer to the warmth of poems go out. This started out as a 55, but it grew and I decided not to trim it. I still thank Galen, as I know you must, for giving me that gift of form for when nothing else will come. Thanks again for all your insight and support over the years, and the privilege of knowing your work.

  7. "your suffering
    that is an offering;"

    "his razor smile,
    your ever-burning

    You have such an exquisite way with words. I love the way you paint characters. You never use a single unnecessary word. I learn from you, Joy <3


"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats

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